by Giles Blunt
Reicher remained still, a mild expression on his face. Even sitting down, he looked extremely strong. Years ago, at the academy, Delorme’s instructor in hand-to-hand combat had stressed that physical power was not just a matter of muscle. “Big muscles are one thing, but they’re not everything. You can get these big-boned guys, tall, wide in the shoulders, even if they’re quite skinny-even if they never work out-with formidable advantages of reach, obviously, but also incredible grip, not to mention the kind of leverage that can snap a major bone like that.” The snap of his fingers had reverberated around the gym.
Delorme introduced herself and told Reicher the reason for her visit. Loose ends on the Choquette case. If he was helpful, she would ask that his co-operation be noted in his file.
He showed no sign that he remembered her. That was not surprising, as her own involvement in the Choquette case had been peripheral, her testimony confined to minor matters.
She expected a demand for a more exciting quid pro quo-cigarettes, more privileges, the usual barter. A note in the file was pretty cheap.
“It’s a mistake,” Reicher said. He turned his head and looked at the door.
“What’s a mistake?”
He turned his head back to look at her. “He should not have removed the manacles. This is not the way.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“It’s an error because of last week. My lawyer was here. For lawyers they remove restraints. It’s proper protocol. This is not. I worked in security. This is bad security.”
“Do you get the news in here, Fritz?”
“Ha ha. Yes, of course.”
“Then you know about Marjorie Flint? The senator’s wife?”
“Yes, of course. Poor woman, freezing to death like that.”
“Do you know anything about her-or about the senator-besides what you may have read in the news?”
“No, I’m afraid, nothing.”
“Are you sure? Her name never came up anywhere? Did you see her picture on the news?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“No, I don’t know her. Freezing to death like that, it’s no joke.”
“Would you actually tell me if you did know her?”
“Ha ha. Yes, of course.”
“Fritz, are you on a lot of medication?”
“Do you think I am?”
“You repeat yourself a lot. You say ‘Yes, of course’ a lot. And you laugh at weird times.”
“I see. Possibly I am being medicated without my knowledge.” He pronounced it nollich. “They could give me things, I wouldn’t know. I have to eat what they give me. Ha ha, you think I’m on medication. Interesting. Did someone inform you of this?”
“No. What about Laura Lacroix-does that name ring a bell?”
“Who?”
“Laura Lacroix.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know this name.”
“You’re sure?”
Reicher seemed to throw off his lethargy. He sat up and leaned on the table, the change in posture doubling his size.
“Do you half a dog, Detective? Did I already ask you this?”
“I don’t.”
“Damn. It’s too bad.”
“Laura Lacroix was Leonard Priest’s girlfriend. Briefly.”
“Ha ha. Leonard.” Lennet. “Yes, of course. You know I can tell you nothing about Leonard. Some people, yes. Ha ha. Not Leonard.”
“He claims she came to Club Risque. I thought perhaps you might remember her.”
Delorme pulled the photo from the file. Reicher reached for it but she pulled it back.
“Ha ha. I’m just trying to see.”
“You can see.” She tilted it to counter the glare.
“Pretty.”
“Do you recognize her?”
“Not really. But she is Leonard’s type. They all look the same, Leonard’s girlfriends. The ones he really likes. She looks like you. Ha ha.”
Garth Romney’s position was beginning to make more sense. Whatever else Fritz Reicher might be, he was not a great witness, drifting in and out like a faint signal. Then there was his size, his accent, his air of aggressive indifference. Not to mention the stupid laugh. You might not automatically brand him as a murderer, but it was easy to imagine him standing by while someone else did the murdering. “Yes, of course,” he would say. “Kill the lady, yes, of course.”
Delorme started to ask him about the night of the murder, but Reicher’s mind was elsewhere. “You don’t half a dog, okay, it’s fine. But perhaps you are knowing some veterinarian? Or the-what do you call it-the animal authorities. The shelter people? I want to walk dogs. It’s my plan. For when I’m getting out. Leonard says he will help me do it. I want to be a dog walker. I lift for a time in New York City. There they half many dog walkers. Five on a leash-six sometimes-you should see. So funny.”
“The night of the murder. In your initial statement, you said you drove Leonard Priest to Algonquin Bay to-as you put it-’play some games.’ That it was Priest’s idea. That you were just there to role-play.”
“Yes, but I was confused. I was high, you know, when I was arrested. I was confusing it with another time. Many times. Leonard was wanting me to play Nazi always. With people who like to be scared and so on. I didn’t like to do it myself. I didn’t like people thinking always Germans are Nazis. But Leonard luft it and so did many customers also. To me it was acting. Performing a part. Pretty convincing, too, I would say. You know, I studied acting.”
“In fact, you terrorized people.”
“Only people who wanted it so. Nobody was calling the police, something like that.”
“Because they were terrified.”
“Yes, of course-but like at the movies you’re terrified. Frightened because you want to be frightened.” He half rose from the chair and flashed his enormous hands. “ Boo! Ha ha, you jumped.” He sat back down. “But it’s not like you’re having a heart attack, something like that.”
Delorme glanced at the door.
“He’s not there probably. I think so.”
“You can hardly call it a game, Fritz. The gun was loaded.”
“Yes, of course. It’s more frightening. Shoot a hole in the wall, shoot a tree. Boom! Then you are convincing people. When I was studying acting in New York, they used to say, ‘Ya gotta sell da line.’ Just like that, they would say. ‘Ya gotta sell da line.’ We were selling the gun, in that sense. Not really selling it, of course. Ha ha. Not gun-running.”
“Do yourself a favour, Fritz. Tell me something I can use. There’s no mention of you being high when you were arrested. You were a bartender, sometimes a bouncer-how would you get to know a customer so well that you could drive up to Algonquin Bay on your own for an encounter with her-let alone take her out to an abandoned boathouse for sex? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It was sex. To make sense is not required. I got carried away, that’s all. I was playing my role, you know-Nazi bastard interrogating poor little prisoner and so on-threatening her. I’m drunk, I’m in character, a total Nazi bastard, and I did it. I’m sorry for it. I never wanted to kill her. I never wanted to kill anyone, never in my life. Always I am a peaceful person. It was just games and I had too much to drink. It went too far and I can’t fix it.”
“Except in your initial statement you said it was Leonard’s idea, Leonard giving the orders. Leonard ordered you to shoot and you did.”
“I was high. I was confused. It’s wrong. Leonard didn’t do it. I did it.”
“So here you are for, what, another twelve or thirteen years.”
“No, it’s eight years total. So six more only.”
“Really? Someone’s telling you they give parole to a guy who takes a woman to an abandoned boathouse? Who slaps a leather mask over her face and terrorizes her for God knows how long? Threatens her with a loaded gun and then puts a bullet through her head?”
Reicher’s face changed. His eyes staye
d on her and Delorme pitied Regine Choquette if those were the last eyes she saw in this world.
“You’re being harsh to me, Detective. But I’m having good behaviour. I’m taking courses. I will get parole.” Even from across the table, Delorme could see the heat rising from his chest, up his neck, scorching the pale skin. His breathing had become rapid.
“Meanwhile,” Delorme said, “the years go by. You’re in here getting old, losing your good looks, surrounded by people a lot nastier than you are, and the man who ordered you to murder this woman is in one of his beautiful houses. How many houses does he have, by the way?”
“Okay, so life is not being all the time fair. Is life treating you all the time fair?”
“Fritz, it was his gun. Found at his club. His prints at the scene. Why isn’t he in prison?”
“Leonard is trying his best to get me out. He’s doing, you know, behind the scenes. It takes time. He’s talking to the Ottawa animal shelter for me, too. He has a veterinarian friend in Algonquin Bay, too, he’s talking to. He cried, you know. When he heard I got twelve years? Leonard cried.”
“ His gun. Found in his club.”
“I was not thinking clearly. Hiding the gun at the club, it was not the best idea.”
“All of this against him, and yet Priest was never charged. Don’t you wonder why?”
“Leonard has money. Friends. People like Leonard.”
“Fritz, I can name three millionaires who are serving time in this country. Money and friends don’t get you off a murder charge.”
“It’s the women, with Leonard. I’ve seen it. A magnetism. And Ottawa, you know, powerful people. There’s a woman who helps him.”
“A lawyer? Who are you talking about?”
“I told him, Leonard, I said-one time he’s coming to visit me-I said, ‘It’s amazing, I thought they would charge you. Why didn’t they charge you?’ ”
“He came to visit you?”
“Listen about Leonard. If you are Leonard’s friend, he stays always your friend. He’s generous. He’s kind. He understands. He told me, he said, ‘Fritz, it’s not fair’. He said he was just lucky. He had a secret weapon. A person, I mean. A secret weapon named Diane something. Deborah, something like. Darlene! That’s it. Darlene. I never heard of any Darlene and I said Darlene who but he said it was better I’m not knowing. Well, you can look at me like that if you want, but it’s true.”
“Some lawyer in Ottawa. Darlene.”
“Could be Toronto. Could be also Algonquin Bay.”
“No. I’d know her.”
“Toronto then. I don’t know.”
“This is bullshit, Fritz. You know it’s bullshit. I don’t believe in any magic ‘Darlene’ and neither do you. The reason he wasn’t charged is because you changed your story. You took the fall. Do you have any idea how dumb that is? You could get years off your sentence if you told the truth.”
“You call me stupid?”
“I just said taking the fall for a murderer who doesn’t care is dumb.”
“You think I’m stupid.”
“I didn’t say that.”
The placid, indifferent features had rearranged themselves. Reicher unfolded himself from the chair and went to the door. He put a hand up to shade the Plexiglas. He made a tsk-tsk sound. “It’s improper. It’s bad security, don’t you find?”
“Sit down, please, Fritz.”
He turned his back to the door and leaned against it, folding his arms. “Look at you, so small. I could kill you right now. Imagine. And no one would know. No one would hear.”
“That would be a really bad idea.”
“I don’t like it. Calling me stupid.”
“Just sit down, Fritz. If that guard sees you’re up, you’ll get in trouble and that’s not what you want.”
“Do you see a guard? Do you see a camera? There is no camera. What’s to stop me pulling you out of that chair, snapping you in half?”
“Fritz, I’m a cop. You’re not going to touch me.”
He showed her an enormous hand, just swivelled his arm out from the elbow like a gate, hand open, fingers aligned. He flexed it a couple of times.
Delorme pressed the panic button with her knee.
“Look at you. One hand I could wrap around your throat-one hand. You couldn’t even scream.”
“Unless I shot you first.”
“Ha ha. You’re not armed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s not allowed. No one brings weapons in this place. Not even the RCMP.”
Delorme put a hand inside her blazer. “Think about it, Fritz. Why would they take the manacles off if I wasn’t armed?” She pressed the buzzer again.
“He won’t come. It’s change of shift.”
Possible self-defence scenarios were flashing through Delorme’s mind. A leap to the table, kick to the head.
“Let’s get back to Laura Lacroix. She may still be alive. If you help us save her, that could look very good in your file.” Delorme opened her folder, pulled out a photograph and held it up.
“What could you do if I decide to hit you a few times, ruin that pretty face?”
Delorme sat forward and tried to look bigger. “And what are you going to do when I tell them you made repeated threats? That you refused to stay seated? How do you think that’s going to play at your parole hearing? I’ll tell you exactly how it’ll play: Petition denied. Shows no remorse. Still a danger.”
“I was not threatening.”
“Do it again and I’ll make sure you never get parole. I’ll devote my life to it.”
Reicher went to his chair and sat down.
“Press the buzzer, please. I don’t like you. I want to go back.”
“Tell me why Leonard Priest wanted Regine Choquette dead.”
“He didn’t. It wasn’t intentional. I told you. I did it. It was an accident. Call the guard, please.”
She pressed the buzzer yet again. Where the hell was he?
“Why are you protecting this killer, Fritz?”
“Leonard is not a killer. He is my friend. He looks after me. Takes care of me. Loves me, even.”
“You think Leonard Priest loves you?”
“Maybe he doesn’t say so in words, but I know he loves me. He gets me a lawyer I can’t afford. Sends me money, packages.”
“You think Leonard Priest loves you? He’s the one who got you into this mess, and he’s out there laughing.”
“Okay, you want to play the nasty bitch?” Reicher stood up, flexing his giant hands. “You want to play this game with me? Fucking cop bitch, I’ll-”
The clack of the lock.
Reicher lowered himself to the chair and put a benign expression on his face. Apparently the acting lessons had paid off’ the transformation was remarkable.
A guard entered. A different guard.
“Please take me first,” Reicher said. “I want to go back.”
“Yeah? You in a hurry to get back to your cell?”
“Yes, please.” He turned back to Delorme, suddenly chatty, friendly. “I don’t want to miss Days of Our Lives. It’s the best. There’s a dog-walker character sometimes. Celine? She’s going to turn out to be a blackmailer or an imposter or something, I just know it, but I like her a lot. She likes the dogs she’s walking. It’s not just a job, you know. It’s a profession. To be good at it takes a special person.”
“Nice talking to you, Fritz. I’ll send you a dog book.”
“Really? Ha ha. Games again. You’re worse than me, Detective.” He raised clasped hands for the guard.
“Jesus Christ,” the guard said. “What’d you do with the bling, Fritz?”
“Johnson removed them. It’s an error, obviously.”
“Up against that wall right now.”
Reicher got up and leaned against the wall.
“Make one move and I crack your skull wide open. Got that? One move and I turn you into an eggplant. Ma’am?” The guard jerked his head toward the d
oor.
Delorme got up, cold with sweat, and went out.
The guard manacled Reicher to the chair, stepped into the hall behind her and locked the door.
“I’m glad it’s you,” Delorme said, “and not Johnson.”
“Oh, yeah? Why would that be?”
“Because I would have killed him right here.”
Giles Blunt
Until the Night
From the Blue Notebook
An evening lecture in the Arcosaur mess.
This was something we did twice a week. Partly it was a way of making our supply of VHS tapes last longer, and partly it was a way for us to keep each other apprised of progress on our various projects. The field of Arctic research is a small one and yet, within it, even within the same room at the same camp, it’s possible to have two scientists sitting next to each other in mutual incomprehension.
The evenings were informal and more for the benefit of the junior researchers than the old hands. It gave them a chance to practise their presentation skills in front of people who might have some influence on their future-a chance to display their private data hoard.
The wiring in the mess was unreliable, especially when the temperature got much below minus thirty, so these talks were often bathed in candlelight. I was being visited by an uncharacteristic fit of benevolence. The faces of my colleagues hovering and glowing in the half dark. The precariousness of our existence thrummed within me, the sense of how little stood between us and certain death should our generator fail entirely, say, or our supply lines be cut off for a serious length of time. Such a sense can drive a man sentimental.
Ray Deville stood in front of a whiteboard lit by two standing flashlights. His talk was rambling, repetitious, almost incoherent, but his accent was entertaining. Vanderbyl, Ray’s thesis supervisor, sank lower and lower in his chair, pressing his chin into his chest. He was possibly the worst adviser Deville could have had. A nervous soul like Ray needed the parental touch, motherly if possible. Rebecca would have brought out the best in him, but oceanography was not her field and her university was fifteen hundred miles distant from his.
Wyndham came up with a question for him, a kindness that got the young man on track for a few moments. His enthusiasm for his subject welled up and he spouted findings none of us would have been aware of.
