Anthony Bidulka

by Stain of the Berry (lit)

  "Hi. Is this Duncan?" I was on the balcony off my office, standing at the railing watching a foursome of eighteen-year-olds playing a late afternoon game of Frisbee in the park.

  "Who is this?" the man on the other end of the phone line answered back. Not very friendly for an ex-Saskatonian.

  "My name is Russell Quant..."

  "Are you the guy who visited Butterfly today?" Good news travels fast.

  "Yes, that's right. Butterfly gave me your number."

  "Who are you really? What do you want with me?"

  "Moxie Banyon..."

  "I know. She's dead. You didn't have to tell me that. I was at the funeral."

  If only this guy would let me finish a sentence. "And Tanya Culinare..."

  "What about Tanya?"

  "Do you know she's dead too?" It wasn't the most empathetic way of breaking the news but he wasn't giving me a chance.

  There was silence. Then a sob. "Fuck you, man! Fuck you! She is not! You're a fucking liar!"

  "I'm sorry, Duncan. I didn't know if you knew."

  "How...why...oh shit! Oh Shit! Did you kill 'er, man? Is that what this is about?"

  Whoa! My heart skipped a beat and my cheeks flamed. I'd certainly accused others of murder in my day, but I'd never been the one being accused. It was not a pleasant experience, especially coming directly out of left field. What was this guy thinking? "Duncan, hold on a second..."

  "Don't you ever call me again! Do you hear me! Leave me alone! I don't ever wanna see you or hear from you! Do you understand? Leave me alone! You just leave me the fuck alone!"

  The line went dead.

  I had the distinct feeling that Duncan Sikorsky had run away from Saskatoon to hide from something or someone. But why? And why did he immediately assume Tanya had been murdered-by me- when I told him she was dead? Had he suspected his good friend Moxie had been murdered too? Is that why he left Saskatoon? I had my work cut out for me. After consulting with my client via a phone call to his office in Seattle and arranging for Barbra and Brutus to sleep over at Errall's, I booked myself on an early morning flight to Vancouver. I had just hung up with the rental car company when Lilly called me from downstairs to tell me I had a visitor-Victoria Madison of V. Madison Steel. Interesting what seeps out of the woodwork if you just give it time.

  I had Lilly show Tanya's former boss up to my office and after the social niceties were out of the way, Vicky and I sat down and regarded one another carefully across the cluttered surface of my desk.

  "I'm surprised to see you," I told her with a hint of a smile. "Seeing as the last time we met, you had Bluto deliver your kind regards."

  "I'm sorry about that," she said, readjusting her bulk in the chair. "But I knew you weren't who you said you were. I was just looking out for Tanya's best interests, that's all. You can understand that."

  I could. "Have you thought of something you think I should know, Ms. Madison?"

  "Vicky. Call me Vicky, everyone does. And yeah, Mr. Quant, I do want to tell you something. But I'd wanted to check you out first, make sure you really were who you said you were. After all, you did lie to me about your identity when we first met."

  Alright already, I lied to you. Detectives do that sometimes, get over it.

  "You see it was me who told Tanya to call you in the first place."

  A surprise. "Excuse me?"

  "I don't know if she ever did it, but I'm the one who told Tanya to call you."

  Tanya had called me. At 2:30 a.m. on the day she died. I just didn't know it was her at the time.

  "You see, Tanya didn't have a lot of friends, but she and I, we got along. I was her friend, even though I was her boss. She reminded me of myself when I was her age. She was young, not too comfortable with her sexuality, having trouble keeping relationships going...with friends, family, lovers, anybody. When she first came to work for me she was a real closet-case, 'scared of her dyke shadow' I used to call it. I kinda figured she was a lesbian when I hired her, but we never really talked about it until we ran into each other at a women's dance some months later. I ended up taking her under my wing I guess, tried to guide her, help her. My girlfriend thought she was a hopeless cause, thought it was like me taking in a stray cat that was too far gone to ever housebreak, but I didn't think so. Eventually she started to do okay I think. I encouraged her to get more involved in the community, join a choir, do some sports, try to make some friends, become more social, that kind of thing.

  "Then she met Moxie. Moxie was good for her. Tanya was quiet, withdrawn at times, too serious, Moxie was just the opposite. Then Moxie got kinda weird on her and left town."

  "Kinda weird how?" I thought I knew the answer, but it never hurt to get substantiation.

  "I don't really know. Maybe that's just my view of things. Tanya didn't like talking about it much. She just said Moxie was getting harassed or something like that and had to leave town for a while. That really upset Tanya. She kind of went into a tailspin after that, started having problems of her own. It was almost as if..." She stopped there with a look on her face as if she'd just thought of something.

  "As if what, Vicky?"

  She looked at me, her tiny cocoa eyes opened wide above her mounded cherry cheeks. "It was almost as if she thought she was experiencing the same harassment that drove Moxie away."

  "You didn't believe her?" There was something about the way she said it.

  "People calling her and sending her threatening notes and stuff...I don't know, it sounded kind of incredible and so much like what Moxie had complained about. I didn't know if it was true, but I told her that if it was, she needed to get some help. She didn't know who to call, so I asked around. Eventually your name came up, and with your being gay and all, I thought it'd be easier for Tanya to deal with you than some macho bull-dick detective."

  I'm not macho?

  So that's how Tanya ended up with my number. But she hadn't used it...until it was too late. I tried to piece together the strands of information I had collected so far. Vicky's story didn't sound exactly like the one I'd heard from Cameron Banyon, Moxie's brother, but close enough. Moxie started getting harassed and she told her girlfriend, Tanya, about it. Tanya sort of believed it (according to Cameron), or maybe not (according to Vicky). Around February, Tanya quit playing chess with her neighbour and began acting weird and, according to Moxie's brother, started getting harassed herself. Moxie moved away (and they broke up?) in March. Tanya continued to get harassed, maybe even bad enough to talk to Vicky about it. Moxie drowned in April. Tanya died (suicide?) in July.

  "I don't know if she ever called you. I suppose not. She was so shy about stuff like that. And, to be totally honest, Mr. Quant, she wasn't the most stable girl around." Same opinion as Stella, another stellar V. Madison Steel employee. Boy, their Christmas parties must be a real hoot.

  "So, I just came to tell you that, about me giving her your number, in case it ever came up or you were wondering about that. And to tell you that if there's anything I can do to help you, or the family, I'd gladly do it. I liked Tanya. She was a good gal. She shouldn't be dead."

  We agreed on that. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Tanya, about her life, friends, anything that might point to why she'd commit suicide?"

  "Like I said, I don't think she had many friends."

  "What about the harassment she talked about? Did she give you any idea who she thought might have been doing it?"

  She shook her head, the clump of brown hair on top of it moving with it. "But whoever it was, he was doing a damn good job. Every day, Tanya became more and more jittery and nervous. I hated to see her like that, but I didn't know what else to do for her."

  "Did you know Moxie Banyon well?"

  Another shake. "Nope. Met her once."

  "What about someone called Dr. D?" I thought I'd throw that in for good measure.

  Vicky hesitated, then decided to answer. "I guess it can't hurt to tell now. Dr. D is Dr. Dubrowski, Tanya's therapist. I sug
gested him to her as well."

  My, Vicky Madison was certainly a fountain of referrals. "What sort of doctor is he?"

  She gave her noggin a few taps.

  Dr. Uno Dubrowski was listed in a Yellow Pages ad as a psychologist who offered treatment for mental, emotional, spiritual and relational health issues, specializing in abuse, depression / anxiety, disordered eating, transitions/change and career /workplace. His office was on College Drive, right across the street from the University of Saskatchewan campus and the Royal University Hospital (better known as RUH). I knew the chances weren't great that the doc would share any secrets about his client, Tanya Culinare, even though she was dead, but I still had to try.

  To up the likelihood that I'd even get in to see him without an appointment, I showed up at Dr. Dubrowski's office-which was actually a converted bungalow-toward the end of his workday , which I guessed to be around 4:00 or 4:30. Really, how much longer than that can anyone listen to people's problems? I entered through the front door and found myself in a Costco-furnished sitting area: maroon leather couch, a couple of swivel chairs better suited for behind a desk, a faux-oak coffee table and several peaceful looking prints on the wall. A small table against a far wall held an empty coffee urn, a half-full pitcher of probably lukewarm water and a briefcase-sized stereo playing Yanni. I glanced around for a fishbowl but saw none. There was no receptionist's desk, only a short hall with a bathroom on one side and a closed door opposite it, which I took to be the good doctor's office. Since that door was closed and the front one wasn't locked, I supposed he was in but with a client, so I settled in to wait it out.

  About fifteen minutes passed before the office door opened. Out walked a sombre-looking woman with a mohawk and nose ring and a pair of jeans that barely made it around her waist. She was about forty-five and grossly overweight. When she saw me, her face registered surprise then quickly moved to scowl. I smiled politely as my eyes followed her to the exit then, once she was gone, zoomed right back to the door of Dr. Dubrowski's office. It remained open but the man himself did not emerge. I decided to give him a few minutes, in case he needed time to write up notes about the client session he'd just completed. I wondered if he was writing the words, "contact Extreme Makeover team immediately." I was contemplating what else the doctor might be jotting down when a diminutive man in a crumpled blue shirt, knitted tie and grey pleated slacks exited the office letting loose a shrill chord of flatulence followed by a rumbling burp.

  Dr. Dubrowski almost fell off his soft-soled shoes when he caught sight of me, obviously assuming the waiting room would be empty at day's end. The first thing I noticed about his face was that so much of it seemed to be covered by eyebrow, one long, blackish, furry one, below which were a pair of oversized round spectacles, a pointy nose and smallish mouth, which was now pursed into a perfect "O." And I thought mohawk woman was surprised to see me.

  "Hello, Dr. Dubrowski," I greeted, standing up and stretching out my hand, hoping he'd welcome the diversion away from his shocking lack of waiting room decorum. "My name is Russell Quant."

  "I-I-I don't believe we have an appointment," he stuttered. "D-d-d-do we?" And with that he let loose another sonorous bit of gas and his eyes began to twitch. "Oh my, dear, dear, I'm sorry for that. You've startled me. You really did." His stomach growled.

  This guy was a mental health care professional?

  "I don't have an appointment, and I'm sorry to have disturbed you," I said at my most charming and polite. "But I was wondering if I could take a few minutes of your time."

  Assuming I was a potential patient in need of one of his specialties, Dr. Dubrowski's face morphed into one of unbridled compassion. He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and directed me into his office. "Of course, of course, Russell, please come into my office. I'd be happy to spend a few minutes with you."

  I was impressed with his immediate empathy and professional concern for a bloke who'd blundered into his workplace demanding some time. As I allowed myself to be led-or was I being pushed-into the inner sanctum of Dr. Dubrowski's world, an inexplicable feeling of comfort and safety settled over me like a warm blanket. And what a unique world it was, unlike any therapist's office I've ever seen in real life or on TV or in the movies. This was nothing like the office belonging to Beverley Chaney just downstairs from my own office at PWC, or that of Bob Newhart, or Babs in The Prince of Tides or Niles Crane on Frasier, this was more like...Sesame Street.

  First of all, there was no desk, only couches and armchairs, a futon, a papasan chair, a couple of rocking chairs and a beanbag chair. There were stuffed animals everywhere, a fully operational train set that wound its way around a mini-Mayberry looking town, and a very fat cat-live, curled up on a pillow-that barely had enough energy to open its eyes in recognition of my presence. Here were the fish bowls, tanks actually, several of them, many gallons full, alive with the brightest collection of fish I'd seen since Finding Nemo. The bulbs from the fish tanks threw the room into a soft, dreamy kind of light. It was just this side of too warm in the office, but as I sank into a cotton-candy-soft armchair, it seemed to me to be just right. Everything was juuusst right. The better to psychoanalyze you with...

  "How can I help you today?" the slight doctor asked, handing me a tall narrow glass of chilled apple juice I had not asked for. It tasted just right.

  I looked at him, the twitching and farting and stomach growling all gone, as if I'd imagined them, the man before me seemingly no more capable of doing such things than would Donald Trump in a business meeting. "I'm looking for some information about a client of yours: Tanya Culinare. I'm a detective and I was hired by her family to investigate her death."

  For a moment he was silent and I detected a slight eye twitch before he finally spoke. "I see. The loss of Tanya was greatly distressing to me, so I can only imagine what her family must be going through, although I never met any of them."

  "Oh? Not a close family?" I played dumb and tried to lead the doctor on, hoping to get him talking before he decided not to.

  "Of course, you know I cannot reveal anything from my sessions with Tanya." Damnation! "I'm sure you understand, Russell?"

  I nodded, trying to keep the disappointment from my face. "Of course."

  "It must be difficult for you, dealing with death, crime, jealousies, mistrust, as you must do on a daily basis in your line of work?" He laid out the words before me like a buffet from which I could choose to eat. Or not.

  "Yes, it's not always easy." I replied.

  "Do you find that you take the day's worries home with you?"

  "Sometimes."

  "How does that make you feel?"

  Psycho talk. The indomitable Dr. Dubrowski was trying to make a patient out of me, and, I must admit, the pull was great. I'd never been in any kind of therapy before, and the idea of having someone whose job it was to listen to me and talk things out with me without judgment or condemnation, was very attractive. And Dr. Dubrowski, who'd appeared almost comical in the light of the real world outside this room, was, in the syrupy warm ambiance of his chummy, cozy office, someone who inspired confidence and the desire to share. I could see myself hugging this little man. I thought then that I just might have to look into this psychoanalysis thing...but not today.

  "Well...," I let the word roll off my tongue. "For instance, in my dealings with my current case, I must admit to feeling frustrated, and in general, the ultimate futility of what I do can really get to me, especially when I don't have all the facts." Hint hint.

  "But people come to you for help," he said, "oftentimes in the midst of living through their darkest days. Being in a helping kind of profession, such as you are, must ultimately be extremely rewarding. You must not lose sight of that."

  Yeah, uh-huh, but... "Take Tanya Culinare for instance. I so want to help her family, her brother, her poor mother and father. They knew so little of her in life-always thinking they had more time-now they want to know her in death. They deserve to know why she died.
If she killed herself, they deserve to know why. If it was some other cause..." I let that one hang.

  The doctor choked up a bit of spit and lowered his eyebrow until the hair was hanging over his bug-eye glasses. "Yes, yes, that is a mighty responsibility you have."

  "And Tanya would have wanted this too, don't you think?" C'mon! Tell me something! Anything! Why was she seeing you! Did she tell you about the harassment? Was she mentally stable or was she making it up? If she was being harassed, do you know who was doing it? "Do you?" Oops, I said that last bit out loud.

  "Do I what, Russell?"

  "Do you think you could help me out? Tell me anything?" Nice recovery, Quant.

  Dr. Dubrowski rose from his seat. Screech. "I'm sorry, Russell. I'd love to help you. I really would. I just cannot. I know you understand."

  I stood up too, headed for the door, stopped and turned around. "One question, Doctor. Do you think Tanya Culinare killed herself?"