by David Waters
In French, I explained who I was. All I got was a blank, hostile stare. Obviously neither wanted a reporter here. I introduced Gina and explained who she was. As briefly as possible, I explained the purpose of my visit to Ms. Bronson on Tuesday, and why we had driven down here to see her this afternoon. The policeman listened carefully but did no more than nod occasionally to indicate that he was taking note of what I was telling him. I asked what had happened. In an angry voice, Naomi’s roommate blurted out that she had just discovered Naomi’s body when she had arrived less than an hour ago. She gave me a look which seemed to suggest that I was somehow responsible. I could see she was suffering traumatic stress. I looked at the ambulance, but from everyone’s demeanor I had to assume that Naomi Bronson was dead.
“Is the Honda yours?” I asked, addressing my remark to Naomi’s roommate. She nodded, puzzled. “Then where’s Ms. Bronson’s car? Or was she driven here?”
The policeman looked back at the cottage, and then returned his gaze to me. Finally he said, “the driveway circles the cottage. Ms. Bronson’s car is hidden from sight behind the cottage.”
“Captain Leclair thinks,” Naomi’s roommate said sarcastically, “that because her car could not be seen from the road, some vagrant who thought the cottage was empty broke in and killed Naomi when she surprised him.”
Captain Leclair shrugged his annoyance. He turned his attention to Gina. So did I. Her face was drained of color. I wondered if she was about to be sick. He asked the young police officer to take Gina to the car and have her sit down. I went with her. Looking back I could see that he was frowning. Our presence, and the brief explanation I had given him, in particular the observation that Naomi Bronson’s husband had also been murdered, had clearly added an unwanted complication. Whether he was inclined to do so or not, he could no longer treat this as simply another break and entry homicide.
Once the ambulance had left, Gina and I were escorted to the nearest provincial police detachment where our statements were recorded. Someone kindly provided sandwiches and coffee. We were both shaken by Naomi’s murder. The danger I had feared had become very real. An hour later we were heading back to Montreal. It was close to five when I came to a stop outside her motel. On the drive back, I had convinced her to stay overnight at my place.
She went into the motel to pack her bags. Ten minutes later she emerged. So did her friend, Linda. I got out of the car to help Gina place her bags on the back seat. She then went over to speak to Linda. As she turned back towards the car, Linda hesitated briefly and then moved in Gina’s direction to say something more. It was then that I heard a crack as if someone nearby had stepped on a dead branch. Linda gave a high pitched scream and crumpled sideways to the ground.
Adrenaline made my mind and body function at a speed I would not have thought possible. I grabbed Gina and hauled her down beside the car. Instinctively I knew that I was not the target. After all I had been stationary and in plain view. I came quickly to the conclusion that another shot was unlikely. No sniper would stay around this long in the hope of getting off a second shot. After all, it was broad daylight. So I darted quickly towards Linda.
Blood stained her upper thigh just below her short skirt. A continuous moaning was broken only by her needs to inhale. Both her hands were holding her left leg just above the knee. I dragged her behind the car next to Gina.
Then I darted inside. I shouted to the desk clerk to call the police and an ambulance. But he had already done so. I went back outside. Gina was cradling Linda’s head and was pressing a handkerchief to the wound. I knew nothing of first aid. All I could do was wait. Surprisingly, I did not have to wait long before the wail of sirens and the calm and decisive presence of police and ambulance attendants took over.
When I got a chance I whispered to Gina to say as little as possible, to mention nothing about what had transpired earlier that day: in short, to act as if her friend had been the sniper’s intended target, even though I for one did not believe it. And I’m sure she didn’t either. But I wanted to avoid another lengthy interrogation.
I was only partially successful. As soon as Linda had been transported to the nearest hospital, we were ushered into the motel’s vestibule where our statements were taken and our identities verified. The police seemed to accept the view that we were accidental bystanders too busy to have seen the sniper or anything of significance. But they were taking no chances. Once they were satisfied that we would not be difficult to contact, they let us drive away to my place. But a police cruiser was detached to provide protection until we were safely inside my home.
I immediately poured us two stiff scotches and added a little water. Gina took a little sip and made a face.
“I have some mild tranquillizers upstairs if you’d prefer.”
She shook her head. “Later, maybe.” She took another sip.
I phoned Domino’s and ordered a large pizza with all the trimmings. I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t think that Gina was either. But once the stress and trauma had eased off, we would probably be ravenous. We both took our drinks into the living room. Gina stretched out on the sofa, and I sank into my rocker.
“Bunch of blundering amateurs, that’s what we are.” Gina said.
“Once the pizza has arrived, I’ll phone Phil Ryan.”
“Yeah, sure.” She shrugged. I could tell from her tone that she didn’t think much of my plan.
We both lapsed into silence. She rose from the couch. “I’d almost forgotten. I want to phone the hospital and find out how Linda’s doing.” She left the room and made her way upstairs towards the telephone in the den. I was about to remind her that the nearest phone was in the kitchen when I heard her close the bathroom door. I finished my scotch, thought about having another, and decided against it. Instead I went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Then I went upstairs to use the bathroom. Through the open den door, I could see Gina huddled against my desk cradling the phone as if it was an infant. I returned to the living room and pulled the curtains, something I should have done much earlier. The events of the day had shaken me. I made a vain attempt at straightening my shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound, I tried to tell myself. I heard Gina returning.
“She’s going to be okay. Apparently the bullet passed right through the fleshy part of her thigh. They’ve stitched her up, dosed her with antibiotics, pain killers and tranquillizers, and are going to keep her in overnight just as a precaution. I guess that puts an end to her career.”
“I would imagine so. A bullet hole in the thigh is hardly a come on.” I immediately regretted the remark.
“Oh,” Gina shot back, giving me a caustic look, “I’m sure there are plenty of weirdos out there who would get turned on by it. And, by the way,” she added, “Linda is not a prostitute. I know you think she is. But she’s just a stripper trying to put money away to go back to university.”
Gina’s face showed both the level of stress and exhaustion she was feeling. I dreaded the idea of taking a look at my own face in the mirror. She sighed but went on doggedly, “I mention all that because there was little reason why anyone would want to take a pot shot at her. She wasn’t into drugs, and there was no patron or john who knew where she was staying.”
I nodded. “Which confirms my assumption that you were the intended victim.”
“Or you. You’re the one with the power to publish something which could result in the case being re-opened.”
“No. As I told you, if I get shot, the paper is only likely to put someone else on the case more competent than I am. Besides, if I was the intended victim, then why stake out the motel?”
“Okay so why me?” She asked. We both lapsed into a prolonged silence. I had a tentative theory but at that moment the doorbell rang. I was thankful it was only the pizza being delivered and not another policeman wanting to interrogate us.
We went into the kitchen. “Coffee?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t have a diet coke, would you?”
&
nbsp; “Yep. As a matter of fact I do.” I went to the fridge and got out two diet cokes. I waited until she had taken at least two bites of the pizza and a substantial sip of coke. The fact that she was eating I took as a good sign. I still did not feel like feeding the sourness in my stomach.
Instead I said, “Let me put a number of premises to you which may lead to a reason for what happened at the motel. Premise number one, for some reason the murderer decided that he had to get rid of Naomi. Possibly she did know something damaging, and the murderer knew that, although why anyone would wait until now to take action is beyond me. But let’s put that aside for the moment.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Gina interjected. There’s a way in which the time gap makes sense.”
“Okay, out with it,” I said
“Once my father was arrested, the murderer had to wait. To tackle Naomi then would have shifted the investigation away from my father. And by the time my father was released, and Naomi had yet to say anything, the murderer might have felt temporarily safe. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. As time went by the strategy paid off. But when we decided to track her down and talk to her maybe the murderer panicked.”
“Agreed. Premise number two,” I said, “The murderer somehow discovers that Naomi has gone to her cottage alone. How he came to know that escapes me. Maybe accidentally, maybe not. But let’s assume he did. It may give us a break when we check alibis and movements.”
So far I was doing okay, because Gina, curious, simply nodded.
“Premise number three. The murderer hopes that any tie-in between Naomi’s death and that of her husband will not get made.”
Gina frowned, “I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t,” I said, “and it might have worked. It might still work.”
Her shoulders sagged slightly. “Okay, I’m listening.”
First there’s the location of the cottage. It’s not only isolated but it’s in a different jurisdiction from the one which investigated Monaghan’s murder. Hence he kills her in a way to maximize the likelihood that a cop like Captain Leclair will conclude that her murder was the unfortunate byproduct of a break-in.”
I took a sip of my coke which seemed to burn its way down to the pit of my stomach. “Which brings me to premise number three.”
“Actually,” Gina said, her eyes twinkling sadly with fatigue, “it’s premise number four.”
I smiled hesitantly in return. “Okay. Premise number four. The murderer doesn’t know we’ve been at the cottage. He presumes we haven’t yet spoken to Naomi since my first meeting with her, and assumes it could be days before we find out her death. He decides to try and scare you off. Not kill you. That would only re-open the case. But a warning shot. One the police could interpret as being intended for someone else. Someone like Linda. But one which might frighten you enough to send you back home to the States to rethink how much you really want to pursue all of this. After all he has nothing to lose by trying.”
Gina frowned. “Maybe.” She did not seemed convinced. “But there’s a key weakness in your argument isn’t there?” I waited. “There’s still you. Why would he think that you would not find out about Naomi and pursue the investigation?”
I just shrugged. She stared at me. It slowly dawned on her just where my argument was leading.
I sighed, “the murderer probably assumes correctly that I’m someone who has been pushed out into early retirement. And assumes further that I’m really only doing this because you’ve persuaded me to. If you pull out and go home. What do I do? He can assume that the paper is not likely to pressure me to continue my investigation. And unless I came up with something solid as evidence almost immediately, the paper, the police, and even I would quickly lose interest. Everything would eventually peter out, settle back into the kind of no-man’s land it was before you came on the scene. At any rate he has little to lose by firing off a random warning shot under the circumstances.” She was staring at her hands in her lap. I was hoping to see her eyes and gauge her reaction. Her next question caught me by surprise.
“And you, did you too assume that I would just turn tail and run home to mother?” Her eyes had grown hard with anger. “Is that what you want me to do?”
“No.” I let a sheepish grin spread across my face. “And I didn’t assume that you would turn tail and run home to mother. But then I probably know you better than the murderer does. Or maybe he simply doesn’t have much experience with young women like you.” I meant it as a compliment, but I think she took it as just another pathetic example of gender miscalculation.
“God, I’m exhausted,” she said, “so where do we go from here?”
I leaned back farther in my chair. I grinned, “you go home to mother.”
“What!” Her eyes popped open. If she had been a cat, gouges of my skin would have been lying on top of the cold pizza. But I was serious.
“It makes sense right now for us to do what the murderer expects us to do. We give him a few days to grow arrogant. We gather more information. Take the time we need to sort things out. Then we come back and set the fox right back into the chicken coop when the murderer least expects it.”
“Sounds like you’re simply trying to get rid of me.” She said uneasily.
“Nope, because I’m coming with you.” She gave me a puzzled frown. “For one thing I want to get a feel of what happened back then from your mother. I’m hoping that you’ll call her tonight and persuade her to let us drive down to see her tomorrow. Anything that needs doing here we can leave to Phil Ryan.”
Gina sat there sizing up what I had suggested. Finally she shrugged, “okay, maybe it makes some sense.” I think she agreed that we needed a chance to talk things out, think things through. “But it’s a long drive.”
“So, we’ll share the driving. After you’ve spoken to her, I’ll call Phil Ryan. Bring him up to date. See if he’s found out anything interesting from the old police file. Persuade him to get in touch with this Captain Leclair. Meanwhile, let’s move your things into the spare bedroom.”
Gina just nodded.
I helped carry her things upstairs. I suggested she use the telephone in the den to phone her mother. While she was doing that, I went downstairs, quickly ate a slice of pizza, cleaned up, poured myself a mug of coffee and went back upstairs.
“It’s okay,” Gina said emerging from the den.
“How did she react?”
“Worried about me.”
I nodded.
“She was a bit ambivalent about your coming.”
I nodded again.
“But she will fix up the spare room. I said we’d arrive around supper time.”
“Good.”
Gina nodded. “I’m tired. I think I’ll pack it in. Maybe I could use one of those tranquillizers now.”
I went to the medicine cabinet and brought back two small orange pills.
“What are they?”
“Rivotril. A mild dosage.”
“Rivotril? What’s it prescribed for?”
“Anxiety.”
She stared at me. I had no intention of explaining why I had them. “They’ll help you sleep. I suspect that half the world suffers from some form of anxiety,” and then I added, “and so it should.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I muttered. “If I had an answer to that I’d be able to put the pharmaceutical industry out of business. Probably because we come into the world howling. And most of us leave it frightened and whimpering. And in between we walk a confusing tightrope somewhere between happiness and despair. That’s surely reason enough.”
She moved towards the bedroom. She smiled, “being dysfunctional is a state of mind. None of us really have to live that way. See you in the morning.”
I nodded.
She shut the door slowly behind her.
I took my coffee to my desk and dialed Ryan’s number. When he answered, I explained about what happened at the cottage near Mansonville, about the shooting
incident outside the motel, about our interview with the Symanskys, and our subsequent speculations. He listened attentively. There was a long pause before he responded. “I’ve gone through the old file again and made a list of all the things I should have done back then. Perhaps we could get together tomorrow and go over it.”
I explained the decision to return to Gina’s home and visit her mother.
“Makes sense. You said you picked up a fair amount of background information from the guy who’s in charge of PR at the university.”
“I could probably make a copy of it all and drop it off on our way out of town.”
“You have a copier?”
“Yeah. Haven’t used it much. Probably the first time I’ll get my money’s worth out of it.”
“By the way, I know Leclair.”
“The cop investigating Bronson’s death?”
“We once took a course together.”
“It’s a small world. If you’re talking to Leclair, ask him if the Monaghans owned the cottage before Monaghan was murdered.” I explained the cottage’s proximity to the location of Bull’s gunnery range and my earlier theory that Monaghan might have been spying on Bull.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll also try to contact whoever is in charge of the shooting at the motel. Did you get any sense of where the shot might have come from?”