(2012) Cross-Border Murder (28 page)

I hadn’t thought of any of that. I was beginning to get a taste of what I thought of as Hendricks’ revenge. That evening, I opened the envelope, put aside for the moment the document addressed to me and examined the suicide note. Apart from the testamentary part at the end, it said nothing that I did not expect. He spoke of the inevitable humiliation he would be facing, of his innocence and ineffectualness, of the pointlessness of dragging himself through a prolonged process which he knew he had no desire to endure. Everything was couched in general terms, no specific reference to recent events or to the renewed investigation Gina and I had launched. Even his apology to those who would have to clean up the mess of his suicide seemed almost formal. But then, I reminded myself, this note was intended for public consumption, and the public was not Hendricks’ natural audience. With some trepidation I turned to the document he had addressed specifically to me. I could tell immediately that most if not all of it had been written before we arrived on the scene. As I feared, it was highly personal and intimate. Most of it was an apologia for what he considered his pitiful existence. I decided I would give it a careful reading later, but for now I only skimmed through it looking for anything that might be pertinent to the investigation we were conducting. At one point I came across the section in which he admitted that he had fired the shot at the motel. “But I meant to injure no one,” he wrote, “and I repeat that I had absolutely nothing to do with either Michael’s or Naomi’s murders. I fired the warning shot because I hoped to halt what I felt was your pointless and potentially dangerous probing. I could see no good coming from any of it. Of course, at the time I did not know that Naomi had been murdered earlier that day.” And that was all that directly related to matters that were still, for me, of primary concern. A more careful reading of the document could wait until later.

I turned back to the suicide note with its alteration of his last will and testament and was about to phone a lawyer I knew when Ryan called. I gave him a synopsis of the meeting with Sheriff Wayman.

“Jesus!” He said, “in all my years as a cop, I don’t think I’ve ever run into anything quite like this. By the way I reached Leclair. And he would like to see us tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, preferably around seven. At the office he’s using here in Montreal.”

“Why? Did he say?”

“He came across something in Naomi’s safety deposit box. He wants to talk to us about it. How are Gina and Mary surviving all of this?”

I gave that a moment’s thought. “Okay.” I replied. “They’ve gone for a walk in the park. I think they wanted to talk things over together.” I was sure they were undergoing some form of trauma. I knew I was. But for the moment at least, we all seemed to be handling it fairly well.

“Shall I pick you up at around six-thirty?” Ryan asked. I wanted to avoid another group discussion at this stage, even if it was a brief one. “Why don’t I pick you up instead?” I suggested.

“Sure. Okay.”

When Gina and Mary returned I told them about Leclair’s request. They seemed content to be by themselves for part of the evening. I left, picked up Ryan and we reached Leclair’s office with time to spare. Captain Leclair nodded and gave me a cautious smile. He spoke in French.

“Got a fax about an hour ago,” he said, “from a Sheriff in Vermont. Had to have someone translate parts of it for me. Very interesting. He mentioned that you might have some additional information of importance to my investigations.”

“Not really,” I said. I told him that Hendricks had acknowledged responsibility for the shot fired at the motel, but had insisted he knew nothing about Naomi’s murder.

Ryan softly interjected a note of caution. “One shouldn’t take even a suicide’s confession as necessarily valid.”

“And do you?” Leclair asked, studying me carefully.

I held his gaze and nodded. It was not a firm nod. But there was nothing hesitant about it either.

He sighed. “Then Ricci can probably close his case, but I still have one that has yet to be solved. I’m having someone translate the documents in Ms. Bronson’s deposit box because they’re highly technical and my English is not quite good enough,” he said. We spoke in French. He opened a large envelope and handed us a couple of large glossy photos and two articles: one was a publication attributed to Gooden, the other a copy of an original English version of a planned article of about a dozen pages. The latter document was typewritten with numerous emendations made in red ink. The photos, I assumed, had probably been taken with a telephoto lens from Naomi’s cottage. One showed three men in conversation: her husband, Gooden and someone I did not at first recognize. The second photo showed Gooden and the third man from the first photo standing near an artillery gun. On the back was a date which indicated that the photo had been taken about three months after her husband had been murdered. I identified Gooden and Monaghan for Leclair.

“And the third man?”

I could only guess. “I think that it’s probably Dr. Gerald Bull. It looks like him.”

“And the articles?” Leclair asked. I gave them another brief examination. At first glance the unpublished document appeared to be a copy of an early draft of a highly technical paper on some aspect of ballistics. I skimmed it quickly and then put it aside.

I thought first of Gina’s skill in spotting the anomalies in Gooden’s curriculum vitae: and then, of course, of what Hendricks’ had told us about Gooden’s possible plagiarism of something Monaghan had authored. I explained about Gina’s discoveries and about what Hendricks had told us. But I suspected he already knew that from Ryan. “Here’s what I think. Even though at this stage I’m probably putting two and two together and coming up with six. I think the first photo was probably taken by Naomi at her husband’s request, maybe for his own egotistical records, or because he wanted visual proof of his presence at Bull’s artillery range. Then her husband is murdered and she, for some reason, comes to suspect Gooden. Maybe she subsequently realized that the original of her husband’s article was missing from his office when the files were finally turned over to her. But she had this copy of it at home. Maybe her husband had told her about the argument he had had with Gooden on the day he was murdered. At any rate, for whatever reason, she keeps an eye on Bull’s gunnery range at Highwater, and captures Gooden there on film months after her husband’s murder. Then he publishes his article and she collates all this as evidence and stores it away in a safe place.”

Leclair hunched his shoulders. “Possibly, but why would she sit on this information for all these years?”

I had already formed an answer. “What else could she do with it? It was not the kind of evidence that would have re-opened an investigation into her husband’s murder.”

But the answer bothered Leclair. “She had no way of being sure of that,” he said, “so why didn’t she try? She could, of course, have wanted to use the information to blackmail Gooden.” Leclair offered.

I doubted it. “She was independently wealthy,” I said, “and I don’t think Gooden would have had the kind of money to make it worthwhile. And so she probably just sat on the information in case some day she might have a reason to use it.” But then I added, “I think she was prepared to tell Gina what she knew.”

Leclair nodded. I wondered whether he knew more than he had revealed to us. Had Naomi’s friend told him something?

“Which raises another question,” Ryan said, “when and how did Gooden find any of this out, if he ever did?”

A slight smile played at the corner of Leclair’s mouth. “As part of our routine investigation,” he said finally, “I had Ms. Bronson’s telephone calls checked. She made a long-distance call to Gooden’s number at the University when she arrived at the cottage on Friday. We checked it out as a matter of routine. Because it was late on Friday, we believe she only managed to reach his answering machine. She may or may not have left a message for him. His secretary says there were no messages on the machine when she came in on Monday morning. But then he could have checked his messages from either his home or his cottage and subsequently erased the message.”

For a few moments the three of us sat there pondering all of this. Finally Leclair shook his head sadly. “So all we have is some interesting speculation and a possible suspect. But nothing more.”

“Well, at least we now have a possible motive. I wonder if he returned Naomi’s call while she was still at the cottage? Is there any way to check that out?”

Leclair shrugged. “I would have to get a warrant to check any long distance calls he may have made from his home. Besides, if he suspected anything, he probably would have been smart enough to use a phone booth to call to her. One that could not be traced to him. What bothers me,” Leclair added, “is the problem of motive. What we know is pretty weak stuff.” He glanced at Ryan. “Nothing here that would have warranted re-opening the Monaghan file, is there?”

“No. It would have taken something more substantial than that. You’re right there.”

“So why take the risk of killing Ms. Bronson?” Leclair asked, frowning. “Unless of course she knew more than what she decided to store away in a safety deposit box.”

In a way we had come to a dead end. There were a number of things nagging at the back of my mind. One of them had to do with Hendricks’ claim that Gooden might have been an RCMP agent. But I saw no point in raising the issue with Leclair at this particular moment. I asked for a copy of the documents and the pictures. He nodded. I had the feeling that Leclair’s thoughts had also moved onto some other aspect of the case, something he had no inclination to discuss with us at this stage.

Ryan and I left with the copies.

On the way home, I told Ryan I was thinking of postponing my meeting the next morning with McPhail. “I don’t know how much I dare explain to him. I went to school with him. We’ve talked occasionally over the years. But we’re not close enough for me to know where his loyalties really lie. After all, Gooden is the dean of a fellow university. They might even be friends.”

He nodded. “Then postpone it. No point in taking any chances.”

“Besides,” I said, “we know now that Gooden is probably the guy we’re after.”

Ryan let out a long sigh. “We shouldn’t eliminate the Symanskys. Not quite yet.”

I gave him a surprised look, almost a smirk. “Such caution is not like the Phil Ryan I’ve come to know.”

He grunted, “you forget I’ve got two strikes against me already. Strike one, I was sure it was Montini. Strike two, I was convinced it was Hendricks. I want to be really sure this time. After all,” he said puzzled, “the only motive we’ve got against Gooden so far is not much different from the motives the Symanskys have, or the motive that Hendricks had. It all comes down to protecting their careers and reputations.”

When I got home, I showed the documents and the pictures to Mary and Gina.

“How are you at working a computer?” I asked Gina.

“What kind?”

“An IBM 384 compatible.”

“What for?”

“To download anything Winston’s library has that Gooden has written, and anything that Monaghan may have written before he was murdered. Do some comparing. If Gooden is guilty of plagiarism, I would like us to build a strong case no matter what happens.”

“I’d need a password to get into the university’s library.”

“I can probably get a password from Joe Gibbs.”

“Okay.” She said. “I’m computer literate enough. It may be a lot of work,” she said with a self-satisfied, almost smug smile, “but I think I should be able to prove or disprove the charge of plagiarism, or at least make a good case one way or the other.”

I phoned Joe Gibbs at home and after some explanation got a password into the university’s computer system. I gave it to Gina.

My conversation with Joe Gibbs, of course, had touched on other matters than just getting a password from him. For one thing I brought him up-to-date on aspects of Hendricks’ suicide.

“I think it’s going to be treated by the Essex County coroner’s office as just a straightforward suicide.” I said with a touch of self-recrimination.

“But you have a different opinion?” He asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear my answer or not.

“Well, for one thing, it’s an unfortunate outcome of what I’m investigating. The suicide note mentions nothing about it, but Hendricks has acknowledged that he fired the warning shot outside the motel.”

“Oh, God!” Gibbs said. He could see a major scandal looming. “I rather liked the old sod.”

“So did I.” I said and in a way I meant it. “I’m not going to be writing about his suicide.” I told Joe. “For one thing, in the suicide note, he names me as his executor.”

“He did? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Joe said.

“Yes it is.”

“And what about the murder of Monaghan?” Joe asked. “Was he also involved in that? Or did he say?”

“He denied any involvement.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“Then, your investigation is not over.”

“No. I’m afraid not. I’ve been presuming, Joe, that anything I’ve been telling you stays between us for the moment. I particularly do not want Gooden to be briefed.”

He grunted, “I had to inform Gooden about Hendricks’ suicide, but I did so only after the Essex County police department had called me. Gooden expects the department will want to hold an appropriate memorial service.”

“Could you just play along with him on that, or anything else, for the moment? Perhaps you could tell him you’ve been in touch with the lawyer for Hendricks’ executor. Which will be true because I’m going to have to get my lawyer involved in this. I’ll have him call you as soon as I’ve spoken to him.”

“Okay.” He did not sound enthusiastic. But then I didn’t expect him to.

I then called McPhail and left a message canceling our meeting.

“Have you identified the third man in the photos?” Mary asked when I returned to the living room.

“I think it’s probably Dr. Bull. I think one of the magazines I still have upstairs has a quality picture of him in it. I’ll go get it.”