“Smith and Wesson 380.”
“Uh-huh.”
I nodded. “So unless people are passing around the gun for other people to take a turn shooting at the guy, then it’s the same shooter.”
“I’d bet the plantation.”
“Me, too. But now I’m wondering if the Hamilton shooting is related to the Larmer threats at all. Maybe Monday got shot because he’s just an all-around dickhead and it has nothing to do with Larmer.”
“Except for the fact that Larmer’s also an all-around dickhead.”
We both laughed.
“Anything else I should know?”
Lorne thought for a moment, then shook his head. “You got what I got.”
“Okay, thanks for this. It’s appreciated.”
“Anyway, enough of this crap,” Lorne said. “Tell me what’s going on with you besides digging into the lives of those-whose-names-cannot-be-spoken.”
We spent the next half-hour catching up.
SIX
Jasper Hugg was indeed a big man. I had him at six-two or three and closer to three hundred pounds than two hundred. And whoever said he wasn’t warm and fuzzy had pretty much nailed it.
Hugg had an old-style crewcut and black-rimmed glasses, giving him an early-sixties, clean-cut, studious look. A Buddy Holly head on an offensive tackle’s body. His suit jacket was hanging over the back of his chair and he was wearing a stiffly starched white shirt and a Calgary Stampede 100th Anniversary tie. His sleeves were rolled up a couple of turns to expose wrists the approximate circumference of my neck.
I’d been sitting across from him for at least twenty minutes, giving him a detailed explanation of my writing experience and elaborating on points in my writing resumé, which he had insisted on seeing. I’d called early that morning, then faxed over a proposal for a feature on Larmer that I had no intention of writing. I needed to get my own feel for these two men, and as I’d told Cobb, that could only be done in person. Hugg had agreed to see me that afternoon at three o’clock. I’d arrived ten minutes early and been kept waiting for thirty-five minutes before the door to his office opened and with a nod he indicated I should enter.
What I entered was a utilitarian, no-nonsense space that looked like I thought it would — all business, all the time. On the wall behind Hugg, a couple of cheap prints flanked a copy of Hugg’s degree from the University of Northern Arizona. No people pictures on the walls or the desk.
We got to the meat quickly. Almost no get-acquainted chat.
“I’m actually thinking of two pieces,” I said. “One on Mr. Larmer and one on you. I really like to look at the stories behind the story, you know?”
Hugg shook his head.
“Oh, I know, you’re a behind-the-scenes guy.” I held my hands up and nodded understandingly. “Everyone knows that and frankly I admire that in you, but I think we could do it without invading the privacy you value or betraying secrets that you’d prefer were kept under wraps.”
I was about to make myself gag and I could see that my car-salesman approach wasn’t cutting it with Hugg.
“First of all, you won’t be interviewing me,” he said in a voice that was a cross between Southern gentleman and pissed-off bartender. More pissed-off bartender for me. I figured the smooth, Southern-gentleman voice was saved for people who mattered more to the program than I did.
“And secondly, we don’t have ‘secrets we’d prefer were kept under wraps.’ The liberal media, of which you are a part, Mr. Cullen, may believe that, but one of the reasons Buckley-Rand Larmer is as popular as he is has to do with the transparency that his listeners can count on in every broadcast. He quite literally tells it like it is.”
The liberal media of which you are a part. So Hugg had checked me out in the time between my call and the start of our interview.
“I’m not sure that my career as a crime writer qualifies me as a member of the liberal media, Mr. Hugg. Your program clearly appeals to the law-and-order segment of society. My writing career has been about law and order. That said, I understand your not wanting to be the subject of an interview. I respect your wishes and while I’m disappointed that we won’t be able to include what I think would be a fascinating look at your life and contributions to what is clearly one of western Canada’s most successful radio programs, I do hope we can move forward with an interview with Mr. Larmer.”
“I spoke to Buckley-Rand. He indicated he knows you.”
I’d wondered what Larmer’s associates and friends actually called the guy. Now I knew. I decided that if I really wanted to be admitted to his exalted presence, I’d better control my urge to refer him as “Buck.”
“Yes, we were part of a university conference a few years ago,” I said. “I think Mr. Larmer’s presentation resonated with the students far more than mine did.” A little self-deprecation never hurt. Especially when it was true.
“What is the focus of the piece you want to write?”
“I’d really like to let people know the man he is when he’s away from the microphone. Talk about his early influences, his journey to becoming the success he is, what his life is like when he’s not in the studio.”
I had to tread carefully. I didn’t want to give Hugg the impression that the interview and subsequent article would reveal too much of the real Buckley-Rand Larmer. Secrecy was a key element in their strategic plan and I knew that both these men had several skeletons in several closets. If there was any concern that I might accidentally stumble across one or more of those skeletons, I knew any chance I might have of talking to Larmer would disappear into the air like poplar fluff.
Hugg sat back, looking somewhere over my head. “Buckley-Rand told me he enjoyed meeting you at the conference you both spoke at, and he indicated that though much of what you said was crap — actually, I think he used a stronger word — he would be prepared to have you interview him.”
“I appreciate that very much,” I said. “When do you think might be convenient for a first interview?”
“First?”
“There’s always the possibility of a follow-up — clearing up points, expanding on something that was said, that sort of thing.”
“There will be one interview, Mr. Cullen. And that interview will only happen after you first submit your questions for him in writing. If Buckley-Rand and I are both satisfied with the tenor of the questions, we’ll set a time and place for you and him to meet. I trust that is satisfactory.”
Patsy Bannister had mentioned the vetting process and the questions submitted beforehand, and since my interview was bogus, anyway, I smiled and said, “Of course. I’d be happy to send the questions in the next couple of days, if that’s all right.”
Hugg stood up, not an action that could be described as one fluid motion. He opened the drawer of his desk, pulled a card from it, and handed it to me. “My email is on the card. I’ll look forward to receiving your questions.”
“Thank you,” I said and turned for the door. Next to the door was a framed photograph. I hadn’t seen it before because it was behind me. Four people smiled at the camera from in front of what looked like a tourist lodge at some mountain lake. I recognized three of the people in the photo. They were younger versions of Jasper Hugg, Buckley-Rand Larmer, and Preston Manning, former leader of the Reform Party of Canada and a pioneer of the Canadian right.
I turned back to Hugg. “Nice picture. Who’s the guy on the far right?” (I had to fight off a smile at the thought that all of them were on the far right.)
“You don’t know?”
“Thus my question,” I said.
“Thank you for coming by, Mr. Cullen,” Hugg said. “Again, I’ll look forward to that email.”
“The guy’s identity is a secret?”
“The gentleman is deceased.”
I look at the photo again, then back at Hugg. “When he was al
ive, did he have a name?”
“I have another meeting, Mr. Cullen. Thank you for taking the time to come by.”
As I left his office, I was pretty sure that his reluctance to identify the guy in the photo wasn’t out of the need to guard some secret so much as it was gamesmanship, plain and simple. I know something you don’t know.
Jasper Hugg. Hard guy to like.
SEVEN
I’d been to seven or eight Calgary Stampede parades in my life, and except for one when rain began falling just after the first marching band passed by, I’d enjoyed them all. But I hadn’t been since the one Donna and I had attended together just months before her death.
This year a special request from Kyla had me digging out my cowboy hat, boots, and Wrangler jeans the night before the parade. I had decided years before that if I was going to get into the Stampede spirit, I would do so in clothes that real cowboys might actually wear. No floppy, flower-covered hat for me, no bling-infested shirt that members of either sex could wear with the certain knowledge that they looked ridiculous. And no T-shirt with a stupid Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy message emblazoned across the front.
The plan was for me to pick up Kyla and Jill at five-thirty in the morning, which was the departure time Kyla had determined would guarantee us decent seats on the parade route. I was nearing a decision on what shirt I’d be wearing the next morning when Loverboy’s “Turn Me Loose” signalled an incoming call on my cell. Call display showed me it was Jill. I turned down Ian Tyson’s Cowboyography (part of the mood setting) on the stereo and hit the talk button on my phone.
“I hope this means Kyla has backed up our departure for downtown to at least six o’clock,” I said, expecting to hear the laugh I loved in response.
“Adam, I’m sorry, we can’t go.”
I had just bent over my boots, ridding them of mud that had been caked in place since I had last worn them almost a decade before. Jill’s words straightened me up in a hurry.
“What … what’s wrong?”
“It’s Kyla,” Jill answered. “She’s been fighting some kind of flu bug for the last few days and I thought she was starting to come out of it, but today she’s worse again. I don’t think we can go.”
“But I just talked to her yesterday. She didn’t say any —”
“I know. She thought, like I did, that by today or tomorrow at the latest she’d be fine, but …”
I switched gears faster than I thought I knew how to. “What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing, Adam, we’re okay, really. I’m hoping that another day in bed will start to bring her around, but unfortunately that day in bed just happens to be parade day.”
“If she’s had this for a few days, you don’t want to fool around. If you think we should run her into emergency, I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, I think she should start feeling better tomorrow or the next day. If she doesn’t I’ll take her in to see our doctor.”
“Are you sure? She’s no wimpy kid. If she can’t make the parade, maybe —”
“I am sure. Really. And I’ll be keeping a close eye on her. It’s not the first time. She’s had a couple of these bouts in the last year or so. They usually last a few days, then she’s back to being herself. Just bad timing this time around.”
“She must be really bummed to have to miss the parade.”
“She is.”
“You want to put her on? Maybe she could use a dose of my endless supply of kid-humour … might cheer her up.”
“Thanks, Adam, but she’s in the bathroom. Hasn’t been able to get far from it for the last couple of days … and especially today.”
“Diarrhea?”
“Yeah. Poor kid.”
“Make sure she’s staying hydrated. Diarrhea can really dehydrate people.”
“Thank you, Nurse Cullen. I’ll be sure to heed your advice.”
“Sorry,” I murmured, “I guess that sounded stupid. I know you can take care of your daughter.”
“Actually, it didn’t sound stupid at all. It sounded like someone who’s concerned about someone he cares for very much. And I appreciate it, Adam.”
“The offer I made earlier still goes. If you want me to come by, it’s not a problem. I can be there in —”
“I know,” Jill chuckled, “twenty minutes. We’re fine, really. Kyla just feels bad that she’s causing us to miss the parade.’
“Tell her to forget about that or I’ll hafta mosey over there and tan her britches.” My drawl was pathetic but it got a small laugh from Jill. Very small — a courtesy laugh from a worried parent trying not to sound worried.
“Listen, call me in the morning,” I said, “and if she’s isn’t showing some improvement, I think we should get her to your doctor or to emergency.”
“Deal,” Jill said softly. I could hear her talking to Kyla. Muffled, her hand over the receiver. She came back to me a few seconds later. “Kyla’s heading off to bed. I think I’ll do the same thing. But I will call you in the morning … partner. I promise.”
“Okay, good night, babe. Give my girl a hug for me, okay?” I said, and we ended the call.
I sat for a few minutes looking out the window, hoping that Kyla’s illness was nothing more than the flu. I didn’t like the fact that it had happened before … a couple of bouts in the last year. And both of them going to bed just after six o’clock in the evening, which likely meant that neither had been getting a lot of sleep. It was a while before I finally decided to build a rye and diet and restore the volume on the stereo, just in time to hear Ian Tyson sing about Charlie Russell and his wife, Nancy.
After a few more minutes of sitting inert on the couch, I finally headed for my computer to continue my search into the backstory of Buckley-Rand Larmer. First I spent a half-hour drafting the questions I would send to Jasper Hugg in preparation for my Larmer interview. I had to be careful. The questions would have to be seen as non-controversial without raising Hugg’s antennae and having him twig to the fact that the interview was merely a ruse to get me some face time with Larmer.
So I started with some easy ones, the kind that any journalist would ask and undoubtedly had been asked by other interviewers, including Patsy Bannister. Then I threw in a couple that Hugg could nix so that he could feel important. And make it appear that the interview was a serious attempt by a journalist wanting to look at the many facets of a complicated public figure.
Question (5) How do you see the media’s role in what appears to be more and more the federal government’s strategy to wage war on individuals and organizations that critique or take issue with government policy?
Question (7) Would you characterize the mandate or at least part of the mandate of conservative talk radio to be acting as a public-relations arm for right-wing parties and politicians?
I suspected both of those would be punted from the approved list and didn’t care.
I finished off with a few more fluff questions, concluding with a query as to how Mr. Larmer viewed the ongoing discussion about a new home for the Flames. I figured the question would show my desire to allow Larmer to showcase his “everyman” side and I knew he was a big hockey buff, even considered himself somewhat expert — though I’d seen no evidence in my reading to date of Larmer’s ever having played or been directly involved in the game beyond kid community hockey.
I reread, touched up, and was finally satisfied. As I fired the questions off to the email address Hugg had provided, Valdy was succeeding Ian Tyson on the stereo. I added Spirit of the West to the CD waiting compartment.
Next I made a list of “Persons of Interest” under three categories:
Larmer
Hugg
Monday (Dennis Bratvers)
James Leinweber
Victor Nagy
Jaden Reese (Ariel Mancuso)
Anita Dekalb
Kids from Hope Christian Academy
Wilson Hall
It was a small list, and I had to admit to myself that it was entirely possible that none of the people on it had anything to do with the threats to Larmer. Or what had happened to Dennis Monday. Or could provide me with information that would point me in the right direction. But it was a start, and having the list gave me a sense of doing something.
A second list consisted of the names of the eleven students who had attended Hope Christian Academy at the same time as Larmer, Jaden Reese, and Ariel Mancuso. I looked over the list to see if any names jumped off the page at me, Hope Christian alumni who had grown up to take a place among Calgary’s illuminati. I didn’t recognize any of the names. Decided I’d start on them the next day.
I took my computer to the couch and set myself up more comfortably than I’d been at the kitchen table. Big mistake. I was asleep before John Mann was halfway through “Save This House.”
I woke up an hour and twenty minutes later with a kink in my neck that I was convinced was irreversible. After I stretched, rubbed the source of the pain, and downed two glasses of water and an Advil, I sat back down at my computer thinking I’d have another go at one of the people on my Hope Christian list before turning in.
I was leaning toward Ariel Mancuso. There was a side of me that believed the Jaden Reese part of Larmer’s backstory was a non-starter. Reese was dead and the only person Patsy Bannister had been able to track down who knew anything at all was Ariel Mancuso, who claimed she didn’t know or couldn’t remember much about the bullying incident. Yet there was something about the episode — the fact that it was so out of character for the homophobic Larmer to have done what he claimed to have done — that the other side of me wanted to pursue it further.
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