(2012) Cross-Border Murder (24 page)
I glanced at my watch. It was time to do the shopping. I grabbed my list and headed out the door. I should have gone to a few local stores. Instead I went to one of those giant one-stop shopping warehouses where you walk for an hour up and down aisles and then stand for ten minutes in line while people try to remember their credit card codes.
I returned frustrated and angry at the way modern consumers were being jerked around. Who really were the primary beneficiaries of it all, I wondered? I was about to get the sheets and towels from the drier and make the beds when Ryan phoned.
“We’ve struck pay dirt,” he said, “tried to call you earlier but I guess you were out.”
“Went shopping.”
“Figured that.”
“So what constitutes pay dirt?” I asked, tense with a strange mixture of elation and foreboding.
“Just before noon, Hendricks left the cottage and walked back into the woods. He was carrying a rifle barrel and a sledgehammer.”
“A sledgehammer?”
“Yeah. He had apparently detached the rifle barrel from its stock. The chap we had posted in the woods got some good photos of him pounding the barrel deep into the earth behind a stand of trees.”
“Good God!”
“Then he drove into town. Our other guy in the car followed him just long enough to make sure he was not heading for the border or for the local airport. Then on my instructions, they retrieved the rifle barrel while Hendricks was away.”
“Where is it now?”
“In their car. They’re waiting to make sure they see Hendricks return to his cottage, and then they’ll bring it back to Montreal.”
I tried to think of the legal implications of what had occurred. After all, the barrel had been retrieved without a search warrant. I expressed my concerns.
“You’ve been watching too many American TV shows about law and order.”
“Are you telling me no law has been broken?”
“Nothing that would interfere with a court case.” But I think my question troubled him nonetheless. “I suppose, technically speaking, Hendricks could try to charge Racine’s men with trespassing, and possibly theft of a buried gun barrel. But since he doesn’t even know it’s been done, or even who they are, he can’t very well do that, can he? And if the barrel matches the bullet found at the motel, well the game’s up for him.”
“And what if it doesn’t?” I ventured, although in my heart I was certain that it would.
“When I hand it over to the police I’ll cut a deal. If it matches, I give them the photos and witnesses as proof of where and how it was retrieved. Since they weren’t involved in retrieving it they can use it as evidence.” He expelled an exhausted sigh. “And if it doesn’t match, I get it back so that I can dispose of it in my own way. No big deal.”
I had probably sounded as if I was trying to make a mountain out of an ant hill. After all, we needed some tangible evidence against Hendricks. Besides, he had undoubtedly taken a pot shot at Gina. So why was I bothered by how we had got the evidence? Trespassing on his property and retrieving the rifle barrel without informing the police and without a search warrant was surely understandable under the circumstances. Still, I felt somehow tainted by the deceit of it all.
“Still planning that supper reunion?” Ryan asked.
“Of course. Can you get here by six?”
“Sure. Want me to bring something?”
“Nope I think I’ve got everything.”
“I can bring our trophy carefully wrapped in plastic!”
“Jesus, no! I don’t want Gina freaking out. And let’s not gloat too much either!”
“Hey!” He said, “come on, give me a break. Days this successful are few and far between in the life of a policeman.” Ex-policeman, I thought, but as a friend, I said simply, “yeah, I know.”
We had finished dinner, but we were still sitting around the dining room table. We had brought in a tray of cheeses, a pot of coffee and a bottle of Napoleon brandy. Ryan helped himself to the brandy, the rest of us had coffee. Mary and Gina had been brought up to date. The retrieved rifle barrel was now in the trunk of Ryan’s car. Ryan explained that he intended to hand over the rifle barrel tomorrow morning and we all nodded as he detailed the conditions he hoped to negotiate in order to protect the legal status of Paul Racine’s private detectives. But by the time he had finished, Mary was frowning.
“I still have trouble seeing Hendricks as a murderer. I always have, and I probably always will.” She said.
“Unless he confesses.” I said.
She gave a grudging acknowledgment. Then she shook her head. “At the moment I still feel there’s a few pieces of the puzzle missing.”
A silence followed. “In theory,” I said, “it’s always possible that all three instances are unrelated. Some student, after all, could have murdered Monaghan. And somebody homophobic could have killed Naomi. And finally someone at the strip joint could have shot Gina’s friend, what’s her name?”
“Linda.” Gina muttered her lips slightly compressed.
“But probability theory,” I continued, “supports an assumption that Hendricks is now our primary murder suspect.” I glanced at Mary.
“Probability theory? Gosh, Thomas,” she smiled. There was no malice in her voice, only amusement. “The range of your expertise is truly amazing.” I saw Ryan smirk. Even Gina grinned.
“Actually,” I acknowledged, “I know zip about probability theory.” I experienced a moment of personal uneasiness. It occurred to me that in my years as a journalist I had probably processed far too much information based upon experts whose credentials I had never questioned. I thought of all the pollsters, medical researchers, psychological profile experts, social studies by the hundreds, all probably based on only the skimpiest understanding of statistical and probability theories that daily flooded the mass media.
Into the silence, Mary said, “So where do we go from here? Do we hand over what we know to the police and let them do what they’re paid for?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I said forcefully. More forcefully than I had intended. I looked over at Phil who was refilling his glass with Napoleon brandy.
“I’m with Tom on this.” He looked at Mary. “I’d much prefer to keep at this until we’re truly satisfied with the results. I mean, what if the police end up dragging their feet? And even if they really apply themselves, they still might not be able to build a case which can be sent to the courts.”
I noticed he did not mention that political interference had shut down the Monaghan file and labeled it as confidential. But I suspect the thought had passed through his mind. After all, what grounds did we have for thinking that the higher-ups might agree now to having the Monaghan case re-opened. I saw Gina nod.
“Gina?” I said. She turned. But her mind seemed to be focused on something else. “There are some things that are bothering me that I don’t think the police would ever look into.”
“Such as?”
“In the car on the way down, I had a chance to read more carefully through the files that Mr. Gibbs gave you.” She leaned forward and stirred the coffee in her cup. “For one thing Hendricks taught Gooden as an undergraduate on a number of occasions. He even began as the supervisor of his graduate thesis until Gooden changed his subject and Monaghan took over. So his relationship with Gooden was closer than the impression he gave us. What’s even more surprising,” she said, “is what’s in those files about Gooden’s subsequent career.” Phil was sitting back with his arms folded across his chest listening intently. Mary’s face was a blank. I was as still as a cat out night-stalking.
“Shortly after he graduated,” Gina noted, “Gooden published an article in a prestigious learned journal, and not too long after that he left for a job at the Department of National Defense. What is puzzling is that the subject of the article was right out of Monaghan’s area of expertise, and not closely related to the area of Gooden’s dissertation.”
“What’s the importance of any of this?” Ryan asked, puzzled.
“I’m not sure. But it adds to the impression that something very odd was going on in the engineering department at Winston.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad we’ve got this meeting with McPhail on Monday morning.” I explained to Gina and Mary about the appointment I had made with the professor I knew at McGill. “Maybe he can help shed some light on the inconsistencies in Gooden’s file and in the role Hendricks played.”
“So could Hendricks,” Gina remarked simply, “After all he was close to the center of the department during that critical period.”
Ryan smiled, “so let’s pay him a visit. What do we have to lose?” I could see the policeman in him was aching to have a go at Hendricks, to break him down, to have him slip up dramatically under hours of professional grilling.
Mary went into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.
I was remembering the conversation I had with Hendricks yesterday on my porch. I remembered the determination with which he had denied any involvement in Monaghan and Naomi’s deaths. But I also remembered him hinting that he knew something about Monaghan’s death that had never been made public, and that furthermore he suspected someone that he would not name because he lacked solid evidence to back it up. Because of the rifle barrel in the back of Phil’s car, I now seriously doubted anything Hendricks had said. Still, I had my own reasons for wanting to question him further. “He will probably just clam up and ask to see a lawyer.” I said.
You’d be surprised,” Ryan noted, “most people, even guilty ones, are hesitant to call a lawyer. They see it has as tantamount to an admission of guilt. It’s only when they get really scared that they want a lawyer to protect them. I’ve seen it happen often. And sometimes, just when you think someone is about to clam up for good, they suddenly blurt out everything. It’s the stress. Sometimes all it takes is a sympathetic nod. They all have justifications of one kind or another, and in their own minds, it exonerates them from what we want to accuse them of. It’s strange but they see themselves as the victims of whatever happened, not really as the perpetrators.” He seemed puzzled by his own observations. “In an odd way, they’ve reversed the normal pattern of cause and effect. Still, there’s nothing like that kind of confession,” he muttered, “to guarantee that someone gets put behind bars.”
I heard Gina sigh. But when I looked up she was refilling her coffee cup from the pot Mary had brought back into the dining room.
“Unfortunately, putting someone behind bars was not what I came here for.” Gina said. Ryan put the cap back on the bottle of Napoleon brandy and quietly poured himself a cup of coffee. I accepted a refill from Mary. A small secretive smile played at the corner of her lips.
Gina looked at me. “When I first came to you,” she said, “it was not some form of legal justice I was after. I only wanted the truth to come out. What I really wanted was for you to write an article which said that there was now sufficient grounds to exonerate my father, and to acknowledge that he had been shabbily treated by the justice system, even by the media, and even more importantly by his colleagues at Winston University. By all accounts Monaghan was a proper bastard anyways. If his killer escaped the justice system so be it. But that’s all changed hasn’t it? The murder of Naomi changed all that.” Her face furrowed with the complexity of her thoughts. In a puzzled voice she continued, “I feel I may have only helped precipitate her murder, and also,” she said sadly, “the needless wounding of Linda.”
“You mustn’t feel that way.” Mary said with a determined firmness. She turned towards Gina and their eyes locked. “You didn’t deliberately choose to put anyone’s life in danger. There must have been a wound festering between Naomi and her killer all along. And you had a right to come here and clear your father’s name. It’s something we all should have done a long time ago.”
I could not help noting that her message now was considerably different from the cautious sentiments that she had expressed to me on our walk back from the sea in Portland.
“Your mother’s right,” Ryan said, “you can’t start second-guessing what might have happened if only you had done this instead of that. I’ve seen that sort of thing paralyze policemen. Eventually something just dies inside them.”
The set of Gina’s mouth shifted. “I would really like to question Hendricks, hear what he has to say.”
Ryan frowned. I think he had expected only the two of us to set out to visit Hendricks at his cottage. That way he would have a chance to control the questioning, and possibly apply pressure in a way he would probably not be able to do if Gina was also present.
“I think it’s time we packed it in,” Mary said, “for myself, I don’t feel any desire to meet Hendricks. I don’t think any of it is going to make me feel any better about what has happened. But tomorrow morning,” she said with a determined shrug of her shoulders, “if the three of you still feel the same way you do now, then I’ll go along with your wish to confront Hendricks. After all I’m the only one who remembers what he was really like fifteen years ago.”
We set out for Essex Junction in Phil Ryan’s van because it had a cellular phone and was roomier than my Ford Taurus or Mary’s Toyota Corolla. We were all unusually silent. I for one was feeling distinctly uneasy.
When Ryan had returned after delivering the rifle barrel to the detective in charge of the motel shooting, his grim demeanor discouraged any discussion of how the police had reacted. There was something, I sensed, that Phil did not want to tell us. That morning when we took a straw vote about whether to go and question Hendricks ourselves, the result was reached almost haphazardly. There was no vigorous discussion of the pros and cons, it was more a kind of acquiescence to something we felt was unavoidable.
“We need to plan our strategy,” Phil Ryan said.
Gina glanced over at him. I had no idea what she was thinking. Mary and I glanced briefly at each other. She gave me a worried smile. My mind was a complete blank.
“What I would like to do,” Ryan said, “is to keep hammering away at him as if we all took for granted that he’s guilty.”