Stain of the Berry (13 page)

"You didn't believe her?" There was something about the way she said it.

"People calling her and sending her threatening notes and stuff...I don't know, it sounded kind of incredible and so much like what Moxie had complained about. I didn't know if it was true, but I told her that if it was, she needed to get some help. She didn't know who to call, so I asked around. Eventually your name came up, and with your being gay and all, I thought it'd be easier for Tanya to deal with you than some macho bull-dick detective."

I'm not macho?

So that's how Tanya ended up with my number. But she hadn't used it...until it was too late. I tried to piece together the strands of information I had collected so far. Vicky's story didn't sound exactly like the one I'd heard from Cameron Banyon, Moxie's brother, but close enough. Moxie started getting harassed and she told her girlfriend, Tanya, about it. Tanya sort of believed it (according to Cameron), or maybe not (according to Vicky). Around February, Tanya quit playing chess with her neighbour and began acting 55 of 163

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weird and, according to Moxie's brother, started getting harassed herself. Moxie moved away (and they broke up?) in March. Tanya continued to get harassed, maybe even bad enough to talk to Vicky about it.

Moxie drowned in April. Tanya died (suicide?) in July.

"I don't know if she ever called you. I suppose not. She was so shy about stuff like that. And, to be totally honest, Mr. Quant, she wasn't the most stable girl around." Same opinion as Stella, another stellar V. Madison Steel employee. Boy, their Christmas parties must be a real hoot.

"So, I just came to tell you that, about me giving her your number, in case it ever came up or you were wondering about that. And to tell you that if there's anything I can do to help you, or the family, I'd gladly do it. I liked Tanya. She was a good gal. She shouldn't be dead."

We agreed on that. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Tanya, about her life, friends, anything that might point to why she'd commit suicide?"

"Like I said, I don't think she had many friends."

"What about the harassment she talked about? Did she give you any idea who she thought might have been doing it?"

She shook her head, the clump of brown hair on top of it moving with it. "But whoever it was, he was doing a damn good job. Every day, Tanya became more and more jittery and nervous. I hated to see her like that, but I didn't know what else to do for her."

"Did you know Moxie Banyon well?"

Another shake. "Nope. Met her once."

"What about someone called Dr. D?" I thought I'd throw that in for good measure.

Vicky hesitated, then decided to answer. "I guess it can't hurt to tell now. Dr. D is Dr. Dubrowski, Tanya's therapist. I suggested him to her as well."

My, Vicky Madison was certainly a fountain of referrals. "What sort of doctor is he?"

She gave her noggin a few taps.

Dr. Uno Dubrowski was listed in a Yellow Pages ad as a psychologist who offered treatment for mental, emotional, spiritual and relational health issues, specializing in abuse, depression
anxiety, disordered eating, transitions
change and career /workplace. His office was on College Drive, right across the street from the University of Saskatchewan campus and the Royal University Hospital (better known as RUH). I knew the chances weren't great that the doc would share any secrets about his client, Tanya Culinare, even though she was dead, but I still had to try.

To up the likelihood that I'd even get in to see him without an appointment, I showed up at Dr.

Dubrowski's office-which was actually a converted bungalow-toward the end of his workday , which I guessed to be around 4:00 or 4:30. Really, how much longer than that can anyone listen to people's problems? I entered through the front door and found myself in a Costco-furnished sitting area: maroon leather couch, a couple of swivel chairs better suited for behind a desk, a faux-oak coffee table and several peaceful looking prints on the wall. A small table against a far wall held an empty coffee urn, a half-full pitcher of probably lukewarm water and a briefcase-sized stereo playing Yanni. I glanced around for a fishbowl but saw none. There was no receptionist's desk, only a short hall with a bathroom on one side and a closed door opposite it, which I took to be the good doctor's office. Since that door was closed and the front one wasn't locked, I supposed he was in but with a client, so I settled in to wait it out.

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About fifteen minutes passed before the office door opened. Out walked a sombre-looking woman with a mohawk and nose ring and a pair of jeans that barely made it around her waist. She was about forty-five and grossly overweight. When she saw me, her face registered surprise then quickly moved to scowl. I smiled politely as my eyes followed her to the exit then, once she was gone, zoomed right back to the door of Dr. Dubrowski's office. It remained open but the man himself did not emerge. I decided to give him a few minutes, in case he needed time to write up notes about the client session he'd just completed. I wondered if he was writing the words, "contact
Extreme Makeover
team immediately." I was contemplating what else the doctor might be jotting down when a diminutive man in a crumpled blue shirt, knitted tie and grey pleated slacks exited the office letting loose a shrill chord of flatulence followed by a rumbling burp.

Dr. Dubrowski almost fell off his soft-soled shoes when he caught sight of me, obviously assuming the waiting room would be empty at day's end. The first thing I noticed about his face was that so much of it seemed to be covered by eyebrow, one long, blackish, furry one, below which were a pair of oversized round spectacles, a pointy nose and smallish mouth, which was now pursed into a perfect "O." And I thought mohawk woman was surprised to see me.

"Hello, Dr. Dubrowski," I greeted, standing up and stretching out my hand, hoping he'd welcome the diversion away from his shocking lack of waiting room decorum. "My name is Russell Quant."

"I-I-I don't believe we have an appointment," he stuttered. "D-d-d-do we?" And with that he let loose another sonorous bit of gas and his eyes began to twitch. "Oh my, dear, dear, I'm sorry for that. You've startled me. You really did." His stomach growled.

This guy was a mental health care professional?

"I don't have an appointment, and I'm sorry to have disturbed you," I said at my most charming and polite. "But I was wondering if I could take a few minutes of your time."

Assuming I was a potential patient in need of one of his specialties, Dr. Dubrowski's face morphed into one of unbridled compassion. He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and directed me into his office. "Of course, of course, Russell, please come into my office. I'd be happy to spend a few minutes with you."

I was impressed with his immediate empathy and professional concern for a bloke who'd blundered into his workplace demanding some time. As I allowed myself to be led-or was I being pushed-into the inner sanctum of Dr. Dubrowski's world, an inexplicable feeling of comfort and safety settled over me like a warm blanket. And what a unique world it was, unlike any therapist's office I've ever seen in real life or on TV or in the movies. This was nothing like the office belonging to Beverley Chaney just downstairs from my own office at PWC, or that of Bob Newhart, or Babs in
The Prince of Tides
or Niles Crane on
Frasier,
this was more like...
Sesame Street.

First of all, there was no desk, only couches and armchairs, a futon, a papasan chair, a couple of rocking chairs and a beanbag chair. There were stuffed animals everywhere, a fully operational train set that wound its way around a mini-Mayberry looking town, and a very fat cat-live, curled up on a pillow-that barely had enough energy to open its eyes in recognition of my presence. Here were the fish bowls, tanks actually, several of them, many gallons full, alive with the brightest collection of fish I'd seen since
Finding Nemo.
The bulbs from the fish tanks threw the room into a soft, dreamy kind of light. It was just this side of too warm in the office, but as I sank into a cotton-candy-soft armchair, it seemed to me to be just right. Everything was juuusst right.
The better to psychoanalyze you with...

"How can I help you today?" the slight doctor asked, handing me a tall narrow glass of chilled apple juice I had not asked for. It tasted just right.

I looked at him, the twitching and farting and stomach growling all gone, as if I'd imagined them, the man before me seemingly no more capable of doing such things than would Donald Trump in a business meeting. "I'm looking for some information about a client of yours: Tanya Culinare. I'm a detective and I 57 of 163

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was hired by her family to investigate her death."

For a moment he was silent and I detected a slight eye twitch before he finally spoke. "I see. The loss of Tanya was greatly distressing to me, so I can only imagine what her family must be going through, although I never met any of them."

"Oh? Not a close family?" I played dumb and tried to lead the doctor on, hoping to get him talking before he decided not to.

"Of course, you know I cannot reveal anything from my sessions with Tanya." Damnation! "I'm sure you understand, Russell?"

I nodded, trying to keep the disappointment from my face. "Of course."

"It must be difficult for you, dealing with death, crime, jealousies, mistrust, as you must do on a daily basis in your line of work?" He laid out the words before me like a buffet from which I could choose to eat. Or not.

"Yes, it's not always easy." I replied.

"Do you find that you take the day's worries home with you?"

"Sometimes."

"How does that make you feel?"

Psycho talk. The indomitable Dr. Dubrowski was trying to make a patient out of me, and, I must admit, the pull was great. I'd never been in any kind of therapy before, and the idea of having someone whose job it was to listen to me and talk things out with me without judgment or condemnation, was very attractive.

And Dr. Dubrowski, who'd appeared almost comical in the light of the real world outside this room, was, in the syrupy warm ambiance of his chummy, cozy office, someone who inspired confidence and the desire to share. I could see myself hugging this little man. I thought then that I just might have to look into this psychoanalysis thing...but not today.

"Well...," I let the word roll off my tongue. "For instance, in my dealings with my current case, I must admit to feeling frustrated, and in general, the ultimate futility of what I do can really get to me, especially when I don't have all the facts." Hint hint.

"But people come to you for help," he said, "oftentimes in the midst of living through their darkest days.

Being in a helping kind of profession, such as you are, must ultimately be extremely rewarding. You must not lose sight of that."

Yeah, uh-huh, but... "Take Tanya Culinare for instance. I so want to help her family, her brother, her poor mother and father. They knew so little of her in life-always thinking they had more time-now they want to know her in death. They deserve to know why she died. If she killed herself, they deserve to know why. If it was some other cause..." I let that one hang.

The doctor choked up a bit of spit and lowered his eyebrow until the hair was hanging over his bug-eye glasses. "Yes, yes, that is a mighty responsibility you have."

"And Tanya would have wanted this too, don't you think?" C'mon! Tell me something! Anything! Why was she seeing you! Did she tell you about the harassment? Was she mentally stable or was she making it up? If she was being harassed, do you know who was doing it? "Do you?" Oops, I said that last bit out loud.

"Do I what, Russell?"

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"Do you think you could help me out? Tell me anything?" Nice recovery, Quant.

Dr. Dubrowski rose from his seat. Screech. "I'm sorry, Russell. I'd love to help you. I really would. I just cannot. I know you understand."

I stood up too, headed for the door, stopped and turned around. "One question, Doctor. Do you think Tanya Culinare killed herself?"

He looked at me for what seemed like a very long time. I watched his water}' eyes and found it dizzying to concentrate on them through the thick lenses of his spectacles. Eventually he approached me and placed a hand on my shoulder to direct me out of his office, just as he had directed me in. As he gave me one final shove across the threshold into the waiting room, he said, "Yes, I do." And with that he shut the door in my astounded face.

As it poked through an omnipresent layer of clouds, my plane made a neat U-turn over the Pacific Ocean on its approach into the Vancouver airport. The North Shore mountains dominate the city's landscape, and from my side of the plane I thought I could just make out the dormant, snow-capped volcano, Mount Baker, in the state of Washington to the southeast.

I've been to Vancouver (and Vancouver Island, a short hop-skip-and-jump across the Strait of Georgia) on numerous occasions, for mini-getaway vacations or on layovers to some further destination. If the weather is on your side it's a fabulous walking city, and even when it's not, there is always a lot going on to entertain visitors. Some of the city's attractions might be guessed at from its numerous nicknames: Lotus Land (a reference to the mythical island of Lotus trees and Vancouver's easygoing lifestyle); Hollywood North (because of the booming film industry) and Vansterdam (due to rather liberal drug enforcement policies).

Over the years I've done the touristy things everyone should do at least once: the Capilano Suspension Bridge (scary, never again), Stanley Park (big ass park), Granville Island (scrumptious seafood), Gastown (trinkets-for-tourists heaven), and hanging out in neighbourhoods like Punjabi Market, Little Italy, Greektown, Japantown and a whole series of Koreatowns. Now when I visit, my time is spent a little more leisurely, as I'm usually escaping a hectic pace or the cold of a prairie winter. I love to spend mornings drinking lattes, reading the papers and people-watching at outdoor coffee shops situated on sunny street corners. Afternoons are for shopping, eating and having wine with lunch. Come evening, I select a restaurant from the scores of choices (usually somewhere that offers fresh seafood-something we rarely get in Saskatchewan) and settle in (with more wine). With its mild rainforest-like climate, stunning scenery, year-round outdoor activities, lively cultural scene and laid-back attitude, Vancouver consistently ranks at or near the top of the best cities in the world in which to live. And it's a pretty darn nice place to visit too.