by Anne Emery
Chapter IX
Monty
Lieutenant-Colonel Alban MacNair arrived at Monty’s law office on Wednesday morning and handed Monty a thickly stuffed envelope. A copy of his record of military service. Monty put it aside on the desk.
“Thanks for bringing this, Lieutenant-Colonel MacNair. We will want to put your character in evidence. Unless there is some reason not to.”
“What in the hell do you mean by that, Collins? ‘Unless there is some reason.’ I would like to think my character will speak for itself.”
“Things that speak for themselves are not always good news in a courtroom. There is a legal term, used mainly in civil litigation, res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself. It generally means that some act or circumstance, by the very fact of its existence, is evidence of the fault alleged in the trial.”
“I’ll say it again. I think my character will speak for itself in a court of law. Unless you can get this bogus murder charge dismissed before we have to go to court.”
“There is nothing I would like better. But your evidence, that you were trying to discourage Ms. Keller’s ambitions for a relationship and that you left the area near the waters of the Northwest Arm without causing her any harm or putting her in danger, that evidence is contradicted at least on the face of it by the evidence of the witness who drove along Francklyn Street seven or eight minutes after first seeing you there and saw that your car was still in the same place. Without you in it.”
“His timing is off.”
“So, it will be your word against his. If we put you on the stand.”
“Of course you’re going to put me on the stand!”
“But, Alban, your story does not sound credible even to me, and I want to believe you. It will sound even more hollow to the Crown prosecutor, who is trying to put you away. And by the time he gets through with you on cross-examination, how do you think it will sound to a jury?”
“What is it about my story, as you put it, that has you so hostile?”
“I wouldn’t say hostile; I’d say concerned. What bothers me is the timing. And those multiple phone calls to the victim’s office. That, to a jury, will give the impression that you were stalking her. Why make all those calls, in rapid succession, to a woman you are trying to avoid? It doesn’t ring true.”
Despite the military bravado the Army man tried to impart, there was no question that he was on shaky ground and he knew it. Monty could see the tension in the hands that gripped the edge of the desk.
“So, what about those calls, Alban?”
The client took a deep breath and blew it out. “I got a bit fed up. With her putting the pressure on me. I tried to call her to talk it out. And I didn’t get any answer. Or she pretended to be busy and had to hang up. As I say, I got fed up with this, and I was determined to get her to talk to me.”
“Nine calls?”
“I know, I know. It doesn’t look good, but it was just frustration. I wasn’t stalking her! And I did not hurt her.”
Monty wasn’t any more impressed than the Crown would be, or the jury. But the calls were there, and Monty would have to put the best spin he could on them when it came time for the trial.
Now, on to other evidence, which was equally if not more damaging. “All right. Moving on,” Monty said, looking directly into his client’s eyes, “what would account for her blood on your glove? And yes, the lab results are in. It was her blood.”
MacNair was ready for this one. “It was icy. She slipped when she was . . .”
“When she was?”
“Running away. She fell. I got to her and helped her up. I must have touched her.”
“Touched her where?”
“Jesus, I wasn’t thinking of all this at the time, cataloguing it for future reference! But I think she cut her face when she fell on the ice. Cut her mouth. I must have tried to wipe the blood away.”
Maybe it happened the way MacNair said it did, or maybe not. Monty had no way of knowing. “She also had injuries to her hands.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I held her hand when she was getting up. Got blood on myself then.”
“But it was so cold that you had gloves on. Wouldn’t she have gloves on, too? How could blood have got on you if her hands were covered?”
“I don’t fucking know, Collins! I just told you; I didn’t memorize my actions, didn’t know I’d be facing a murder charge, for Christ’s sake.”
Monty pictured his client on the stand, losing his temper and presenting the jury with the image of an angry man. A man who might have lost his temper and somehow caused the death of the woman who had him so enraged.
“Let’s get back to the question of character, Alban. If we put your character in issue, that is, if we portray you as a sterling citizen with no criminal history, as a person who would never commit a crime like this, that opens the door to the Crown to bring in evidence of bad character. If you have any prior criminal convictions —”
“The only thing I have is a breathalyzer conviction here in the province, and that was ages ago.”
“Lost your licence then.”
“Yeah. My wife wasn’t too happy with me, but I was away a lot that year anyway. It was back in 1979 or so. I haven’t had a drink since some time in the 1980s. Who cares if they bring up an old breathalyzer offence? No juror in his right mind would say that makes me a killer.”
“All right. You’re a career Army man, I take it? Went in right after completing your education?”
“Yes, I am and I did.”
“So, this will be the record of your entire adult career.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll take a few minutes to skim through it here.”
“Go ahead.”
The lieutenant-colonel was born in wartime and was now fifty-two years old. And his record was indeed an impressive one, with timely promotions and glowing testimonials. This was all to the good. Much of his time on Canadian soil had been served at the big Army base in Gagetown, New Brunswick. He was now on the staff of LFAA, Land Force Atlantic Area, here in Halifax. He had taken part in a number of peacekeeping missions: Egypt, Cyprus, Croatia. He had been posted to Canadian Forces Base Lahr in West Germany in the 1970s; he was part of the 4 Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group. The worst that was said of him earlier in his personnel record was that he occasionally drank to excess, but never while on active duty. There was nothing recent relating to alcohol. There was a reference to a letter placed in his record for a breach of some kind. But he continued with his duties after whatever it was. Monty did not see the letter among the documents in front of him.
Nothing violent, except perhaps in the line of duty as a soldier. If, if, these were the only blots on his copybook, his character should not be a problem. He looked across the desk at his client. “I see you served in Germany, Alban, at Canadian Forces Base Lahr.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t suppose you ran into Meika Keller while you were there?”
“She’s from Leipzig. I was in Lahr. Look at a map, Monty.”
“I know people in Montreal, in Calgary, in Vancouver, Alban. I don’t have to tell you to look at those distances on a map.”
“I was in Lahr, West Germany, as part of our NATO commitment during the Cold War. East Germany was cut off from the West, remember?”
“That’s a ‘no,’ I take it.”
“Correct.”
“I had to ask. I’ve looked through this, and it certainly appears to be a shining testimonial. But is there anything I should know, anything that didn’t make it into the official file?”
MacNair broke eye contact with Monty for a second, then reverted to his customary direct gaze. “No, just what’s there.”
“Now there’s one thing . . .”
“The letter on file.”
“Right. What was t
hat about?”
“It was about the unification of the forces. My outburst about it would have been a minor thing if it had taken place in-house, so to speak, but I made the mistake of talking out of school. I went on a bit of a rant in the presence of some civilians, including politicians. That’s just not done. It earned me a Report of Shortcomings in my pers file. Personnel file. It was just before I got posted to Germany, early 1970s. I come from a long and, may I say, distinguished line of Army officers. My great-grandfather, grandfather, father, uncles, my brother. World War I, World War II, Korea. An Army family. And none of them, myself included, were happy with what Hellyer did in the 1960s. You know what I’m talking about.”
Monty did. The Royal Canadian Air Force, the Royal Canadian Navy, and the Canadian Army were stripped of those illustrious identities and unified into one organization, simply, the Canadian Armed Forces. Paul Hellyer was minister of defence at the time. Monty remembered the resentment the policy had engendered in the three services. The merger may have made sense in terms of a unified national defence policy, and the elimination of duplication in services and expenses and all of that, but Monty knew how wildly unpopular it was among the soldiers, sailors, and airmen.
MacNair said, “Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of the military and of history knows there is a long tradition of loyalty and pride in one’s own branch of the services. And those traditions help keep morale up among those of us who are sent out to fight and die for our country, and that feeling should have been respected. Imagine what a Navy or an Air Force man thought of getting into a green uniform and having Army ranks foisted upon him! Fellows I knew in the Navy called the new uniform the ‘bus driver’s uniform.’ Some called it the ‘unibag,’ comparing it to a garbage bag. They refused to use the new ranks. No sergeants here, folks. Some admirals quit over it. None of us liked it, no matter what branch of the forces we were in. Some of the damage has been undone over the years, but we’re still a long way from what we were. In the glory days!”
“I understand.”
“So anyway, with all this being forced on us against our will, I was sitting with a couple of Navy buddies at a feel-good session held here in the city with senior ranks and politicians, and things got a little heated. I gave voice to my opinions on the matter in front of the wrong people. Hence the report in my file.”
“This is a military town, Alban. The jury’s not going to hold that against you.”
“Well, then, I’m clean, counsellor.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, I’m getting ahead of myself here, looking to the trial.”
“Christ, I can’t even stand thinking about it.”
“I understand. But it never hurts to plan ahead. So, I’m wondering about character witnesses. We have the written record, which is good, but it’s also helpful to have the jury see and hear someone testifying to your sterling character.”
What Monty didn’t say was that he wanted to speak to people who knew MacNair, to help Monty himself assess the character of his client. He wanted to get some idea, if he could, of the kind of man MacNair was. Was he or was he not, in the estimation of those who knew him, the kind of man who would, somehow, get Meika Keller out into the surf of the Atlantic Ocean and drown her?
“So, Alban, who do you suggest I speak to as a potential witness to tell the court what a jolly good fellow you are? A man who would never commit the kind of crime you are charged with here.”
“How many do you want?”
“For now, a couple will do. I take it you have any number of people who would give you a glowing reference.”
“I’d like to think so. Colonel Bryce Simmons would be one. Deputy Commander of Land Force Atlantic Area. He’s chief of staff.”
“Sounds good.”
“My family and Bryce’s have been friends since I was a Cub Scout.” He thought for a few seconds and said, “And Lieutenant-General John Joe Patriquin. He’s Air Force.”
“Patriquin, great! My father knew him.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. They didn’t serve together, but I know they’ve met at gatherings of some of the veterans who served in England, or flew out of England, during the war.”
“What was your father’s war service?”
“Intelligence.”
“Oh? That sounds intriguing.”
“Yes, he was one of the codebreakers at Bletchley Park. He was a grad student in mathematics here in Halifax, left here for Cambridge to do his PhD, and was recruited to work on the German codes. Came back after the war and taught at Dal, eventually becoming head of the math department.”
“Sounds like a clever fellow, your dad.”
“True enough. So, good, I’ll speak to Lieutenant-General Patriquin and Colonel Simmons about testifying to your good character.”
Brennan
Brennan made a phone call to Fried Habler at the Dal Arts Centre at four thirty on Wednesday afternoon.
“Ah, Brennan. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Fried. I was wondering if I could have a word with you. It’s about Meika Keller.”
“Yes, certainly. I am just about to leave my office now, but I have an idea. Do you enjoy drinking beer, Brennan?”
“Is the Papst katholisch?”
“Is the . . . oh, yes, I understand. Very good. Well, I have a fine selection of German beers at my house. I have a dinner engagement later in the evening; otherwise I would invite you to have a meal at my place. But if you would care for a glass or two of beer, you would be most welcome.”
“That sounds like just the thing, Fried. Just tell me where and when.”
“Let’s make it six o’clock. I am renting a little cottage-style house on Clyde Street, number fifty-four seventy. A light-blue colour. I shall be waiting for you there.”
“Perfect.” And perfect for another reason as well. Brennan could stop in at the revered Clyde Street Liquor Store, and pick up some cans of Irish lager and stout to replace the German beer that would be consumed during the visit.
Right on the dot of six, Brennan was standing at the door of a small shingled cottage with two five-sided Scottish roof dormers. Fried Habler opened the door, and Brennan complimented him on his residence.
“Thank you, Brennan. Yes, I am very happy in it. And do you know why I chose this one over other possibilities? Because this area of the city with all these beautiful wooden houses used to be known as Schmidtville. And this was Rottenburg Street.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I suspect the German name fell out of favour sometime, perhaps earlier this century!”
Brennan laughed. “Maybe so. Though they did keep Gottingen Street. And Dresden Row.” Where Monty and family lived, a short walk from here. “Whatever the case, it’s the Clyde Street Liquor Store I patronize, not the Rottenburg Street Liquor Store.”
Brennan handed him his brown paper bag, which contained four cans of Harp and two of Guinness. Canned Guinness was not a patch on the Guinness that was lovingly poured from the taps of a proper Irish bar, but the canned Harp wasn’t bad at all. Habler tried to wave away the offering, but Brennan insisted.
“Come in, come in.”
He followed his host into the living room, which was notable for antique furnishings and an impressive new sound system, with rows of compact discs stacked beside it in neat columns.
“Ein Pils? Ein Kölsch?”
“A Pils will do me just fine, thanks, Fried.”
Habler filled two frosted steins with beer and handed one to his guest. “Prost!” he said, and they both took their first sip. Brilliant stuff, it was. Brennan pulled out a pack of smokes and raised an eyebrow at his host.
“You go ahead, Brennan. I won’t join you.” He tapped his throat. “Have to keep the instrument in tune.”
“An example I should be following, Fried,�
� he said, then laughed as he lit one up anyway.
They chatted about music, Brennan’s Palestrina and Victoria, and Fried’s Wagner, about the demands of a choir director trying to keep the bar raised high in the age of new Catholic schlock, and of a heldentenor trying to meet the challenge of the most heroic roles on the operatic stage, where the bar had always been set at high C.
Then, on the second glass, it was time to ask about Meika. “Fried, you know about my interest in the death of Meika Keller, and you know the reason for my interest.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I don’t imagine anything I learn will serve to ease my conscience about being unable to meet her — failing to meet her — but I feel compelled to find out whatever I can about her death. Learn what I should have learned the night she died. So, I’ve done a bit of asking around and I discovered that she received a postcard from Germany not long before she died. Before she embarked on what was apparently an unplanned trip to Europe.”
“You are correct. She did receive a postcard. It came from Berlin, and the person who distributes the post at the Arts Centre gave it to me. That is the way it was addressed, to Frau Keller through me.”
“Right. Do you remember when it arrived?”
“I am not certain of that, because it came when I was in Toronto. I saw it when I returned to Halifax, and that would have been the week of twenty-second January. Yes, I was back at the Dal Arts Centre on Monday, so the twenty-second. I got the card and gave it to Meika Keller that day. I am sorry that I have not retained a memory of the date it was posted.” He shrugged. “It was not significant at the time.”
“No, I understand. Did you hand it to her personally?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How did she react?”
“Unfortunately, Brennan, the weather was frightful that day, snow and rain, so I put it in an envelope when I took it to Saint Mary’s. I handed the envelope to her; she thanked me, and we chatted about other things. She did not open the envelope in my presence.” He hesitated, then said, “Of course, because it was a postcard, I could not stop myself from reading it before placing it in the envelope.”