What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  Kenny always helped with the firewood. At twelve he was strong enough to take a turn with the axe, split halves into quarters. He thrilled with the feeling of power it gave him. With one swing he was a fearless knight in battle chopping down the enemies of the realm. With the next he was a brave pioneer conquering the forest. They had not cut wood for a few days. Kenny was up in his room when he heard the crack of the first log. He ran through the kitchen door out into the yard. It was mid-morning and the sun was hot. Horseflies buzzed in circles. The corn was getting tall. You could just see the roof of a neighbour’s house above the tassels, shimmering in the heat. His father had taken off his shirt and tied it about his head. The axe kept coming round with train wheel speed, as if his father were in a contest or a fight for his life, crack, crack, crack. By the time the pieces of one stick hit the ground, he had the next one set up. When Kenny asked his father if he was all right, he said he was fine, but he sounded like a dog straining against a rope. Then Kenny noticed the dark spot on his father’s chest. It was cow manure. That’s why there were so many flies. When his father caught him staring he said the smell was helping. “With what?” the boy asked. Squire remembered being bewildered at that point. He also remembered he was not yet afraid of his father.

  His father stopped. He held the axe handle in both hands across his chest. The sweat was beginning to streak the manure. He was breathing hard. As he struggled for air he said the smell of the manure was helping to clear his head. His father was lean from a life of hard work. As he squeezed the handle of the axe the muscles in his arms and shoulders pulled like piano strings. His father looked up suddenly as if someone had called his name. Kenny thought maybe his mother was coming up behind. He turned to see. No one was there.

  When his father told him to hold the log that was standing on the block, perfectly still all by itself, Kenny felt his bladder let go just a little. He reminded himself that he loved his father. He moved over and reached out gingerly to steady the log with one shaky finger. His father said the log could not be trusted, he needed to hold it down with both hands on top. Kenny pulled away at the last second. He stood still with his head down, shaking. His father put up another log and told Kenny to hold it still. His father’s voice was calm and reassuring, as if the axe he was holding was really a tablespoon of castor oil. For the first time in his life Kenny disobeyed. When his father started screaming, Kenny went into mild shock and his bladder let go completely. Now his mother did come.

  Things got worse after that. His father stopped bathing. His hair grew wild and matted. Sometimes he would shave away a part of his beard and for a day or two at least there was one clean spot on his body. Somehow through his mania he continued to run the farm. He stopped coming in the house unless he was hungry. Kenny tried to help, he collected eggs, cleaned troughs, tended crops, and mended fences. He stayed clear of the wood pile. The barn mirrored the mind and health of his father. Once it had been a tidy factory. Squire remembered standing in the doorway the day after his father was taken away. The barn looked like a doll house that had been shaken by an angry child. But it was his mind his father had lost, not his temper. His eyes rolled wildly as they dragged him away to look for it. Sometimes in school he would hear the word whispered behind him. Of course no one in his family could bring themselves to say asylum, they preferred hospital.

  Squire had come out of the corner and moved to the centre of the room. But he was still seeing the chaos of the barn, wondering where to begin, when Victor’s office girl stepped through the doorway. She let out a small scream when she saw him and the sound broke his trance.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was thick. He cleared the barn dust from his throat. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  The girl was about his age, and looked vaguely familiar. She was short, with medium-length dark hair in a neat bun. Her face was round and plump like the rest of her, and the fullness of her body, its curves, its ripeness, were inviting, even from under her coat. The small mouth and full lips imagined a perfect kiss on a baby’s forehead. Most likely she lived in the upper streets. Surely they had passed in the neighbourhood or in the halls of the building they both worked in. “When I saw the door open I thought Mr. Mosher had come back early. He’s not here is he?”

  “No.”

  “Well that’s a relief. I don’t mean it like that. I like Mr. Mosher very much. It’s that I promised to have something done for first thing Monday. Then when he left early on Friday, I did too. He didn’t say I couldn’t. I promised to meet some friends after work. I thought it would be nice not to have to rush, pamper myself a little. I didn’t think there would be anyone here this morning. What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t know if he should tell her. At the same time he didn’t see how he could avoid it. He came forward a step. He reached for her arm, thinking to steady her for the blow. She tilted back just a little so he let his hand fall back to his side. He took a breath to steady himself. Better to be quick than linger. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr. Mosher is dead.”

  He had never seen a woman faint. She didn’t fall so much as she melted into the rug. Her knees hit, then she keeled over gently on her side. He wasn’t sure how long he stood over her, staring down at her slightly parted lips, flushed cheeks, and bosom rising and falling tenderly as a sleeping kitten. Should he go for a doctor? Maybe it wasn’t wise to leave her. He didn’t know. He had become noticeably aroused, which wasn’t helping him to think. It seemed like a very long time before he was able to compose himself enough to kneel and pat her hand. He tried not to notice how soft and warm and needful it felt. She responded to his touch and once again he found it difficult to think.

  “What happened?” She pushed herself up a little and stared at him as if she had never seen him.

  “You had a spell.” She stared for another moment then she let out a small cry and clamped a hand over her mouth. He took hold of her other elbow and helped her up. Then he took a step away and folded his arms hoping to look official and concerned, hoping more that this would close the front of his coat. “I am sorry I had to be the one to break the news. I’m a policeman. We’re looking into what happened. I take it you’re his office girl.”

  “Yes. Elizabeth Murray.”

  “Is that Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Miss.”

  “Well, happy to meet you, Miss Murray.”

  She paused and raised her eyebrows at him, then went back to digging in a small handbag.

  “Well, not happy it’s…My name is Squire…Kenneth…Kenny.” He jammed his hands in his coat pockets and rocked forward on his toes, then settled back on his heels and scratched his head.

  “Please excuse me for a moment, Kenny.” The digging had produced a hanky. She blew into it with a loud honk. She shrugged at him as she finished wiping, then asked, “Did Victor have a heart attack?”

  “Was he under a lot of pressure lately?” Squire looked around the office as he asked the question. He had moved over to the desk. But he had not touched anything, afraid the mess would collapse like a card tower.

  “I started working for Mr. Mosher two years ago. His office was always a little messy. Lately is been more of a disaster.” Elizabeth had moved around to the other side of the desk and begun poking around. Then she stopped and looked up at Squire. “I was looking for his notes on the tramway proposal. I promised I would have them organized and typed up for tomorrow morning. I guess it doesn’t matter now.” She took out the hanky again and walked over to the window behind the desk. She stared out past the dewdrops on the glass into the nothingness of the grey sky.

  “So Mr. Mosher was acting differently over the past few weeks?”

  “He was still very nice to me. He kept working hard, same as always. But he stopped putting things away or cleaning up, as you can see. I tried to pick up. He shooed me away. He was forgetting things, appointments, names. He never forgot things before. Somet
imes I would find him here at the window when he was supposed to be in a meeting.” She blew her nose again.

  “Did you ask him about any of it?”

  She looked away from the window for just a moment. Still she did not look at him. She shook her head. Wiping at her eyes, she said, “He never stopped being real busy. I didn’t know what to ask, and it wasn’t really my place.”

  “Was anyone new or strange coming to see him?” Squire was still at the desk, he had discovered that the preserves in the shoebox were peach and the cigars in the ashtray were Cuban. But he kept his hands in his pockets.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you know anything about his private business, or his home life? Did you hear anything? Maybe he said something?”

  “Not to me.” She turned now and did look at him. Coming away from the window, back toward the desk, she asked, “What are you looking for? I thought you said Mr. Mosher had a heart attack.”

  “No, that was your idea.” He stepped back from the desk just a little, though he didn’t look away.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” She crossed her arms and waited, the hanky dangling from one hand.

  “We don’t know yet, other than he was murdered. I was sent here this morning to search for clues. But to be honest I have no idea what to look for and in this mess…well…” He took one hand out of his coat and waved toward the desk and the general upside-down state of affairs.

  “Do you see a red book anywhere, softcover, leather? It will have all sorts of notes and papers stuffed between the pages. You would never know it was his appointment book. He guarded it like a diary. He would never let me write things in it for him.” She took the half empty tea cups and set them out of the way on a chair, then began picking more things off the desk, forming them into piles.

  “I don’t see it anywhere.” Squire had begun to help, more confident with an example to follow.

  “It wasn’t with him when…”

  Seeing the look on her face, Squire saved her from having to finish the thought and shook his head. Then he asked, “Did you look in the desk?”

  She nodded, then added, “But, I couldn’t look in the centre drawer, it’s locked.”

  He drew the ring of keys from his pants pocket. It took a few tries to find that the right key was there. He slid the drawer open. There were two folders and a book on top. “Is that it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He withdrew it carefully. It was just as Elizabeth had described, crammed full. He knew he needed to take it. He was equally certain Baxter would want the first look. “Do you know what’s in those folders?”

  “No. Those are white. All the office file folders are brown with labels…see.” She pointed at various piles as she spoke. “I keep them in a cabinet by my desk.” She nodded toward the door.

  Squire looked around. There was a small attaché leaning against the side of the desk. It was empty. He stuffed in the book and the folders. “What was it you said you came in to work on this morning?”

  “Notes on the proposal to expand the city tramway,” she said, continuing to sort folders and books and newspapers into piles.

  “Expand it how?” Squire asked, holding the attaché in one hand and handing her things to keep piling.

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Not very often.”

  “More lines north and west. Some people are all for it, say it would be good for the city. Others say it costs too much and we don’t need it.”

  “What side was Councilman Mosher on?”

  Elizabeth stopped piling and put her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders. Caught up in the work of straightening out the place and looking for evidence Squire had not been looking at her. Now he had to be careful to look her in the eye. “Well, that’s a funny thing. At first he was strongly against the idea. Then a couple of weeks ago he changed his mind, decided to support the proposal. He was drawing up an argument to bring to Council, that’s what the notes were for.”

  “Are they here?”

  “No, here.” She handed them over and taking them he touched her hand. He couldn’t discern if she had any reaction.

  “Did anyone else know Victor had changed his mind?”

  “I don’t think so, he asked me not to discuss it.”

  “Elizabeth, can you think of anything else that might be important, or anyone who might want to hurt your boss—an angry constituent, someone he had bad business dealings with, anyone at all.”

  “No, I never met anyone that had a bad word to say about him. He was a saint.” She looked like she might cry again. Her eyes were full, but they didn’t spill over.

  “All right then. I have orders to close up this office and seal it off. Do you have a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to give it to me. Does anyone else have a key?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Elizabeth dug in her bag for the key while Squire found a pen and paper and made up the sign Baxter wanted on the door. “I don’t know what to do with myself. I thought I would be here much of the day.” She held out the key as if she had been denied communion and was giving back the sacrament.

  “Miss Murray, I had better take your address. Just in case I need to get in touch. The chief inspector is in charge of this case, he may have more questions.”

  “I live at 104 Grafton Street, room three. Don’t you need to write that down too?” she asked, nodding at the sign Squire had tacked to the door.

  “No, I won’t forget.”

  Squire walked Miss Elizabeth Murray downstairs to the building’s front door and held it for her. He watched her move across the Grand Parade, then up the steps onto Argyle Street. She walked with her head down, in no particular hurry. Next to the loss of the wife and family which neither of them had ever met, her loss was minor, though Squire could see it didn’t feel that way to Elizabeth. He wondered how long the list of affected persons would be. What would the murder of Victor Mosher end up meaning to him?

  After his father got sick, he and his mother had run the farm. He had started school late that fall, after the harvest, but he was determined to keep up his studies. He was a long time finishing. The man they took away from his house that day was moved from the hospital to a special ward at the county poorhouse. Kenny visited, hoping his father would return. He only went farther away. Squire shook hands with a stranger before leaving for Halifax on the train. There was no one to blame, that was the worst of it. At times he had looked for excuses, tried to pick fights at school or around town. It never came to much. Everyone felt too sorry for him and his family. Maybe Victor’s family would feel better if they had someone to blame.

  When Squire pushed open the door to the police station, Mackay was back behind the front counter. Squire assumed Ellen was still downstairs. “What are you doing back here? You’re not on duty this morning.” Mackay double-checked a roster sheet he had pulled from somewhere under the counter.

  “The chief inspector has me checking on some things. Is he in yet?”

  “Haven’t seen him. What you got there, stuff from Mosher’s office?” Squire couldn’t hide his mix of surprise and fear. Then he looked over at the door that led downstairs. “That’s right, Ellen and I had a little talk, she opened right up to me.” Squire stepped closer to the counter, measuring the distance to Mackay. He forced the sergeant to look him in the eye.

  Mackay held his ground and then Squire got a whiff. Of course Mackay wouldn’t enter Ellen’s cell, she was unafraid of the likes of him. And she would tell him nothing unless he did something for her and there could only be one thing. Squire stepped back from the counter.

  “The chief inspector will be in a little later,” he said through a wry smile. “No doubt he’ll want to speak to Ellen one more time. Do you suppose she’ll say who’s been serving her d
rinks?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. Five past ten. Baxter would have finished with the doctor, he must still be with Victor’s wife. Squire walked backwards to the door, enjoying the look on Mackay’s face. He pushed though and headed down the hall. He would go to Victor’s business office then come back.

  This time when Baxter stepped out onto Hollis Street, his clothes didn’t stink of death, but sorrow had him by the heart and throat. Catherine had eventually called the boys to her side. The three of them had huddled on the small sofa in quiet mourning. The stuffed birds and animals seemed to turn away, giving them room to grieve. Learning it was murder added anger to feelings of shock and loss. Waiting for the daughter was agony. Breaking the news to her, the rest of the family would relive their own horror from the start. Baxter could not bear witness. He mumbled his condolences and slipped out quietly. He knew his reprieve would be short. Once the initial wave of grief had passed through the family, their cries for justice would begin. They would turn to the chief of police, who would look to him. They could mourn quietly at home, he would have to keep right on working through his pain. Maybe he was better off.

  As uncomfortable as it was, he had to do it. As he walked, he replayed the scenes while they were fresh and he could see them clearly. He paid particular attention to things not said. No one offered a theory of the crime, a common guilty urge. No one volunteered an alibi, a further sign of guilt he was relieved not to have seen. The inability to breathe between sobs, the tears, the snot, the turning inside-out with no attention paid whatsoever to his reaction. These people were to be pitied, not investigated. But what was it Catherine had said about her husband? “He’s down in Windsor visiting with his brother. I expect him back this afternoon.” While Catherine didn’t know Victor had stayed in the city, his brother surely did. Baxter reached around for his watch. It was going on ten thirty. The North Street Station was twenty minutes away. He picked up his stride.