What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  “This is only speculation you understand.”

  “Doctor, please.”

  “I think being stabbed threw Victor into shock and unconsciousness. He lost a lot of blood. His pulse would have been almost undetectable, his breathing very shallow. He would have appeared to be dead.”

  “So whoever stabbed him left him for dead and then he bled to death and then the body was thrown in the harbour.”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost? What do you mean almost?” Both men had come to a halt directly across from one another, either side of Victor’s chest.

  “I think Victor was still breathing when he was thrown in the harbour. I don’t think Victor bled to death, I think he drowned.” Baxter looked down at the stained white contours that could only be a body. The wild bulging eyes, the final opening of the mouth were too easy to imagine. He was glad the features of Victor’s face were made smooth and serene by the sheet. Baxter let out a sigh of sorrow and relief.

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Beyond any doubt, no.” The doctor shook his head, perhaps clearing his own imagination as much as answering the question.

  “I thought you were a man of science.” Baxter wasn’t sure what he wanted from the doctor, conclusive evidence or room to believe that Victor’s last moments had been less horrific. He started to pace again. Now it wasn’t the smell that followed him. It was the image of Victor’s face under water.

  “And I thought you were a policeman. Look, something picked out one of Victor’s eyes. If he had been in the water a long time he would have been eaten up far worse than that. His body was also in rigor mortis, which again suggests he was not dead or in the water too long. Yet there were tiny bits of algae and seaweed deep in his lungs. That would happen eventually, but not immediately unless…”

  “Unless he breathed them in.” Baxter saw Victor’s mouth opening. He turned quickly as if he could move away from the image in his head.

  “Yes. There were also signs of pulmonary oedema. Did Victor have a doctor?”

  “I don’t know.” Baxter wasn’t sure what a pulmonary oedema was either. He had heard the term before, unfortunately the meaning hadn’t stuck.

  “If he did, you can check to see if he had any trouble with his heart or lungs. His body shows no signs of chronic illness. So how does a healthy man suffer from pulmonary oedema? Most likely by drowning.” The doctor had laid his papers down. His arms were at his sides, fingertips just reaching the bottom of his coat pockets. He could have been a wax figure except for the eyes. He followed Baxter with his eyes.

  “What about the knife wound?” Could that cause pulmonary oedema? Baxter wondered.

  “The knife did no damage to Victor’s lungs. Still, without medical treatment, the injury would have been fatal. He may have died even if he had been taken to hospital. But we’ll never know.”

  “Because someone threw him in the harbour instead, where it appears he drowned before he could finish bleeding to death.” Victor had been a good negotiator, Baxter thought to himself as he put his coat back on. In the end it didn’t matter, only a miracle could have saved him.

  “It’s your job to draw conclusions, Chief Inspector. And by the way, the knife struck a rib. The hand of the killer may have slid forward and been cut. The guilty party may be wearing a bandage just like that one.” The doctor kept his hands still and pointed with a nod of his head.

  Baxter looked down at his left hand and the dressing around the base of its index finger. The knuckle was still brown from the iodine. He quickly put it in a coat pocket. “Get your report over to my office as soon as it’s ready.”

  “You’re welcome, Chief Inspector,” the doctor called up the stairs. He didn’t get an answer.

  Baxter checked his watch as he left the doctor’s house. Twenty minutes to ten. He was glad to be out in the fresh air. He took a whiff of his coat sleeve and nearly gagged. Victor’s home was at 102 Hollis Street, a minute away in the middle of the next block. Future editions of the Halifax directory would list that address under Catherine Mosher, widow of Victor. It was bad enough he had to be the one to tell Catherine she was now alone. He couldn’t do it with the stink of her husband’s corpse on his clothes. He headed south in the opposite direction.

  Earlier in his career he had often been the bearer of bad news. Usually it had to do with husbands or sons being in jail for drunkenness or causing a disturbance. In his second year on the force a man went missing. They found him on the outskirts of the city, near Point Pleasant Battery. Baxter had imagined a scene with long waning shadows, a low sun in the west blinking through the treetops. He watched the man gasp for breath against the dusk and claustrophobia of the narrow upper streets. Tumbledown buildings grey from ash and coal smoke coming at him sidelong down the hill in an avalanche of futility and rage. Had he felt freedom growing within his heart and stride, having decided to leave the shabbiness and small ways of Halifax behind? Most men made their escape aboard ship or on a train. A few took the rope. Baxter had often wondered how long that man had stood on the rock below the tree, looking out over the water to the horizon, to a future he could not see. Baxter had been sent to tell the wife. He had made small talk, more for his benefit than hers. After a few minutes she let him off the hook and asked where they found her husband’s body. She said he had always been a coward. Over the years there were other suicides, only one or two murders. In those moments he found himself unable to sit close, gently hold hands and speak in comforting tones, to be with the living and not the dead. He would have made a lousy priest.

  There were church bells in the air, and fancy bonnets and top hats and children with clean faces moving along the sidewalk. Baxter nodded to a few men he recognized, suddenly conscious of his bare head. At the corner of Morris he turned toward the harbour, away from the beaten path. If there were any freshening breezes to be had, they would be found along the docks and warehouses of the waterfront. He stepped off the sidewalk and into the street. Every few steps he collected another small stone. He had not intended to end up on Mitchell’s Wharf. He had zigzagged his way through a series of buildings, grateful for the smells of salt, tar, and seaweed.

  The church bells had given way to seagulls. He was surprised when he realized where he was. He looked in all directions, a killer returning to the scene of the crime. He smiled at the irony. Well, what difference did it make where he bided his time, rehearsed his lines, and waited for the smells of the doctor’s basement to leave his clothes? He walked to the end of the wharf, but he avoided looking down to where Victor’s body had been found. He didn’t need any more images in his head. He looked off toward George’s Island and the mouth of the harbour. His hands were fidgety so he hid them in his coat pockets. He played with the stones, a few in each hand. They were too small to be headstones. Milestones maybe? As he turned them over, feeling their smoothness and sharp edges, the stones began to feel like moments of a life. What had Victor’s moments been? Getting married? Having children? Getting into office? Or were there other things more important to him, hidden things, passionate things, ruinous things, things that might now help explain? How many stones did it take to mark a full life, a life remembered? He thought of all the headstones in the old burying ground, and the cemetery at Camp Hill; some large, some small, some ornate, some plain. What would they look like if they were built of milestones? Whose marker would be larger then? He placed all the stones in one hand, then covered them with the other. He shook them gently. He imagined if he could do it long enough the stones would break up, become small and more musical like the beans in a maraca. Victor’s bones would eventually break up in the ground. What music would they play? What songs would be sung of him? How would Baxter’s own life be remembered?

  He opened his hands. He selected a stone and threw it as far as he could. It blinked in and out of view through the mist, eventually coming to the end of its arc and plopping in
to the still, flat water, its travels continuing below. He chose another stone and threw it after the first. Then a third and a fourth. Birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, mountains climbed, lions tamed, prizes won, plop, plop, plop. He stood for a moment after the ripples of the last stone had run out, staring at the water that showed no signs of having ever been disturbed. Overhead a gull squawked. The church bells started calling out again from the streets behind him. He took another whiff of his sleeve. It was time.

  “Good morning, Catherine.” Baxter was standing at the front door, hands behind his back, a forced smile on his face. He had practically run back from the wharf. It was a struggle to speak. He wasn’t sure if he was a little winded or just at a loss for words. His face was flushed, he hoped the colour would help hide the pallor of bad news until he could make himself ready to deliver it.

  “Mr. Baxter. I’m surprised to see you here on a Sunday morning. Not that it isn’t a pleasure, please come in.”

  “Thank you.” Baxter had been here a few times before. He often felt awkward at social occasions. Somehow he always ended up in a circle of High Anglicans unable to see how close they were to being Catholic. They would shudder at the horrors of Popery, pretending they didn’t know he wasn’t one of them. It was worse when the Chief was in attendance. Guests sidled up to him to trade stories and laugh. They shied away from Baxter as if they feared arrest or the menace of an evil twin. He felt worst for Jane who often got left out in the cold for standing by him. Though never here. Catherine took the starch out of a dressy affair. She could put anyone at ease, even a chief inspector and his wife. Baxter followed Catherine out of the foyer and into the front parlour. He could recall how it felt to be here. He was less able to remember what it actually looked like. There were so many things in the room it was hard to know where to look, yet the place was spotless. Dust was chased and persecuted worse than the Catholics from Northern Ireland where Catherine came from. The wallpaper was an elegant light green with small white and pink roses, though much of it was hidden behind ornate frames; family portraits, landscapes, and scenes from European cities. He could imagine her here in the first hour of every day, tea cup in hand, chatting with old friends from cities far away. Looking down from the walls he realized there were far more books than pictures. The two large oak cases were full to the faces of their glass doors. More were piled in corners and on tables here and there. They seemed to be reproducing themselves, slowly colonizing the house. He caught glimpses of authors and titles, Locke, Chaucer, A Tale of Two Cities. He remembered Catherine mentioning a beautifully bound first edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Victor had given it to Catherine not long after they were married.

  An archway led out of the parlour into another room which led to a large drawing room at the back of the house. It was really more of an office. More pictures and books, a fossilized mammoth’s tooth, and the skull of some rare beast. There were dried flowers and stuffed birds and animals looking very much alive, watching from the tall grass, waiting for the slow and careless to make easy meals of themselves. A working model steam engine served as a centrepiece for a marble-topped buffet table. At a gathering one New Year’s Eve he had watched Victor ignite the boiler and blow the whistle to ring in the new year.

  He had heard Catherine describe her home. She seemed to see it as a working man’s Monticello, though she would never suggest comparisons to that home in Virginia or the man who owned it. She was equally careful to avoid saying what anything cost. When she hosted meetings for the variety of clubs and associations she belonged to or one of her husband’s political gatherings she would tell the story behind this or that. What she paid for it remained a secret. Her home was a museum without being stuffy. It didn’t say, “Mind your hands.” It seemed to be in motion like a sawmill or a washing machine. Baxter had always left with a vague feeling of accomplishment, even though he had done nothing more than sit and have tea.

  “I suppose you are here to see Victor. I’m afraid he isn’t back yet. He’s down in Windsor visiting with his brother. I expect him back this afternoon.” Catherine was not a very tall woman. The busy room with its high ceilings made her seem even smaller, like a delicate figurine that belonged on a mantelpiece. Baxter swallowed hard.

  “I see. When did he leave?”

  “Oh he left on Friday after he cleared his desk. To tell you the truth he ducked out a bit early before anyone could catch him with something last minute.”

  “You mean his council office…not his business office?” He was beginning to feel hot and wanted to take off his coat. He wanted to and he didn’t.

  “That’s right.” Catherine wasn’t young anymore, but her round face was still smooth and smiled easily. Baxter was a few years older, with a more drawn-out face that was much harder for the wear. He knew this day would show on him. He could almost feel the lines deepening.

  “I suppose he came home to pack a few things before he left.”

  “Well, no…when Victor’s leaving like that in the middle of the day he takes a bag with him in the morning.”

  “I see. He hires a coach?” Baxter shifted his weight slowly from one foot to the other.

  “Yes.” Catherine was used to hosting and to answering questions. She continued on at ease, her voice as light and welcoming as a hotel clerk.

  “So what time did he leave on Friday morning?” He didn’t like what he was doing, the weakness behind it. He also knew that by the time he was able to get where he was going, Catherine would be in pieces. Better to get what he could before he broke her with the bad news.

  “He went in a little early, around seven thirty, I believe, just so he didn’t feel quite so guilty. You know Victor.” She raised her arms in mock hopelessness and love for her husband.

  “And you have not heard from him, he didn’t send a telegram to let you know he arrived at…I’m sorry I can’t remember his brother’s name.” Maybe the colour had finally faded from his face and his own sorrow was showing. Maybe her curiosity had finally gotten the better of her stately manners.

  “Carmine…No, no telegrams from anyone. Mr. Baxter, is something the matter?” She smiled after the question but the ease had gone out of it.

  “Catherine, I have something to tell you.” He heard his voice betray him, felt his face give way.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are your children at home?”

  “Why?….Yes, the boys are here. Mary has run off to Sunday school.” Now Catherine’s voice cracked. Her eyes blinked trying to stay clear.

  “Catherine…Maybe you should get the boys.”

  “Is it Victor?”

  “The boys?”

  “Just tell me what’s going on.” Baxter pointed to a short sofa in the next room. Catherine hurried to it and sat waiting for him. She held her face up like a hopeful sunflower, but she couldn’t keep from wringing her hands, and one eye had overflowed. She wiped it quickly.

  He couldn’t bring himself to sit. “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Catherine…Victor is dead.”

  As Squire came along Argyle Street toward City Hall, the congregation of Saint Paul’s was gathering out front. The well-to-do of the city had come out of hibernation. They had come up from the grand homes where manicured lawns held hands and ran down to the shoreline along the northwest arm of the harbour. As comfortable as those places were, a mild day in late October was not to be missed. The crowd was large and growing. A few more covered carriages with their well-dressed drivers were waiting in line along Barrington Street as the last of the early arrivals passed back through the only gate into the Grand Parade. The young policeman trudged up the steps of City Hall with his head down and hands deep in the pockets of his greatcoat as if it were a much colder day. Behind him the first carriage in the line made its way inside. The curtain was pulled back for a moment by the ornate silver handle of a walking stick. Likely the passenger was looking for friends
among the circles of faces chatting about the coming wedding season, and which shipping lines provided the best service during passage to Europe.

  Squire had never been upstairs. He took the corridor to the left and had to double back. The bolt moved smoothly and came to rest with a heavy click. Victor’s office had recently been redone. He was greeted by the oily smell of fresh paint and varnish. The desk was large, made of oak, he guessed. It matched the chair and the wainscoting, tight grain with a light finish to enhance the natural colour of the wood. There was more hardwood on the floor, a bit darker with a large, rich-looking rug. It was all drawn together nicely by the cream coloured walls. There should have been some well-placed pictures and mementos to fill the air with personality and stories. There should have been an order, a purposeful neatness, maintained by the workings of a logical professional mind and a cleaning lady’s weekly dusting. Order could have provided some comfort against the disturbing images following Squire from the wharf and the doctor’s basement, given him some strength in the face of a murder case he was somehow in the middle of with no experience and too little sleep. Instead there was chaos. The desk was covered in open books, single pages from various papers with items circled, folders, notes on scraps of paper. Half cups of tea sat on top of things at precarious angles. Underneath the paint smell, he was now getting a whiff of stale cigar from the stumps in a large brown glass ashtray, partially covered by a shoebox filled with jars of preserves. A half-eaten sandwich was drying up beside that. The floor was strewn with more boxes, shoes kicked off in different directions. A bag of tools sat in one corner, some work clothes draped over a small chair beside it. A large map of the city was rolled out like a second rug, held at the corners by a brick, a work boot that didn’t seem to have a mate, a well-used copy of the Halifax directory, and a pack of playing cards.

  Squire stood just inside the door, halted as if he had been slapped. His mouth had gone dry and he was vaguely aware that his breathing had become rapid. Kenny was the youngest and a surprise, a pleasant one, finally a son. By the time he was ten, his two sisters were married and gone. His father was a kind man. He loved his son and Kenny trailed behind his father, his puppy tail wagging a blur. Then one day things began to change. It was funny at first. His father would set dishes in the wrong cupboard, or forget where he’d put things, or need to be reminded it was time to change his shirt. Next he became bothered. Why is that dog barking? Does the sun have to be so bright? Why are you staring at me?