(2012) Cross-Border Murder (37 page)
I had told Gina and Mary about Gooden’s arrest from the cellular phone in Phil’s van. When I got in the door, the phone rang.
“I want you to write a fuller story for this morning’s paper.” Mel Vogel said.
“But surely it’s too late,” I said. I explained about the short piece I had called in.
“It’s not too late to catch the last 75,000 copies. The ones that get delivered downtown. Might even catch the edition that will land on your doorstep.”
“You’re not really going to stop the presses just for my piece, surely.”
“It doesn’t work that way anymore,” He said, “I can give you an hour at the outside. File what you can.”
“I could really do a much better job for tomorrow’s paper.” I noted making a last stab a delaying the inevitable.
“Jesus, Tom, by then every radio and television station will have got the juiciest parts. Please! Just get on the computer and file!”
“Okay,” I sighed and rang off.
But I delayed writing for a few minutes more. I phoned Joe Gibbs at home. I felt he had a right to hear from me. I told him about Gooden’s arrest. He let out a long defeated breath. “Shit!” He said.
“Yeah,” I said, “sorry but it’s really going to hit the fan in tomorrow morning’s paper.” I tried to sound sympathetic, although my mind was elsewhere.
“I never liked the bastard,” he sighed. “I was in the middle of a happy dream when your phone call shattered it. But thanks, Tom, for warning me. Can you give me any more details?”
I explained my deadline. I said I would fax him a copy of anything I filed. He thanked me again and we rang off. As I turned back to the computer I thought of all those papers being read at the breakfast table while swallowing hefty doses of caffeine. I’m told there are houses which begin the day with the television news blaring, a radio on in the bedroom, and the ubiquitous paper at the breakfast table as if it were somehow crucial to get all of the bad news pumped into our systems before we’d had a chance to digest our breakfasts. What in the world has got into us? Did an Athens’ household summon the messenger of bad news before breaking bread and munching the first grapes of a new day?
Feeling slightly angry at the efficiency of modern technology, I turned furiously to the computer. You can always count on a professional, I whispered cynically, as I watched the first words I wrote appear on the screen. At one point I searched for a cigarette and lit it. The first one in what seemed like a long time. I watched the smoke curl upwards and dissipate as if it was disappearing into some kind of mystery I could not understand. There were too many riddles which still needed answering and which I was carefully keeping out of my story. Stick to the facts, I told myself, it’s safer. At the last minute I decided to delete any reference to Symansky. I had second thoughts about doing so. Particularly given Gooden’s sudden outburst on that dark track of a road leading to a nonexistent Leadville. Something about that had disturbed me more than I was prepared to admit. But prudence and a desire to honor a commitment won out. I pushed the buttons which sent my copy along telephone lines to a newspaper that had increasingly become electronic. Personally, I was not sure it was a blessing. I looked at my watch. I had beat the deadline by five minutes. I went downstairs and poured myself a stiff Scotch. And then waited in the dark living room for a call from the office. None came. At four o’clock I went to bed feeling like a broken man. I did not know whether what I had filed would make the home delivery. But as I shifted in the cold sheets trying to find my comfort zone, I really didn’t care.
Six hours later I was woken by a knock on my bedroom door. I must have muttered some kind of an invitation, because the door opened and Mary came in with a cup of coffee. She placed a newspaper by my bedside. I took a grateful sip and sank back on the pillow. I was still groggy. The last thing I wanted was to get out of my warm bed.
“Gina and I have had breakfast. We want to make an early start back to Portland.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve already been away from our jobs for too long.”
“I’ll get up,” I said.
“There’s really no need Thomas. I know you need more sleep. Gina and I are all packed.”
“But what about the inquest Thursday?” I asked.
“We’ll call Wayman from Portland and beg off. I’m sure he won’t mind. If he needs us we’ll come.” My glance slipped past her to Gina who was standing uneasily in the doorway.
“Thanks,” she said simply. “It’s a good article. Much better than what you used to write.”
“Gina!” Mary said reproachfully.
Gina gave me a conspiratorial wink. Then she added, “we want you to come to Portland for a visit as soon as you’ve wrapped things up here. Can you?”
I nodded.
“Yes,” Mary said, “after all we still have to discuss Hendricks’ will, or had you forgotten?”
“I haven’t,” I said, thinking of the funeral arrangements I would probably have to arrange.
“I’ve put the answering machine on.” Mary said. “But I’ve turned the volume down low so that it won’t disturb you. Some calls have already come in but I’m sure they can all wait.”
I agreed. I really did not want to write any more about the events at Winston. Let the regular staff handle it from here. They might miss the nuances. But who cared? Not Hendricks, not Monaghan, not Naomi, and certainly not Frank Montini.
Three hours later, I was on the line again with Mel Vogel.
“We need more copy.” He said. “Some follow-up stuff. Some more background.”
“Mel,” I suggested, “put one of the regular staff on it. I’m an implicated party. Probably shouldn’t even have filed yesterday’s copy.” My sense of journalistic ethics had returned to trouble me.
“The fact that you were along for the ride when Gooden was arrested doesn’t make you an implicated party.”
“Mel. I helped set up the trap.”
“What trap?”
I explained.
“Christ!” He said and then he was silent.
“What’s more,” I said, there’s still a few loose ends I want to check. I need the time.” I’m not sure why I said that: it seemed to come unbidden from some gut feeling about what Gooden had said to me about Symansky. Almost as if he had read my mind, Vogel switched topics. “And what about the Symansky piece I’ve been sitting on?” I explained that Symansky had co-operated with the police in setting the trap for Gooden. Furthermore, I told him, Symansky despite his recent help was one of the loose ends I wanted to check out.
Vogel gave in easily, which surprised me. I suspect that other more important stories had surfaced to preoccupy his mind.
“Okay, I’ll keep a hold on Symansky, and I’ll assign Catherine Magadan to the do the follow-up pieces. You can trust her so please give her a complete briefing.”
“Okay.”
Next I called my lawyer, Gino Iuticone.
“How did it go?”
“Easily. Very easily. Didn’t even have to work up a sweat,” he said, “you’re now his executor.”
“That was fast. How come?”
“The facts turned out to be simple. The executor he had named previously was just some accounting professor at Winston. He seemed only too happy to be out of it. The bank still dithered like a bunch of government bureaucrats. But the real key was that there were no relatives mentioned anywhere in the will. Surprising that! But there it is. I’m expecting a letter today from the bank confirming their recognition of you as his executor. I’ll fax you a copy. Good luck!” He said.
“Thanks,” I muttered, “I’ll need it. Let’s have lunch and you can give me your bill personally.”
He laughed. “The kind of client that used to make my mother happy when I was a penniless lawyer! I’ll give you a call towards the end of next week.”
As executor, there were things I had to deal with right away. I called Joe Gibbs. His voice had that weary sound which made me think that he was beginning to look forward to retirement. I asked him whether there was a chaplain at the university I could call to organize a memorial service for Hendricks. He gave me a name. “He’s a good man,” he said, “tell him I’ll give him any assistance he may need.” There was a pause. “So, should I anticipate any further surprises?” In addition to the fatigue there was a trace of irritation. I presumed the Rector had reacted negatively to all the publicity surrounding Gooden’s arrest.
“I hope not,” I said. But I did tell him who had now been assigned to the story. I called the chaplain, and explained my dilemma. As Joe had said I had run into one of life’s nice guys. It helped that he had known Hendricks and had liked him. He offered to take everything off my hands: he would call a Funeral Home for me, and he would ask them to organize the transfer of the body from the Essex County morgue. He suggested a one day wake and a short service at the small chapel in the funeral home itself. Then he asked, “Cremation or burial in a cemetery plot?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Cremation,” I said, although I detected a ghostly tremor in my voice as I said it.
The rest of the day drifted past. I did a few small chores. I answered a call from Catherine Magadan and briefed her. But I avoided any mention of Symansky. She did not bring the matter up. I put that down to the effectiveness of Vogel’s willingness to continue to sit on that aspect of the investigation.
The next day I drove to Essex County. The inquest turned out to be a routine affair held in one of Sheriff Wayman’s conference rooms. The verdict of suicide was almost cursory and automatic. I met with Wayman afterward and he handed over the personal effects the police had confiscated when the body had been discovered: a wallet, some money, and the keys to the cottage, house and car were among them. I briefed him on Gooden’s arrest. I said I would send him a letter thanking him for his co-operation, and would ask Leclair and Ricci to do likewise.
“No need,” he said. But I could see that he was pleased.
I got in touch with the student who kept an eye on Hendricks’ cottage in exchange for a room there. There was an undertone of hostility in our conversation, but he was willing to continue the arrangement, at least until he had to leave for a summer job he had obtained out west. He agreed to find a local cleaning service and have them call me. That way I could put off going through the cottage until a later date.
Back in Montreal, I made a set of duplicates, and called a cleaning service I used periodically. They picked up a copy of the key to Hendricks’ house. I asked them to empty and clean the fridge.
The next morning, I got a surprise call from Joe Gibbs.
“Thought I should let you know in case you didn’t know already,” he said tersely. “Gooden has vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“That’s right,” he said in a voice tinged with frustration and anger. “He was released on bail yesterday. He was scheduled to meet with the Rector this morning. But he didn’t turn up. He wasn’t in his office. There was no answer at his home. I just felt in my bones that something had gone sour. So I asked security to go to his home. His front door was unlocked and his car was in the driveway. But no one was home. Security called me and I called the police. Looks like Gooden packed a couple of bags and took off.”
“And left his car behind?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus. None of this makes sense, Joe.”
“Does anything?”
I called Ryan and asked him to find out anything he could. I took a deep breath and then phoned Catherine Magadan at the newspaper and put her in the picture. Something in the back of my mind was bothering me. I went downstairs, poured myself a cup of coffee, and glumly stared at two birds who were busy pecking away at an empty bird-feeder. I filled the feeder.
It didn’t take me long to bring what was bothering me into focus. Something about Symansky’s role bothered me. I had asked him not to breathe a word to Gooden about our even having met. But on the Leadville road Gooden had taunted me with his apparent knowledge of our relationship. Or had he only guessed that Symansky and I had conspired together? After all, he might have mistakenly assumed that we had discovered from Symansky where to station ourselves. And from that he might easily have concluded that there had to have been earlier contacts. But the way in which Gooden, trapped in the van’s headlights, had blurted out his anger against Symansky hinted at something more. Had Symansky given him a carefully edited version of my inquiries? Had Symansky played both sides of the street? I began to wonder whether Symansky had been a factor in Gooden’s disappearance. Finally Ryan phoned.
“He’s gone alright. There are signs that he packed a couple of suitcases. But the clincher for me is that he took the hard drive from his computer and burned at least some of his paper files.”
“So how did he leave?” I asked. “He didn’t take his car.”
“I know. So far, the police have checked the cab companies. Zilch. Maybe he had help.”
“But who?”
“At the moment who knows? There’s another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The police spoke to his wife. He kept his house and cottage heavily mortgaged even though he didn’t have to. According to her, Gooden kept a lot of money in cash accounts. But this is the part that will surprise you. The police checked with his bank. He withdrew large sums even before he stepped into our trap. In other words he may have been planning to disappear even if we hadn’t caught him red handed. Think about it for a moment. He knows he’s committed murder. Has known it for fifteeen years. He knows someday he may have to run. All that’s needed is for the police to get on the scent and not get sand-bagged the way I did. Wouldn’t you have been prepared to run? Maybe even had a back-up identity ready just in case?”
I thought about that for a moment. “It sounds pretty difficult and far-fetched to me.”
“For most people it would be. But then most people don’t have his kind of money, brains, or know-how. It wouldn’t have been impossible for someone like him, given the lead-time he had of almost fifteen years.”
“So why did he leave his door unlocked and his car in the driveway? There’s a note of panic there, and he didn’t just walk down the street carrying a couple of suitcases. Did his secretary know anything?” I knew the thought was a desperate stab in the dark. “She was probably in love with him.” I added lamely.