by David Waters
“The truth,” Symansky said, breaking my train of thought, “is often hard to pin down.” There was a sense of wonder in his voice which I had not expected. “Sometimes, I suspect, it’s even harder to pin down than a network of carefully prepared lies.” He turned to me with a frown. “Surely that problem must have plagued your career as a journalist?”
I wanted to ignore his question. I felt he was searching for an opening, trying to find some common ground, some way of removing the hard, if not hostile, nature of our conversation. Hendricks had sought to do that. But he had not found my Achilles’ heel. Symansky, I prudently reminded myself, had social skills and an innate charm that Hendricks had lacked.
“Journalists don’t have the time to sit around and philosophize about that kind of problem,” I said, wondering what more I might be able to extract from him.
“A pity,” he said.
“But since I’ve stepped back into academia,” I said in a tone designed to keep him in his place, “I’ve stumbled upon enough lies to last me a lifetime.”
“Yes I suppose you have,” he admitted sadly.
“It’s not a supposition, Mr. Symansky,” I replied testily, “and not something to philosophize about. But a harsh reality with very real and very harmful consequences.”
He turned to look at me. His jaw stiffened and his eyes glared. He was not a man to go down without a fight. “Don’t make the mistake, Mr. Webster, of thinking that it has anything to do with academia! Places like this one have no strangle-hold on the breeding of liars. Many people lie to protect themselves. And if you disdain, as you put it, to philosophize properly about the kind of lies you’ve encountered, then believe me, you’ll fail to grasp the truth that you claim to be seeking.” The lines around his mouth tightened. He glanced at his watch before continuing. “If Gooden is trying to shift blame onto the CIA, and indirectly on to me, and if I sit here and give you what I know about Gooden, stuff that may prove to be harmful to him, how are you going to tell which one of us is lying and which one of us is telling the truth?” As he spoke he had grown angry. “You expect me to reveal all. But why should I? Because you’ve threatened me? I’ve just told you that when threatened the human instinct is to lie. If anyone is to trust you with the truth, it has to be because they’re convinced you can separate the truth from the lies. Can you?”
It was a good question. He had indeed found my Achilles’ heel. He had almost managed to reverse the tables. He was using anger to challenge me, as I had used my anger earlier to try and force answers out of him. I knew that I would have to sort out the truth from the lies later. Life gave no guarantees about being able to do this. One expected truth to be consistent, to have the hallmark of constancy: it doesn’t. Anyone who lives long enough, can be dedicated to the truth in the morning, only to feel compelled to lie before night has fallen.
He glanced at his watch again. “I must be getting back, I have a lot of work and much of it is scheduled. I think I’ve told you all I know.” If I had expected him to make a last plea for himself and Stella, I was disappointed. The only plea he made if one can call it that, was a collective one. We rose and started back. “A lot of careers and reputations are now on your shoulders, but I presume you realize that. Stella’s, mine, Gooden’s.” He paused and his voice took on an odd distant note. “And belatedly possibly the reputations of Monaghan, his wife Naomi, Frank Montini, and I would imagine even Harold Hendricks. It’s a heavy load.” As we stepped up the pace, he threw me a disarming smile. “They used to say that the dead could not rest until the truth was out. But then we don’t live in superstitious times! Do we?”
He had the kind of charm that presumed everyone would like him if only he was given the chance to relate to them in a meaningful way.
I left him at the front door. A few minutes later I saw the van slowly arrive to meet me. As I got in, although I could not be sure at that distance, I thought I saw Symansky standing just inside the glass doors watching us. I felt my stomach churn. I knew that if he had been watching, he would surely have been able to identify the special antenna which Phil had temporarily attached to the roof of the van but had yet to dismantle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When we arrived back at the house, Mary asked how it had gone.
“Went well. Like a pro.” Phil beamed.
“Very, very interesting!” Gina said.
Mary looked at me.
“My mind’s like mush right now,” I murmured, “what he told me needs careful assessment. What I’d like to do is lie down for an hour.”
“Mary could listen to the tape while you do that,” Phil said, “when you’ve recharged your batteries, we could order in some food and decide where to go from here.”
I went upstairs. Like a pro, Phil had said about the interview. I knew he meant the quality of the taping. Oh, he and Gina were in general also satisfied about the substance of the interview. But on the drive back, Phil had expressed at least one caveat.
“You see,” he had observed, “he was clever enough to make sure that the tape would be useless as evidence in court against Gooden.” I must have looked puzzled because he added, “all that philosophical stuff about truth and lies. In effect he was saying that the most natural thing for him to do was to lie to you.”
“And it probably was.”
“Sure. And any defense attorney would try to point that out. But the fact that it’s on the tape would give the defense attorney a field day with a judge or jury. So much so that any prosecutor would decline to introduce it as evidence.”
“You’re suggesting that Symansky knew he was being taped.”
“Well, he’s crafty enough to have figured that out, don’t you think?”
I didn’t. But as I lay down on the bed I thought about Symansky’s admonitions. In the absence of incontrovertible evidence, the task was going to be to sort through the truth and the lies that were layered like a sub-text in almost everything anyone had said to me. I found myself hungering for a different kind of evidence.
An hour and a half later when I arrived downstairs, food was being laid out on the dining room table. Phil and Gina had picked up a bucket of chicken wings done in a hot Cajun sauce, and Mary had made a salad from green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, bacon bits, slices of hard boiled eggs and oil and vinegar.
“I think he told you the truth,” she said to me by way of a greeting. That and the pungent smell of the food made me feel better. As any puppy dog knows, happiness consists almost entirely of food and an occasional pat on the head. As we ate I began to notice that Phil and Gina were having a hard time containing themselves. Finally Phil sighed. “Gina and I have a plan. We would like your reaction to it.”
“Can’t it wait until after we’ve all had our coffee?” I muttered, reaching for another chicken wing.
“Not really,” Gina jumped in, “it’s a matter of timing. If we all agree I’d like to move on it as early as possible this evening.”
“Okay,” I said. I wiped a smear of Cajun sauce from my upper lip.
“I want to persuade Naomi’s friend to set a trap for Gooden,” Gina said.
And with that she had my attention. For a half hour I listened. Gina and Phil alternated, presenting aspects of the plan and the reasoning behind it. I played devil’s advocate, probing for weak spots. All I succeeded in doing was to smooth out some of the rough edges. But then I also wanted to see Gooden flushed out into the open. I glanced at Mary who had so far remained silent.
“I have some reservations,” she said, her fork toying with the limp lettuce on her plate, “if Naomi’s friend agrees we have to be sure that she’s not going to be in any danger, and that means we shouldn’t proceed unless the police are involved.”
I nodded. “And I doubt that she will agree,” I said, “certainly on the two occasions when we met she was pretty hostile.”
“I think most of her hostility was directed towards you,” Gina offered.
“Towards me?”
“Yes.” I must have looked offended because Gina added, “you’re an Anglo-Quebec male journalist working for a newspaper she probably has reasons to despise.”
I could not deny the possibility. “Then,” I said, “I’m hardly the person to approach her.”
“We agree,” Phil commented. He seemed almost relieved, “we think Gina should speak to her.”
“But Gina doesn’t speak French.”
“Oh, I picked up some of it in the eight years I went to school here. But I agree it’s not enough!”
“I’m sure,” Phil said, slightly amused at our discussion, “that Naomi’s friend can speak almost perfect English when and if she wants to. I’ll go along with Gina to keep her company, but I’ll stay in the background. If they run into a language problem, I’ll be there to help out.”
“And what about ensuring that the police are involved?” Mary asked. The question pained Phil. He was still having difficulty thinking of himself as no longer a part of the force.
“I’ll get in touch with Leclair as soon as possible,” he promised.
“And you’ll make sure she understands the danger she may be putting herself in?”
“Yes.”
Mary looked at me. I shrugged. I felt check-mated. I did not like being cut out of the action. I still had some minor reservations but I chose not to voice them. Phil pushed himself away from the table.
“Well let me make the first phone calls. See what I can set up,” He said, “wish me luck.”
“Break a leg,” I muttered.
He gave me a puzzled look.
“It’s a theater term for good luck.”
He still looked puzzled.
“You’re trying to set up a little drama and you’re expecting Gooden to walk into your trap.”
He smiled weakly and gave me a dismissive shrug as he went up the stairs.
While Phil was on the phone, I helped clear the table. He returned as we were putting on the dishwasher.
“So far so good,” he said, “she finally agreed to meet us. But not at her place. We have an appointment in an hour and a half at a place called the Bistro St. Denis.”
I was familiar with the place. It was run by a landed immigrant from Paris. It was a favorite haunt of French writers and media people. She had obviously selected a place where there would be friends she could rely on if she had to. I explained the layout of the place and the kind of people who would likely be there.
Phil nodded. “Figured it would be like that. A place where a cop would stick out like a sore thumb.”
“I wouldn’t worry. You’re beginning to look like one of us.” I grinned. “Just don’t go around sniffing, trying to identify the source of the sweet-smelling smoke.”
He gave me a dirty look. “We don’t do that sort of thing. Haven’t for as long as I can remember. We let people alone with their petty vices. This is still Montreal after all.”
Mary threw me an odd look. The tension between Phil and myself obviously puzzled her.
“Well, I’m ready any time,” Gina said.
“What about Leclair?” Mary asked.
“I left a message with his office,” Phil muttered, “asked him to call me later tonight at home. I promise I’ll bring him up to date on everything.”
I tried to extinguish the very slight ember of resentment I felt as I watched Phil leaving with Gina. After all, I was the one who had asked him for help. I guess it was his penchant for assuming command which had begun to irritate me. He had a thirst for moving rapidly into action which I lacked. But then he had been a cop, and I had been a reporter and not a very aggressive one at that. In fact, I had to remind myself, that I had yet to write a single word about any aspect of this case. I decided I would call Mel Vogel later and bring him up to date. That was the least I could do. Moreover I would begin to sketch out the article the paper would need urgently if Gooden stepped into the web that Gina, Phil and Naomi’s friend might soon be spinning.
It was not what I wanted to do. I wanted to spend a quiet evening with Mary. I found myself wondering whether she wanted the same thing. At some point I was going to have to put my toe in the water, test the relationship, see if it had anywhere to go once this investigation was over. But now was probably not the time. In life as in death, timing is everything, I tried to tell myself.
We settled in the living room with another cup of coffee. Idly, I flipped through the television channels. I paused briefly at the sports channel where the Expos were playing the Atlanta Braves, but out of courtesy I continued to click to see if there was something which might interest both of us. My momentary flicker of interest in the sports channel had not escaped her.
“I think you would like to watch the ball game,” she said.
“Only sort of,” I replied, “wouldn’t mind checking out the score, but what would you like to watch?”
“Nothing really. I checked the TV schedule this afternoon. The amount of junk listed is depressing. Quite amazing when you think about it.”
“Orwellian in fact.” I muttered.
“Well, well,” she observed, raising a mock eyebrow, “from baseball to trenchant social criticism in under thirty seconds!”
“I’m becoming paranoid in my old age,” I admitted, “a steady diet of violence to stun the mind, and channels of meaningless junk to narcotize the emotions. Duty calls,” I said finally, “I should brief my editor.”
“Maybe you should call Symansky as well,” she observed.
“Oh? Why?”
“It would be dangerous for everyone involved if he suddenly got an urge to call Gooden, don’t you think?”
“You’re right, of course.” I was annoyed with myself for not having remembered to admonish Symansky against doing so this afternoon.
Her suggestion had touched upon one of my weaknesses and I didn’t want her to know about it. I tended to think my moves out only to a point of personal satisfaction, and then lose interest. Too often I failed to follow up in ways which were often crucial. There were baseball pitchers like that, I told myself. Once they had blown two strikes past a batter, they felt they had proven their mastery of their opponent. It was then that they lost their concentration. And it was then that the very next pitch sailed gloriously out of the park.
“I’ll go make those two phone calls. And maybe I’ll jot down some ideas for the article I’ll have to write eventually.”
“I may be in bed by the time you finish,” she said, “although I’d like to be awake when Gina gets back.”
“If you fall asleep,” I suggested, “I’ll have Gina wake you.”
“Please do. I’m afraid this is one of those times when a mother seems to have nothing to do but stay at home and worry.”
I finally reached Vogel at home. And once again I found myself giving him a cautiously edited version of what I had been up to. But then it was only the bottom line that really interested him. He perked up when I told him that an arrest might be imminent and that it might involve a prominent member of the Montreal academic community. One who might also have been on the RCMP payroll. I promised to have a story ready to go the moment an arrest was made. And once again I asked him to put a hold on the Washington piece about the Symanskys because running it might derail the last stages of the police investigation. He naturally had a slew of questions. Some I answered, some I deliberately evaded. Perhaps it was because he was at home, but he did not pursue his questioning with the same aggressiveness he would have used had he been in his office.
Then I called Symansky. I asked him if he had called Gooden since our conversation. He said no. I asked him not to do so until the investigation was over.
“Believe me, I have no reason to want to talk to Gooden,” he said with an uneasy chuckle.
But I pushed it a step further.
“He may call you. If he does, I would prefer that you not mention our meeting or reveal any of its substance to him. It could seriously interfere with my present inquiries.”
�
�I won’t. You have my promise on that.”
“Good. By the way the paper has agreed to put the Washington story on hold at my request.”
“Thanks,” he said. There was a long pause. “If I can be of any further help, please call me.”
“I will.” I detected no special plea in his voice, only a very careful calculation of the situation. After I’d hung up I turned on my computer. Putting the first words to an article was something I always hated. Instead I worked on a rough outline. I knew that at some point the right kind of opening phrases would occur to me. I had been working for about two hours when I heard Gina at the front door. As I went downstairs I saw a light shining through the transom above Mary’s door.
“How did it go?”
Gina did not look happy. “I think if Naomi’s friend could have thought of a way to go after Naomi’s murderer without us, she would have done so. But she finally agreed,” Gina acknowledged but without any sense of accomplishment. “There was a desire for vengeance in her eyes that, to be frank, scared me. For a moment, I thought I saw a bit of myself reflected in her eyes. I don’t want to be doing what I’m doing if that kind of vengeance is my primary motive.”
“Is it?” I asked in a tone which suggested that I knew it couldn’t be.
She gave a disturbed, tired sigh. “I hope not. But I don’t know. I thought I came here wanting only to vindicate my father’s reputation. But if Gooden is guilty, I find that I want him to suffer at the very least the same fate as my father. I really want him publicly disgraced and his career in ruins until the end of his days. And that’s a form of vengeance, isn’t it? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It’s not a very noble feeling.”
“True.” I tried to prevent my eyes from reflecting a paternalistic empathy. In truth I did not know how I would feel under similar circumstances. Her eyes studied my face. I could not tell what she was thinking.
“Why don’t you go up and say hello to your mother. I think she’s been waiting up for you.”
She nodded and started for the stairs.