(2012) Cross-Border Murder (19 page)

There were two of them. The first from Joe Gibbs. The fact that I had agreed to call him earlier today had slipped my mind. It would now have to wait until tomorrow. The second was from Jim Haylocke, the newspaper’s stringer in Washington saying that he had some information for me. He didn’t indicate that it was of great importance. I decided I would call him after I had eaten. Back downstairs, I picked up three days of mail and newspapers from the foyer and took them into the kitchen. The food came. I paid for it and while eating went through the mail and the newspapers. The mail contained nothing but bills and circulars. A glance through the newspapers bored me. So much of it was irrelevant garbage. Gossip and hearsay instead of facts, pandering subjectivity raised to celebrity status. I took the remains of my supper, the circulars and the newspapers and put them in the garbage. I made myself some coffee and took the bills up to the den.

I called Haylocke at home.

We exchanged pleasantries.

“So I gather you’ve come across something?” I said finally.

“Yeah. A friend of mine at a party introduced me to someone who retired from the CIA a few years ago. It turned out he was the operative who handled the Symanskys. It may have been a coincidence. It may not have been.”

“Oh?” I tried to keep my mind and imagination from running out of control, “and he talked?”

“Yeah. Pretty freely too.”

“Odd!”

“Yeah. At first I assumed that maybe he had been instructed to do so, but I changed my mind. None of this feels important enough for that kind of high level manipulation. I decided it was just another manifestation of the Washington retirement syndrome.”

“Retirement syndrome?”

He laughed, “Here in Washington, if you have a job of even minor importance, you’re courted. It’s a constant high for insecure egos. The joke around here is that there’s a lineup of retired civil servants with shattered egos outside every psychiatric office in Washington.”

I thought of Ryan and myself. Maybe Gina’s appearance on my doorstep had only delayed the inevitable trip down memory lane with some shrink.

“This guy admitted Washington used its influence to have the charges against Montini dropped.”

“He admitted that?”

“Yeah.”

“To protect the Symanskys?”

“Not according to him. That’s why I’m not sure any of this is of use to you. To him they were just bumblers. Their reports were little more than gossip and what their man in the consulate could have found out from a few well placed phone calls. I asked what they had filed on Monaghan. He laughed. Nothing, he said, that wasn’t common knowledge.”

“Nothing to indicate that they had broken into Monaghan’s files?”

“Apparently not.”

“But if they had, and if one of them had been caught at it, and murdered Monaghan in the process, wouldn’t they have covered their tracks and said nothing locally? But surely they would have come running in a panic to the CIA for protection.”

“Well, they didn’t. At least not according to this guy.”

“So why did Washington interfere to have the charges dropped against Montini? I don’t get it.”

“He said it was because they didn’t want anyone exploring the connection between Monaghan and Bull. According to this ex-CIA creep, Bull was a two-edged sword. The Pentagon, as you know, had already helped to finance him. They still were interested in his work. On the other hand, to use a bad pun, everyone knew he was a potential loose cannon. His artillery designs had helped to defeat Cuban forces in Angola. And I think the CIA had a covert role in that operation. Some African leaders were angry. The CIA simply wanted to keep Bull out of the news for the time being. Monaghan’s work for him hence posed a potential problem. Besides, they wanted to continue to secretly monitor what Bull was up to. Another reason for keeping the media away. That’s why Canada co-operated. Bull, it seems was developing some unusual contacts.”

“I know. Communist China, for one. Israel, almost certainly. And then there was also some shady European weapons dealers.”

“Precisely. So they wanted to monitor what he was up to. But they didn’t want him to be shut down. Not yet. So the less publicity the better.”

“It sounds like Monaghan must have been in pretty thick.”

“Who knows?”

“But you’re telling me the Symanskys were only small fry, and probably not directly implicated in Monaghan’s murder?”

“Right. If their former handler is to be believed. And my instincts tell me he is.”

“But if the Symanskys had killed Monaghan,” I persisted, not fully satisfied with what I’d been hearing, “surely this guy wouldn’t have admitted it.”

There was a long pause. “Again, who knows. But he had been belting back martinis. He was out to bolster his ego. I think if he had helped to get them out of a hot spot, he would, at least, have hinted at it rather than say the things he did. In fact, he said he considered them useless enough that he had finally told them to stop their snooping and concentrate on their academic careers! I’ll write all this up and send it on to Mel. See if he wants to do anything with it.”

“Yeah sure”, I said. If I didn’t want it used, I thought, I would have to speak to Mel myself. “Thanks Jim. Appreciate all of this. Let me know if anything else comes up will you?”

“Sure. I’ll keep my ears to the ground just in case I’m wrong, and this guy whizzed something by me.”

I thanked him again and hung up. I suspected his gut feeling was correct. I would have liked it to be otherwise, but bits and pieces of what I was slowly uncovering were tending to confirm it.

I went to bed, but I couldn’t get the Symanskys out of my head. To me they had been as smooth as diplomats. To Phil Ryan, they had been as wily as politicians. To their CIA handler, they had been amateur bumblers. To Mary Montini they had been very private people with a social charm unmatched by anyone in their entourage. I began to see them as chameleons. Maybe good enough to confuse all of us including their CIA handler.

Otherwise, the case was zeroing in on Hendricks or Gooden, or maybe someone else. But it would have to have been someone who knew Gina and I were trying to re-open the case. Hendricks, I told myself, had the opportunity. He could have left Essex Junction, murdered Naomi, and been back before his boarder woke later that Sunday morning. By his own admission, he left Essex Junction for Montreal late Sunday afternoon. In sufficient time to take a shot at Gina? And a rifle seemed to be missing from his gun cabinet. But what would have been the motive? Jilted infatuation? Hatred and jealousy of Monaghan? Fear of exposure and humiliation? Not very impressive in a court of law. Gooden? Like the Symanskys and Hendricks he had easy access to the building where Monaghan was murdered. He was probably at his cottage in easy striking distance of Naomi. He could have left Georgeville in plenty of time to take a shot at Gina. But why? He had no apparent motive. There was only my personal dislike of the man. According to Mary he was self-centered and opportunistic. And like most of that type he was undoubtedly ambitious. But they were characteristics that this age does not place in its list of serious sins.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 

“I put the photos in the mail to you.” Joe Gibbs said. “You should get them today. And by the way, at the last minute I found a fairly recent photo of the Symanskys in my files. I suddenly remembered that they came here two years ago for the installation of our new chancellor. I included a copy of it in the package. Tom,” he said, “I’m sure that it’s not a question now of whether you’ll write something, but when. Hope I hear from you before any of the shit really hits the fan. I hate getting bad news from the newspaper while I’m still munching my bran flakes.”

Earlier Gina had phoned to tell me that she and her mother would be arriving around four on Friday afternoon. Phil and I had a day and a half to do some leg work. I gave him a call. “I just spoke to Joe Gibbs. I’m expecting photos in the mail today. I was wondering whether you have time to come over here. We could review what we know until the mail arrives.”

“Sure, why not. Put some coffee on. Jesus, you know, I don’t even know where you live!”

I gave him the address. I made some fresh coffee. An hour later, we were both sitting in the living room, mugs in hand and sheaves of paper spread out on the floor.

“Good coffee.” Phil said. “Strong. Not like that swill we used to have down at the station.” He lit a cigarette and offered me one.

I shook my head. “They’re not called coffin nails for nothing. I’m down to about four per day.”

“Point taken.” With a sigh he passed his copy of the original police file to me. In fact there was more than one file. What he handed me was one of those accordion-type containers, over two inches thick. It must have taken his former colleagues in the department almost a full day to xerox all the material. Giving me free rein with it was a gesture of unusual confidence for a former policeman. He was allowing me to pass judgment on how he had handled the original investigation. I gave him my printed notes. We both put on our reading glasses. For ten minutes we read in silence.

I knew it would take me hours to go through the file. Much of it was technical: photos of the crime scene, autopsy reports, finger-print evidence and the like. Near the front was a list of all the interviews which had been conducted. I was surprised to find that not only all the members of Monaghan’s department, but also all the students who had been failed by Monaghan within the past year had been questioned. I could see why Gooden had not been questioned. He was neither a full-time member of the department, nor was he someone who had been given a failing grade by Monaghan. A poor grade, perhaps, but not a failing one. I turned to the interview with Hendricks. He acknowledged that he had not particularly liked Monaghan. He admitted that he had heard raised voices coming from Monaghan’s office earlier in the day, but that he could not identify either the voices or the substance of the quarrel. He stated that he had been in his office only briefly that afternoon and had then gone home where he lived alone. Not exactly an alibi. But I had to assume that if he had returned later, or had stayed in his office until late in the evening, he had not been seen by anyone. None of the other departmental interviews had suggested that Hendricks might be a possible suspect. There had consequently been no follow up. All in all, thirty-six people had been questioned. A quick skimming through the file left me frustrated. I spotted nothing of immediate use to our investigation. And I knew that it would take more time than I had to go through it thoroughly enough to be certain. I heard the click of the inexpensive tin mailbox I had attached to the railing of the balcony, but before I checked to see if the photos had arrived I said, “the work you did was more thorough than you had led me to believe.”

“But it wasn’t thorough enough.” He grunted.

“So what else could you have done?”

He sat slumped staring at the blank TV screen. “I should have paid more attention to the contra-indications, or at least to the key one that now strikes me as so obvious. It’s that damn filing drawer that now bugs me in retrospect! It’s obvious that someone had gone through it, and recently, and that person was not Monaghan, nor was it likely to be Montini.”

“Why not Montini?”

“We were assuming manslaughter because of a love affair gone sour. Hardly a motive to go through a drawer full of engineering files.” He was staring at his large muscular hands. “But we had a prime suspect. He had motive. He had been seen entering the building at or about the estimated time of death. An open and shut case, sort of. Or at least that’s what we chose to believe. But that filing drawer leaps out at me now, particularly given what we’ve discovered about Bull and Monaghan’s relationship to him. We didn’t even go through the files in that drawer with any thoroughness. I mean we glanced through it, came across nothing which made any sense to us, and booked Montini. And we did that because it was easy. We figured we’d let the justice system sort things out. If it convicted Montini, fine. If it didn’t we would probably have re-opened the case. After all, we had impounded Monaghan’s files. But when the case got dropped under pressure we just went along with the powers that be. And everything got returned either to the university or to Monaghan’s wife. That damn cabinet drawer is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

“Unless we find the killer.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky. At least there are some things now that we can check out.”

I nodded, “I think the mail has come.” I went to the door and came back with a large manila envelope. We studied the photos.

“We’ll need to make copies,” Phil said, “I want to get some over to Captain Leclair and to Lieutenant Ricci.”

“And,” I added, “we’ll need a set for me and for you. I think there’s some leg work we could both do. If you have the time, that is.”

“What have I got except time on my hands?”

We went to the kitchen and replenished our coffee mugs. I made sandwiches from some pre-packaged pastrami, a wilting Boston lettuce, and some Dijon mustard.

“Not great for our coronary arteries,” I muttered.

“Wrong again,” he said.

“Says who, and since when?” I replied.

“An American program called DATELINE that I watched on TV last night.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nah, I’m serious. They had this nutrition expert who did a study of over 100 of the most popular American sandwiches. Among the worst, health-wise, was egg salad and chicken salad. And, would you believe, a vegetarian sandwich. Apparently it’s the fatty margarine, the mayo and the cheese that’s bad for the heart and the coronaries. The best was plain turkey or beef, even pastrami, so long as you used only mustard with them.”

“Well,” I said with amusement, “if it was on DATELINE then it must be true, mustn’t it?”

“Sure,” he replied, munching his sandwich, “as true as your assumption that this must be bad for us because you read some dietitian’s blah, blah in some newspaper or other.”

I conceded the point. I knew next to nothing about nutrition, about fat, or about hydrogenated or non-hydrogenated margarine, or even good cholesterol and bad cholesterol. As a journalist I knew there was a growing industry that was exploiting our fears of death. I wondered if my doctor’s opinions were formed from the same industry. I hoped not.