(2012) Cross-Border Murder (38 page)

Ryan sighed. “The police spoke with her. Had too, of course. Looks like it came as a surprise to her as well.”

I didn’t share my misgivings about Symansky. I didn’t want Phil proposing another quick trip to Burlington.

I tried to put the matter out of my mind for a few days. I needed the time to pay my last respects to Harold Hendricks. The Funeral Home called late Friday. They had arranged transportation of the body and were setting aside a room for visitation on Sunday. They had already informed the Chaplain. I called the newspaper and had the simplest of death notices inserted in the obituary pages for Saturday and Sunday mornings.

On Sunday, I stood vigil near the closed coffin. Nine people came by. I know. I checked the number of signatures in the book at the end of the evening. Two students, five professors. And apart from the university chaplain, the Rector came with Joe Gibbs. Like Symansky, the rector struck me as a smoothie. The kind who could be counted upon to do the appropriate thing, socially. At the brief memorial service the chaplain said the usual prayers. I did not weep. No one did. But I felt like it. Any death, I thought, warranted more attention than Hendricks was getting. Later when asked what I wanted to do with the ashes by the funeral director, I hesitated and then decided to take them with me. I put them on the passenger seat of my car, and around twilight I drove to the base of the Jacques Cartier bridge.

I took the ashes and walked slowly to the center of the bridge. To my left were the lights of Montreal, and to my right the lights of the South shore suburbs. In the middle, down below, I could vaguely make out the swirling dark waters of the Saint Lawrence River. I had been led to the bridge by an early memory. I remember my mother telling me that as a child she had met a Scottish engineer who had been brought to Montreal to help design and build the bridge. He had rented a room in her parent’s home during his stay in the city. That had made me think of Hendricks, another Scottish engineer who had come to Montreal to build his career. In my mind’s eye I could see him standing here on this bridge marveling at the audacity of those who had set out to span this river at this point, one of the longest and widest rivers in the world. As I stood there only a slight breeze swirled around me. And I could smell the river, a river much abused by the city which had grown helter-skelter upstream since the bridge had been constructed. Even in the growing darkness, I could see that the bridge was in need of a new coat of rust-proofing. Given half a chance, it would last well into the next century. In any case, it would still be here when I joined Hendricks in the dust. With a heavy heart, I removed the lid from the container and, leaning out over the railing, I let the ashes drift slowly downwards. Some were caught by the breeze and blown back against the girders of the bridge. The rest drifted slowly downwards towards the water and the silt.

I walked back to my car. Back into a time frame that mattered even more now to me. Driving home I thought again about Symansky. In fact, about both Symanskys. What, I thought, if this time Gooden had used Stella? She, as much as her husband, had reason to want Gooden to evade prosecution. In court, given all that he knew, Gooden posed a danger. I remembered Gina telling me, after our first meeting with the Symanskys, that Stella stood to suffer more than her husband if their past became public knowledge. But I doubt if she would have helped without consulting her husband. It was one of those loose ends I could not ignore. It was a personal thing. I needed to know whether I had been wrong to trust Symansky. Otherwise, I found the thought of his being president of an educational institution upsetting.

When I arrived home I called Mary and brought her up to date. I told her of my intention to confront the Symanskys one last time, and suggested that I might then head on to Portland to discuss the will if that was not an inconvenience to her. I began to feel better the minute she welcomed the idea of my arrival.

The next morning when I woke I could hear, through a slightly open window to the left of my bed, what I took to be a large family of birds chirping busily at my feeder.

By ten o’clock, I had packed my suitcase and a garment bag with a spare suit and was ready to take off. But first I called Ryan to tell him where I was going. Phil wanted to come along, but I told him of my plans to drive on to Portland. There was still no news on Gooden.

In Burlington, I went first to the Symansky house, but there was no answer to my repeated ringing of the doorbell. It had been Stella I had wanted to confront first. With a sigh of frustration I headed for Symansky’s office. His secretary recognized me: but she did not seem to know whether to smile or glare at me. I got the impression that there was something else, more important, on her mind. Symansky had someone with him, but he agreed to see me within ten minutes.

When I entered his office and took the proffered chair, we eyed each other warily.

“So,” he said, “what brings you here this time?” His smile was forced.

“Gooden has disappeared.”

He gave me a puzzled look. His eyes narrowed. He turned and stared out his window.

“You don’t seem surprised,” I said.

There was that forced smile again. “I’ve had too many surprises lately. This morning I was informed that a search committee is to look for a new president. My hope of a renewal has come to an end.”

I didn’t believe in divine intervention, but it seemed to me to be a kind of poetic justice. “Gooden had help in pulling off his disappearance.” I gave him some of the details.

“Are you accusing me?” Symansky was no longer trying to smile.

“If the shoe fits,” I said.

“Well it doesn’t.” He spoke with a determined finality.

“It has occurred to me,” I suggested, “that your wife Stella may have given Gooden the hand he needed.”

Symansky gave me an angry look. But I pressed on. “Both of you had something to lose if Gooden went to trial. I think one of the options he was considering was to pin the donkey’s tail to your backside. Maybe he decided your wife would do what you might refuse.”

Symansky shook his head sadly, “he would still have had to approach me rather than Stella.”

I ignored his assertion. “He had reasons to be angry with you. You were not at your post on the Leadville road. I was there instead. In his state of shock, he swore at you and said angrily that you had manipulated both of us.”

Symansky shook his head again, but he did manage a slight smile, “I told you that I would do nothing illegal. And I told Gooden that. I meant it. Gooden may have thought he had pressured me into providing him with an escape route. He should have known better.”

“But you traveled with him down to Owl’s Head, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” His mouth turned down in distaste. “I’m prepared to admit that. But after he headed up the road to the parking lot, I continued along the road towards the cottage. Ostensibly heading towards the Leadville road.”

“How come I didn’t see you pass me at the other end.”

“Because I took the cut-off. The one that’s just before a small cemetery about a half-mile before you come to the cottage. It took me back into Mansonville.”

I was aware of the cut-off. It was the road on which Leclair had eventually stationed himself. Symansky’s explanation made sense. He would have had time to get back into Mansonville and cross the border at Highwater before Leclair had moved into position.

“So why didn’t you phone me and let me know what you were up to?”

He turned his head to stare out the window.

“By the time I was following Gooden to the Eastern Townships, I realized I had stepped into a possible legal trap myself. Someone might later conclude that I knew something about Gooden’s intent in going to the cottage.”

“And did you?”

“No.” He gave me a mocking look. “I told Gooden I didn’t want to know. Besides he wouldn’t have told me the truth.” Symansky’s caution suddenly reminded me of those three brass monkeys: one with his hand over his eyes, the other with his hands over his ears, and the third with his hand over his mouth. I suspected that Symansky’s mouth was now being carefully guarded by his own third monkey.

“So what did Gooden have on you,” I wondered aloud, “to persuade you to follow him to the Eastern Townships and to let him think you were waiting on the Leadville road in case he needed you? Did he threaten to drag you into court if he was ever arrested?”

“No.” He seemed irritated at having to explain something over again. “Gooden had nothing on me that you don’t know about already. I drove to the Eastern Townships with him because, like you, I wanted to ensure that he stepped into the trap which you people had set. My concern, subsequently, was whether I should have trusted you and your police friends. I had gambled and trusted you the last time you came here. But then there was that van, wasn’t there, with its recording antenna nearby with your friend in it?”

As a defensive mechanism, I brought the conversation back to his wife. “And did you confide all of this to Stella?”

His face seemed to crumble. “Yes. I did.”

“Which brings us back to her.” I said.

“No. For God’s sake leave her out of this. Stella collapsed the night I went to Montreal. She’s been hospitalized and under sedation ever since. She couldn’t have helped Gooden, even if she had wanted to.”

I saw a kind of helpless anger in his face. The kind one sees in someone whose marital relationship has finally collapsed and can never be reclaimed no matter how much one may wish it. I thought of Ryan the night we sat in the van waiting for Symansky to appear.

“I’m sorry,” I said. But only a small part of my heart meant it. “Someone,” I muttered determinedly, “helped Gooden. Someone who knew enough, and had a reason to say nothing.” I let the statement hang in the air. I did not really expect an answer.

He did not speak right away. I could sense that he wanted to be alone to regroup and try to plan some kind of future for himself and his wife. But he also seemed to feel a need to unburden himself of something.

“None of it seems to matter anymore.” He said finally. “For what it’s worth, I’ll tell you what I think.” His eyes glazed over and he continued to stare past me. “They won’t let me ask Stella any pertinent questions. At the moment, all I’m allowed to do is be supportive and cheerful.” He paused and I thought that maybe he had changed his mind and would turn silent. Then he began to talk as if he needed to release some secret demon. “I think Stella may have called her former contact in Washington as soon as I was on my way to Montreal.” He stared at his polished fingernails. He seemed to be angry with himself. “You must understand I’m only guessing. But I think she did that because she wanted me protected. And I think she was told that what happened to me or to her was no longer of any concern to them. Our involvement with them had happened too long ago. She was out in the cold. And so was I. In effect, we could sink or swim on our own. I think the conversation shattered her. She may have changed her politics, but she still believed in the value and purpose of the roles we had played.”

I said nothing. He seemed spellbound by his own words. He kept studying his fingers, rubbing them, as if somehow they might let some genie out of his bottle. “I think three things shattered her. Guilt at having made the call in the first place. Second, the shock at having her plea treated with such indifference. But I suspect what really did it was her subsequent realization that Wahington might use what she had told them for their own purposes. Not do what she wanted, but only what they wanted. I think she felt she should have known that.”

I didn’t think that he was really guessing about any of this. I think Stella, sedated or not, had conveyed something to him.

“And what might Washinton have done?”

He shrugged, “as I’ve told you, I’m only guessing. I think it may have been in their interest to put a courtesy call through to their counterparts in CSIS.”

CSIS, I knew, was the acronym for the new agency in Canada which had taken over all national security tasks from the RCMP. I began to get a glimmer of where all this was leading.

“You know,” he added, “that kind of call which simply said, this is really none of our business, but we’ve come across this information about something that’s happening in your bailiwick. And we just thought you might like to know. Just a courtesy call between two countries that like to think of themselves as the best of neighbors.”

“And you think CSIS helped Gooden?”

He shrugged. “I would imagine that CSIS might have done some kind of check. I understand that CSIS has an inclination to protect the RCMP from any former scandals involving espionage work. Not enough probably to do anything very overt. But if Gooden had information or had done things which could damage reputations, and if he wanted to run from a public accounting CSIS might have put a few wheels in motion. Who knows? We probably never will. We’re out of the loop now aren’t we?”

We lapsed into a silence that began to grow uncomfortable. I could hear a clock ticking softly on the wall behind me.

“I think,” I said speculatively, “Gooden knew that he had lost everything, with or without, a court case.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“We had solid evidence that he had plagiarized his first article from something Monaghan had originally drafted. And he knew that. His career at Winston could not survive. His marriage had gone sour. His son despised him. And I think he was probably having a pointless affair with his secretary. Maybe a clean slate, and a new identity looked pretty good to him.”

“Maybe. Many people have been tempted that way under similar circumstances at some point in their lives.”

“So where do you suggest I go from here?” I asked. I felt he still owed me something. I presume he still wanted his reputation and Stella’s protected from the press. Once again he had told me things that would have made many journalists I know salivate.

“If I were you?”

“Yes.”

“I’d just walk away. Close the file. Leave Gooden to the authorities.” I watched him stare at his desk. He seemed to retreat into himself. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of evil in my day,” he muttered, “it never ends. But every now and then, it crests and peters out for a while like a storm out at sea. I think that’s the situation you’re facing now. Gooden has gone underground. He’s certainly not going to want to bother with either of us. When and how he resurfaces again is between him and the police. I think we’ve both got better things to do with our time now.”