Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  Before I could punch numbers, “American Woman,” courtesy of Burton Cummings and the rest of the Guess Who, indicated I had a call. It was Jill.

  “Any news?” I barked at the phone.

  “Here in the civilized world it’s customary to begin phone calls with ‘Hello.’”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I guess I just wanted —”

  “I know.” She laughed. “News, you wanted news, and I have some. There’s a new cupcake place on Richmond Road — why don’t you stop by there and pick some up and we can talk over dinner.”

  “Sure … that’s … but can you tell me anything? Good news, bad news?”

  “Neither, really — just news. And as with any news, it depends on how positive or negative people are in receiving that news. Kyla and I have decided we’re going to be very positive.”

  Hearing her voice and what she had to say calmed me down some. “Sounds like a damn good plan,” I said. “Any preferences as to cupcake flavours?”

  “We’re pretty easy on that, although chocolate is never a bad bet. And after the orange popsicle debacle, I might avoid anything involving orange.”

  “I’ll be there — with a positive outlook and positively nothing orange.”

  She laughed and I could hear Kyla in the background laughing, too. Good sign.

  I had a couple of hours and decided to spend at least some of that time tracking former Hope Christian Academy students. Back to Ariel Mancuso. I knew two things. She’d taken her original name after a failed marriage and she was living in Fredericton. I dialed information, explained that I had nothing more than the name.

  “No one by that name,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

  “How are you spelling the name?” I asked. “I’m thinking it’s m-a-n-c-u-s-o.” That was met with several seconds of silence, then a cheery “Hold for the number.”

  I wrote it down, then pressed 1 to be connected. Five rings later I figured I was about to be connected to her voice mail when a female voice came on the line.

  “Hello. I’d like to speak to Ariel Mancuso,” I said.

  “This is Ariel.”

  I decided I had nothing to gain by easing into the thing. “Ariel, my name is Adam Cullen. I’m a journalist in Calgary and I’m currently working on a murder case involving someone I believe you knew when you were attending Hope Christian Academy. His name is Buckley-Rand Larmer. Am I right in saying you knew him?”

  There was a lengthy silence on the line before her voice, quieter now, said, “Randy Larmer? Is that who you’re talking about?”

  “I only know him as Buckley-Rand Larmer. The kids at school called him Randy?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t like it, which is maybe why they called him that.”

  “Not well-liked, then?”

  She paused again before answering. “You could say that. Boy, this is weird. You’re the second person who’s called me about him in the last few weeks.”

  “I know. Actually I got your name from Patsy Bannister, the reporter who talked to you before.”

  “But she didn’t say anything about a murder case.”

  “That’s happened since she talked to you. She prob­ably told you Larmer’s a radio talk-show host out here in Calgary,” I said. “Maybe you saw something about the case in the newspaper or on the television news.”

  “I don’t follow the news very much. Which I guess sounds dumb especially since I was the photographer for the Hope school newspaper. But it wasn’t much of a paper, really. Just school gossip mostly, and we covered the sports teams, threw in a few jokes and a schedule of what was coming up at the school. We put the thing together in an afternoon once every two weeks. I always had a photo or two in there. Like I said, it wasn’t much.”

  Her voice had been tentative and soft at first. Like she was shy or not trusting of me. One of the reasons I hated cold calls. But it was getting a little stronger now.

  “Ariel, Mr. Larmer is accused of murdering a colleague at the radio station. I’m working with a private detective to try to prove his innocence and we want to learn as much as we can about him, including his life as a young person.”

  Yet another pause. “I didn’t know him very well at all. To tell the truth I didn’t like him enough to want to hang out with him or anything.”

  “Were you in the same grade?”

  “No. He was a year older than me. I was only at Hope for one year. Then we moved out here. My dad got transferred. I guess I haven’t thought much about the school or the kids that went to Hope since we moved away from Calgary.”

  “There was one incident in particular I wanted to chat with you about. Involving another student — Jaden Reese.”

  This time I got the feeling Ariel was choosing her words carefully. “That other reporter who called — Patsy something — she asked me about that, too.”

  “Yeah, the story is Larmer jumped in when some other kids were bullying Jaden, and I guess he more or less got it stopped. Rescued the kid who was being bullied, I guess you could say.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that about the way you heard it happened?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “No, I wasn’t suggesting you were. But you mentioned your paper printed school gossip. I thought you might have heard something.”

  “We didn’t print anything in the paper about it.”

  “I understand.” I was getting frustrated with her evasiveness and wished I could be face to face with her. See the body language, the facial expressions. “But Patsy indicated you knew at least a little about what happened that day.”

  “All I know is what I told her. There were some kids picking on Jaden Reese and Randy came along and made them stop. Not much more to it than that.”

  “Except that Jaden was gay. Is that why the kids were bullying him?”

  “Um … I don’t really know.”

  “You told Patsy there were three or four boys involved and there was a girl there, too. Do you know any of the names of those kids?”

  “No, I really never heard the names. Or if I did I don’t remember them. It was a long time ago.” No pause this time.

  “Was there much talk about the incident around the school? You know, kids just talking about stuff?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  I figured I’d gotten about as much from the conversation as I was going to. Or at least as much as she was going to give me. Which I was having trouble figuring out. Over the years I’d talked to lots of people about their former days as students and most had loved talking about anything even slightly juicy. Unless …

  “Ariel, just one last question. Is there any chance you were the girl who was there the day Jaden Reese was bullied?”

  “No, I told you — I just heard about it. Look, I have to go. Please don’t call me again.”

  “Sure, and I’m sorry if this is unpleasant. If you think of anything that might be —”

  The buzz on the line told me she’d ended the call.

  I stared at the phone for a while before clicking off, wondering if she had just got tired of talking to me or if I had actually struck a nerve. I decided to try the other three names on my list of former students of Hope Christian Academy. All three were boys, all living in Alberta, two of them in Calgary. The good news is I reached all three first time. The bad news is they had less than nothing to give me. One kid had never heard of Larmer (apparently he, like Ariel Mancuso, did not watch, read, or listen to the news). The other two knew of Larmer from school, though not well, and were surprised that he was now charged with murder. Neither offered any insights into the student version of Buckley-Rand Larmer. One knew the name Jaden Reese but hadn’t heard about a bullying incident involving Larmer or Reese. Like I said, less than nothing.

  I had a couple of hours before I’d be making my cupc
ake run on the way to Jill’s house. I sent a series of emails to the four RIGHT TALK 700 staff members I’d interviewed, asking them for names of people with whom I could verify their alibis for the dates of the attacks in Hamilton, San Antonio, and Fresno. I figured that should get the steadfast Helen Burgquist on the warpath for sure.

  Spinning my wheels. It felt like I’d been doing a lot of that. I wanted to be busy — for two reasons. First, I wanted to contribute something to Cobb’s investigation, and so far I didn’t feel I’d done much of that. And second, I needed to keep my mind off whatever was wrong with Kyla, at least until I heard it first-hand in a few hours.

  Kyla and I have decided we’re going to be very positive about the news.

  What did that mean? Did that make it automatically bad or at least unpleasant news? Otherwise, why would you have to make an effort to adopt a positive attitude toward it?

  I forced my mind back to Cobb’s case. Funny that I still thought of it as Cobb’s case and not our case. Was that because of my continuing dislike of Larmer or because I just hadn’t been able to really take hold, grab something meaningful, and run with it?

  I put Glass Tiger in the CD player and reread all my notes, adding to them a summary of my brief conversation with Ariel Mancuso. Again I wondered as I did so if I’d struck a nerve when I asked her if she’d actually been there when the bullying of Jaden Reese was happening. I wasn’t sure it mattered — other than to cut off one more possible source of information about Larmer’s back story.

  I reviewed my lists of names — the students from Hope Christian Academy, the staff at RIGHT TALK 700, the victims of the four incidents involving right-wing luminaries. And after an hour, I knew no more than I had an hour before.

  I was spared further self-pity by my phone. It was Cobb.

  “You got beer?’

  “Of course. Where are you?”

  “On the sidewalk in front of your building.”

  “Come on in.”

  I buzzed the downstairs door open and had two Rolling Rocks open and sitting on the table by the time he got to my apartment door.

  We exchanged greetings that weren’t much more than grunts and took up seats, Cobb on the couch, me on my recliner.

  “I hope this visit means you’ve solved the case,” I said, “because I got nothin’.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “The case isn’t solved,” he said. “There’s a lot of slow-dancing associated with detective work,” he said. “Or pouring molasses, if you like that analogy better. Have patience — there will be better, more productive days.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “You want a sandwich or anything?”

  He shook his head. “Had one, thanks. I just came by to give you an update. Got the autopsy results, or at least a summary of the autopsy results.” He pulled out his notebook. “Seven stab wounds in all — one to the head, one to the face, two to the neck, and three to shoulder and arm. Neck wounds, arm and shoulder wounds all to the victim’s left side, again indicating his assailant was right-handed.”

  Cobb paused and I thought about what he’d said.

  “Seven stab wounds,” I repeated slowly. “What does that say about the killer? I wonder if there isn’t some kind of hate motivating the killer here. Didn’t you say that one of the wounds to the head or the neck would have been sufficient to kill him?”

  “That was the Medical Examiner’s initial opinion at the scene, yes.”

  “Is there any way of knowing if any of the wounds were inflicted after Hugg was dead? Or at least helpless?”

  “Your thinking being?”

  “Well, again I’m just wondering if the killer was acting out of rage, at least in part, inflicting maximum damage even after the death of the victim wasn’t in doubt.”

  “Interesting thought. Might speak to motive to some extent, as well. Rage … revenge. I want to think about that some more, but for now it’s going in my notebook.” He flipped a page and made the note.

  I drank some beer. “Are we assuming that the killer drove to and from the murder scene in the gold Lincoln Navigator? Because if we are, that narrows the possibilities: one, that someone took the vehicle from Larmer’s garage, returning it afterward; or two, that Larmer is the killer and it was him in the Navigator.”

  “Yeah, that’s about how I see it. I guess the third possibility is that there are two gold Navigators — the killer just happened to have the exact same vehicle as Larmer.”

  “Yeah, good luck selling that one.”

  Cobb nodded. “Yeah. We’ll know the results of the forensics on Larmer’s vehicle in the next day or two at the latest.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “On the Navigator? I’m betting the police will find traces of Hugg’s blood in the car. Which will prove that the killer drove that vehicle at least away from the crime scene. What it doesn’t prove is that Larmer was the driver … or the killer. But their case is stronger with that evidence than without it. Which means we have work to do, my friend.”

  “If the killer was able to get into the garage and remove the Navigator and get it back into the garage with traces of Hugg’s blood conveniently in place, I wonder if this guy might have planted other physical evidence.”

  “The murder weapon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe he realizes that doing that might be a little over the top, a little too convenient. The cops aren’t stupid — they’d twig to something too obvious. Besides, I’m sure they’ve gone over Larmer’s house thoroughly, and if there was a knife, Shulsky would know about it.”

  I nodded. “But how about more blood? On a piece of clothing or even a strategically placed drip here and there? We know that someone was in Larmer’s apartment previously. Maybe the killer got in there again.”

  Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve thought about that. And you’re right, it’s possible.”

  Neither of us spoke for a couple of minutes, the sound of Broken Social Scene’s Forgiveness Rock Record low in the background.

  I held up my beer and looked at Cobb. “Another one?”

  Cobb shook his near-empty can, then shook his head.

  I said, “Doesn’t it seem a little convenient that Larmer says he walked to work that day? Which is why he didn’t notice his car was gone?”

  “Unrelated,” Cobb said. “The killer will have known Larmer’s normal departure time for work. I’m guessing the Navigator was already back in the garage right where he’d left it.”

  “Smart killer.”

  “Lots of them are. And if this one had already killed three people prior to Hugg, that speaks to his or her intelligence.”

  “Her?”

  “You never know.”

  “This has ‘male’ written all over it.”

  “I think so, too, but I’m not going to rule anything out.”

  “How much of Larmer’s story do you believe?”

  “I’m not sure. I know he’s capable of lying. But saying that he walked to work later than usual isn’t a very helpful lie. So I’m guessing it’s true. I’m sure the prosecution will point out that Hugg was killed between five and six and that it would have been possible for Larmer to be the killer. He could’ve driven to the scene, killed Hugg, returned home, cleaned up, as you say, and then walked back to work.”

  I drank the last of my beer. “Okay, but let’s look at it another way. If I’m Larmer and I just killed somebody and that person’s blood was all over me, I’m not likely jumping into my car. The man would absolutely know that he’d put the victim’s blood in his car and unless he’s stupid, which he’s not, he’d know that one of the first places the cops would look is the car — right after they searched his home. Doesn’t that speak to your earlier point — that the physical evidence is too obvious to be credible?”

  “I’m hoping the investigators wil
l see it that way.” Cobb didn’t look overly optimistic.

  “And to be honest,” I added, “the more I think about it the less I see Larmer as a stabber. If he was to off someone — and I’m not saying he did — I could see him poisoning the woman in Texas and I could see him blowing somebody up like the California thing. In both those you’re not face to face with the victim when he or she is dying. And I could even see him shooting someone à la Dennis Monday. But this kind of viciousness seems way too out of control for Larmer.”

  “Right. Do me a favour and don’t repeat that particular analysis to anyone else, okay? All we need is some Facebook post saying that one of the people representing Buckley-Rand Larmer says the man is capable of murder using methods other than stabbing.”

  “I wasn’t planning to use it in my next media interview.”

  Cobb laughed. “Good. Just making sure. How’s Kyla?”

  “I don’t know. We’re having a dinner meeting tonight to talk it over. I was just on my way to get the cupcakes.”

  “Cupcakes.”

  “Can’t let just anybody pick cupcakes.”

  Cobb grinned. “Right, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to give you the lowdown on the autopsy.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  He set his empty beer can on the table as I gathered keys, wallet, glasses, and cellphone. We left together. I locked my apartment door and we trotted down the stairs and out into the late-day sunshine. Cobb waved, climbed into his Jeep Cherokee, and was gone. Out of a newly developed habit I glanced up and down the road before heading for the Accord. No Jetta or suspicious cars of any make or model.

  The dinner (including the brilliant selection of cupcakes), the conversation, and the laughter were all good. But they were just a precursor to our sitting down to talk about what was up with Kyla, and what came next.

  When the time came for the serious part of the even­ing, Jill and I were on the couch with coffees. Kyla was sitting on the floor facing us, taking a very long time to down a third chocolate cupcake.

  Jill got right to it. “Kyla has Crohn’s disease.” She said it matter-of-factly, no emotion in her voice or in her eyes. I looked at Kyla, who had never, it seemed to me, been more like her mom than she was at that moment. Resolute. Serious but not scared. Which meant that the only one who was a psychological mess was me.