by Medora Sale
My darling Jane,
I was so happy to recieve your letter, I had almost given up hopeing that you would write me again. But I was very upset to hear how unhappy you are. You must not let people push you around that way, of course they are going to be mean to anyone as nice as you are. I was talking to my father about it and he says that I should come down to be with you. He doesn’t need me until the summer season starts again so I will be down as soon as I can get my bags packed. I will find someplace to stay, don’t worry, I know how you feel about people just dropping in.
All my love,
Mike
So Mike had come to Toronto in January—depending, of course, on how long it took him to pack his bags. That would cut things rather fine, if Melissa was right in her dates, but if he had scurried right down after writing that letter, he could have fathered the child. And what nasty things had she been complaining about to her gallant would-be protector? He would like to speak to Mike, whoever he was. That bundle joined the pile. The rest of the letters were loose and made no particular sense, but he took out the ones that had been written in the past six months and added them to his pile.
He looked up as Dubinsky came in. “Find anything interesting?”
“Some papers,” Dubinsky said. “And a bank book—savings account with the Royal Bank.” He handed it over. Sanders looked at the figures and whistled.
“That’s not a bad little nest egg for a girl to have tucked away, is it? How do you suppose she’s managed to salt away over a thousand a month since last summer?” He reached for the slip of notepaper. “And what do you make of this, Dubinsky?”
There were two notations: “M.—3—Tues.” and “G.—5—Tu.” They were written at different slopes, as if they had been jotted down at different times. Dubinsky shook his head. “She was going to meet someone at three o’clock on Tuesday—maybe her mother? Then someone else at five?”
“Sure—her grandfather this time. Or how about ‘M’ for Mike?” He handed Dubinsky the letter. “The trouble with that, though, is that she worked. How would she meet someone at three?” He took the slip back. “It might not mean a thing, or then again, maybe it’ll fit in with something else.” He stood up and began collecting the various papers she had set aside. “Here, this is her lawyers’ number. Give them a call and tell them we’ll be over to see them. I want to know what she discussed with them that doesn’t turn up in her file here. I’m going to take another look through the place.”
He wandered through the empty apartment into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator—not that he expected to find any serious evidence there, more from a mixture of curiosity and a professional desire to find out something, anything, about this woman. It was clear from the contents that she drank beer and orange juice and ate rye bread and mayonnaise. But, on the other end of the diet spectrum, she also seemed to consume tins of liquid diet food. There was something about this that depressed him and, after checking all the cupboards, he left the kitchen as quickly as he could. He sat down at an old-fashioned white-painted dressing table in the bedroom and began to open up the drawers, expecting to find make-up, jewelry, underwear, and the like. The top drawer was empty.
“Hey, Dubinsky,” he called. “Did you check this little table?”
“Yeah,” he said, coming into the bedroom. “That’s where I got the bank book and statements and things like that. The second drawer is full of paid bills and receipts, and the bottom drawer seems to be filled with tax stuff. Very neat. It was all locked, but the key was on her ring. I took out the stuff that might be interesting and left the rest for you. Anyway, about the lawyer—he left last weekend for a couple of weeks in Mexico. He won’t be back until after Easter. His secretary hasn’t the faintest idea how to reach him”—Dubinsky mimicked a high-pitched voice charged with great drama—“because he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s on holiday.”
“Great,” muttered Sanders. “Just one more thing to make life easier. Anyway, did you find an appointment book or anything like that? Something that might explain what she was doing on Tuesday?” Dubinsky shook his head. “Did you check her purse?”
“Come on, what do you take me for? Of course I checked her purse, and every drawer of that white thing there, and the drawer in the night table. Also the cabinets in the bathroom, her dresser drawers, and her closet. She has lots of towels and underwear, but I didn’t see an appointment book. Are you sure it isn’t in the living room on her desk or something?”
Sanders glared at him. “Yes, I’m sure. And she doesn’t seem to have an address book or anything resembling one. Did you check her pockets?” As soon as he said that, he headed for the closet by the front door, opened it, and started to go through the pockets of all the coats and jackets hanging there. Nothing. He emerged again, shrugging his shoulders. “She might have left it at work. Let’s check back there before heading on to see the husband.”
Ginny sat perched on the edge of the chair in Dr. Rasmussen’s office, clutching her large purse tightly on her lap. She tried to cross her knees casually, and then uncrossed them again quickly as her legs began to tremble. The doctor swept in, the light bouncing off his bald head. His mouth beamed at her while his eyes flicked over her in rapid assessment.
“Well, now, Mrs. Morrison, so far so good. I don’t see anything really alarming at this point.” He read the sketchy details on the new chart in front of him. “I think that Dr. Smith mentioned that you were working? Could I ask what you do?”
The sympathy she read into this comment finished her. Tears spilled down her cheeks; she scrambled furiously for a Kleenex and hauled herself back together. “Yes. I’m an assistant manager at Austin’s—in the toy department. It’s a good job, and I really can’t afford to give it up. My husband was laid off last November, just before I realized I was pregnant. His unemployment insurance doesn’t go very far, and we’d be stuck if I quit.” She assumed her most mulish and independent glare.
“And that means you’re on your feet most of the time?” She nodded mutely, her eyes filling up again with tears. “It’s very premature to talk of quitting, Mrs. Morrison. It certainly hasn’t come to that, yet. But you get sick leave, don’t you? Even assistant managers can get sick. You must get off your feet and into bed. Rest is still the best way to stop the cramping and spotting. Ten days in bed, then come back and see me. Can your husband look after you?” Ginny stared, appalled. “Is your mother in town?” She nodded. “Then you should go to your mother’s and let her pamper you a bit. And tell her that I want you to gain some weight. You know, at 115 pounds you’re a bit thin even for a lady who isn’t pregnant. I’d like to see you closer to 135 or even 140 before this baby is born. Off to bed, now, and I’ll see you in ten days. Call me if things don’t improve by Monday.” He turned to her file and his notes as she fled the office in relief.
Ginny fished through her purse in fruitless pursuit of another quarter. Dammit, she muttered, I know I have one here somewhere. Ah, there it was—caught in the fold where the lining had ripped. She forced herself to calm down, breathe deeply, put the coin in the slot slowly and carefully, and then dial with deliberation. The phone rang and rang. He must be in that bloody garage again, she thought; she refused to hang up. Finally a slow, groggy voice answered her.
“Glenn? Where were you? Never mind. I just left the doctor’s. He says I’ll probably be okay, but I have to stay in bed for ten days.” A pause. “I don’t know why he said ten days. You can call him yourself and ask, if you want. That’s what he said. Anyway, he doesn’t want me doing anything so he said I should go to Mother’s. You can look after yourself for a couple of weeks, can’t you?” She held the receiver away from her ear slightly, with a look of exasperation on her face. “If you can’t figure out how to do your shirts, take them over to your mother’s. Anyway, I’ll go to the bank on the way home and then pack my stuff and drive myself over there.” She frowned. “Of course I�
�ll need the car. What would you need it for? You’ve got the—Well, if you think so, then you can drive me over to Mother’s and take the car home. Anyway, I’ll be back in about half an hour. Don’t go out. ’Bye.”
In the living room of the neat, multi-layered townhouse, he put the phone back on the hook and turned his gaze once more to the three daily papers spread out on the floor in front of him. “Terror Stalks City as Mad Rapist Strikes Again” screamed the headlines of the morning tabloid. “Another Victim in Metro Rape-Murders?” asked the sedate morning daily in a secondary headline, tucked under the latest international news. “Action Demanded in Toronto Deaths” cried the crusading voice of the afternoon paper. The stories, however, were all the same: a woman in her twenties was attacked and killed while out jogging in the Rosedale Ravine—identification withheld pending notification of next of kin. Metro police spokesman Daniel Kennedy agrees that it could be the work of the person who raped and killed three other woman and seriously injured another in the period of January to April this year and continues to advise caution for women out alone, especially in remote areas. He picked up each paper in turn and re-read the stories slowly and carefully, shook his head and smiled slightly, then neatly folded them and carried them out to the garage before his wife had time to come in the door.
Sanders and Dubinsky now stood in front of a plain door with four names tucked into little metal slots nailed to it. Their visit to the school had produced nothing but a welcome diversion to twenty-four giggling girls who watched, fascinated, as Sanders went through all the drawers in the physics lab. When he had produced the red notebook in order to ask Mrs. Antonini if there was anything in it that did not pertain to the school day, she had snatched it up with cries of glee and was most unwilling to give it back. She finally agreed to photocopy it and return it to him, saying most discouragingly as she flipped through it that it looked like a normal daybook to her, and that Jane’s replacement was going to need all the information in it. So much for that hope. Perhaps this visit would produce more.
Doug Conway was the first name in the alphabetized list of occupants. Sanders knocked, a casual voice called out, “Come in,” and the two men entered. The room was just barely large enough to hold four desks jutting out from opposing walls and to leave a narrow passageway through to a large window. The spaces on the walls not filled with desks were covered with utilitarian steel shelving, crammed with books, papers, and what appeared to Sanders to be junk. The desks themselves were piled to overflowing with books, coffee cups, plants, photographs, and computer read-outs in catholic disarray. There seemed to be only four chairs, one for each desk.
“Do come in. Sorry for the mess in here—it is awfully cramped—but just grab a couple of chairs. You’re not in my section, are you?” He gave them a puzzled glance.
Sanders returned the look and introduced himself. “I understood from your secretary out there that you were expecting us. I mean, she told us to come this afternoon at two. Apparently you didn’t get our message?”
“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Police. I’m sorry, but that girl is absolutely hopeless. She has discovered that the easiest thing to do with messages is to throw them out. This is when I have office hours; that’s why I’m here. Otherwise I’d be in the lab. I mean, we don’t really do much work in this office; that’s why it looks like this. We just store books and see students here. We’re all T.A.’s.”
“T.A.’s?”
“Teaching Assistants. Anyway, what can I do for you? Brian Jones over there is the one who deals with most of the forensic problems that get referred to us but I’ll do what I can.”
“Forensic problems?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here? I’m sorry, maybe we should start one more time from the beginning.” He smiled and settled back in his chair, his long frame perfectly relaxed, but his high forehead slightly crinkled, and his dark eyes fixed intently on the two men. Sanders began to feel like a specimen of some sort. He pulled over a chair and sat down. Dubinsky cautiously shoved aside a few papers on someone else’s desk and perched on the edge of it, notebook in hand, filling the office with his bulk.
“No, I’m afraid that what we came over here for is rather less pleasant. There has been a most unfortunate”—Sanders searched for a word. He hated this sort of thing anyway, and when a man is separated from his wife, one has no idea whether he’s going to be crushed or relieved at the news. Or perhaps, not at all surprised—“occurrence concerning—”
“Who—?” he said sharply, his face changing. “What’s happened?”
“Your wife, Jane Conway.”
“Jane?” He sounded relieved. “What’s happened to her?” Sanders wondered whose name he had been expecting to hear when that expression had crossed his face.
“You may have seen in the papers—there was a woman killed while jogging in the park late Wednesday. I’m afraid it was your wife.”
“Running.” He spoke automatically. “She hated the term ‘jogging.’ Poor Jane. She never did have much luck with things.” He picked up a pen and put it down again. Sanders continued to look at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “I won’t pretend that I’m grief-stricken, you know. But I’m terribly sorry that something like that should have happened to her. Was she badly hurt? That’s stupid—I mean, before she died. She was a real coward about sickness and pain, poor thing.”
“No. She seems to have died instantly.” Sanders paused a moment. “We would like to ask you a few questions.” Conway smiled agreeably and nodded. “I take it you were separated?” He nodded again. “For how long and why?”
“Since last summer, actually. Around the beginning of August, I think. I came home from the lab one evening and she wasn’t there. Why she left is a harder question to answer. I think there were a lot of reasons.” He paused for a second. “I’ve thought about this quite a lot. We got married the year she was at O.C.E.—teachers’ college—at Christmas. That was in 1980. There weren’t many jobs around, but she managed to get one up in the Bruce Peninsula. We only saw each other on weekends, but I was working very hard on my doctorate, and as a research assistant, trying to impress the hell out of the big boys—which I did—so only having her around on weekends was great as far as I was concerned. But she really hated teaching. The kids just ate her for breakfast, I guess, and she didn’t seem to be able to figure out what to do about it. Anyway, she got fired at the end of the year and I talked her into going to graduate school. Well, I had sort of forgotten what a slog she had found university when we were both at Queen’s together. Anyway, she started in, and after a while had to drop a couple of courses because she couldn’t manage a full load, and by spring it was clear that when she did finally get a degree, it would be a terminal MA—sounds like a terrible disease, doesn’t it? That’s how she felt about it.”
“What is it?”
“A degree with marks too low to get you into the PhD program. It’s just another way of failing really, if what you wanted was a doctorate. Meanwhile, of course, I was going great guns. Professor Griffiths took me on as a graduate student—he’s the really big man in the field around here—and people were inviting me to give papers and stuff like that. I think she started to hate me for it. Anyway, she began to screw around a bit. But by this time we hardly saw each other, except that we sometimes went running together. I hadn’t slept with her for months; she couldn’t stand me talking to her, much less touching her, and I had struck up a friendship with a terrific girl. That was all it was at the time, anyway. I think Jane was involved with some guy, though. At first, she just came on strong with almost anyone at parties; it was kind of gruesome in a way, but then that stopped, and she started disappearing for the night from time to time.”
“Didn’t you object?” Sanders looked at him with interest. He seemed to take his wife’s infidelity with extraordinary detachment.
“It’s hard to explain, but I was finishing up my course work for m
y doctorate and getting preliminary materials for my dissertation. I had just landed Griffiths as a supervisor, and between the lab and the library I was working at least twelve hours a day. Jane was so bitchy whenever I saw her I began to avoid her as much as possible. Christ, I didn’t have the energy left over to cope with her soul-searching. I don’t know what it was about Jane—she just whined on and on about life being unfair, and she never got off her ass and did anything about it. The only thing she was good at was attracting men. I think that was the only thing she really enjoyed. Not that she liked them much after she got them, though. You’d see some poor bastard she had hooked on Friday come bouncing up to her at a party on Saturday and get brushed off like so much dandruff.” He chuckled.
