Death of a Hired Man

by Eric Wright

  “We’ll look after you.”

  “Oh, shit. You?” Gruber said. “You going to thtop Dougal?”

  They left him there. Outside, while Pickett looked for a washroom, Wilkie talked to the guard, then had a long conversation on his mobile phone with the guard’s boss.

  When Pickett returned, Wilkie said, “We’ll check out the Stairway, but just to be sure. He isn’t going to sit around in a beer parlor, is he? No, I think that now we wait.” It was five o’clock. The two men set out to look for some coffee. There was a Second Cup coffee-shop inside the hospital.

  “You planning to eat downtown?” Wilkie asked, hoping for company over dinner.

  “Charlotte’s cooking steak-and-kidney pie. Come back with me and have some.”

  “Steak and what?”

  “Don’t do that. Steak-and-kidney pie. Don’t make out you haven’t heard of it. I’m not talking about sheep’s eyeballs or testicles or fillet of unborn octopus, for Christ’s sake. I’m talking about a treat for anyone who wasn’t born in baloney heaven. Never mind the kidneys. What are you going to do about me? I gather everyone knows what I’ve been doing. Shit, I feel like Alec Guinness in Tunes of Glory. Remember? ‘Ye canna court-martial old Jock, can ye, laddie? I knew ye when ye were a wee bairn.’ But you have to do something, I guess.”

  “I’ve already done it.”

  “What?”

  “Anyone who asked has been told that we—the OPP—have hired you to get close to one of the suspects. Marinelli knows it’s bullshit, but if you think about it, I had to get him off the spot you put him on, didn’t I?”

  Pickett thought about Wilkie’s solution and felt the tension flow away. He had never expected Wilkie to throw the book at him, but to do nothing seemed too much. “It’s your call, Abe,” he said.

  “I know that. I’m calling you safe.”

  “You’re doing a lot.”

  “That’s what my dad said.”

  So he had Wilkie’s father to thank for some part of his pardon, probably even for suggesting the idea. It wasn’t a thing he would ever be sure of, though, because to ask the question would be to take away from Wilkie’s gesture. He scrambled for a response that would cover all possibilities.

  “He raised you right,” he said. “Thanks. All the other threads tied up?”

  “A few eyewitnesses would help. We got a lead on the gray Chevy.”

  “Remind me.”

  “You remember. One of the cars stopping outside your cabin that night was a gray Chevy. The woman who uses your trailer saw it; twice, she thinks. So we ran a little check just in case the driver bought some gas on a credit card. The gas station on the highway gave us a list of license plates that had used cards and we ran them through the computer.”

  “And?”

  “We came up with only three that weren’t local. One of them was a gray Chevy owned by a rental company.”

  “Who took it out?”

  “A Brit. A tourist.”

  “A lot of people stop to admire my cabin. For a Brit, it must look like a museum piece.”

  “It is a museum piece. Anyway, this guy still has the car out, probably, as you say, touring around. We’ll find him and talk to him—the patrols have his license number, but I would think that that takes care of the Chevy.”

  Wilkie stood up. “I’m going to call on my dad before I eat. Wanna stop by?”

  “Where is he?”

  “At home. He’s retired, like you.”

  “I know that. We were buddies once, remember? I knew you when you were still sucking on a bottle.”

  “It’s what you do at that age. Anyway, he’s at home, painting something. Why? Want to come and see him?”

  Pickett shook his head. “Next time. What I meant was, where is home?”

  “Leaside. They’re still living in the same house. You need a ride somewhere?”

  Pickett shook his head. “I’m at Bathurst and St. Clair. Out of your way. Nah. I’ll take a walk through the Eaton Centre. Charlotte needs one of those plastic things for measuring spaghetti portions. The kind with the grooves. They haven’t made it to Larch River yet.”

  But instead of driving out to Leaside, Wilkie pointed his car north to the Don Valley Parkway and from there, across to York University. Perhaps, he thought, his wife would be glad to see him and would join him for a coffee. A nice surprise. He did not phone ahead so as not to spoil it.

  When he found her office, she was busy. He appeared in her doorway and she looked up; she did not immediately break into a smile of pleased recognition, as some wives would, or rear back in irritation like some others. Her reaction was somewhere in between, and not much to do with either. She treated his appearance as more or less normal, as if he worked only fifty feet away, while she waited to see what he wanted.

  As he began to explain, the door behind her opened and the dean said, “Can we get started, please?”

  She picked a file off her desk and stood up. “This is my husband,” she said.

  The dean came forward and offered Wilkie a squidgy little hand, and then Helen took Wilkie’s elbow and led him to the door.

  “Can’t stop now,” she said. “See you Saturday.” Then, as he walked away, she called him back. “Give me a kiss,” she said. He stood still while she kissed him, then wiped off the lipstick with a Kleenex before she turned back to the dean.

  It reminded Wilkie of his mother, who used to spit on her handkerchief to wipe away the chocolate from around his mouth when he was too young to stop her.

  20

  “So we’re certain now? It was this Dougal guy?” Copps asked when Wilkie told him the story at the station.

  “So says Gruber, and he knew exactly how Thompson lay there after he went down. That’s becoming the litmus test for me, because whoever killed him would probably not be certain what he looked like on the floor when the dust settled. Anyway, it was either Gruber or Dougal, and why Gruber? Yeah, it was Dougal.”

  “Then why have we got this chicken farmer in our jail?”

  “Because he confessed, for Christ’s sake. Remember? Have you been in to see him? Has he called for a lawyer?”

  “He just wanted to see his minister. The minister told him to confess.”

  “To what? And how long has she been out there?” He jerked his thumb at the outer office.

  “She came to town right after we did, and she’s been sitting out there ever since. I didn’t want her to talk to Sproat until you said it was okay. I don’t know what her rights are, but I figured that if we’re going to hear some stories, it’d be better if they didn’t talk to each other first.”

  “What about Sproat?”

  “He wants to cooperate, tell us the real story, he says. Again, I thought we’d wait for you. We’re a bit shorthanded.”

  “When we’re talking to him, hang on to this: Dougal, or Gruber, killed Thompson, no matter what Sproat says.”

  “There’s another little complication just in.” Copps picked up a fax and waved it toward Wilkie.

  Wilkie continued to busy himself for the interview with Sproat. “What’s it say?”

  “Ready for this? Here goes. ‘Suspect in Larch River homicide apprehended in Port Hope. Presently held here. Shall we convey to Lindsay?’”

  “For Christ’s sake. Give me that.” He read it silently. Then, “Did you follow it up?”

  “I called them. Here’s the story. You remember the girl in the gas station who wrote down the number of the truck because he gave her a brand-new twenty? They found the truck. Two brothers near Port Hope own it. They operate a septic-tank cleaning business during the day. At night, they drive around looking for stuff to steal. So the number chimed and the local patrol checked them out. When the brothers heard what they were being questioned about, they got so scared they told the patrol what they had been doing.

  “Seems they hit a place in Kinmount, and in the course of taking everything movable, they came across the emergency stash in a bedroom drawer: a co
uple of hundred in new twenties. They spent one of them at the highway gas station on their way down to the 401. They even showed them the loot, still in the barn. Better than that, we searched the rest of the buildings and came across a lot of other stuff, including the booty missing from the break-in at Larch River two weeks ago, to which they admitted.

  “These guys are admitting to everything, they’re so scared of being stuck with a homicide charge.” Copps laughed out loud. “Poor bastards. Just going about their business, a little Friday-night enterprise they’ve got going and they fall into this. It’s a coincidence. Anyway, we’ve already got enough suspects. Shall I tell the local detachment that?”

  “No. Tell them we want to interview the suspects in connection with the robbery on our turf. Let’s pick up the credit for getting the license number. It was our idea.”

  “That’s better, Abe. Take it easy. You didn’t fuck up.”

  “We found Dougal, didn’t we? All we have to do now is lay our hands on him.”

  Sproat said, “The minister persuaded me to tell the truth. He said the guilty would be punished more quickly that way. I don’t think Mrs. Sproat is guilty of anything except anger. It must have been self-defense.” He spoke out of a deep tiredness.

  “Tell us your story. The real one.”

  Sproat nodded. “I will try to tell you just what happened. First, Thompson came to see us—to see Mrs. Sproat, I mean—with his claim. But it was more than that. He was using words like ‘swindled,’ so I kicked him out. Then Mrs. Sproat went to see the church lawyer, and he advised her to resist Thompson’s claim, as she told you. But he also advised her that when the matter came to court, if it did, there might be testimony from Thompson to support his claim, testimony of a kind she would find distressing.”

  Wilkie was uncomprehending, and Sproat had difficulty elaborating. Copps interjected: “Did the church lawyer think Thompson might claim that he had had sex with your wife?”

  “Yes. It might be made to seem that Thompson and Mrs. Sproat had been living as husband and wife for some time, which would account for the low wages.”

  “This upset your wife, of course.”

  “She said it made her feel sick that such things might be said, especially in a courthouse. So on Friday night when I came home and found her away, I thought she might have gone to have it out with Thompson, and I drove to the cabin to calm her down. But I was too late. When I got there, Thompson was dead. I saw the piece of dowel and thought to remove it because it would have her fingerprints on it. When I came back to the farm, Mrs. Sproat was still away, but she came in shortly after. She said she’d been to see the minister, and now she did not want any mention of Norbert Thompson again. I wondered if she realized he was dead, but then I thought if he is, it was an accident, and I said no more until you found that piece of wood in the truck.”

  “You confessed to save your wife?”

  “Yes. No. I must be honest. I thought that when she realized what I was trying to do for her, she would speak up right away. I don’t know why she hasn’t. She must be confused.”

  Wilkie nodded to Copps to carry on. Copps said, “Tell us exactly what Thompson looked like on the floor.”

  “He looked dead!”

  “How was he lying? Tell us.”

  Sproat did so, exactly.

  “I don’t think your wife is confused. She’s clear about one thing: She didn’t kill Thompson, she didn’t even hit him. She may be confused about why you did, and didn’t tell her.”

  “Me?” The amazement was deep and clear. “Me? I didn’t kill Thompson. I was just—”

  “We know. We know who did.”

  “Who?”

  Wilkie shook his head. “We need to talk to your wife. Without you present. Now, we can charge you with withholding evidence and keep you here, but I’d just as soon we worried about that later, if we have to, so in the meantime, would you stay here until we’ve talked to your wife? Voluntarily? I’ll leave the door open.”

  “Is my wife here?”

  “She’s been here all the time, waiting for you. When I send her in, you can go home, both of you. First we have to talk to her.”

  “I was sick to my stomach at what the lawyer said, so I went out to the cabin to talk to Norbert. I wanted to ask him if he was going to say those things our lawyer said he might. Things the whole church would hear about. But he never had any idea of saying anything like that. That was lawyer talk.”

  “What was his idea?”

  “He was disappointed. Mr. Maguire had promised him he’d leave a will deeding half the farm to him, for having looked after him these last few years.”

  “Did Mr. Maguire think maybe you would take up with Thompson after he was gone?”

  “I never gave him any reason to think anything like that. I never thought anything of Norbert. He was too backward. But he had a home with us for as long as he liked. He knew that, yet I think he was told to move out.”

  “Who by?”

  “By his lawyer. Or his girlfriend. Did you know he had a girlfriend? He did, though. In Sweetwater. They were planning to get married and move into the farm. He said I could stay. On my own farm! But then when Mr. Sproat turned up, Norbert saw there was no place for me and Mr. Sproat, as well as him and his girlfriend. So someone got to talking to him about his rights, and that’s when it all started. I talked to the minister; he said we hadn’t paid Norbert enough and that the farm had done well, so I became of a mind to pay Norbert something, enough to start his own place with, but the church lawyer said to wait until we were sure Norbert wasn’t going to go any further.”

  “Did you tell Thompson this?”

  “Yes, I did—when he told me at the cabin that he had no idea of saying dirty lies about him and me in court. He just wanted to be treated right, and I was always willing to do that.”

  “Did you get into an argument?”

  “We started off that way, but once we got ourselves sorted out, and I said I’d help him as far as was fair, we shook hands and we went back to Sweetwater together, to see the minister. Norbert came with me to show the minister we had an understanding. The minister wasn’t in, so Norbert walked home and I did some shopping and had a cup of coffee and waited some more, but the minister never showed up.”

  “What did you want the minister for?”

  “To ask him to tell the church lawyer that Norbert and I had got it sorted out, what we’d arranged.”

  “Then you drove home, to the farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your husband there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him where you’d been?”

  “I said I’d been to see the minister. When he asked a question, I said it was all sorted out and there was nothing more to discuss.”

  Wilkie said, “Up at the farm, when Mr. Sproat said he’d done it, you didn’t seem very surprised. Were you expecting something like that?”

  “I was afraid. He’s a very loving and protective man. You can’t make it worse than that. It wasn’t intentional.”

  Copps looked at Wilkie, who once more nodded for him to go ahead. Copps said, “Your husband did go up to the cabin because he thought you might have gone there to have it out with Thompson. He found Thompson dead, so he thought you had killed him, and he hid that bit of wood to cover up for you. He couldn’t just throw it away, though, because someone might recognize it, and it would have your fingerprints on it, and he hadn’t had time to burn it.”

  “My fingerprints? It never would—”

  “We know. We’re having it checked, and we think we know whose prints are on it. We already have him in custody. Point is, Mr. Sproat put it in the truck, under some sacks, and left it there too long.”

  “So he confessed to protect me?”

  “More or less.”

  She nodded. “He would do that.” Then, as the policemen stood up, she started to cry. “It was Mr. Maguire’s fault really, then,” she said.

  Wilkie
said, “Like your husband says, he was in a lot of pain, and he wanted to be sure you would be all right.”

  “He shouldn’t have done it, though.” She dabbed her eyes. “Poor Norbert. It wasn’t his fault at all, was it? What about his girlfriend? Will she be all right?”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “I might want to do something for her.”

  “You should speak to your minister about that first. Right now, why don’t you take Mr. Sproat home? You could both do with a rest.”

  21

  When they had gone, Copps said, “Where do you guess Dougal is now?”

  “I know exactly where he is, or rather, I know where he will be soon. I’ve taken off the guard outside Gruber’s hospital room.”

  When Copps understood this, he said, “Jesus, Abe, you want Dougal to kill him?”

  “That would suit everybody. No. I want him to try. I’ve told the guard to stay inside the room with Gruber. I’ve set up a little trap, baited with Gruber. There are four plainclothes guys staking out the corridors leading to Gruber’s room. If Dougal goes after Gruber, we’ll catch him.”

  “And you think Gruber is right? That Dougal will come after him?”

  “Just in case he doesn’t, I’ve also got every other cop in Toronto looking for him. He’s well known. We’ll get him.”

  “What happens if he comes up here?”

  “Why would he?”

  “Because he’s a psychopath. Because he’s got Pickett on his brain.”

  “I’ve got a car watching Mel’s house, and another one on Duck Lake Road watching the cabin. I’m playing it very safe.”

  “Good. Hello. Look who’s here. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  Wilkie swung around and saw Helen standing in the doorway. He got up, alarmed. “Something wrong?”

  She came quietly into the room and sat down in the chair Copps had vacated. “Am I interrupting? I went home first, but when you weren’t there, I thought I’d, well, come here.”