by David Waters
“She must have filing cabinets of old photos and negatives.”
“Probably.”
“Could we get permission to go through them?”
“I could ask.”
“Would you?”
“Sure. So tell me what is Mrs. Montini like?”
“She’s second generation Boston Irish.”
“No kidding! My grandfather was Irish. That’s where the name Ryan comes from. He married a pious Quebec girl fresh out of the convent, or so the story goes. Now two of my nephews in Chicoutimi have the Ryan name and can’t even speak a word of English. My wife always used to say I drank like an Irishman and swore like a Frenchman.” He laughed. “Now that she’s gone, I don’t do much of either. Say hello to Gina for me will you?”
“Sure.” I took his request as a sign that he had grown fond of her. It was a good omen. It would ensure his cooperation down the road when the going got tough. Before he hung up, he said, “we’ll need up-to-date photos of all our prime suspects. Easier that way to check their movements,” he explained. Then he laughed. He seemed to be enjoying being back in full stride. “I’ll ask Symansky directly to send me one of him and his wife. That should rattle his cage a little. Maybe the university can supply the others.” I said I would try to get them and we agreed to check back with each other later that night.
I put a call through to Hendricks. I wanted to catch him before he headed for his customary nooner at the faculty club. Otherwise I would have called Joe Gibbs first. He answered after the fourth ring. He sounded testy.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Thomas Webster.”
There was a long pause. “Ah, yes, little Gina Montini’s journalistic mentor.” Another pause. “What can I do for you?” I thought I detected a cautiousness in his voice. But perhaps it was only the effect of pre-noon sobriety.
“You may have heard that Naomi Monaghan was murdered on the weekend.”
Another pause.
“Good God!” He sounded genuinely shocked. “Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“When did you say?”
“On Sunday.”
Another long pause.
“Did they catch who did it?”
“No. She was murdered at her cottage.”
“The one in the eastern townships?”
“Yes.”
There was only silence at the other end of the line.
“Professor Hendricks, where were you Sunday?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“At my cottage near Essex Junction. Why?”
“Essex Junction?”
“Yes. It’s in Vermont.”
“Is it anywhere near Burlington?”
“Yes. About ten miles north east. Why?”
“Did you know that the Symanskys live there?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve seen their picture in the local newspaper. But I’ve had no reason to meet or speak to them since they left Winston. Why?”
“Do you have anyone who can confirm your presence at your cottage on Sunday?”
There was a slight pause. “There’s a local student who lives at the back of the cottage. He takes care of the place when I’m not there. He was around most of Sunday.”
“Most of Sunday?”
“He sleeps late. I get up early. I went shopping early in the morning. I saw him around ten. And then I left for Montreal around four. I don’t like driving at night. How did she die?” he asked.
“A head blow with a stone, I believe. I’m still waiting for a more detailed report from the police.”
“Odd. Michael was killed by a head blow too. I didn’t much like Michael. But I was fond of Naomi.”
“Just one more question. Do you know if Peter Gooden is in his office this morning?”
“He’s been around. He’s in a meeting right now with some granting committee. He should be in his office this afternoon.”
“Thanks.” After I hung up, I thought of him locking his office door and shuffling off to the faculty club. It struck me as a sad image. Heavy drinking in a younger man can sometimes be taken as a symptom of a boisterous, vigorous personality. In an older man, it strikes one as a perverse wind-down to an early death. Somehow I could not see alcoholic Harold Hendricks as a murderer. Even less as someone skulking in the brush to take a pot shot at Gina. But then I reminded myself that alcohol has fueled the illusions for many a criminal, and can buttress the nerve that violence requires.
I tried the number for Joe Gibbs. His secretary said he had someone in his office and suggested I phone back in fifteen minutes. I did and was put through to him. I told him about Naomi’s death.
“Was it in the news? I didn’t notice it. I didn’t know her, of course, it was before my time here.”
I could sense what was on his mind. We both knew a professional journalist would have contacted his newspaper immediately. Would, in fact, have pressed for a bylined feature article on the first page. It is what I would normally have done. But I was too involved now to be objective, and my priorities had changed. I remembered the promises I had made to him. He was too professional to remind me of them in any formal sense, but there was an indirect reference to them in his next remark. “I can see that I may be in for some damage control before the week is out.”
“I don’t plan to write anything yet.”
“But I presume the police will be around soon enough. And wherever the police go, both of us know, the media is never far behind.”
I explained the initial police reluctance to see any link between Naomi’s death and that of her husband.
“Do you agree with them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I explained about the shooting at the motel. And that the police in that case too were hesitant to go beyond an assumption that the person who had been hit by the bullet was the intended victim.
Joe Gibbs was silent. I was tempted to add what I had learned about the Symanskys while they were still on staff at Winston. But that, I knew, would only compound his worries. I asked if he could get me recent photos of Hendricks and Gooden. He sighed and thought about that for a moment.
“Do you really think either of them may have taken a shot at you or Montini’s daughter?”
I don’t know.”
He grunted. “I don’t even want them to know the extent of my co-operation so far. Gooden would go ballistics. Is your request still part of our original deal? The one I persuaded the rector to go along with?”
“Yes.” I knew I wanted to find a murderer. I no longer cared what, if anything, made it into the newspaper.
“I’ll see what I can do. Call me tomorrow morning.”
For lunch Gina and I opened a can of tomato soup and shared grilled cheese sandwiches. It reminded me of the kind of meals I used to have as a child when I came home from class in grade school. It made me feel nostalgic. And it made me feel old.
“I was surprised, and puzzled,” Gina said, “by the information in some of the documents that this guy Joe Gibbs gave you.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Hendricks, for example, had numerous publications as a young academic. But just shortly after Monaghan’s arrival, he ceased to publish. His work with graduate students dwindled, while Monaghan’s increased. And that despite the fact that Hendricks gave decent marks, or at least fair ones if one goes by the Bell curve, while Monaghan consistently downgraded students.”
“By then,” I said, “perhaps the drinking began to affect the quality of Hendricks’ work and by extension his reputation with students. Or do you have another explanation?”
“I think maybe I do.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“No. Partly because I don’t know much about the different fields of engineering.”
I pushed my empty lunch plate aside. “I don’t either. But try your theory out on me anyway.”
“I think it has to do with grants. That’s something I know som
ething about because it’s also a big factor in the field of communications where I did my degree. You see, the grant system is a kind of vicious circle. The professors who publish a lot get the most grants. They become the most popular because they are often able to hand out paid research work to their favorite students. The students, of course, rarely get credit for the work on the grounds that it was the professor’s supervision which set them on the right path. But the students go along with it because they end up getting top grades and the kind of reference letters that propel them eventually into the better paying jobs.”
“So what you’re telling me is that when Monaghan came on the scene, Hendricks was out and Monaghan was in. That in terms of the way the system works, power had shifted from one to the other, including, of course, their reputations in the academic world of engineering.”
“Yes. sort of.”
“Which would give Hendricks a reason to hate Monaghan. But a motive for murder?”
It was a conclusion which did not sit well with Gina. I could tell by the way she was gnawing her lower lip. “Maybe.” Then she giggled, “if that were sufficient as a motive then the number of professors murdered per year would probably rival the number of muggings in New York city.”
“People have murdered for less.” I muttered. But what did I know? Very little. “If there were other reasons,” I said, “it might have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. They might have had a confrontation, Hendricks might have been drunk, Monaghan might have taunted him.”
“Perhaps. But there is something else that bothers me.” She played with the spoon in her bowl of soup, clanging it back and forwards in tune with her thoughts. “It has to do with the marks they gave out. I mean, our assumption is that Monaghan had begun to attract the brighter students and that Hendricks had to be content with the duller ones. All because of the grants and the paid research Monaghan was able to dish out. So then why did Monaghan give his students lower grades than Hendricks gave his students?”
“Because Monaghan was an arrogant bastard who liked to put people down, and Hendricks became a bit of a softie as he began to lose his grip.”
“It’s too pat,” Gina said, shaking her head as she gathered up the soup bowls and plates and took them over to the dishwasher. “And that’s another strange thing.” Gina said frowning.
“What?”
“Gooden’s credentials. I’m not sure where he fits into all of this. He published a couple of papers shortly after Monaghan died, but he never became a full-time professor. Instead he took off to work for the Department of National Defense in Ottawa. And that’s odd in itself because I thought the group he belonged to were all supposed to be pacifists.”
I nodded. “The Symanskys pretended to be. Monaghan, as we suspect now, was probably just rabidly anti-American, and Gooden just another young opportunist. Ironic isn’t it, that maybe your parents were the only real pacifists.” I made us two cups of instant coffee. “I wonder how Gooden got to be Dean of Engineering?”
“I wondered about that too. He moved around from one government department to another. I suppose he had acquired management and administrative skills, and had, or claimed to have, all the right contacts with the granting agencies.”
“An administrator and a lobbyist rather than a scientist or a teacher.” I remembered Hendricks’ bitter-sweet smile when he talked about Gooden and hinted that his evolution would have been a disappointment to his mentor, the late professor Monaghan. But was Gooden ever one of Monaghan’s chosen few? His presence in the photo at the cottage suggested it. But Gooden had denied it when I had queried him in his office.
An hour later I placed my phone call to Gooden. I had to stick-handle my way past the young secretary who acted as his praetorian guard. Finally I was put on hold for two minutes, and then Gooden came on the line.
“Yes?”
“As you may have heard,” I said, “professor Monaghan’s wife was murdered on the weekend.”
“Yes. I’ve just been recently told about it.”
I wondered who told him, Hendricks? Gibbs? Or had it finally made a newscast? I decided on the shock approach. “I’m trying to trace people’s movements on the weekend. I was wondering where you were on Sunday.”
“I’m a busy man, Mr. Webster. I really have no time to indulge your journalistic curiosity.”
“I figure it would only take about thirty seconds to answer my question.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Don’t get what?”
“I never co-operate with the media.”
“I’m sure you’re happy to co-operate with it when it’s printing your press releases about what grants you’ve obtained if any.”
He actually chuckled. “Undoubtedly. But that’s what the press is for, isn’t it? To be the handmaiden of government and corporations?”
“So, where were you on Sunday?”
He chuckled again. “You are persistent. I suggest you do your own leg work. Then print whatever you want. And if you get anything wrong, I’ll be happy to sue you.” The bastard, I thought, he’s actually playing with me. He wasn’t the type to sue. I knew that. He knew that. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he said in a tone that was anything but polite, “I have important people waiting to talk to me.”
But before he could hang up I asked: “Why did Monaghan give low grades to students like you?”
The silence which followed told me I hat touched a raw nerve.
Finally, he murmured, “I’m afraid only Michael Monaghan could really answer that. Good day, Mr. Webster.”
I stared at the phone. I felt like I had blown a second interview with the surprisingly smug Dean of Engineering.
But I decided I wasn’t quite through. I called again. Leg work indeed! When his secretary came on the line, I was as sweet and smooth as maple syrup. “I was just talking to Dean Gooden.” I explained, stating what must have been obvious to her. “We were talking about his cottage. He mentioned its location, but the name of the town has suddenly eluded me. I’d prefer not to disturb him again. Would you perhaps know it?”
She seemed unsure of what to do. Finally she said, “I think it’s Georgeville.”
“Ah, yes, of course, that’s it. Glad I didn’t have to disturb him again.”
I put down the receiver. Georgeville. How very interesting. The location did not come as a complete surprise. Academics all seemed to favor the countryside south-east of Montreal. Either near the American border or across it. Some of course preferred locations to the west across the border in Ontario. Usually for tax reasons. Very few opted for the Laurentians north of Montreal. Georgeville was a small town on the other side of lake Memphramagog from Naomi’s cottage. I estimated not much more than a thirty minute drive around the northern tip of the lake. Interesting indeed.
Gooden was right. It was time to do some leg work. A chat with the local Georgeville merchants, a visit with some of his neighbors. Find out what kind of car he drove. That kind of thing. The same applied to Hendricks and the Symanskys. My stay in Portland was going to be shorter than I had intended.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After supper, Mary suggested that we go for a walk before darkness fell. Gina declined. She had spoken little during supper. At some point during the meal I had become puzzled by what I felt were Gina’s increasingly introspective silences. We left Gina behind to clean up the dishes.
“It’ll take us about fifteen minutes,” Mary said, “to reach the tip of the cape and a view of the harbor.”
What was a brisk walk for her was little more than a leisurely stroll for me.
“Do your friends call you Tom or Thomas?”
“Both.”
“And which do you prefer?”
“I used to prefer Tom. But increasingly I prefer Thomas.”
The landscape changed as we walked. Trees gave way to the wild rose bushes that one finds near the sea.
“There’s something my mind has been fumbling w
ith,” I said, “perhaps you can help me with it.”
“What’s that?” She asked. The tip of Cape Elizabeth came into view.
“Ever since Gina knocked at my door, we’ve been focusing on the people in the photo. Subsequent events appear to have warranted that. But initially casting a wider net would have been more reasonable. At first, I had the impression it was because of something her father had told her. But it was you that gave her the photo.” I said, “for some reason you must have nudged her in that direction too. Why? Last night, you mentioned only your husband’s belief that someone in the group had betrayed him. Are there any other reasons?”
Mary gave the question careful thought. Finally she nodded. “Nothing conclusive, but I remembered some of the discussions I had with my husband and his lawyer not too long after Frank was arrested. It had to do with the significance of the weapon. The weapon, as you may know, was a heavy cone of an artillery shell. Not just your average paperweight! And it was kept on a shelf above a filing cabinet in a corner of the office, slightly behind and to the right of Monaghan’s desk. It was not something that would have been in easy reach of just any student who came to confront Monaghan about a disappointing mark, no matter how enraged the student might have been. At the very least, it implied someone close enough to Monaghan to be able to wander around the office while talking or arguing with him.”
“Or someone with access to a key, and who may have been going through the files near the shell cone when Monaghan appeared.”
“Yes. So when Gina insisted upon pursuing the matter with some of the money her father left her, I got out that photo. Why I had kept it I don’t know. But I had. Maybe, for me, it symbolized a brief nostalgic period before everything at Winston came down in ruins. It’s odd,” she added, “but when I looked at the photo before giving it to Gina, I felt something sinister looking back at me.”
“But you were afraid for Gina and so you still tried to dissuade her from coming to Montreal.” She nodded. We had come to a spit of land where the ocean stretched before us. We stopped to absorb the view. The sun, now low in the sky, was behind us. Its rays cast a pink sheen upon the now gentle medicinal swells of the sea. The cargo boats lined up in the channel a mile or two from the port had acquired a glowing patina which gave them, for the moment, an aura of magic. Yet another illusion, I thought. But this time not caused by smoke and lies, but by the evening light of the sun. In truth, I knew those ships were probably little more than rusting monsters of modern mechanical engineering. I watched as some of the small boats that had been fishing in the channel packed it in and headed back to port leaving a wake of glistening foam behind them.