Postmark Berlin

by Anne Emery

  “What is her last name, Jeanine?” Piet asked.

  “Sorry, sorry, I’m telling you all this stuff you don’t need to hear. Mercer is her last name. And she lives on Francklyn Street.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “So, I’m driving her home. We go from downtown and through the south end, down Tower Road and over the railroad tracks, then right on Pine Hill Drive, and all the time I’m thinking I want to stop the car before we get to her parents’ place, you know. Not to do anything, just . . . I wanted to talk to her and see if I could arrange a date before I got her home. I made a left onto Francklyn and slowed right down and stopped. She told me she lived at the far end of the street, but I wanted a bit of time for us to chat. I’d already lit up a smoke without even thinking she might not like it. Bad move on my part.”

  The young guy was taking his time getting to the point, but Piet didn’t rush him. What you wanted was the witness’s own story, in full. You never knew what you might miss if you interrupted or hurried him along.

  “Jeanine didn’t like that a bit, me smoking, so I butted out the cigarette and rolled down the windows and tried to wave the smoke out, cursing to myself. It was freezing cold, but I figured that was better than the smoke. She had a warm jacket on. Anyway, sorry, here’s the point. With the windows open, I could hear two people hollering at one another. I looked over and saw a car parked on the property of the theology school; it was stopped in the driveway beside the college, facing the water. The driveway on the left of the school if you were facing it and the water. And this blond lady got out of the car and left the door open and started running. Then a man freakin’ launched himself out of the car, driver’s side, and took off after her, yelling at her to come back. Jeanine and I watched what was going on. The guy turned and saw us and he put up his hands, as if to say, you know, ‘Nothing to see here, folks. It’s a minor spat, and I’m harmless.’ And he got back into his car. So, I drove Jeanine down to the end of the street.

  “When I heard about that lady, Meika, being found on the beach and saw her picture in the paper, I remembered this weird scene. The lady I saw was kind of slim, not skinny, but nowhere near fat, and she was blond and had really nice clothes on. I mean it may be nothing, not related, but I figured I should call you guys just in case.”

  “You did the right thing, Carl. We appreciate it. Now, what happened after that? You drove Jeanine home . . .”

  “Yeah, and of course my mind was on her. On Jeanine and wondering how we’d be leaving things when I dropped her off. Turned out her folks were home, and the living-room light was still on, so, well, we stayed in the car for a few minutes and made a plan for a date the next week because she was going up to Fredericton for a few days. She just got back today. Anyway, that night, she got out of the car and went into her house. I turned around and drove back along Francklyn. I noticed that car; it was still there.”

  “Was there anyone inside, could you see?”

  Dickson shook his head. “Nobody there.”

  The car there, and nobody in it. The man had returned to the car but then got out again. Where did he go?

  “How many minutes had passed between the time you left for Jeanine’s house and when you drove by and saw the car again?”

  “Less than ten. Seven or eight minutes maybe.”

  “You didn’t see either of the two people at that point? The second time?”

  “No. And I felt kind of weird, kind of guilty, driving away from there. I was wondering if the woman was all right, after the hollering and that. But — I know this doesn’t sound very good — I didn’t think about it again till two days later; that’s when I heard about her death. But what could I have done, really? I wouldn’t have known where to look even if I’d stopped and got out. If I’d started running through people’s backyards, somebody probably would have called the cops on me. The police.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Carl. You’re helping now by being here and giving us this information.”

  “And I remember thinking that the couple lived nearby and that’s why they’d parked their car at the theology school — you know, had permission to park there. It’s a rich part of town; maybe they had too many cars for their driveway!”

  “Sure. What time would this have been, when you saw the car with nobody in it?”

  He paused to think it over. “Midnight or so, a little before maybe. Sorry I can’t be any more clear on it.”

  “No, that’s fine. Now, can you tell us anything about the car?”

  “Yeah. Because of the yelling and all that, I did take in what kind of car it was. There was enough light from the street lights for me to see. A black, late-model Volvo. And I noted the tag number. I’m studying math and computer science, so I guess I tend to notice number patterns. Didn’t write it down at the time but . . . I did today.” He reached into his pocket and produced a scrap of paper with the licence number.

  Well! This was going better than Piet had expected.

  “But by the time I got home to Cole Harbour, I’d pretty well put the whole thing out of my mind. The only thing on my mind was Jeanine. But then two days after, I heard the news. Even then, though, even today, I thought if I called you, I was afraid I might, you know, come off as an asshole. One of those nosy types that want to butt into a big story and make themselves sound important.”

  The detectives assured young Dickson that was not the case; they thanked him and left. As soon as they got back to the station, they phoned the Mercers and arranged to speak with Jeanine at the family home on Francklyn Street. Jeanine gave the same account of events as Dickson had, except of course she had not known that the black Volvo was still in place when Dickson left the neighbourhood.

  Monty

  Just before eleven o’clock on Monday morning, Monty got a call from the police station, telling him the police had a man in for questioning, and the man had asked to speak to Monty Collins. Twenty minutes after that, he walked into the station on Gottingen Street and was informed that the man’s name was Alban MacNair. He was being questioned about the death of Meika Keller.

  Detective Sergeant Piet Van den Brink greeted Monty and told him that he and his partner had gone to MacNair’s home in Armdale at seven thirty that morning, following reports that MacNair had been seen in the company of Meika Keller in the late-night hours of February 6, 1996, the night before her body was found on the shore at Point Pleasant Park. The witnesses said they had seen the two of them together in a car parked beside the Atlantic School of Theology, which overlooks the waters of the Northwest Arm. The witnesses saw Meika Keller open the door of the car and go running. And the man had got out and started after her. There was an argument of some kind. Monty would ask for more details later on; for now, he was anxious to meet the man who might become his client.

  “He’s in number three,” the cop said and opened the door to the interview room. The room was maybe ten feet square with high ceilings, bare walls, and two doors, one for the lawyer, one for the client if he was being held in custody, which this man wasn’t. Yet. Each of the doors had a window of reinforced glass. There was a metal table affixed to the wall. The client was sitting at the table; he gave Monty a long look when Monty sat down across from him and introduced himself.

  The man was an Army officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Alban MacNair. Even sitting in the police station, where he had been for three hours, Lieutenant-Colonel MacNair had the bearing of a military man. He sat upright and alert in his seat. And he had been savvy enough to bring in a lawyer at the questioning stage. Not many of Monty’s criminal clients had the foresight to do that. MacNair appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties with a salt-and-pepper crewcut and a direct gaze from dark grey eyes. But the tension was evident from the first word he spoke to Monty.

  “I did not kill anyone. Make this go away.”

  “I’ll do all I can to help you, Lieutenant-Colonel Mac
Nair. I know how stressful this must be for you.”

  “You have no idea unless you have sat in my place in a police interrogation room for something you didn’t do.”

  With a quarter century of experience in the criminal justice system, Monty had seen countless clients in exactly MacNair’s place in here, but he let that pass.

  “First of all, tell me what happened this morning.”

  “They came and accosted me in front of my wife and our son, and a couple of neighbours who were getting an early start to their day.”

  “What did the police say when they arrived at your door?”

  “Established my identity and requested that I come in to the police station. For questioning. About the death of Meika Keller! I didn’t want this going on with my family there, so I agreed. And here I am.” He looked around the room with disgust.

  Now for the most important question of all. Monty did not ask whether MacNair had “given a statement.” In Monty’s experience, clients denied having made a statement and then, in many cases, went on to reveal that they had gabbed away half the night to the investigating officers. A statement to the layman was a formal thing; of course, he or she hadn’t given a statement. That rarely meant the client had been sensible enough to exercise his right to remain silent. “What did you say to them?” he asked his client now.

  “I told them they were barking up the wrong tree, that I hadn’t laid a hand on Meika Keller.”

  Not that he didn’t know her, not that he hadn’t been anywhere near her, just that he hadn’t touched her.

  “They say they have a witness who saw you with her on the property of the Atlantic School of Theology late on the night of February sixth, just hours before she was found dead on the shore on the south tip of the peninsula.”

  Monty was well aware that the Atlantic School of Theology was only a minute’s walk from Emscote Drive, where Meika Keller lived. Like the roadway running alongside the theology school, Emscote ran down from Francklyn to the Northwest Arm.

  “What can you tell me about that?”

  Monty watched as MacNair weighed one disastrous course of action against the other; he considered the fate that might befall him if he was caught in a lie versus the fate that might be his if he blurted out the truth. Monty sought to help him make up his mind. “If this goes further, if charges are laid, and I put on a case for you based on fiction or on an incomplete picture of what happened, that case will be demolished in the courtroom.”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t lie.” He started to speak again but nothing came out.

  Monty prompted him. “Let’s start with the night she died. We’ll go back in time later. So, the night of February sixth.”

  “I saw her at a fundraising dinner and auction for the symphony.”

  “You’re a classical music buff, are you?”

  “No. I mean, some of it I like.”

  “But you’re a fan of Symphony Nova Scotia?”

  “What is this, cross-examination by my own lawyer five minutes after we meet?”

  “I’m just trying to get an understanding of the events that brought you and Ms. Keller together that night.”

  “Sometimes I go to those things; sometimes I don’t. That night I did. Even if I don’t know everything there is to know about Beethoven, it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t support fundraising for something as important as a local orchestra.”

  “All right. So, you saw her at the fundraiser. You spoke to her there?”

  “For a few minutes, yeah.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  The client steeled himself for whatever it was he didn’t want to say. “Meika and I had a little flirtation going. Nothing too serious, but . . .”

  But she had either committed suicide or been murdered. An accident under the circumstances of this case was highly unlikely.

  “I mean, nothing had happened between us yet. Ever.”

  “When did this begin, the flirtation?”

  “Last few months or so.”

  “Where did you see each other?”

  “Public events at Stad, or Windsor Park.” Military facilities here in the city, two of several addresses that made up Canadian Forces Base Halifax. “Or charity events like the one for the symphony.”

  “When did you meet her for the first time?”

  The direct gaze faltered. Monty could see him considering his answer. “I honestly can’t remember the first time. Years ago. She was married to a military man, so we came into contact. Don’t know when exactly.”

  “How often were you alone with her?”

  “Only a couple of times.”

  “Where?”

  “Chatting in my car, or hers.”

  “Like the night of her death.” No response. “What happened that night, Lieutenant-Colonel MacNair?”

  “She came up to me at the symphony dinner, said she wanted to speak to me in private. I knew I wouldn’t have the opportunity till late that night, because . . .”

  “Because?”

  “My wife and I had plans to drop in on her sister after the dinner. I knew we’d be tied up at the dinner till well after nine, and then with my sister-in-law for an hour or two, then home to Armdale. After that, I’d have to come up with some reason to go out. Best to wait till my wife went to sleep. Nothing was going to happen, you understand.”

  Monty understood perfectly well.

  “So, with all that —” There was a shout and a bang outside the room. MacNair jolted in his seat and whipped around. But if somebody had been thrown up against the wall, the drama could not be viewed from inside the interview room. Monty waited for the rest of the story. “Uh, right, so I told Meika I could meet her at eleven thirty at the earliest. I figured she’d say forget it, make it another time, but she agreed.”

  “All right. What was the arrangement?”

  “She picked a place close to home. The college there, overlooking the Arm. She walked over from her house, and I was there waiting in the car. She got in.”

  “And then?”

  “We just talked.”

  “What about?”

  “Local events, my son’s scholarship to McGill, just . . .” He wound down.

  “She knew she had only limited time with you alone, so presumably she told you what was foremost in her mind?”

  MacNair took in a big breath and expelled it with force, then said, “Meika wasn’t satisfied with the way things were between us. She wanted more. Wanted to get past the talking and flirting stage.”

  “She wanted things to get more intimate.”

  “She wanted a commitment, which I was in no position to give.”

  “Was this something you wanted as well?”

  “She was a beautiful woman, a wonderful woman. Who wouldn’t want more? I’m only human, after all. But I love my wife. I love my family. I was not about to do anything that would endanger my marriage.”

  The words sounded right, but there was something in his client’s demeanour that didn’t seem to match the forthrightness of the speech.

  “Sir, I hear what you are saying. But if in fact you were having an affair with Ms. Keller, that would obviously cause you problems with your wife and family. But it would not, by itself, land you in prison for the rest of your life. We have to keep things in perspective here.”

  “Collins, I’ve asked you here to act as my lawyer. You come highly recommended. But if you think I’m a liar and you think there was something else going on, how in the fuck are you going to be my advocate if I get charged and this goes to court?”

  “I’m a much better lawyer if I find pitfalls in my cases at the outset rather than during the trial. Believe me when I say I have seen countless cases come crashing to earth when the defence lawyer gets sandbagged in the courtroom, when the Crown prosecutor brings out something before the judg
e and jury that the client hadn’t told his lawyer. Whatever the true situation is, I can work with it, as long as there are no surprises.”

  “She started giving me hell because I was ‘leading her on’ and would not commit to a relationship or a future, and she got wild and hollered at me and then she got out and slammed the door.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I . . . I got out of the car, shouted at her to come back, and started to follow her. Then I was afraid someone might hear me, somebody in one of the houses. Sound travels over the water. So . . .” He looked ashamed then. “I went back to the car, started the motor, and drove away.”

  “Which direction did she take off in?” Monty knew that area of the city. She could have gone through backyards of the houses or the college, or she could have gone up to Francklyn Street, or down to the shore.

  “She went behind the houses. In a southerly direction. I figured she was going home. Emscote Drive is only about two hundred metres away.”

  “You would have seen her if she was headed home, then.”

  “Yeah, but then she zigzagged around somewhere and I lost sight of her.” Monty said nothing, and his client added, “I was pissed off, and I just left.”

  That was, as far as Monty knew, the last time she had been seen alive. But one thing he did know: if it was an accident, if she had gone down to the water’s edge and fallen, she would have washed up right there on the western side of the peninsula, not over and around the tip of Point Pleasant Park. In order to come in where she did, she would have to have been out in the open water of the Atlantic.