Grave Doubts

by John Moss

He raised his voice.

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “What?”

  Splattering water drowned out his words, but not hers.

  “About the rules,” he shouted.

  “Stand where I can hear you, Morgan! The shower’s steamed up — you couldn’t see me for looking.”

  He stopped at the bathroom door. She was wrong; she was absorbed in washing and her body was revealed in waves as water sheeted against the glass door. It was full and lean, the body of a mature woman in splendid condition. He remembered her from the night they made love; she had seemed almost girlish then. He backed away and sat down on the chair by her bedroom window.

  “Can you hear me?” she shouted. “Where’d you go?”

  “I’m here.”

  She shut off the water and for a moment there was silence.

  “Why do you think lawyers have all the power, Morgan?”

  “Because they know the law.”

  “Because they know its limitations.”

  Morgan thought about that.

  “The rest of us live in moral chaos,” she continued. “And we grasp at the law to make sense of it all. Not lawyers. They don’t give a damn about sense and morality. That’s why so many of them are politicians; they want order — they’re inherently fascist. Think of the utter stupidity of ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers in the witness box. There are no ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers.”

  “Now you’re sounding like me.”

  “I could do worse.”

  Suddenly she was at the door, wrapped in a towel.

  “Get out of here, Morgan. The lady is about to get dressed.”

  He regarded her with mild exasperation, got up, and ambled back to the living room.

  Cops should marry cops, she had said. Given her splenetic response about lawyers he decided that was not something to pursue.

  “Aren’t you curious about why you’re being hauled into action on a day off?” he asked.

  “Well, let’s see,” she said. “Since it isn’t a major metropolitan catastrophe, and you seem in a rare good mood, I would say it has something to do with our lovers last night. Am I right?”

  He stood in the middle of the living room, still in her sightline, hands in his pockets, with his back to her, slouched in a waiting posture. He still had on his sheepskin coat, although it was unbuttoned and hanging loosely on his shoulders, rather like a cape, she thought. He was lean and muscular, more with the air of a soldier than an athlete: a man comfortable in his body who carried himself with the pride of a combat survivor.

  “Am I right?” she repeated.

  He shrugged equivocally, knowing she was watching him.

  She let her towel drop and stood naked in her bedroom doorway, barely two steps away, amused to think that if he turned around she would be righteously indignant.

  “Get dressed,” he said. He knew what she was doing. Senses especially acute in the moment, he had heard the towel slide against skin to the floor.

  She suddenly felt vulnerable and foolish. She mimed a posture of exaggerated modesty, stuck out her tongue in Morgan’s direction, and retreated.

  Miranda strapped on a shoulder holster over her blouse and tucked her semi-automatic into place. She put on a loose jacket and walked into the living room where her partner was still standing, as if he were holding a pose.

  “Okay, Morgan,” she whispered in a burlesque of sensuality. “I’m packin’ heat. Let’s go.”

  She kissed him impulsively on the cheek as she walked by.

  “I don’t think you’ll be needing that,” he said.

  She took off the jacket and holster and put her Glock in her purse.

  Miranda sometimes carried her weapon, and Morgan seldom carried his. She liked the feeling it gave her of being a little bit dangerous. He liked the sense of relinquishing power, of playing danger against wit. They had talked about this several times, each accusing the other of subverting gender stereotypes, in deference to Freudian principles they both abhorred.

  Miranda was surprised when they walked out of her building to find that Morgan had picked up a car from headquarters. “Okay, Morgan,” she said, “this must be serious. You do not ever take charge of transportation. In our fair division of labour that’s my job. You drive,” she declared, as she slipped into the passenger seat. “And after this, lock the doors when you park. You’d feel like a fool if someone made off with a cop car.”

  Driving up Yonge Street, Morgan focused on manoeuvring through runnels of frozen slush. This late in the season, there wasn’t even salt on the roads. The car lurched from rut to rut as he overcorrected, damning the shortfall on the city budget.

  He was losing patience, waiting for her to ask again why they were back at work on a day off. She was resisting, certain that he would break by the time they reached Eglinton. One block south, the car caught an edge of ice and swerved. Morgan wrenched it out of the groove, eased it through a long skid, and let it slide to a stop smack against the curb.

  “You drive,” he said, and got out of the car. When they had exchanged places, he explained, without being in the least defensive. “You’re better at winter driving than me. You enjoy it. I don’t.”

  It was true, she liked to drive, even in bad conditions. He was not a nervous passenger, nor particularly a nervous driver, just not a very good one. Having grown up in a family without a car, he could never relate to men who measured their manhood by their prowess behind the wheel.

  “If you do something, anything, just to prove you’re a man,” his father had said, “then you’re not.”

  When he was eight years old, his father taught him to box. Not because it’s a manly sport. “Hammering someone into unconsciousness, boy, that’s nothing to be proud of. But the world’s a tough place; you’ve gotta be tough to survive.”

  The boxing lesson came after a kid about ten years old had pinned Morgan down and cuffed him on the head until tears filled his eyes. He wasn’t crying. It was an involuntary response. The kid wouldn’t stop, so Morgan flailed wildly and landed a smack straight on the kid’s nose. He broke his nose.

  His father had been called in and had to take half a day off work. The boxing lesson was the only repercussion at home or at school.

  His father made boxing gloves out of socks, folding one sock across the knuckles between layers over and under it, securing each makeshift affair with duct tape at the wrist.

  “Make a fist, not around your thumb. Relax your thumbs,” he said.

  He got down on his knees so that he was the same height as his son. “Now let’s see you punch. Punch me, David.”

  “I don’t want to,” Morgan said.

  “Punch into my hand, hard as you can.”

  Morgan did what he was told. His blows met with little resistance as his father’s hand gave way to the force. This wasn’t like the kids fighting at school.

  “What do they do?”

  “They rassle. We don’t really hit each other. Mostly we rassle ’til someone says ‘Uncle.’ Sometimes you have t’say ‘Give.’ Then they stop.”

  “And what if there’s a bully who won’t stop?”

  Morgan didn’t have an answer.

  “Now try to hit my face,” he said. “That’s it, punch, punch, thrust, punch, break through. Good boy. Watch what I do.”

  To Morgan’s surprise, his father parried against his gloves then slipped through his defence and hit him on the side of the chin. Morgan’s hands dropped to his side. His father had never hit him before, and he had never even been spanked.

  “Now hit me back, David. Come on, come on,” he taunted.

  Morgan watched his opponent’s hands jabbing the air, waited, then struck. To his surprise, his small fist broke through his adversary’s guard and landed square on his nose. His father reeled back on his knees, shook his head to clear the buzz, looked at his son through glistening moisture released by the jarring of his tear ducts.

  “Damn me, boy. What the hell are you d
oing?”

  Morgan was appalled. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he said. It was the only time he had ever called him that.

  He wanted to hug his father, to forgive him for making him do it.

  “Don’t be sorry,” his father said. Then to Morgan’s surprise he started jabbing away at his son’s instinctively raised fists. They were adversaries again.

  “What’s my name, boy?”

  His father never called him “boy.”

  “Fred!”

  “That’s right, David. Know who you’re fighting. Always know.”

  With sudden deliberation he reached through and landed a glancing blow against the side of his son’s head, but leaving himself open, so that Morgan rolled with the punch and came up underneath with a solid blow to his father’s chin.

  “Good God, David. You’re a little bugger.”

  Morgan stared at him sullenly, daring him to strike back. His father got up off his knees, rising to his full height. Morgan stared up at him. This was his father again.

  “And never lose your temper. If you do, you’ve lost the fight.”

  When his father reached out to tousle his hair, Morgan flinched infinitesimally.

  “Now get the hell out of here,” his father said as he stripped off the socks from his son’s clenched fists. “Go out and save the world from bullies.”

  Morgan remembered his father standing tall and powerful in the middle of the living room, but he also remembered the terrible sounds of him wheezing and coughing up tobacco-soaked phlegm as Morgan strutted out the front door.

  While they were stopped at the Yonge and Eglinton intersection, Miranda glanced over to see if he was going to break. He seemed relaxed.

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay, tell me what’s going on, Morgan. You win.”

  “Win what?”

  “Whatever. You can’t set the rules if you don’t know the game.”

  “My goodness,” he said. “You only coin clichés when you’re riled up about something.”

  “Aphorisms. You can coin an aphorism. I’m not riled up.”

  “But you would like an explanation.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “They’re not old, are they! They’re recently deceased. The whole thing was a set-up, wasn’t it? A gruesome illusion, a joke? Right?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “For sure.”

  “Is it our case?”

  “It is.”

  “Oh, well done, Morgan.”

  “I dropped into the forensic pathology lab this morning.”

  “Because you had nothing better to do on a Saturday off?”

  “I wanted to talk to Dr. Hubbard.”

  “Come on, Morgan. She’s got cantilevered tits and Olive Oyl hair. Not your type at all.”

  “No?”

  “She looks like a raunchy popsicle.”

  “I can’t picture it.”

  “Morgan, if she ever let her hair down, her cheeks would sag to her chin.”

  He had never known Miranda to be so bitchy. She had good instincts, and she didn’t hesitate to judge by appearance, but usually she was subtle. A cocked eyebrow, the trace of a smile. She was incisive but seldom unkind. And she was usually right. He, in contrast, saw neither what people wanted others to see, nor what they wanted to hide. He did not believe in the concept of self as a coherent entity. He saw personality as process, something revealed over time.

  Often their conclusions converged, although his were less static than hers, and while they evolved slowly they were more open to revision.

  “Is something bothering you?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t seem yourself.”

  “Do I ever?” she grinned. “I was looking forward to lazing in bed,” she said. “Dreaming good dreams, spending a lovely while on my own.” She continued to smile, without looking over at him. She had awakened blissfully distracted, like she had made love through the night, but her phantom lover had departed, and she could not remember his name. “So, what’s going on?” she asked.

  “We missed it. They missed it. The medical examiner missed it. We were royally duped — by a master of the macabre. It’s all very Gothic.”

  “Damn it,” she said. “I knew the clothes fit too well.”

  By the time he explained as much as he knew, they had pulled up in front of the house in Hogg’s Hollow, which looked more dilapidated by daylight, somehow more sad, as if shunned by the neighbouring houses. There was a van parked slightly askew in the driveway. The name “Alexander Pope” in exquisite hand-script on the driver’s door proclaimed the owner a person of profoundly good taste, either too modest to add a line declaring his profession or so confident it was not deemed necessary.

  As they walked by, Morgan peered through the side windows and saw, lying in casual disarray, odds and ends of antique paraphernalia. There was a pair of hand-forged fire irons, were three or four swing arms from the inside of fireplaces, and a couple of iron pots and a kettle. There was a copper cauldron from central Sweden, an old import. There were cardboard boxes brim-filled with ancient nails, a brace of decoys, part of a dry sink, a box of door latches and hinges, and random lengths of painted pine. There were shadows and colours and contours Morgan would have loved to have explored. He was a natural at rummaging through obsolete treasures.

  “The name’s familiar,” said Miranda. “A short poet; rhyming couplets; a gardener.” What else, she wondered? “Didn’t he say ‘brevity is the soul of wit’?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Shakespeare said that. Pope said ‘Wit is the lowest form of humour.’”

  “He must have been having a bad day. This is another Pope, I take it.”

  “This one lives in Port Hope. I asked him to meet us. I didn’t think he’d be here already.”

  They paused at the door. Morgan’s guest had obviously gone in.

  “Do you remember? We talked about this guy in Yorkville.”

  “Last summer, in the coffee house. The architect.”

  “The ultimate expert in colonial house restoration and the simulation of rustic antiquities.”

  “‘The simulation of rustic antiquities’! Sometimes you talk in quotations. Does he write poetry?”

  “If you ask him nicely he might pen you a few short lines.”

  “Perhaps about corpses and crypts.”

  When they opened the door, standing immediately inside with his back to them was a man who in fact was exceptionally tall and quite angular. He was wearing a Fair Isle sweater that had once been a work of art and now threatened to disintegrate if he moved suddenly — which, by his current posture, seemed unlikely.

  Without turning around, the man said, “She won’t let me in, Mr. Morgan. This woman seems ready to draw her weapon and I’m not properly armed. Do you suppose you could help?”

  Obscured by his lanky frame, Rachel Naismith was revealed by her voice. “Everything is under control, Detectives. He insisted on entering without authorization.”

  She edged around so that Alexander Pope had to step into the living-room rubble to get out of her way.

  “He’s tall as God, but not as convincing. I invited him to stand very still and he complied. Says he’s here on your invitation. Refused to wait in his van.”

  “I saw no reason to remain outside,” he said. “I’m assuming you outrank her, Detective Morgan. Do tell her to stand easy. I’ve never been at a crime scene before, but even here I would hope common civility applies.” Morgan smiled. Here was someone totally comfortable with the persona he chose to project to the world, arbitrary as it was. His intonation and syntax were vaguely English, yet Canadian-born. In a few brief sentences he showed the residual inflection of a genuinely colonial sensibility. Once we were British, thought Morgan. Some still are.

  Miranda gazed up at the man in admiration. Everything about him was authentic, she thought. His precarious sweater
, his worn corduroy pants, his steel-toed workboots unlaced at the ankle, his three-day beard, and his unkempt steel-grey hair all went together with a fine eye for texture and colour. He held himself proud — he was immaculately clean, his clothes were well-cared-for, despite their deteriorating condition. He could have stepped off the pages of a women’s magazine — the splendid model of an aging bohemian.

  She looked at Officer Naismith, who was monitoring her observations. Alexander Pope had moved in the space of a foot or so from the policewoman’s jurisdiction to Morgan’s, gaining his freedom. “What are you doing here, Rachel? Have you been here all along?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I got triple shifted — I’m on my second time ’round the clock. Who is this guy?”

  For no apparent reason, Morgan led Pope through the kitchen, where he mumbled something about avoiding the coffee, then back past the women out to the stairs, which they ascended one at a time. The lanky stranger had to stoop to avoid cracking his head on the stringer.

  “C’mon,” Miranda said to Rachel Naismith in a conspiratorial tone, “Let’s see what our friend has to say for himself. And note: the bodies are not old! There’s foul play afoot, as they say, and it’s not ancient history.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Amazing, eh?”

  “Then —”

  “We don’t know. Who they are, how they died, how they got sealed behind plaster, who did it, why, who wrote the script… We don’t know.”

  When they entered the room, Miranda was disconcerted to find the bodies gone. They were inextricably a part of the scene in her mind. Otherwise, the room was bright and airy, quite unlike the illuminated darkness of the night before. It seemed almost cheerful, despite the rubble and dust.

  “Miranda,” said Morgan, standing between her and the tall man, “This is Alexander Pope.”

  “I’ve always admired your poetry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And this is Detective Miranda Quin. One n.”

  “Must be from Waterloo County. An Ontario Quin.”

  “And this is Officer Naismith —”

  “Whom I have already met. Delighted,” he said, bowing slightly. She regarded him warily, lifted her lip in a feigned snarl, and bowed in return. They shared a smile between them.