by Medora Sale
“Sure. That one—same longish hair, same face, but you can see the snarky expression even better.” She paused a second. “I guess she’s the one, isn’t she?”
He brushed aside the question. “She lifted weights? Recently? When did you see her there last? And what in hell were you doing in a health club where women lift weights?”
Eleanor put the car in gear and quietly left the parking lot. “Which question do you want me to answer first? Anyway, it had to be recently, because I just started two weeks ago, and that was when I saw her. I asked her a simple question, and she bit my head off. I was terribly embarrassed. And I was there because I’ve taken up health and fitness—for self-protection and the general fun of it.” By this time the Rabbit had accomplished the very brief journey over to MacNiece Avenue. “Which house do you want?”
“Number thirty-seven. It’s the apartment building,” he said. “Right over there.”
“If you give me a call—upstairs, my phone—I’ll meet you in front of the house. Do you want the number?”
“I have it,” he said, a little too emphatically, as he clambered out of the car. “And I won’t be long, unless she knows a great deal more than I think she does.”
“I take it that the lady wasn’t very well informed,” Eleanor said lightly after the waitress had put their beers down and left.
“Not very well at all,” said Sanders. “Lots of insinuations about the general level of morals among her younger female tenants, and absolutely no information about Conway at all. It seems to take an explosion to pry her away from her TV set. She probably doesn’t even recognize half the tenants.” He opened his mouth to carry on in the same vein, then stopped abruptly. “I’ve missed you, you know. Painfully. It seems like a very long time since I’ve seen you.”
“It has been,” said Eleanor. “Since last summer, I believe.” She looked at him steadily, then dropped her eyes back down to her glass. “I’m really not as hard to find as you are. I did consider dialing 911 to see what would happen, but I was afraid that someone else might take the call.”
Her attempt at humour had the paradoxical effect of tightening the already tense atmosphere. Sanders stared into his glass. “Someone else would have.” He tried to smile in turn. “It’s not a very efficient way to reach me. I’ve left Marie, you know.”
“Oh,” said Eleanor. “No, I didn’t know. When?”
“Last weekend, actually. And I don’t see why you would know. No one does, I suppose, but Dubinsky and the switchboard, who have my new telephone number. It’s funny, though. The first thing that happens is that I run into you again. You don’t know how many times I’ve almost called you, but didn’t.”
“Why not?” asked Eleanor. “It never occurred to me that I was that terrifying. No one else seems to find me even slightly alarming.” She leaned back in her chair, arm along the back, with her head resting on her hand and her fingers thrust through her untidy red curls. Her expression hovered halfway between amusement and hostility. “You’re not being wildly convincing.”
“Dammit, you know perfectly well that I’m not terrified of you. Can’t you understand the position I was in? You could credit me with some conscience at least.”
“Oh, really?” said Eleanor in polite disbelief. “That certainly wasn’t the impression that I got last summer. Isn’t tormented loyalty a new line? I wasn’t all that aware of it before.”
“Christ almighty, you can be exasperating. I’m not trying to say that I never looked at another woman. But the women I run into in my line of work are a pretty mixed bag”—he ran his fingers through his hair and looked perplexed—“and they’re not like you. You were—I don’t know—a problem.”
Eleanor shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “What the hell. We can argue about that later. What are you doing now? Where are you living?”
He signaled the waitress for another round and sighed. “I sublet a one-bedroom apartment downtown for six months. It’s a strange sensation to walk in at night to an empty house. Sort of like the feeling you get after a toothache disappears—a feeling that something’s missing, but you’re not sure that you care. Anyway, I’m not really living anywhere, it feels like. Basically, I’m camping out behind my desk. We’re pretty busy most of the time, and now with King Kong out there—”
“King Kong?”
“Your local rapist. The one who kills them and then carries them around for a while before he dumps them somewhere. We’re going crazy. That’s two women in your area now.”
“Listen,” said Eleanor, “if someone else has already been attacked out in that ravine, why isn’t it filled with cops? How many women does it take before you start sending in patrols?”
“Patrols!” He choked into his beer glass. “We have so many guys in there the rummies are complaining about lack of space. We even have guys in old clothes, clutching wine bottles; armed to the teeth. He is obviously very cautious. He waits until there’s no one around—a patrol can’t be everywhere at once—and then attacks. For all we know, he goes out every day, checking four or five different areas. This guy is very mobile and, in his way, pretty smart.”
“Why don’t you let people know the ravines are being patrolled? Wouldn’t it make them feel better?”
“We don’t want them to feel better. We want them to stay the hell out of the way until we catch him. You may not believe it, but it’s turning me into a nervous wreck. When they called us to the ravine this morning I just sat in the car and let Dubinsky go in ahead. I didn’t want to walk in there and see a lot of red hair spread out on the ground. I’m beginning to lose my grip, I think.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” said Eleanor without a flicker of sympathy. “Everyone says that he likes them short. He probably couldn’t reach up high enough to hit me on the head. Besides, I told you, I’m so fast and strong now that I can handle anything. Look at that,” she said, flexing her right bicep.
Sanders laughed for the first time that afternoon. “Okay, Wonder Woman, show me.” He put his right elbow on the table, arm up, in classic stance. Eleanor solemnly moved the empty beer glasses out of the way and positioned herself to meet the challenge. Slowly their palms joined, and Eleanor started to push. For a second she gained ground, and then she felt her tortured muscles give slightly, and her arm being steadily dragged down from its position. Suddenly she noticed the waitress hovering over them, her tray heavy with filled glasses. Laughter robbed her of any remaining strength and she gave up just in time to avoid knocking over the next round.
“That’s no fair,” she said, as she caught her breath. “You’ve probably been sweating it out in some jock gym for cops for fifteen years, and I just started two weeks ago.”
“Naw,” he said, shaking his head. “Just my innate male superiority.” He ducked to avoid her fist. “No, really, I am just a bit bigger and stronger than you are. You’re not bad, though.” He picked up her hand again, almost absent-mindedly. “I wish you wouldn’t assume that this guy is a ninety-pound weakling. He can’t be that feeble, you know. It looks as though he might have carried some of those women a fair distance, while they were either dead or unconscious.” A new thought flickered across his mind, but he kept firm hold of her hand still. “Tell me something—why would a woman lift weights or run while she was pregnant? Wouldn’t she figure it was bad for her?”
“I’m not sure,” said Eleanor slowly. “I’ve known a couple of girls who kept up with their running while they were pregnant on the theory that it would keep them healthy. It seemed to work for them, anyway. But lifting weights—that sounds like another thing altogether. It puts quite a strain on your system, I think. But you shouldn’t ask me. I was the sort that just lay around and vegetated while I was carrying Heather. The guys at the health club probably know more about it than I do. Why do you want to know? I assure you I’m not pregnant.”
“Maybe not,
but Jane Conway was. That’s why I was so surprised to hear that you had run into her at a weight-lifting establishment. But as far as I know, maybe all these places are filled with pregnant women bench-pressing three hundred pounds. I have trouble keeping up in some areas.”
“How pregnant was she? She didn’t look it to me, but then I didn’t examine her closely. Wasn’t she divorced or something? “
“Separated, according to the principal. And that doesn’t prevent women from getting pregnant, you know. Anyway, she was only two or three months along.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “We’d love to know who the father is, though. You’re pretty cosy with the teachers at the school. I don’t suppose you heard any gossip about who he might be?”
“I didn’t even know she was pregnant, remember? And I don’t see why you’re worrying about it. If she was killed by your King Kong, he wouldn’t care who got her pregnant, surely.”
“We can’t just assume that each one of these victims was killed by the same man—we still have to nose around and see what we can find. You wouldn’t like to keep those lovely ears open for any gossip, would you?” He looked up, and then shook his head. “God, but I’m stupid. Forget I said that. Thirty minutes ago you were barely speaking to me, and now I’m asking you to . . . I’m sorry. You must have things to do, and I’m keeping you here in ridiculous conversation.”
“Well,” she said, “I am pretty hungry. And if you aren’t going to go somewhere to dinner with me, I’ll have to go and get something to eat before I faint from starvation. It’s a long walk home on an empty stomach.”
Chapter 6
Friday, April 13, dawned before John Sanders’ day ended. He had spent a bleak and restless night, falling into profound slumber as the first light began to pick out the Toronto lakefront, the long-awaited sleep thus depriving him of a magnificent view from his downtown apartment. The alarm dragged him painfully to consciousness, and habit got him dressed and out of the door. By 8:45, as foul-tempered and foggy as the weather, he was facing Ed Dubinsky across their desks. He reached for the sheaf of papers on the Conway woman. His coffee spilled over two break-and-enters and some as yet unclassified mail. “Shit!” he muttered, looking wildly and haplessly around for something to mop the coffee up with. Dubinsky heaved himself out of his chair and disappeared, returning seconds later with a roll of paper towels.
“You don’t look all that bright this morning,” remarked Dubinsky. “Everything okay?” This was the closest he’d got to alluding to Sanders’ domestic imbroglios.
“Everything’s fine. I just didn’t get all that much sleep last night for some reason. Too much work, too much coffee—I don’t know.” He drank the half-inch left in the Styrofoam cup and threw it into the wastebasket. “Anyway, let’s see where we are, as of now. Any word on Parsons?”
“Collins was up there this morning.”
“And?”
“Nothing. She’s still unconscious. The neurologist thinks we’re wasting the taxpayers’ money keeping a man there.”
“So what in hell are we supposed to do? If she regains consciousness and there’s no one there to take a statement we’ll be in a helluva mess. Besides, she can probably identify him—and he must know that. And since he seems to be invisible, he could probably get in there and finish her off.”
“Okay,” said Dubinsky. “I never said she should be left alone.” He shook his head. “If she buys it, that’s five in four months. One guy. I can’t believe it.”
“If it is the same one. That’s what I find hard to believe.”
“This last one looks close enough,” said Dubinsky. “Everything was the same—except no knife marks and she still had her clothes on. He was probably interrupted again.”
“Yeah,” said Sanders, “But it just doesn’t have the same smell to it. I went through the newspaper accounts last night. Everything that was done to that woman has already been published in the papers. It could be a copycat.”
“You think we’ve got two rapists running around the ravines now?” He got to his feet again. “That’s really great, isn’t it? You want some more coffee?”
“Sure.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, spread them out a bit, and thought. Dubinsky put a fresh cup of coffee on his desk, out of range of his elbow, and sat down. “Thanks. We still don’t have anything positive on her background, do we? Did we get anywhere on next of kin?” He lifted his cup cautiously to his mouth. “You’d think she was some rubby or sailor on a spree. No one seems to know anything about her except her name.”
“Well, I did talk to one woman at the school who seemed to know her, but I haven’t been able to follow up on the details yet.” Once again he flipped slowly back through the pages of his notebook. “A Miss Madeleine O’Connor, part-time teacher of Russian and German. She said that she talked to her a fair amount because they had a spare period together every day. And that she felt sorry for her, because she was having a hell of a time with the kids and with the department head, and no one was really willing to help her. Then she went on about how teachers treat newcomers and so on. Pretty bitchy, if you ask me. And she never shut up. None of them did. I never heard anything like it.” He paused to shake his head. “Anyway, Conway’s husband is a graduate student at the University of Toronto, in the Department of Biology, and they’re separated; she and this O’Connor woman had a lot in common because they were really graduate students, not teachers like everyone else on the staff. Whatever that means. The husband’s name is Doug. And that’s all I got, except that they used to go out for a drink once in a while after work.” He sighed. “And if there are any other women at the school to interview, I wish you’d do it. They seem to be more your type than mine.”
“So all we know about her is her name, and her husband’s name, and where she worked. Great. Someone must have recommended her for the job—I have it here somewhere”—Sanders searched through his notebook—“Right. Recommended by Professor George Simmons of the Department of Physics, University of Toronto, who apparently said that she probably knew enough to teach high-school kids, as long as no one asked her too hard a question. Jesus. There’s a sweet guy.” He thought for a moment. “But we know more than that,” he said finally. “She used to work out at a gym near the school. They might know something about her there. Anyway, call the Department of Biology and see if you can locate Mr. Doug Conway, and then we’ll go through that apartment for whatever leads we can pick up. Otherwise off to the gym. Okay, let’s get moving.”
Dubinsky and Sanders stood at the entrance to Jane Conway’s apartment and looked around. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock; they had a promise they would be able to find the elusive husband at two o’clock in the Biology Department, and it was quite possible that it would take them the full, boring four-hour interval just to go through her papers, looking for background material. The apartment had a dreary, faded look with the spring rain trickling down the window panes. The furniture was dark and heavy; the rug an old, bleached-out red Persian. Dubinsky looked resigned, Sanders depressed. At last he turned and spoke. “Why don’t you start with the bedroom, and I’ll get going on that desk.” They moved off in separate directions and started in to work.
Sanders began with the brown leather briefcase leaning against the side of the desk. It contained two brutally large textbooks, which he flipped through. They appeared to be just that, but tarted up with more pictures than he remembered from his schooldays. Under them was a large red notebook, each page of which was dated and ruled off in eight or nine sections. The pages were filled with abbreviations and page numbers that meant nothing to Sanders, but were more likely to do with teaching than with her private life, he suspected. On the other hand, there might be something there—he put the book to one side, just in case he wanted to go over it with someone who could tell him how much of it referred to school. There was nothing else. On the desk he found a bundle of tests, partially marked, and the usual d
esk-top paraphernalia—telephone, notepad, Toronto phonebook, an electric typewriter, carefully covered, with nothing in it, and a little circular container filled with pencils and fine-line markers, with pictures on it of lambs gamboling among spring flowers. He picked it up in astonishment. It seemed so unlike anything else in that sober room. He noticed some laconic scribbles on the top piece of notepaper and picked it up carefully, stared at it a moment, and put it to one side.
He cleared everything off the top of the desk and started to go through each drawer, removing everything from the drawers so that they could be checked for odd bits of paper caught in corners. The top drawers were tidy and characterless, containing miscellaneous stationery, typing paper, pens, pencils, a stapler, a Dymo labeler, three sets of mathematical instruments, and an expensive-looking calculator. She certainly was neat. He thought of the chaos in his desk and shook his head. When he pulled the brass handle of the next drawer, he found a deep and capacious file drawer, legal size, filled with neatly labeled file folders. He yanked it out to its fullest extent, pulled the comfortable typing chair up to the desk, and started to go through the files, one by one. The eight folders in front were completely useless to him. They contained notes for courses she was teaching and from courses she had taken. After flipping through each one briefly he gave up. Her notes were neat and legible, however, much neater than anything he had ever taken down himself back during his brief fling as a student. There were only two folders behind them, and they seemed much more promising. One was marked “Van Loon and McHenry” and the other “Correspondence: Personal.” He pulled them both out and settled back to read them in comfort.
Van Loon and McHenry was a legal firm with offices on Church Street, not far from Rosedale, according to their letterhead. She had several pieces of correspondence from them, dating back to October: one pointing out that her new will was ready for signature, and the next one confirming the points discussed in a previous meeting and stating that she would have extreme difficulty in blocking her husband’s action for divorce, should he institute proceedings. Sandwiched in among these were a few bills, in which she was also charged for advice given by telephone. Sanders carefully put all these documents back and placed the file on top of the red notebook. The personal correspondence file was bumpy with bundles of letters tied together still in their envelopes. Some of them he didn’t bother to read—the postmarks were from years ago and the paper was yellowed. Two bundles had fairly recent letters on top, both sets postmarked Cobourg. He undid the first one. Those letters were all the same, each one page in length, neatly written, thanking her for something or other and talking about the farm, and signed, “Uncle Matt.” He put them to one side with the other things. He picked out a few from the large bundle in his hand. They were long, misspelled, and had a frenzied quality to them. They spoke of love, and eternity, and passion, all in appallingly banal terms. The dates went back five or six years; they were all signed “Mike.” Sanders sighed and put them to one side as well. A thought occurred to him. Maybe this guy was—when were the last letters written? He flipped quickly. There were none after January 10th. He took that one out and read it:
