by Cathy Ace
I nodded. I knew they were, though I had no insights into exactly why certain cases were selected for renewed attention versus others. “I can understand this must mean a great deal to you, but I’m really not sure what I can do to help. I have no special connections that would allow me to gain access to a cold case file.” As I said the words I knew I wasn’t being exactly truthful; there were certainly some steps I could take, like asking my ex-cop husband to pull a few strings, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved.
Zsófia leaned even closer to my ear. “When a member of your family dies, and you don’t know why, it is difficult to bear. Maybe you cannot understand this, but to me, it is always on my mind. Now more than ever—because you are here, and you come from there, where it happened.”
As the girl’s tears flowed I felt the tightening in my tummy I always get when I think of my mother and father being killed in an utterly senseless car wreck. It was just an accident are the words that haunt me. Something that happened without reason, without intention. A chance occurrence that robbed me of my parents. How much worse it must be to know that an intended act, a murder, has robbed you of a family member, and to not be able to understand the reason for it.
Wiping away her tears, and her sophisticated makeup, Zsófia appeared before me as a young girl looking for answers. I know in my heart what it feels like to never be able to get any, and my sympathy for her welled up with my own recollections of a funeral held at a church in Wales where neither I nor my sister had been able to sing a single word of our parents’ favorite hymns because of our uncontrollable sobbing.
Pushing a tissue up her sleeve, Zsófia whispered, “Please, will you just look at the file that’s on there? I’ve studied everything you’ve ever written and I admire your work a great deal. You have an amazing brain—you’re so clever. There isn’t much to read through. All I’ve managed to gather together is a few newspaper clippings from the times. Because you know the area where it happened, you might have a different perspective on the case. I would value your opinion a great deal.” Her eyes begged me with more emotion than any words could have mustered.
Of course I was flattered—who wouldn’t be?—and it seemed she wasn’t asking me to do very much, just read a little information and give an opinion. Given that I’d been sent by my university to Hungary in a sort of interuniversity ambassadorial role I reckoned I couldn’t really refuse. I relented. “Very well. I’ll try to read it before tomorrow’s lecture. How about you come to my office immediately afterward, and we’ll talk then. Okay?”
Zsófia stood, her eyes still hunting our surroundings, and answered sharply, “No, not your office. It won’t be private. They’re everywhere. Let’s go for coffee. I know a place that’s good and loud. My treat. Thanks so much, Professor Morgan. Goodnight.”
As she left I called after her, “You know I have my own office? I don’t share with anyone.”
“Still not private.” She darted away.
As Zsófia Takács collected her great-aunt Klara, I remained seated at my empty table wondering what I’d let myself in for. I rationalized that once I’d read the file on the thumb drive, I’d be clearer about what the girl was talking about, and would be able to decline her request to help from a position of knowledge, not just give a knee-jerk reaction. I supposed I owed her at least the politeness of that much attention.
While making my way to retrieve my coat from the cloakroom, I returned Zsófia’s parting wave as she and Klara left the restaurant. As I did so, I noticed a man about twenty yards away from them swivel his head in my direction. He stared at me for several seconds, then returned his attention to the exit, immediately rushing toward it as though on a mission to catch up with someone who’d left. Maybe he knew Zsófia and was curious to see who she’d been waving at? Or might he be following her? I shook my head and pulled on my coat. Too much rich food, talk of being listened to, and haunting zither music for you, Cait Morgan, I told myself.
A Word in My Ear
I KNOW MYSELF PRETTY WELL, so as I made my way toward the exit I spotted the danger signs: a murder that had taken place decades ago in Canada sounded a good deal more interesting than poring over data for a research paper for the umpteenth time. The next thing that occurred to me was that I didn’t want to spend forty-five minutes on public transportation getting back to my apartment to be able to discover what was on the thumb drive. I decided to splash out on yet another a taxi, which the maître d’ graciously arranged for me.
When I walked out through the grand portal of the New York Café onto the slick streets, I knew I’d made the right choice; my students kept telling me it was unusually mild and wet for the time of year in Budapest, but I guessed the temperature had plummeted to close to freezing while we’d all been dining. I knew my trusty mac with a hood wouldn’t have kept me snug on my tram and bus journey over the river and up the hill to my digs, so I relished the speed and ease with which I made the trip in the cab.
Bud and I had agreed I would text him when I arrived home from the evening’s event, then we’d connect on Skype when we could. I checked my watch as I climbed the marble staircase to my temporary apartment. The nine-hour time difference meant it was just gone noon in BC, so probably Bud would be doing something with, or for, his mum. I decided to text him after I’d had a quick look at the files on the thumb drive, so I popped the kettle on, got into my comfy wrap, and opened up my laptop.
It seemed as though it was just a few minutes later that my cell-phone buzzed, startling me. It was a text from Bud, asking if I was okay. I checked my watch. Where had all the time gone? I texted back asking if I should I call him . . . but the next thing I knew, the familiar little beeps of Skype were ringing from my keyboard. I clicked, and there he was.
“Where have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been worried to death. You said you’d be home by ten your time. It’s after eleven. What happened? Why didn’t you text me to say you’d be later than you thought?”
Bud’s face told me he was truly upset. I thought it best to tell the truth-ish. “Sorry. I got caught up talking to a student who was there, and didn’t realize you’d be so worried.” I adopted my “sweet puppy” face and threw myself at his mercy. Apparently my husband wasn’t feeling particularly merciful.
“Look, it’s bad enough you’re all the way over there without me. I know the sorts of situations you can get yourself into—and don’t make that face; you know exactly what I’m talking about. I was at my wits’ end. You know I can’t let Mom and Dad see me worried; they feel guilty enough I’ve stayed here to be with them as it is. Mom keeps bringing it up all the time—how if she’d only been more careful on the back step and hadn’t fallen she wouldn’t have needed the surgery and you and I could be together now. It’s beginning to get to me, Cait. You should have texted me. It’s not much to ask.”
I felt guilty and could sense myself flushing. “I’m really, truly sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry. How’s your mum doing, anyway? Making good progress?”
“If you can call criticizing absolutely everything I try to do for her ‘progress’ then yes, she’s coming along just fine.” Ah. “She should know I’m doing my best, shouldn’t she? Dad too. But neither of us seems to be able to even breathe the right way at the moment.”
“She’s probably frustrated.” I used my most soothing voice.
“She’s frustrated?” Bud cursed quietly. “She has no idea what Dad and I are going through.”
I watched as Bud all but pulled out his hair by raking his hands through it. I could tell he was more than a little stressed. Then he shook himself, just like Marty does when he’s been in the pond, and said, “I’m sorry, Cait. I shouldn’t dump on you. She’s getting on, she’s had major surgery, Dad’s feeling useless, and I am too. We’re all in the same boat, and we each think the other two are trying to sink it. Don’t worry, I’ll pull myself together, and we’ll get through this. If it’s not frustration, it’s boredom. It’s all ‘hurry up
and wait’ here. I miss you, and I miss Marty, and I miss our home—I’m sure my old room was bigger when I used to live here before—and, let’s be honest, I just miss the ability to have some control over my own life.” He sighed so heavily I thought he would run out of air. “But enough about me—what have you been up to, and why was there a student at this thing? I thought you were out at some swank place with the equivalent of your own dean back here. That’s what you said, right? That was tonight?”
We both leaned back in our chairs, thousands of miles apart, and started our conversation afresh. I wanted to hug my husband, but I couldn’t, so I did the next best thing—I decided to tell him a tale of an unsolved murder and ask for his help.
Bud listened silently as I talked for some time, then he leaned forward and interrupted, “I knew it. I knew you’d get yourself mixed up in something questionable.”
“I’m not ‘mixed up’ in anything, Bud. All I’ve done is read some files and begin to tell you about them. I’ve told the girl I can’t help her, but . . . well . . . you know . . .”
Bud leaned back and beamed, a sight that warmed my heart. “Can’t resist, can you?”
I shook my head.
“And this is the girl we’ve spoken about before—the bright spark with the ample hips and engagingly vulnerable edge? The one who’s just like you?”
“She’s not like me, Bud. Well, not much. But you’re right, that’s the one.”
“And why’s she asking you to take on her case?”
I felt my right eyebrow arch toward my hairline as I replied, “Oh, let me think for a minute. Other than that the murder took place on the campus in Canada where I work, and she sees me as an academic authority figure with a pretty well-known, and some might even say highly regarded, specialism in victim profiling, I cannot imagine.”
Bud chuckled, then puffed out his cheeks and replied, “So let me get this straight, my ever-so-well-thought-of wife: in 1976 the grandfather of this student of yours was a professor at the University of Vancouver, right?”
“Yes, he arrived there in 1957, when my university invited the thirteen faculty members and almost one hundred students from the psychology faculty of the Hungarian University of Budapest to join them in Canada.”
“And why did it do that? The University of Vancouver, I mean.”
“As I’m sure you know, the Hungarians had been living through extremely difficult times here in Budapest. After the Germans left their city at the end of the Second World War, the Russians rolled in. In 1956 there was the hope of the Hungarian Uprising, but it seems Professor Kristóf Seszták saw the writing on the wall. He managed to get some of his faculty and students to a ‘study retreat’ in the forests of Sopron, about a hundred miles away from Budapest. Once word reached them about the Russians throwing everything they had at quelling the uprising, the group fled across the border to Austria on foot, with almost nothing except their lives and their freedom. Canada, in the shape of UVan, reached out and welcomed the whole lot of them in—they got visas, arrived in 1957, and stayed. UVan’s administrators allowed all of the students to complete their studies in Hungarian, trusting the faculty that had arrived from Hungary enough to back the final grades given with the university’s own academic weight. Seszták remained as a professor, later a professor emeritus, at UVan until 1992, when he returned to Hungary.”
“And his wife, Zsófia’s grandmother, was killed on the University of Vancouver’s campus in 1976, right?”
“Yes. According to the newspaper reports Zsófia sourced, Mrs. Ilona Seszták was found with her head smashed in on one of the bike paths, but there were no strong leads in the case.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“Well, no, I know more. But not much. From the clippings, I know the Sesztáks had two children, a daughter and a son. The daughter is Alexa, and the fact that Zsófia’s surname is Takács suggests to me she’s the daughter’s child. The son is Valentin. The newspapers say the Burnaby detachment of the RCMP handled the case. No one saw the murdered woman after five in the evening the day before her body was found. A student found her remains as he cycled to swimming practice around seven thirty the next morning, so she was killed sometime between those hours. Also, the day she disappeared was the day that year’s graduation ceremonies were held. I can tell you, therefore, that on the day of her death the campus would have been flooded with visiting parents and families. Maybe the upheaval of convocation in 1976 wouldn’t have been as significant as it is these days, but it would have been busy enough for strangers to not have been remarked upon. They found no weapon; she had no known enemies and was involved in no known disputes. That’s about it. I’m guessing it’s still an open case.”
“You’re guessing?” Bud’s eyes narrowed.
“Well, I wondered if that might be something you could clarify? Maybe you could make a phone call or two?” I leaned into the camera and beamed my goofiest smile.
“What a wife you are,” said Bud, shaking his head. “You just use me, don’t you? That’s all I’m good for. Really? You want me to, what, just check on the case and, who knows, maybe even find out who worked on it, and where the files might be?”
“Well, you did say you were bored,” I dared. Bud glared at me. “Besides, I don’t need you to find out who worked the case. I already know Jack White did, among others. His name was mentioned in the notes I read. You’ll be proud to know he refused to comment when quizzed by a reporter, but he was clearly on the scene. He was pretty junior at the time, but I’m sure he’d remember it. Jack’s our friend, the man who mentored you, and he’s currently boarding Marty while you’re at your mum and dad’s place. So probably one phone call would do it. You know Jack would do anything for you. Maybe you could run out to his place in Hatzic to check on Marty for an hour or so tomorrow, and have a coffee with him to talk it over?”
“You’ve really thought it all through, haven’t you? Before I commit myself, given that I am supposed to be delivering constant care and devotion to my ailing mother at this end of things,” he winked at me, “I have a question of my own. Your university is in Burnaby, so I understand why the Burnaby RCMP investigated the homicide, rather than it falling to the Vancouver Police Department. But why is it called the University of Vancouver if it’s in Burnaby? Don’t laugh—I know I’ve lived here my whole life but it’s never occurred to me before. So?”
Just like the little girl who sits at the front of the classroom—which I’d always been—I allowed my hand to shoot up. “Please, sir. I know that one, sir.”
Bud’s face creased into a broad grin. “Coles Notes version, okay?”
“In 1935, when the University of Vancouver first opened its doors, it was housed in a building in downtown Vancouver that has long since been demolished to make way for one of those glittering high-rises. The executives quickly realized they would need to expand, but couldn’t do it where they were. The City of Burnaby offered them a great deal on some land, so they took it. The beginnings of the campus where I work opened in 1946, and, as you know, they’ve been building there pretty much constantly ever since, with a big bump in activity in the past ten years. Because of various political sensitivities, the name University of Vancouver was retained, even though the buildings are in Burnaby. The weird postscript to my tale is that, in 2010, we opened a satellite campus in downtown Vancouver, so the part-time MBA students could make it to evening classes more easily. The circle has been completed.”
Bud smiled gratefully. “One mystery solved, at least. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. So, will you do it? We both know you could.”
Bud shook his head in mock disbelief. “Got it all worked out, haven’t you?”
I smiled sweetly. “I try. And you do seem terribly bored.”
Bud leaned toward the camera. “Okay, I give up. You’ve got me. I’ve noted all the names and dates, and, yes, I’ll grab the excuse to get out of here for a few hours to see Marty—but it might not be tomorr
ow. And don’t hold your breath, there might be nothing Jack can do to help; he has been retired for a good deal longer than me. But tell me one thing—why are you so keen to help this girl?”
I could feel my brow furrowing as I gave his question the consideration it deserved. “Other than hating to see justice go unserved, I’ll admit I’m intrigued. The reason she was there tonight was because she was singing—performing with a small ensemble. She was excellent. Could be the next Adele, she has that sort of voice. To be honest, it reminded me a bit of my mum’s voice when she used to sing me to sleep—soft and round.” I knew the sadness I felt for the loss of my mother must have been showing on my face, because it sat so heavily in my heart. “And that’s the other thing—Mum and Dad . . . I know their deaths were accidental, and I struggle to come to terms with that every day. This girl? There might be some chance we can help her get answers. Something she can grasp onto when she’s grappling with her grandmother not being a part of her life. Even before tonight, you know I’d warmed to Zsófia in class. She’s bright, lively, and embraces a unique personal style in a beguiling way. She’s bursting with promise and seems both talented and driven. I like her.” I decided to not mention my hint of a suspicion she might have had someone following her that evening—in any case, upon further reflection, I’d all but discounted the sense of unease I’d felt when I’d seen the man sprint out of the restaurant after her.
“You realize you hardly ever say you like a person, right?”
“I do.”
“Okay then, I’ll find out what I can. So, are you off to bed now?”
I stretched my arms above my head. “Better had. Got an early start.”
“Night, night then. Love you lots.”
“Love you more.”
“Love you most. Until tomorrow.”
I let him win, blew a kiss, switched everything off, and then flopped into bed.
All Talk