What Kills Good Men

by David Hood

  “None. But Wallace will meet.” The dire conviction in Baxter’s voice made a meeting itself sound like damning evidence.

  Squire made no effort to hide his confusion. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because he’s involved.”

  Further assertion gave Squire little help. “What makes you so sure?”

  Baxter had been reading along Barrington Street as if his lines were printed across its storefronts. Now he turned to a study of Squire’s face. “You can read Latin, yet last night you hid that fact, why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You see…?” Baxter waited for Squire to look up. “Just now you hesitated, and looked down. Which tells me you do know.” This time Squire looked across the square toward Saint Paul’s. “Don’t worry, it’s not important. When I mentioned Wallace, Clarke insulted me, do you remember?” Squire nodded and as Baxter continued he was able to look him in the eye. “Clarke created a distraction for the same reason you looked away. Wallace is in this somehow. And he’ll want to meet to find out what we know, which reminds me. Did you find out if Victor met anyone when he had lunch at the Royal Hotel?”

  Squire’s shoulders slumped with the weight of more frustration. “No, I forgot, I’m sorry. I could go now.”

  “The day shift has likely gone home. Go in the morning, first thing.” Baxter started up the stairs. Squire hesitated, looking off in the general direction of the Royal Hotel and the chance for a little redemption. After a deep breath he went up, two at a time, to catch Baxter at the door.

  Tolliver’s office was across the hall from the sergeant’s desk and the open office area of the station. The door was open. Baxter knocked on the casing as he came in. Squire followed two steps behind. The chief’s desk was to the left, at the far end of the rectangular office. The chief was reclining behind it, his hands clasped behind his head. “I expected you before this,” he said, coming forward in his chair and folding his hands on the desk. “Are you making any progress, Chief Inspector?”

  Squire remained close to the door, as if he expected to be excused. Baxter took a position in the centre of the room, and resisted an urge to pace the width of the office. He wanted to keep his full attention on the chief’s reactions. The chief pushed back in his chair, this time angled toward the window. Tolliver didn’t seem to be looking at anything, just not at Baxter, which raised his suspicions. Baxter reviewed the events of the day and laid out his theory of the case. There were no signs of tension or alarm, no signs of anything at all. Somehow, though, the chief seemed to be following the details. Squire was paying attention to what Baxter didn’t say. Tolliver sat still, staring out the window. When Baxter finished, Tolliver waited a few seconds then leaned forward. Now he looked at Baxter and sighed. “So you’re saying one of the city’s most respected politicians got himself murdered in a brothel?”

  “It’s unfortunate,” Baxter replied. For him, his family, and those of us who have to clean up the mess, he thought to himself.

  The chief’s eyes widened even more as he glared back at what he obviously took as understatement. “And you think the richest man in the city was a witness?”

  Baxter didn’t look away. He did, however, refrain from comment, just nodded slightly to confirm that he had not been misheard. Behind him Squire accidentally kicked the door as he shuffled his feet. The chief flashed him a look of annoyance and the young policeman mumbled an apology that was ignored.

  “The fact that Wallace and McNeally were schoolboy chums proves nothing,” the chief snapped, pointing a finger at Baxter.

  “Would you have felt that way three years ago, when we had McNeally in custody?” The question was part retort, part accusation, but Baxter kept his voice calm, a subtlety that he knew would dig further under the chief’s skin.

  The chief shook his head in a way that indicated he took the question as a low blow. If they had been alone in the room, Baxter knew the chief would have cursed him up and down. Instead he took aim at the holes in Baxter’s theory, now pointing his finger through them and Baxter at the same time. “You have no connection between Wallace and Victor or Wallace and Clarke.”

  He could fill in the holes a bit by telling the chief about Victor’s change of heart on the tramway, although the more Baxter thought about it, the more he was convinced it had to do with Wallace. He could let the chief know that Victor’s IOUs had been witnessed by a lawyer, likely another connection. He could spell out the details of his visit to Clarke’s. But Baxter said none of these things. In the same flat tone he merely stated the obvious. “We are the police investigating a murder.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed. He said a few words to himself. Then he looked down at his desk and moved his hands apart slowly across its polished surface. With his head still lowered and a tight grip on the edges of his desk, he said in a voice more resolved than angry, “Leave this with me…I’ll be in touch.” As Baxter was turning to the door, the chief spoke again. “Past two days there’s been a rash of burglaries, all in the south end. The mayor’s had some calls. See if Meagher has come up with anything. Make sure he’s on top of it.”

  The chief had looked up from his desktop, the features of his face dry and hard, as if drawn by lines of soil erosion, a face pressed out of secrets and back-scratching and trade-offs, the political muck of the city. When this day was over Baxter would take a long hot bath. He promised to speak to Meagher in the morning then turned and motioned for Squire to go first. At the door he called back over his shoulder, “Open or closed?”

  “Close it, please.” Just before he pulled the door shut, Baxter heard the chief lift the receiver and then the metallic voice of the operator.

  Baxter held the door of his own office for Squire, then closed it behind him. He peered around the letters of his name stencilled across the door window. The office staff had all gone home. The night sergeant had not come in yet. Baxter turned to face Squire. “You handled that well,” he said, pleased again by Squire’s good sense of when to keep quiet.

  Squire didn’t answer right away. He was taking another survey of his footwear. Baxter stared at the top of Squire’s helmet and waited. The eyes stayed downcast. Finally the helmet spoke. “You left some things out.”

  Baxter nodded as if Squire could also see through the top of his head. “Best not to tip our hand completely. The only person who knows Victor had changed his mind on the tramway is his office girl?”

  “No one else I’ve talked to mentioned it.”

  “And you told no one.”

  Now Squire looked up. “Never said a word.”

  Baxter stepped over to his desk as he spoke. “Good. Take these home.” He handed Squire Victor’s appointment book along with his notes on the tramway proposal. “Go over them again. Look for any connection to Wallace, no matter how vague. When you’re done at the Royal, meet me here.”

  Squire tucked the notes in the book and slipped it under his arm. He paused on his way out. “You’re going to talk to the people on the list Saunders gave us.”

  “Just one.” Squire started to ask, then cut himself off. He looked like he’d had enough policing for one day. Baxter watched him cross the outer office and say good night to O’Brien, who was now behind the front desk. He glanced over at the chief’s door. It was still closed. There was no light under the door. But the twilight was still strong. Baxter thought about knocking instead of guessing. Eventually he decided against it. He was hungry and tired and the events of the long day were beginning to run out his ears. If the chief wanted to, he could reach him at home. He closed his own office door.

  Jane had prepared a fine beef stew with dumplings and apple pie for afters. Grace had come to table with a newspaper. It lay folded by her plate. Normally her mother would not tolerate such behaviour. A part of him wondered at the allowance, the rest of him was too tired to inquire. He would not have to wait long for an answer.

 
; “Have you seen the list of volunteers?” Grace seemed to be asking him. Before he could answer, Jane intervened.

  “I should have insisted you put that away.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I just had to see for myself.”

  “And?”

  “His name is on the list, look here.” She passed paper.

  “Whose name?” He was tired. The stew was delicious. He needed a good night’s sleep, a week’s worth.

  “Peter Lenehan.”

  “Do we know him?” The name seemed vaguely familiar. The vegetables were perfect, firm not mushy, and the rolls were just the right temperature.

  “They sit on the other side of the aisle from us at Mass, Emmet and Marie.”

  “Their boy enlisted?” With a sigh that was almost longing, he put down his fork and reached for the evidence. He read the name and slowly an image began to form: blond, heavy shoulders, and long droopy arms. He had once asked Baxter if he had always wanted to be a policeman. Baxter had answered with a question of his own. What did the boy want to be? Before he could say, Grace had appeared and dragged him off.

  “We’ve been in the same class since grade three. He is the smartest boy in school.”

  “Have we seen him lately?”

  “Not for a while. We used to…Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I’m sure he has his reasons.” Baxter had put the paper down and gone back to his supper. As he buttered a roll, he wondered what his daughter wasn’t saying about young Peter Lenehan, whom she had known since grade three.

  “He’s lost all reason more like.”

  “Grace.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother, it’s just such a waste.”

  “Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”

  “Bit late, I’m afraid,” Baxter said, mopping up a bit of gravy with the last of his roll. He had stopped wondering about Mr. Lenehan and was considering more stew.

  “Can we change the subject? Grace, may I have that please?”

  Grace took the paper from beside her father’s plate and handed it over. She had pushed her luck bringing the paper to the table and turning the dinner conversation towards the contentious, which her mother viewed as bad for digestion and bad form. In deference to her mother Grace didn’t chance any new questions about the medical aspects of Victor’s case. Or perhaps injuries and death were suddenly too personal and frightening a topic. The meal finished with few more words. Baxter made an offer to help with the dishes, then made a poor job of disguising his relief at being released from duty. He was more grateful still when Jane offered to set up his bath once the dishes were dried and put away. Shooed out of the kitchen, he had wandered into his downstairs bedroom workshop with half a notion to tinker at something. He hoisted himself onto a bar stool. The soft soles of his slippers gripped a bottom rung like monkey feet. The workbench in front of him was cluttered with tools and junk from the dust bins and sidewalks of the city, battered soldiers in various stages of convalescence. He picked up a small carpenter’s knife. A couple of gentle scrapes along a forearm confirmed its sharpness. He poked the palm of his hand with the point of the knife hard enough to make a dent, but not break the skin. He watched the impression fade as his flesh rebounded. He wondered what had gone through Victor’s mind as his killer’s knife had pushed in. Baxter poked himself again. He thought of Carmine trying to protect his brother. He made another dent and watched it fill in. Keeping Squire on the case was turning out better than expected. Poke. He regretted his suspicion of the young policeman. Poke. And his moment of insecurity that had caused it. Poke, poke. The dents were taking longer to fill in. At least the case had not gone cold. The smile would be wiped off Clarke’s face. Poke. His taunts regretted. Poke, poke. Ugh. It wasn’t serious. He pressed the wound with his thumb for a few seconds then surveyed the damage, just a little blood. As he put the knife down and drew his other hand to his mouth Baxter felt a presence behind him. He turned to see Grace standing at the open door.

  “Father, may I speak to you?”

  “Of course, darling, what is it?” He picked up the knife and a few other hand tools, put them in a tray and pushed it out of reach. He checked his hand again for blood then closed it up and slipped it into the pocket of his cardigan.

  “I need your help.” Grace had remained by the door. Now she moved as she spoke, not in a hurry as if she were nervous or afraid, just efficiently. She glided across the room without disturbing the air or making a sound.

  “What is it?” Grace was on a second bar stool, her slender hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were a faded blue, like the gingham of a washed-out tablecloth.

  “I’ve taken some tests, at the medical school.” She had started off looking her father in the eye. She ended with her head down, her hands no longer still.

  “Have you now.” His back was tired. He had been slouching. Now he arched himself and folded his arms across his chest, sneaking a peak at his palm as he did. Fatigue and distraction delayed his full understanding of what had just been said.

  Grace tilted her head slightly as her fingers tied and untied themselves. She seemed resigned to watching, unable to control their movements. “I’m sorry to have kept this from you and Mother. I didn’t want to raise the topic until I found out if there was any hope.”

  “I take it you have done well on these tests.” He was suddenly aware of his heartbeat, still there was a hint of pride in his voice.

  “I got the results today. The school is willing to consider my application.” There was humility and surprise in Grace’s voice. And it seemed to Baxter maybe a little pride of her own.

  “Consider.” Baxter lowered his chin just a little. His eyes kept looking into his daughter’s face, watching it as if it were receding, a trail of past faces, faces with toothy six-year-old smiles, lips bitten over grade-four math, the sublime glow of first communion.

  “There have been no promises made, of course. Still I am being encouraged.” Here was a new face for his memory, more grownup than child.

  “So they may still say no.” Did he sound hopeful? Was he wrong to feel that way?

  “There are other schools.” The blue in Grace’s eyes no longer seemed washed out, more like sapphires.

  “I see.” Now it was the father who watched his hands and wondered what they might do next.

  “Do you?” The voice was soft. The question no less hard.

  “I have always loved you and wanted the best for you.” His words were true and heartfelt and rather pointless in defense.

  “I can still marry, have children.” She would decide, that was what she was asking him to accept.

  “You could do that first.” He was reduced to pleading.

  “You know what I wanted most when I was young? Brothers and sisters.”

  “We tried Grace…they didn’t…the doctors said…” He was grateful that his mind was too full and tried to recall the sadness of those years, the stillness of the empty rooms.

  “I will give you grandchildren one day, I promise. I just have to do this first. Medicine is advancing. I want to…I want to advance with it. Little girls shouldn’t have to grow up alone…and this war…”

  “Alone?” The clothes, the toys, two rooms made into one, the doting and spoiling. More consolation for her parents, so it seemed.

  “I could do some good…make the most of all the things you and Mother have done for me.” She was standing now, a little unsteadily it seemed. He thought she might reach out. He would take her hand, steady her the way he used to as they crossed the street. Instead she held out papers that materialized from somewhere.

  “What have you got there?” He looked at her to avoid looking at what was in her hand.

  “It’s my application to the medical school. There are places for your signature. Family support means a great deal to the school. It would mean a great deal to me as well.” Before
he could take them the telephone rang in reprieve from the hall. He would not have to sign over a future he’d long imagined, not right this moment anyway. Grace moved lithely into the hall and said hello. His steps behind her were slow and heavy.

  “It’s for you, the chief of police,” she whispered, handing over the receiver. “I’m going upstairs to read before bed. I’ll leave the papers.” She kissed him on the cheek and flew away.

  He tried to listen closely. Despite the effort, he had to ask the chief to repeat some details. After he hung up he sat in the chair by the telephone in the dim lamplight of the hallway and waited for Jane to call him for his bath. It seemed a very long time.

  Tuesday

  Even as a boy James Seabrook had gotten up with the sun. It wasn’t a habit formed from any particular need or purpose. It was just his nature. He sat very still with his feet together under the kitchen table in their blue velvet slippers. He unfolded the Morning Chronicle and laid it out flat. He pulled his chair in close and leaned forward slightly as he scanned the front page. It all had to do with the goings on in South Africa and the mustering of Canadian troops. In a related story on page three, the Americans were already gearing up for the thirty-fifth anniversary of the surrender at Appomattox Court House. It would be the first of the new century. He was relieved to see nothing further on the death of Victor Mosher, until page four. The sooner that event ceased to be news the better.

  He had the kettle on for tea along with a saucepan of water to poach two eggs. The pans creaked with the rising heat of the stove as Seabrook read Victor’s obituary. He was nearly ten years older so they had missed each other growing up. Even if they had been the same age, money and social standing would have kept them far apart, the Moshers having less of both than the Seabrooks. Still Victor had not let a rough start hold him back. He had done well, didn’t deserve to end up the way he did. The death notice said all those things. There was a short story on the investigation, the police were doing everything possible. No arrests had been made. Of course it was only a matter of time. Yesterday Chief Inspector Baxter and his new partner had been seen outside a particular establishment on Albemarle Street. “There was talk” that perhaps someone at that address was somehow involved. Seabrook guessed the opposite was true. No one was saying too much at all, at least not to the papers, otherwise every word would be in print. So far so good.