by David Waters
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. At least there are some things now that we can check out.”
I nodded, “I think the mail has come.” I went to the door and came back with a large manila envelope. We studied the photos.
“We’ll need to make copies,” Phil said, “I want to get some over to Captain Leclair and to Lieutenant Ricci.”
“And,” I added, “we’ll need a set for me and for you. I think there’s some leg work we could both do. If you have the time, that is.”
“What have I got except time on my hands?”
We went to the kitchen and replenished our coffee mugs. I made sandwiches from some pre-packaged pastrami, a wilting Boston lettuce, and some Dijon mustard.
“Not great for our coronary arteries,” I muttered.
“Wrong again,” he said.
“Says who, and since when?” I replied.
“An American program called DATELINE that I watched on TV last night.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nah, I’m serious. They had this nutrition expert who did a study of over 100 of the most popular American sandwiches. Among the worst, health-wise, was egg salad and chicken salad. And, would you believe, a vegetarian sandwich. Apparently it’s the fatty margarine, the mayo and the cheese that’s bad for the heart and the coronaries. The best was plain turkey or beef, even pastrami, so long as you used only mustard with them.”
“Well,” I said with amusement, “if it was on DATELINE then it must be true, mustn’t it?”
“Sure,” he replied, munching his sandwich, “as true as your assumption that this must be bad for us because you read some dietitian’s blah, blah in some newspaper or other.”
I conceded the point. I knew next to nothing about nutrition, about fat, or about hydrogenated or non-hydrogenated margarine, or even good cholesterol and bad cholesterol. As a journalist I knew there was a growing industry that was exploiting our fears of death. I wondered if my doctor’s opinions were formed from the same industry. I hoped not.
“Did I tell you about the latest theory about Ms Bronson’s death?” He gave me a morbid laugh.
“No.”
“That her death is probably a gay murder. Can you believe it!”
“Jesus.”
“I know. She was apparently a well known personality in the French gay community. An activist, you might call her. She was a film maker who had made a documentary recently about lesbianism, and had been interviewed frequently on French television. As you know there have been about a dozen gays killed in the last two years. The most famous was that Anglican priest. I forget his name. There’s even been talk of a serial killer. Leclair’s under considerable pressure. The gay community is scared.” He muttered, “and they may have reason to be. They think she is just another victim in a long list. They’re accusing the police of not caring, of not doing their job properly.”
“And so when you take those photos over to him, they’re not likely to get much attention.”
He shrugged. “Let’s look on the positive side. He’s likely to be more amenable to letting us search through her files because he’s going to be very busy pursuing a different avenue. And that’s what we want, isn’t it? A chance to look and see if she had anything to shed light on all of this.”
I nodded, “maybe you should raise that possibility again when you drop off the photos.”
“So where do we go from here?” Ryan asked, talking as much to himself as to me. He took his plate and mug over to the dishwasher.
“I thought,” I said, “it might be a good idea to see if we can place one of our suspects in the area of Naomi’s cottage on Sunday morning.” We discussed a course of action. We agreed that he would head for the Burlington area and I would head for Georgeville. He might have better success talking to the officials at the border than I would.
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll probably stay overnight near Burlington. Do you have some of that stuff on Bull that I can read in my spare time?”
“Sure.” I went upstairs and returned with it.
“As I went through your notes,” Ryan said, “I noticed you took a photo of the Symansky’s car.”
I nodded. “And of the cottages. The photos should be developed by now. We can pick them up on our way out.”
“We could also use photos of the cars driven by Hendricks and Gooden,” he said, “security at Winston would probably know their make, and license number assuming that both cars were issued some kind of parking sticker.”
I hated to disturb Joe Gibbs again. But I went to the phone and called him. I guess he had instructed his secretary to put me right through whenever I phoned because he came on the line immediately. I explained my request.
He sighed, “one of these days I’m hoping that you’ll call with some good news. Okay, I’ll try to get your information. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
While we waited, I offered Ryan some more coffee.
He shook his head. “I’ll call Leclair,” he muttered, “let him know that we’ll be dropping off the photos.” But he could not get through to Leclair. “Apparently he’s closeted in his office near Sherbrooke. It’s in the region where you’ll be going. Maybe you should drop off the photos and have a chat with him yourself.”
The phone rang. It was Joe Gibbs. Both cars were indeed registered with the university’s security department. I wrote down the pertinent details and handed them to Phil.
He looked at it. “I wonder where the cars are now? Maybe we could take photos of them before leaving town.”
“Hendricks probably leaves his car at home,” I said, “particularly in nice weather. Saves him driving it home after drinking in the faculty club.” I checked his address in the phone book, nodding with satisfaction. “He lives only a few blocks from the university.”
“What about Gooden?”
I checked his address. “Westmount,” I said. “He probably drives and parks near the engineering building. May not be all that hard to find.”
“Worth a try.”
“We could use a Polaroid camera.”
“I’ve got two very good ones at home. Police issue.” Phil looked a bit sheepish. “I decided not to turn them in when I was put out to pasture.”
“What’s the world coming to? A police inspector indulging in petty theft?”
He grinned, “you won’t believe this, but I told myself I’d return them when they got around to giving me my gold watch. But all my bosses did was take me out to lunch on their accounts. Besides I have a lot of memories invested in those cameras.”
I knew how he felt. If I had still been using the old Underwood typewriter I had used for years, I would probably have taken it into retirement with me as well. It had memories. But the paper had converted to computer terminals before I left.
I followed him in my car to his place. Five minutes later he emerged with an overnight bag and the two Polaroid cameras. He handed me one of the cameras.
“Hendricks’ place first?” He asked.
“Why not?” I gave him the address and we took off in our seperate cars. We were in luck. Hendricks’ car was in his driveway. I parked a few houses down. Phil parked directly in front of the house. By the time I joined him he was already snapping photos of the car.
The car was a Pontiac Sun bird. Engine red. But in need of a wash. “Should be easy enough to identify,” he said, pointing to the rear window. Large white and green letters proclaimed Winston University. I watched a car approach and slow down. A curious neighbor I presumed. Phil and I reacted differently. I felt a nervous desire to move on. Phil locked eyes with the driver of the car, in effect challenging him to stop and question our presence there. But the driver, unnerved, returned his attention to the road and resumed his normal speed. Phil had acted with an assurance and authority which had intimidated the merely curious. Something I had not learned to do in all my years as a journalist.
Phil sighed, “half the world is made up of nosy busybodies.”
“Hardly abnormal.”
“True enough,” he said, “but in my business, I learnt that if you indulge them they just get in your way and slow you down.”
Police work, I thought. I did not envy it. We got back into our respective cars and drove towards the university’s parking lot. But it was not only police work, I thought as I drove. It was a technique shared by so many in positions of authority. Doctors, lawyers, priests, professors, bankers, you name it. They warded off not only the nosy but their patients and client as well. All in the name of institutional efficiency.
We parked our cars on the street and made our way on foot past the security kiosk towards the engineering building. It took us about five minutes to locate Gooden’s car, a white Honda Accord. It had no particular identifying marks. The university’s parking sticker was no more than a small patch in the lower corner of the windshield on the driver’s side. The car was in impeccable condition. One suspected that it had been washed, polished and vacuumed every week since it had left the showroom. I thought of the lived-in look of his cottage: but then perhaps his wife and son were responsible for that.
At the photo store, the pictures I had taken were ready. Moreover, the store had a quality duplicating machine. We made copies of what Gibbs had sent me. I made sure I had a set for Captain Leclair.
“I may try to give you a call later tonight.” Ryan smiled. He seemed to be happy to be back in harness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Captain Leclair’s office was in a new, one-story building on the outskirts of the City of Sherbrooke. I was led through a large room of computer terminals to his office. Leclair waved me politely to one of the seats in front of his desk. His computer was turned off, and the hum here came from the combined heating and air-conditioning system which was needed to protect the new investment in technology.
I handed him the photos of the Symanskys, Hendricks, and Gooden. We spoke in French.
“And so you think,” he sighed, “that one of these people may have been involved in Madame Bronson’s death?”
I nodded. As succinctly as possible I summarized the peculiar circumstances surrounding Professor Monaghan’s murder. I mentioned Gina’s determination to find out the truth, Naomi’s call to her, and the subsequent shooting at the motel. It would be too much of a coincidence, I suggested, if all these events were not related. He listened attentively enough but I don’t think I told him much that he did not know already.
“An interesting theory,” he acknowledged. He stared at the blank monitor. “So far the murder site has produced nothing to support your assumptions.”
“I’m hoping,” I said, “that there may be something definite in Ms. Bronson’s files to support my conviction.”
“Do you know,” he said, “how many negatives, contact prints, reels of film, not to speak of paper work someone like Ms. Bronson managed to accumulate over the years? We’ve gone through her files once. But,” he said with an angry sigh, “I’ll admit there was much that we did not have the competence to understand. Many of her files had to do with the gay rights movement.” He watched my face for a reaction. “Perhaps, you’re aware, the Montreal gay community is planning a massive memorial service for her this weekend?”
I wasn’t and I admitted as much. He nodded. “I’ve finally agreed to release the body for burial.”
“Who was her next of kin?” I asked, curious.
“We believe she has a brother who is alive but we haven’t been able to contact him yet. Her parents are no longer alive. In any case, her will left everything to her friend and room-mate, Francine Lemelin.”
“The one who discovered her body at the cottage?”
He nodded.
“Are Ms. Bronson’s possessions, in particular her files, being released to Ms. Lemelin along with the body?” My concern was obvious.
“Only some of her personal effects, but the files, no. At least not until I’ve decided they can be of no further use to the investigation.”
I felt it was time to press my offer. “I think Phil Ryan may have already suggested that it might be helpful if we had a chance to look through her files. If her death has any tie to what happened to her husband, we might spot something that might be relevant. Her husband’s death, after all, was his case.”
He did not respond at once, but swiveled his chair slowly to stare out the window.
“The problem,” he said finally, “is that I would have to have one of my own people present. After all, you’re a journalist.”
“Ex-journalist.”
He smiled. “And Phil is now an ex-cop. I’m very short of staff at the moment. Budget cuts are making it difficult for me to pursue different avenues of investigation at the same time.”
“But surely someone,” I said, “will be going through the files again anyway, won’t they?” He avoided acknowledging that likelihood. His poker face revealed nothing except his state of frustration. I was expecting him to back away from my proffered involvement. But he seemed to be a step ahead of me.
“The Montreal Urban Community Police Department,” he noted with only a veiled hostility, “have offered me a specialist in violence against gays to sift through her files for possible suspects.” He studied my face for a possible reaction. When he saw none, he smiled faintly and continued, “but I doubt that he would appreciate you and an ex-cop like Phil Ryan looking over his shoulder.”
So much for making headway, I thought.
“Ryan told me about the theory that Ms. Bronson’s murder was possibly another anti-gay execution.”
He stared out the window again spreading his hands in a gesture of futility. He looked at his watch, as if he were trying to decide how much more time to give me. “There have been a number of unsolved gay killings in Montreal. Enough to have prompted a controversial television news special. The Montreal police are understandably under considerable pressure. But it is still my case and not my theory. If someone wanted to send an anti-gay message,” he noted, “why kill Madame Bronson a hundred miles from Montreal and make it look like the accidental byproduct of a thief who had broken into her cottage? Why not strike her down closer to where she lived and where the impact on the gay community would have been dramatically obvious?” Once again, as he went on, he seemed to be studying my reaction. “No, my theory, to the extent that I have one, is still that she was either the victim of some vandal who thought the cottage was empty or, as you have argued, it may be a byproduct of your investigation.”
There was a trace of a smile as his eyes locked on mine. “I gather the young woman who was with you when you came to the cottage is an American?”
I nodded. “She only arrived from Portland, Maine a few days before I first contacted Ms. Bronson.”
“It is indeed odd, then,” he noted, his eyes returning to the window, “that such a young woman should be staying at a motel where a shot is fired only a few hours after she has traveled to meet someone who has been murdered. Have you stressed that point with the Montreal police, with Lt. Ricci?” He asked, pointedly, knowing that I hadn’t.
“But,” I said, “I believe Phil Ryan has now done so.”
“Ah,” he said, “then maybe you should do so as well. And you might also give them copies of these.” He gestured at the photos sitting on his desk. “At the moment they seem to be only interested in searching for clues in the local strip joint where the injured woman was employed.” There was more than just a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “I gather,” he added, “that they haven’t had quite such a good reason to do so recently.”
I did not know whether to press any further. Hesitantly I rose from my chair. “I’ll do that. I’ll speak to them. And as to the files?”
He cut me off. “I’ll think about it.” With a nod he rose from his chair. At the door he said, “a bank manager phoned me this morning. It appears that Madame Bronson had more than one safety deposit box. The manager called me because Mlle. Lemelin wanted it opened. She seemed annoyed,” he noted with a t
ight smile, “when I insisted that it be kept sealed until I could be present. We’ve agreed on Friday morning. By then,” he added as he pointed me in the direction of the exit, “that expert on gay killings will probably have been assigned to me. You can tell Phil that, maybe then, just maybe, I will give him a call. Meanwhile,” he said, giving me one of those authoritarian stares, although I don’t think his heart was really in it, “I suggest that you and Phil stay on the sidelines. Phil may find it difficult to remember that he is now just a private citizen.”
That made me smile. Both of us new that Phil would not be so easily sidelined. “I’ll remind him when I see him next.” I said.
In Georgeville, I headed first for Gooden’s cottage. I wanted to be sure it was empty before I began to question any of his neighbors. This time there was no car and no youthful presence. I got out of my car, planning to take a closer look, when an elderly neighbor emerged from the side of the cottage next door pushing a wheelbarrow full of gardening tools. I thought of my own back lawn and garden. I had become so preoccupied since Gina arrived on my doorstep, that I could not even remember what state my garden was in. The neighbor eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. I wondered if I looked like a real estate agent, or perhaps a potential buyer. I walked casually over towards him. He was short, stout, older than I was, but still muscular. He had a thin crown of gray hair which sat like a halo on the top of his weathered face. His eyes, without the glasses which hung loosely from a cord around his neck, blinked as I approached.
I felt I needed a pretext for asking questions about Gooden’s movements the previous Sunday. His marital problems came to mind, and at the same time an image of his young and devoted, protective secretary. I did not mind if Gooden’s neighbor presumed that I was some kind of divorce investigator seeking evidence for an alimony settlement. I counted on his knowing that Gooden and his wife were separating and, although it was possibly wishful thinking on my part, that he might be more sympathetic to Mrs. Gooden than to the blunt and abrasive academic.