by Anne Emery
“Is this where you kept all your papers?”
“Yeah.”
The burglar didn’t want to lug the box out; he must have had a sack with him.
“Here’s some pictures.”
She handed me two photographs. One was a school picture of Corey in grade two; he looked like any other dark-haired kid with a tooth missing. The other must have been Corey, though it was impossible to tell. All I could see was a small person in an enormous helmet, sitting on an all-terrain vehicle.
“Where was this taken?”
Vonda shrugged. “Beats me.”
On my way downtown I considered the break-in. Judging by what was left in place at Vonda’s, I suspected she had not had a collection of valuable silver or electronic items. She had just been released from Kingston Penitentiary. I didn’t think it likely that expensive goods survived the four years of her absence, only to disappear as soon as she returned home. I tended to believe the television and VCR really existed; they would have been the first items she acquired after being sprung from P4W. She may also have picked up a supply of drugs or cash on her arrival. Wouldn’t she have taken them — drugs at least — with her when she headed out for an all-nighter with the boyfriend? If it was a straight burglary, carried out by somebody looking for items to sell, why would the guy take her personal papers? It seemed far more likely that the papers, whatever they were, constituted the real reason for the break and enter. But what had been in that box? Were the papers related to Vonda, or to her son? Was it coincidence that the break-in occurred shortly after she got back in town? Unlikely. Had she brought papers home with her? If so, did they have something to do with our case? Did she really not know what the burglar was after? I hadn’t had any luck in my interview with her. I decided to call Leaman’s girlfriend in for another talk.
I wondered what kind of friction might develop between the girlfriend and the mother. Maybe it already had. Amber Dawn Rhyno was unavailable when I called; I left a message on her machine.
†
Tom, Normie and I spent a fun, relaxing Sunday, which I appreciated all the more because I knew I could not take Monday off even though it was a holiday. Too many cases coming up that week. I would have to join the other nerds working Monday.
When the morning came, I was not in the mood for Corey Leaman’s common-law widow. I had just received some bad news in a phone call from Ed Johnson.
“Remember that old hooker who used to get all liquored up and hit on you at the Flying Shag? The one whose false teeth fell out when she choked on a piece of pepperoni, and she just put them in her pocket and —”
“I know, Ed. She’s been a client of mine for years. Ronette Gammon. What about her?”
“Let’s just say lemon gin sales are down, the penicillin market has taken a permanent dive, and there’s a new set of dentures in the organ donation registry.”
“For Christ’s sake, Ed. What happened?”
“She’s dead. Beaten to death by some low-life boyfriend.”
“Oh, God! The poor little thing. She never had a hope. Some of these people, you read their files going back through their lives and you try to figure out the point where some kind of intervention or assistance might have made a difference. With some of them, you realize, there was nothing that could be done. The course was set at conception. This father, that mother, you could predict everything that would happen in the kid’s future. None of it good. I think she was one of those.”
“A doomed zygote.”
I agreed. When I got off the phone, I thought about Ronette Gammon, her miserable life, her predictable death, and the unfairness of life in general. I looked up when Amber Dawn Rhyno and young Zachary were ushered in. The kid was yelling “Ninja! Ninja!” over and over and over again. Every once in a while he leapt off his chair, and every time — every single time — the chair tipped over with a crash, causing him to shout an obscenity while he struggled to set it upright again. This did not prompt him to vary his routine. Amber Dawn sat there picking at a scab on her thumb and ignoring her son. I took a deep breath and got on with it.
“Amber,” I began, “did you notice anything unusual about Corey’s demeanour just before his death?”
“His what?”
“His death.”
“Yeah, but what did you say before his death?”
What? Oh. “His demeanour. The way he was acting, the way he was talking. His mood. Anything different around the time of his death?”
“Well, he was pissed off.”
“About what?”
“I mean upset. You know, about being sent home from the treatment centre.” She was sticking to her lines, but I needed more than that.
“You said he was pissed off. Tell me about it. I’m not the judge. I need all the information I can get in order to do my job here.”
“Somethin’ happened. It got him all worked up.”
This was the first time I had heard about something happening. “Worked up how?”
“He was bouncin’ off the walls, he had somethin’ on his mind.”
“Did he give you any idea what it was?”
“He wouldn’t tell me but he said he had to take care of it.”
It sounded as if another nail was about to be driven into the coffin of Leaman and Scott v. The Wallace Rennie Baird Addiction Treatment Centre.
“When did this happen?”
“Like, a couple of days before he got — before he committed suicide.” She sat forward and spoke with urgency. “I figured it had something to do with the treatment centre. Like, maybe he found some papers or talked to a doctor or something and found out they made a mistake. Proof they shouldn’t have let him out. And they were trying to cover it up.”
“What makes you think that?”
She shrugged. She had reached the limits of her imagination.
“You mentioned papers, Amber. Did you see any papers?”
“Not really.”
“Well, yes or no?”
“I said no.”
“You qualified it. You said ‘not really.’ So, did you see any papers?”
“No.”
“Did he mention papers of some kind?”
“I thought he was just tryin’ to make me jealous, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Zach! Get over in that fuckin’ corner and be quiet or I’ll cut it off!”
“Cut what off?” I asked, startled. The boy set up a wail that went on and on, up and down, like a siren.
“He knows what I mean. Don’t you, Zach? I told him if he’s bad I’ll cut off the cable TV and he’ll have to watch the CBCor the French. See how long he lasts with that!”
“Amber. What did you mean about jealousy?”
“Corey said he heard from an old girlfriend. But I didn’t believe him.”
“Why not?” Another shrug. “Who was the old girlfriend?”
“I dunno. I think he was lying. Not lying, but you know. It didn’t mean nuthin’, I know that, ‘cause me and him were going to get married.”
“All right. What exactly did he say?”
“He come home that night and —”
“Home from where?”
“He went out to his old house. His mother’s house.”
“Was that somewhere he went regularly, out to the house?”
“No. Like, there was other people living in it.”
“Who?”
“I dunno. Some uncle or something.”
“But Corey went out there on this occasion.”
“They were movin’ out. His uncle and them. So Corey said he was goin’ out there to see if there was anything he could, like, use.”
“What, for instance?”
“Furniture and stuff.”
More likely looking for things to sell before his mother returned from Kingston. “All right. He went out to the house in Sackville. Then what?”
“Then he come home and I was like: ‘Did you get any stuff?’ And he wa
s like: ‘I found somethin’ else.’” She brought the scabbed thumb to her mouth and began to gnaw. I couldn’t watch.
“Amber. What did he say he’d found?”
“He was raggin’ me about this letter or whatever it was. Sayin’ it’s great to go to the old homestead once in a while and read letters from your old girlfriends.”
“Did he bring any letters home with him?”
“No. I asked him and he said he didn’t bring it because it was safer where it was.”
“Safer? What did he mean by that?” She didn’t answer. “Safer in that you wouldn’t see it?”
“I don’t think that’s what he meant. He seemed like he wanted to hide it from somebody else.”
“So you’ve never seen it?”
“No. I searched his pockets and all his other stuff that night but he didn’t have it.”
“And it was after this that he was worked up?”
“Yeah, whatever it was, he wanted to do somethin’ about it.”
“So, what happened after that?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“He died.”
“What was the timeline? His body was found on the twelfth of January. His death occurred that morning, several hours earlier. Had you seen him the night he died?”
“Uh-uh. He never come home that night.”
“At all?”
“He went out that morning, first thing, and I never seen him again.” She looked away.
“I’m going to look into this, Amber, and I’ll be in touch.”
“He wouldna been so worked up about all that shit, whatever it was, if he got the treatment he needed at the centre. His head wasn’t on straight.”
“Did you ever meet Corey’s mother?”
“Huh?”
“Corey’s mother, Vonda.”
“I never seen her.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
She grabbed Zachary and dragged him from the room. He set up a cry: “Don’t cut it off, Mama, don’t cut it off!” Once again, one of old Monty’s clients draws unwelcome attention in the waiting room of Stratton Sommers.
So. A letter from someone in Leaman’s past. An old girlfriend, Amber thought. Whatever it was, he had left it at his mother’s house for safekeeping. The question was: would the letter still be there? Had Vonda Carter found it? Had the burglar taken it? And what was in the letter that set Corey off so soon before he was found with a bullet in his head?
Chapter 7
All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way. And the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.
— Isaiah, 53:6 (Handel, Messiah)
After reaching a settlement in a personal injury case late Tuesday morning, I was sitting across from Dudley Douthwright in his office at Dalhousie University. I hadn’t really expected Dudley, assistant professor of statistics and quantitative methods, to look like his name, but he did. Or perhaps he was trying to live up, or down, to the name. He had the appearance of an unassuming, fairly handsome man of forty-five, but he probably wasn’t past his late twenties. He wore glasses, a white shirt, navy tie, and pale blue cardigan.
“Thanks for seeing me, Doctor Douthwright.”
“You’re welcome. With classes over for the year, I have a little more time to spare.”
I explained why I was there.
“Tex-Park. Oh, my. Not my most exciting employment opportunity.”
I resisted the temptation to ask where he had succeeded in finding vocational thrills.
“Did you ever see any homeless people sleeping or hanging around there?”
“I suppose I saw people who did not seem to correlate with a vehicle. They must have been using the facility for something other than parking. But I can’t say I paid much attention.”
“Do you remember the names of any of the other part-time attendants?”
“I was there in 1985 and 1986. What year are you inquiring about?”
“I wish I knew.”
“When did the person go missing?”
“Again, I’m not sure.”
“I don’t know what you can expect to learn from such nebulous data, Mr. Collins.”
“I know. It’s a long shot.”
“All I can give you are the names of a couple of students I worked with during the summers I ingested all those exhaust fumes at the parking garage. I can still taste it.” He shuddered. “I knew a Donny somebody who put in a few hours a week there. And Chaz Thurber. He worked several summers there while doing his sociology degree. He spent much of his time making what he no doubt considered insightful comments about the people and their choice of vehicle.”
“Where’s Thurber now, any idea?”
“Still labouring away at his Ph.D, as far as I know.”
“Here at Dal?”
“He’s studying here and teaching part-time at the Mount.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you’re not wasting your time.”
I called Mount Saint Vincent University to make sure Chaz Thurber was there, then decided to have lunch before heading out to the campus. The death of my old client, Ronette, weighed on my mind, and I wanted to be alone. I drove home, fixed myself a sandwich, and sat out in the sunshine. I wondered whether there was anything I could have done beyond getting her out of her various legal predicaments. But I knew the answer: nothing I could have done would have altered her fate. One thing this tragedy did, though, was bring into stark relief how petty my own troubles were; I resolved to pull out all the stops to get my family back together when Maura got home from Geneva.
While I was sitting there, one of the neighbourhood kids came by, weighed down by a rake, a hoe, and some other gardening implements.
“Hi, Mr. Collins. You don’t mind if I cross here, do you? It’s quicker this way, and this stuff’s heavy.”
“I don’t mind at all, Ian. Any time. Have you taken up gardening?”
“I’m helping out at Mrs. Fancy’s; she can’t do it herself. Gives me a bit of spending money. You know.”
“Great. I may have some things I need help with too.”
“Sure.”
That reminded me: I had never heard back from my former colleague, Bob Mahoney, about Corey Leaman’s neighbour, the woman he’d helped by doing errands and odd jobs. She might be able to give me some insight into Corey. Would she have known him well enough to say whether he seemed the type to take his own life? Perhaps not, but it was worth a try. I didn’t have much else to go on. I sat for a few more minutes, then hauled myself out of my chair and called the office of my old employer, Nova Scotia Legal Aid. I got Bob’s secretary on the line.
“How are you these days, Monty?”
“Great, Trudy.”
“Do you miss us?”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. How are things?”
“Fair to middling. Bob isn’t here. He’s in court all day. But I know he was trying to reach you. Don’t know what it was about. I’ll tell him you called.”
I then called my own office and found out Bob had left a message for me that morning.
“Good thing you asked, Monty. I forgot to write you a message slip.”
Why didn’t that surprise me? My secretary, Tina, was far, far out of her depth in a law office. “What did he say?”
“He said: ‘Tell Monty the name of the woman he’s looking for is Mrs. Lundrigan.’”
“All right. Thank you, Tina. And try to stay on top of those messages.”
The phone directory did not identify anyone by the name of Lundrigan in Leaman’s area of Sackville, so I decided to take a little jaunt out to the Leaman-Carter neighbourhood to ask around. I got the impression nobody was home chez Vonda, which was good; I wasn’t about to tip my hand to Leaman’s mother about my search for Mrs. Lundrigan. I began my canvassing at the house next door. But the harried young mother, with one baby on her hip and a naked toddler clinging to he
r leg, had never heard of Mrs. Lundrigan. Across the street were two new jerry-built apartment blocks. I did not expect any joy there, but I made the rounds anyway. Only at a house a block away did I come close to enlightenment.
“I don’t know.”
“All right. Thanks anyway.”
“But my grandmother might.”
“Oh. Could I speak to her?”
“No.”
“No?”
“She’s not here.”
“I see. Where could I find her?”
“She’s in a home.”
“Tell you what. I’ll leave you my card. If you’re speaking to your grandmother, you might ask her, and you can call me if she has any information about Mrs. Lundrigan.”
“Okay.”
I drove back along the Bedford Highway and dropped in at Mount Saint Vincent to speak to the former sociology student who had made comments about the customers and their cars during his nights as an attendant at Tex-Park. I parked my car and took a moment to enjoy the spectacular view from the campus, which overlooks the waters of the Bedford Basin. I found Chaz Thurber in his office examining a long accordion-pleated computer printout. After seeing how well Dudley Douthwright fit the popular image of a statistician, I was expecting a tweedy, bearded academic in the sociology instructor. But Chaz Thurber looked more like an Argentinian soccer star, with wavy long black hair and a strikingly handsome face. I introduced myself, gave him a short spiel on why I was there, and asked when he had worked at Tex-Park.
“Summers of ‘84 to ‘86.”
“Did you notice any street kids hanging around the place?”
“Oh, sure. I used to rap with some of them.”
Rap? Were we back in the seventies? “Perhaps you can help me then. Was there any talk about a man and a woman driving around, or parking at Tex-Park, and picking up street kids in their car?”
“There was no talk about it, but I had my own suspicions.”
“Oh?”
“I had seen the same car there at the same time of night, off and on for a few weeks. There wasn’t anything unusual in that by itself, but I remember thinking I never saw the occupants come down the stairs and go out. It seemed they parked and stayed up there, then drove out later. There was just something about them that didn’t jibe. He looked fairly young and fit, and she was older. She was like an archetype of the homely peasant: heavy, round-faced. They didn’t seem like a couple. They had some kind of religious totem dangling from the rear-view mirror.”
