“On it,” I said.
“Meantime I’ll take Trudell and Payne, who performed the autopsy on Faith, and I’ll see if I can find Rhoda Unruh, Faith’s mom — see if time has suggested anything to her she might have forgotten to mention in all the earlier questioning she must have gone through. Maybe the new husband, too — it’d be interesting to know when exactly he came on the scene.”
“Something I wondered about … the marks themselves, is it too much of a reach to think it might be useful to know what they were made with?”
“Nothing’s too big a reach when we’ve got next to nothing to work with. I know a guy who works in a private forensics clinic. Maybe I’ll offer to buy him dinner if he’d swing by there one evening after work and take a look at the marks.”
“And the little girl who walked home from school with Faith that day …”
Cobb looked at the list. “Jasmine, formerly Kohl, now Hemmerling.”
“I’m wondering if we should try her; maybe she’s thought of something in the intervening years. I could call her.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Actually, it probably can. I’m betting it hurts every time she thinks of that day, and I’m going to ask her to remember it again.”
“You’re right. Collateral damage from the work we do.”
“I know. But I do think I should call her.”
“I think so, too. All right, we work this stuff for a couple of days and then reconvene.”
We once again turned our attention to the food, content at having some direction, something to do, however small.
After lunch, as we got ready to go, Cobb reached across and took my arm. “One other thing, Adam … Minnis shows up, or any of his MFs pals, who you gonna call?”
I pointed to him and said, “MFs-busters.”
Neither of us thought I was all that damn funny.
TEN
I spent the next morning at home online and on the phone. It didn’t take long to remove the families who lived in the two houses associated with the Unruh murder from our list of people of interest.
Dr. Sindhu and his family had immigrated to Canada from Mumbai in 2008 and moved into the former Unruh home in 2009. They’d purchased the house from a woman and her teenage daughter after the woman and her husband had divorced. Dr. Sindhu didn’t know if the woman had bought the house from the Unruhs, but he seemed to recall that the woman, her husband, and the teenage daughter had been living there a long time, fifteen or twenty years, he thought. I decided to add a note to my list that it might be worth checking with the woman, if we could find her, see if she and her husband were the first owners after the Unruhs, and if so, if she’d ever come across anything suspicious or at least interesting in the house.
And a year after the Sindhu family had moved into the neighbourhood, across the street and down a few houses, the Bevanses had moved into the house where Faith’s body had been discovered. Dennis Bevans had grown up in Ponteix and Charley in Beechy, two small communities near Swift Current, Saskatchewan. They’d met in high school in Swift Current and married in 2005. Maizie, their daughter, was Calgary’s New Year’s baby in 2011. They’d bought the house from a retired draftsman and his wife, who’d lived in the house for twenty-eight years. That meant they had to have been living there at the time of the murder. Same note — might need to follow up with the previous owners if they were still around.
And that was it. I decided to turn my attention to Jasmine Hemmerling, who had been with Faith Unruh in the moments before her death. I reached her on my second call to Salmon Arm, explained who I was, and gave her an abbreviated version of Kennedy’s role in the investigation into Faith’s murder and now his own death under strange and clearly suspicious circumstances.
At first she didn’t seem willing to talk about what was surely one of the most painful times of her life. But as I explained that Cobb and I were convinced there was a real chance that Faith’s killer could still be found, even after all this time, she finally agreed to tell me what she remembered of that day.
“It wasn’t any different from other days except that Faith had just had her birthday and was still excited about that. We were both into Barbies back then and she’d got a new doll that she was totally pumped about. That was what we talked about — well, she talked about — most of the way home. Did you know they put that Barbie doll in the casket with her?”
“I didn’t know that, no.”
“Anyway, we got to my house and for some reason we hugged — maybe because of her birthday, I don’t remember. Back then kids didn’t hug each other all the time like they do now, so it was unusual, but after … what happened … I’m so glad we did that … you know?”
I could hear her voice break and knew she was struggling with the memories. I waited.
Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry. I do this about once a year when I think about that day … even now.”
“Please don’t apologize, Jasmine. Did you see anyone suspicious or out of place that day as you walked home?”
“No. The police asked me that same question. I was questioned three or four times. But there was nothing about that day that was any different from any other.”
“How about at school? Did Faith have any people she didn’t get along with? Teachers? Other students?”
“I don’t think so. Not really. The police asked me about that, too, but I don’t remember anybody she really didn’t like or who didn’t like her. Of course, there were boys who bugged us and some girls we liked less than others, but I don’t think there was anyone that stands out as somebody she really disliked. Faith was pretty quiet and really nice — she got along with just about everyone.”
The answers so far had been about what I’d expected. I decided to see if I could learn something about the investigation itself.
“Do you remember the police officers who questioned you?”
“Not really. There were different ones. The first guys had funny names. I remember that much.”
“Hansel and Gretel?”
“Yes, that’s it. I’m not sure those were their real names, but they told us that’s what they were called at the police station.”
“Us?”
“Yes, my parents were with me for all the interviews. Except for the time Terry’s dad talked to me.”
“Terry. Who’s Terry?”
“Terry was an older kid in our school, maybe grade nine, something like that. His dad was a policeman and he talked to me at school. I got called into the office and he talked to me there.”
“Do you remember the policeman’s name? Or Terry’s last name?”
She paused. “I don’t. I think I knew it back then, but I’m not sure now. I just remember that there was this kid at school, and his dad was a policeman, and then one day that policeman came to the school and asked me questions about Faith and what I knew about that day.”
“Was that the only time that policeman talked to you?”
“No, there was another time at the station. He was with another detective that time.”
“Do you remember that policeman’s name — the one who was with Terry’s dad at the station?”
“No; I’m sure he probably said it, but I don’t remember.”
I thought for a minute before my next question. “If Terry was in grade nine, how did you know him? I mean, kids usually hang with the kids from their own grade or fairly close, at least that’s how it was when I went to school.”
“That’s how it was for us, too, but Terry was one of the boys who liked to tease us and bug us; that’s about the only time we ever saw him — after school, or sometimes on our way to school.”
“Do you remember if you saw him on the day Faith was murdered?”
Another pause. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure we didn’t.”
“Jasmine, if I was to say a couple of names to you — if one of them was Terry’s last name, would you remember?”
“Maybe. If I ever knew it. I just ca
n’t remember for sure.”
“Okay, well, let’s try it. How about Kinley?”
After a few seconds, she said, “No, I don’t think I know that name. I’m sorry, it was a long time ago and I was so upset and scared after what happened to Faith … I was afraid whoever did it would try to get me next. I guess it’s natural to think that. Anyway, it was pretty awful. One of my parents had to take me to school for the rest of that year and even the first couple of months the next year.”
“That’s understandable, and I can only imagine how terrible that had to be for you. Just one other name. How about Maughan?”
Again she waited. “That might be it. Terry Maughan. That sounds familiar. I’m not positive, but maybe. Why are you asking about the policemen and Terry? Do you think …?”
“No, Jasmine, nothing like that. We’re just trying to tie up some loose ends with the original investigation, that’s all. And you’ve been really helpful in that regard.”
“I don’t think I’ve helped at all. I wish I could. I’d give anything to see the person who did that to Faith caught and put away forever. It makes me sick that he’s still out there having a life and she … and I’m still scared even after all this time that he could —”
She stopped talking then.
“We’re going to do everything possible, but I can’t lie to you, Jasmine, it won’t be easy. And if you think of anything at all — no matter how trivial you think it might be — please call me. Will you do that?”
“I will. I doubt if there will be anything I haven’t said twenty times before, but if I think of something, I’ll call. I really will.”
“Thank you, Jasmine, I really appreciate this.”
We rang off and I sat for a long time, staring at nothing, thinking about my conversation with Jasmine and how it had made still more personal the murder of a little girl I had never met. And I began to understand Kennedy’s obsession with finding the killer. My own loathing for whoever had ended the life of an eleven-year-old who was excited about her new Barbie doll — that loathing, that overwhelming desire, the need to have the killer pay for what he’d done — was as great as it had been all the years that the arsonist who took Donna’s life remained at large.
It was an obsession.
I checked my watch. One thirty. I decided to head over to the school Faith had attended — see if I could find out if Terry’s last name was Maughan. I wasn’t sure it mattered, but the fact that one of the cops who investigated the murder had a kid who attended the victim’s school — there was a chance it might be significant, if for no other reason than he might have some interesting perspectives on his old man. If I could find him.
I arrived at Kilkenny School just before two and headed straight to the office.
There was only one person there, a grey-haired midfiftyish woman with laugh lines around her eyes and bright-red lipstick on a wide, pleasant mouth. She smiled a smile that made me think she was the kind of school secretary who would be well-liked by the kids. I’d had a couple of those during my time in school. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I don’t honestly know,” I admitted. “My name is Adam Cullen. I’m a journalist and I’m involved in an investigation into the death of a little girl who attended this school. She was murdered in 1991.”
“Faith Unruh.”
I nodded. “You’re familiar with the incident.”
She pointed. “That wall over there. There’s a tribute to her, some pictures, and even a couple of things she did while she was here.”
I turned and looked to where she was pointing, then back to her. “Did you know Faith?”
She shook her head. “I started here a few years after Faith was killed. But of course, I knew about it.”
“Do you mind if I take a few minutes to look at the tribute?”
“Of course not. Go ahead. Can you just sign in first? Right here.” She pushed a clipboard with a sign-in sheet toward me.
As I signed my name, she said, “I’m Lois Meeker. The kids call me Miss Lois, even though I’ve been married for twenty-seven years.”
“Great to meet you, Miss Lois.” I grinned at her.
She smiled a wrinkly-eyed smile back at me. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks, but I appreciate the offer. Excuse me for a minute.”
I walked to the wall she had indicated. The tribute to Faith Unruh was a large framed board, maybe four feet high by six feet wide, and consisted of several pictures of her, a couple of annual school photos and several of her in school activities — sports, a Christmas concert, and one with two other girls that the caption below indicated had been taken only a couple of weeks before her death. There were two pictures she had drawn herself and a faded two-page story she’d written called “Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Kilkenny.” I scanned it. It was a cute takeoff on a book I remembered liking a lot as a kid. There was also a half-page piece entitled “One More Angel in Heaven” that talked about Faith as a little girl who loved her family, her friends, and her school, and who “would be forever cherished and missed.”
I walked back to where Lois Meeker was just ending a phone call. She hung up and looked at me. “Moving, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“I get up and go over there and look at that at least once a month. Kind of reminds me what’s important in our lives.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “Lois, I’m not sure of the protocol here. Should I be speaking to the principal?”
“I’m afraid she’s away at a meeting. I can make you an appointment if you like.”
“How long has she been here?”
“Only a couple of years.”
“Then I don’t know that she would be of much help. But there’s something maybe you could do, if you would.”
“Sure, if I can help.”
“Are there records of former students here at the school?”
“They’ve all been digitized now and are at the board offices, but the original stuff, attendance books, things like that, are still stashed away in our storage room. Probably they’ll be chucked or hauled away someday, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Is there any way you could check and see if there was a student here at the same time as Faith? Would have been a couple of grades ahead of her. Kid named Terry Maughan.”
She looked at me for a long time. “You know that’s totally against school board regulations, right?”
“I figured it was,” I said. “And I understand if you can’t help. All I can tell you is that it’s been twenty-six years since a little girl was murdered and we’re looking at every possibility, however tenuous, to try to find her killer.”
She continued to look at me, not friendly or unfriendly — she was just thinking. Finally, she spoke.
“What did you say the name was?”
“Terry Maughan.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Good point,” I said. “Boy.”
“It’ll take me a few minutes.”
“No problem. And, uh … are there any teachers who were here when Faith was a student here?”
She thought about that, then nodded. “Just one. She’s got grade four this year. Mrs. Dole. Holly Dole. I can see if she could spare you a couple of minutes.”
“I’d really appreciate that.”
“I think I’ll just walk down to her room and chat with her rather than use the intercom.”
“Sure,” I said.
She stood up. “Which means you’re in charge of the phone if it rings.”
“Seriously?”
She nodded. “It’s not complicated — the students do it during the noon hour. Just say, ‘Kilkenny School,’ and take any messages.” She passed me a pen and message pad.
“Sure, how hard can it be, right?”
“Right.” She smiled at me and headed off past the tribute wall and down the hall. When she was out of sight, I turned and glared at the phone, hoping that if I looked threatening enou
gh it wouldn’t dare to ring.
I was relieved when Lois Meeker reappeared without my having to press my receptionist skills into service.
“She’s going to get the kids working on a spelling quiz, then she’ll meet you in the staff room.” She pointed in the direction of a different hallway. “About halfway down on the left. How about I walk you there? Don’t want you getting lost.”
I guessed that her offer to show me the way had as much to do with school security as it did with courtesy.
“Thanks, Lois, I appreciate it. And by the way, there were five calls, no messages. I took care of everything.”
She laughed. “I’ve heard every kid-lie you can imagine and I’ve got a pretty good built-in BS detector.”
“What kind of kid would lie to the school secretary?” I tried to sound shocked.
“The kid who thinks lying to the school secretary might keep him — or her — out of the principal’s office.”
“I think I remember that now,” I said, as she pointed to the staff room door, smiled again, and turned back toward the office. I tapped on the door, and when no one answered I went inside to wait for Mrs. Dole. A long rectangular table was the feature piece of furniture. There were a couple of comfortable chairs and a leather couch around the perimeter of the room, with less comfy chairs at the table. Part of a cake had been left on a platter; I guessed it was to celebrate a staff member’s birthday. Sink, stove, coffee machine — likely standard fare for school staff rooms.
I had just settled down onto one of the comfortable chairs when the door opened and a woman who looked maybe a little older than Lois Meeker entered the room. She lacked the smile wrinkles, was a bigger woman than the school secretary, and had grey, straight-cut hair that was just slightly out of place. Not a harried look, really, but not completely relaxed either. Grade four teacher.
She came toward me, smiled, and held out her hand. “Holly Dole,” she said.
I shook the offered hand, found it firm but friendly. “Adam Cullen. I appreciate your taking the time to chat with me. I’ll be quick. I know you’re in the middle of a class right now.”
None So Deadly Page 16
