None So Deadly

by David A. Poulsen

  I got out of the car and looked around. Stupid. Minnis would be long gone. I walked around to the passenger side, but there was no sign that someone had broken into my car. When I thought about it, I realized it was better that I hadn’t come face to face with the evil that was Minnis. I looked back at the house and was glad that Jill wasn’t looking out, wondering what I was doing. I got back into the Accord and drove off.

  I decided to head for Cobb’s office, pull down all the blinds, sit in the dark, and drink coffee. Just to be sure I wasn’t being followed, I used some of the evasive tactics Cobb had taught me.

  Cobb was already there, sleeves rolled up and talking on the phone. So much for my plan to be alone. “I appreciate your candour, Ms. Deines …” he was saying. “Yes, I hope so, too.… Thank you again.… You too.”

  He hung up as I swung into the most comfortable seat in the room.

  “That was April Deines,” he said, “once known as Lady Godiva, exotic dancer and sex-trade worker. Was able to beat a big-time heroin addiction and now manages a couple of hair salons. Ms. Deines — she was especially anxious for me to know that it’s pronounced ‘Dine-us’ — was nineteen when she was picked up by a Detective Maughan and driven to a secluded spot where she was given a couple of options. She chose option A, which meant that when they were done, Maughan drove her back to her apartment and dropped her off, wishing her a nice evening.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “No surprise.”

  “She never saw him again and wasn’t able to give me much that would help us, other than to confirm what Herb Chaytors thought had happened. I haven’t had any luck with the other Maughan victim. Maybe you should take a shot at it.”

  “Sure.” I pulled out my notebook. “Name?”

  “Sylvia Jarman. Last known address, 34th Avenue Northeast. See what you can find out.”

  “Okay, but it would be a lot easier if she lived in Billings, Montana.”

  Cobb’s head snapped up.

  “Seems I have another delivery to make to my pal Truck McWhorters.”

  “How was it communicated?”

  “Same as last time … package and instructions left on the front seat of my car.” I held up the package and the note.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  I dropped both on his desk and headed for the coffee maker. “You want one?”

  He pointed to his cup. “On my second already.” He bent to look closely at the note. “The first one handwritten like this?”

  “Uh-huh. Just like that.”

  He studied it for a while, shook his head, set it down and pulled the package in front of him.

  “You said you didn’t open the first one?”

  I shook my head. “Afraid to. I wasn’t sure what was inside. I know that even coming in contact with the wrong shit can be deadly. And I’ll be honest: the threat to Jill and Kyla had me spooked.”

  Cobb nodded. “They know that. That’s why they make those threats. I think we’ll have a look in this one.”

  The package was about the size of three bigger paperback novels stacked one on top of the other. But somehow I didn’t think we’d find the three latest Louise Pennys in there.

  Cobb pulled on a set of latex gloves, the kind you see doctors and nurses using. He took out his pocket knife and carefully removed the outer brown paper wrapping. As with the first package, there was no writing on the outside. Someone had used Scotch tape to seal it up. Cobb set the paper aside. The wrapping had been covering a cardboard box. He examined the box for a minute or so and appeared to find nothing of interest. He cut another piece of tape, then eased the top back. He reached in and removed something that looked almost as if it could have been a half pound of butter, maybe a little longer than that.

  He set it carefully on top of his desk, extracted a second package, pretty much identical in size and shape, then a third. The weird part was the wrapping around the packages — it was colourful, to say the least. It looked like tie-dye art or a kid’s colouring project. Disguising the contents, maybe? I’d seen lots of drugs of every kind during my time covering that side of the crime beat for the Herald. I hadn’t seen the colourful artwork on the wrapping before. I didn’t ask Cobb about it — again, not wanting to disturb his concentration.

  As he peeled back the wrapping from the first of the packages, I noticed he moved even more slowly now, methodically. It looked as if he were being careful not to come in contact with what was inside. And he didn’t. Didn’t touch it, sniff it, nothing. Rewrapped it and set it back in the box.

  “There are six packages in total. I’m betting heroin. Street value, tens of thousands, maybe more. You get caught crossing the border with this, they put you away for a long time.” He drew out long to emphasize the point.

  “You have a better idea?”

  He shook his head slowly. “The note says the delivery has to be made by Tuesday. Today’s Friday. We’ve got a little time. Nice of them to give you the weekend off.”

  “Yeah, they’re all about considerate.”

  “We’re going to put this away for now. Let me think about it. See if we can come up with an alternative plan.”

  “Mike, I can’t put Jill and Kyla in danger.”

  “You’ve already done that.”

  That pissed me off. I stood up. “I know that, for Christ’s sake. But I’m not going to make it worse. If you don’t have an alternative plan, I’m taking that damn package and I’m going to Billings.”

  I thought he’d argue but he didn’t. “I get that, Adam. I do. Let me see what I can come up with. In the meantime, have you had breakfast?”

  I shook my head.

  “Red’s Diner sound like an option?”

  “It damn sure does.”

  The heroin safely stowed in Cobb’s office safe, we walked the four blocks to Red’s. By the time the food came and we’d had a glass of juice and were working on coffee, I was feeling a little better, more relaxed. I was ready to think about Faith Unruh and Marlon Kennedy and the link, if there was one, between their murders.

  We talked again about my conversation with Jasmine Hemmerling. Cobb thought for a long time before responding. “You’re right; it would be nice to talk to Terry Maughan. It makes sense that when one of your classmates was murdered and your dad was one of the investigators, there might have been conversations around the dinner table about the case. Maybe he’d remember something — maybe he could even shed a little light on how it came about that his dad was the lead investigator for a while. He might be able to tell us what the homicide file hasn’t: whether Maughan was at the crime scene right after the murder.”

  “The kid was fourteen years old,” I said.

  Cobb nodded. “Yeah, I know, and maybe all of what I just said is nothing more than wishful thinking. But we won’t know if we don’t ask, and in order for us to ask, we have to find him.”

  “I’ve got an even crazier thought,” I said. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Maughan was the killer. Do you think it’s remotely possible that Terry Maughan was in on it somehow, as a participant, or that he at least knew about it?”

  “You asked if it’s possible. The simple answer is yes. You and I both know there have been horrific crimes perpetrated by kids younger than Terry Maughan. And if we’re right in thinking that Faith was lured into that backyard, then certainly it’s reasonable to think that she might have gone there at the bidding of a classmate. So, yes, it’s possible. It is also extremely unlikely. Those cases I mentioned where kids have done terrible things are, thankfully, rare. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I’d like to talk to Terry Maughan. So let’s work on that — see if we can find him. I’ll check on whether he has a record; you keep working on getting a current address.”

  I nodded, though I had no clue where to start my search.

  “By the way, did Jasmine mention whether Maughan had done presentations in her class?”

  “She didn’t, and I forgot to ask her. You think it’s important?”<
br />
  “Not really. Just corroboration, but I think with what you learned at the school, we’ve got what we need on that score.”

  We sat a while longer, Cobb drinking coffee, me looking at mine. My face must have given me away.

  “Something’s bothering you … what’s up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know — there’s just this little drug smuggling detail that’s distracting me a little, that’s all.”

  Cobb smiled grimly. “I get that. And I get that it’s a lot easier for me to say relax than it is for you to actually do that. But like I said before, just leave it with me for now. Maybe I’ll come up with something that might help.”

  As much as I wanted to follow his advice, my pessimism meter was still running pretty high, which is why I ate only about half of what was on my plate.

  When we’d finished a second cup of coffee, Cobb said he had things to do, and I told him I’d use the office while I tried to track down Sylvia Jarman and Terry Maughan. I started with Jarman and spent a fruitless hour in pursuit of a clue to her whereabouts. I was about to give up when I came across a note online that referred to a minor hockey coach named Les Jarman. I checked back in my notes. Sylvia Jarman’s parents were Les and Ruth Jarman. Les Jarman had coached the West Mount Pleasant bantam team in 1986 and I knew West Mount Pleasant was a neighbourhood not all that far from the 34th Avenue Northeast address Cobb had given me.

  I reasoned that if Sylvia Jarman’s encounter with Jarvis Maughan had taken place in the late 1980s and she’d been a teen at the time, she’d be maybe forty-five or fifty today. There was at least a reasonable chance that one or both of her parents were alive and out there somewhere. I attacked that possibility for the next hour, made more calls, and finally found a Ruth Jarman, living at last report in Red Deer.

  I got a number and called, but got her voicemail. I left a long and fairly detailed message about the reason I hoped to talk to her and ended the call thinking it was 50-50 at best whether I’d hear back from her.

  I spent another half-hour online trying to get a line on Terry Maughan. Nothing.

  I decided to turn my attention to other things. I hadn’t done anything lately about my second career, that of budding children’s book author. My first two books — The Spoofaloof Rally and The Spoofaloof Goof — much to my surprise, were selling well. I had started a third but was floundering, mostly because I simply hadn’t got down to it. I knew that being a successful writer depended a lot more on diligence and discipline than it did on inspiration and brilliance. Lately I had been neither diligent nor disciplined.

  I fired up the iPod and turned to Alessia Cara to provide the audio track while I cast about for some creative juice. I had wondered whether there was any particular reason for there to be a third Spoofaloof book and wasn’t sure that Kyla’s wanting one was sufficient. But now that I was committed — a signed contract with my Toronto publisher — it was time to actually write something. I spent an unproductive hour starting, deleting, then starting again, until I was convinced that the part of being a writer I really hated was the writing part.

  My gnashing of teeth was short-lived, as April Wine’s “Roller” announced an incoming call. The caller had a soft voice that I had to work to hear, but I made out the words Ruth Jarman.

  “Ms. Jarman, thanks for calling back. Before I take up any of your time, can you confirm that you are the Ruth Jarman who once lived on 34th Avenue Northeast in Calgary?” The same soft, tired voice confirmed that she was that Ruth Jarman.

  “As I mentioned in my message, my name is Adam Cullen. I’m part of an investigation that’s looking at a former policeman named Maughan. We know about the incident involving that officer and your daughter, and I was hoping to be able to reach her in order to ask her about what happened when Maughan had her in his car for questioning.”

  “Well, first of all,” the little voice responded, with just the slightest increase in volume and energy, “you won’t be able to talk to Sylvia. She passed away in 2014 from a drug overdose.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes.” There was a long silence and I was just about to pick up the conversation again when she continued, though she spoke slowly. “She was a wonderful little girl, but things began to go all wrong as she got older.” There was a catch in her voice and another silence followed, this one not as long. I heard her take a deep breath. “And after what happened to her that night with the policeman, the bad stuff seemed to speed up.”

  “Go wrong how, Ms. Jarman?”

  “Sylvia struggled … wait, what’s this about?”

  “I’m sorry, I should have been clearer,” I said. “Ms. Jarman, I’m a journalist and I work with a private investigator named Mike Cobb. In connection with another case we’re investigating, we spoke with someone who was familiar with the incident involving your daughter. I know it can’t help Sylvia, Ms. Jarman, but it could be helpful with our investigation if you could tell us what happened that night.”

  There was silence for a while and I hoped she was digesting what I’d said.

  “Sylvia suffered from depression and that led to her drinking more and more; then weed was next … not really for, like, recreation; it was fulfilling a need for her. And then everything spiralled down from there. Do you know anything about addiction, Mr. Cullen?”

  “I do, yes. I’ve written about Calgary’s drug culture during my time at the Herald, and after I left the paper and became a freelancer. I’ve seen the pain it’s caused a lot of people. I’m sorry you and Sylvia had to be among them.”

  “That’s right, you said in your message that you’re a journalist. I guess that’s a problem for me, Mr. Cullen.”

  “What problem, Ms. Jarman?”

  “I don’t want another story about Sylvia, I’m sorry.”

  “I understand that, Ms. Jarman, but this is not for publication. As I said, Mr. Cobb and I have encountered Jarvis Maughan’s name in connection with one of our investigations and we’d like to follow up — find out all we can about him.”

  “But he’s been dead for some time.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he has. And I’m not able to tell you why it’s important to us, but please believe me, it would be very helpful if you could see your way clear to telling the story one more time.”

  A pause, then she began slowly. “We were strict parents. Sylvia was only fifteen, and like most fifteen-year-olds, she was looking to exercise her independence. I couldn’t really blame her. We knew she’d smoked up a few times and we were okay with it as long as it didn’t get out of hand and her marks didn’t go down — that kind of thing.

  “That night at the party there were quite a few of them that had smoked some weed and I guess the problem was that there were several underage kids there. A neighbour complained and the cops showed up, three or four cars. Maughan took Sylvia to his car, told her he wanted to question her, then drove off with her.”

  She stopped then and I thought I could hear her crying softly. “My daughter had never been with a man, Mr. Cullen, and for it to be like that … she told me she begged him to stop. But he didn’t. We lost our daughter that night. Oh, she lived almost thirty more years, but she was never the same.” Another pause, then she said again, “We lost our daughter that night. We never got her back. After that, it was like I said, drugs, booze, an endless succession of men, almost all of them jerks. She got pregnant, lost the baby … it’s awful to watch your child go through what Sylvia did, Mr. Cullen, especially when there is nothing you can do.”

  “Did Maughan ever come around again?”

  “I don’t think so. I think Sylvia would have told us; she hated him so much. But after that night I’m quite sure she didn’t see him again.”

  “Did you try to have him charged?”

  “Sylvia wouldn’t allow it. She said she couldn’t relive that night in a courtroom full of people.”

  “Ms. Jarman, I want to thank you. I know this was very painful for you, but I need you to know th
at you’ve been very helpful.”

  “I know that man’s dead, and I know there’s nothing that can be done to him now, but whatever it is you say I’ve helped you with, I’m glad, and if it causes Jarvis Maughan to be diminished even a little, that would be good.”

  We said goodbye and as I hung up I was consumed by a festering hate for a man I’d never met. And never would.

  After talking to Ruth Jarman, I felt that I needed to step back from the world of crime for a while. I drove slowly across town and parked in front of my apartment building. There had been times when I was ready to walk away from writing about crime. And now here I was, not only writing about that world but becoming more and more a part of it by working with Cobb on investigations. It was often a sordid place, and I felt it was taking a toll on me. And maybe in turn on Jill and Kyla.

  I sat for a long time wondering what I’d be doing if it wasn’t this. I didn’t come up with an answer. And I realized, at least for now, that it didn’t matter — I had no choice but to keep doing what I was doing. I couldn’t turn my back on Faith Unruh or Marlon Kennedy. And I wanted to see through to its end the Claiborne case, though I wasn’t sure what we could do, or more precisely what we’d be allowed to do to help Rachel Claiborne. And whether I liked it or not, I was ensnared in the heinous crimes of the MFs.

  I called Jill and got her voicemail. Without telling her I was down, but knowing I’d be lousy company, I let her know that I needed time at my place that night. Hinted that it was work-related. I wanted to soak in the tub for a long time, spend some time with a good book, and maybe hit the sack early.

  That’s not how my evening went.

  I got through the bath part and had been reading for maybe ten minutes when the phone rang. It was Cobb. “I need you in a meeting right now.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Yeah, life’s like that sometimes. But I need you to get in your car and drive to an address I’m about to give you.”

  “Just a minute.” I fumbled for a pen and paper and was finally ready. “Okay, give me the address. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”