My Darling Detective

by Howard Norman

  The night of the baby shower, though, when I left the library I walked the streets for a while. I found myself down at the wharf. When I looked across to Dartmouth, I could see the hospital where Nora was interned. The whole episode of the auction, the years of my mother’s suffering in the hospital, suffering no matter how much she tried keeping up her spirits, the disturbing strangeness of seeing Robert Emil’s name in her guest book, and I felt a sudden, almost nauseating urgency to get her out of that place. I actually felt physically sick, and I mean I started to violently wretch up my guts, for lack of a better way to say it. It felt like I was turning inside out. I lost every ounce of strength and just lay down in my overcoat on the dock. The lights of the hospital swirled with the lights of the crossing ferries, the streetlamps, and even the moonlight, I don’t know. Then I blacked out.

  When I woke in a hospital bed, Martha was standing there with Officers Oaks and Ovid. “I think you’re taking the fact that you weren’t invited to the baby shower a little too personally, darling,” Martha said.

  Officer Oaks was less ironic. “We could’ve found you in the harbor, Jacob,” she said. “Imagine what it would have been like for Martha to have to tell your daughter that you rolled into the harbor and drowned. You reckless jerk.”

  Officer Ovid said, “Most interesting baby shower I’ve ever been to—seeing that we got called out to revive the father. Of course, it’s the first baby shower I’d been invited to. So there’s that.”

  Officers Oak and Ovid left the hospital room. Martha sat down in a chair, which she had pulled close to the bed. She held my hands in hers. “You’re a mess, Jake.”

  “I was looking across to the hospital in Dartmouth and that’s the last thing I remember,” I said. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Listen, I was going to wait to tell you this until we were in bed, having proved or disproved whether or not you’d want to take off this baggy dress I’m wearing. But I’m going to tell you right now. Nora’s getting released from hospital, Jacob. December, January latest. I’m having her released into our custody—except I signed the paperwork, so technically she’s being released into my custody. Legally, it’s all on the up-and-up. They weren’t going to turn down an officer of the law, now, were they? Plus, my name was on the visitors’ list in such impressive numbers, right? So now Nora’s going to live with us. At least till she can’t stand it anymore, and then we’ll figure things out from there. Jesus, me and Nora Elizabeth sharing a house with two librarians. How’d that happen?”

  “I’m not nailing all those photographs of Bernard back up for her sake,” I said.

  Martha took out a piece of paper, looked at it a moment, and said, “The doctor here said you’re suffering slight anemia and exhaustion. You just need some rest. They’re pumping you up with something, maybe a few gallons of vitamins or something. He told me but I can’t remember. It sounded good.”

  “I’m nodding off.”

  “Want me to take off this tent and get in there with you?”

  “Sorry, this is a private room. Obviously you didn’t notice that.”

  “Kidding aside, I’m kind of exhausted too. We had dance music on late. Officer Oaks bumped into the turntable and scratched the needle across Della Reese. It was one of my favorite ballads of hers, so I’m going to seek out a new copy. I love you, Jake, but I’m looking forward to just lying in our bed at home now. You try and have sweet dreams. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

  Questioning Robert Emil

  Part Three

  Martha begged off attending the third interrogation of Robert Emil, citing too much paperwork rather than exhaustion and discomfort late in her pregnancy. Tides and Hodgdon got it right away; her not participating had to be put on the record. Still, I went to the viewing room on November 17, but they didn’t give me much more than a tip of the hat. It wasn’t exactly the place to get friendly. Well, Tides did say, “Detective Crauchet informed us her future mother-in-law—remember her, Hodgdon? Librarian nut job threw the ink at the photograph of the American soldiers, the heroes in Leipzig, Germany? Detective Crauchet said the future mother-in-law’s moving in with you eventually. Good luck there, my friend.” Both Hodgdon and Tides laughed, and then Tides went into the interrogation room.

  Robert Emil looked to have aged ten years since the previous interrogation. Martha told me he’d lost his job at Deep Water Terminus. He was now living in the Annex for Despairing Christians—the name a little too melodramatic by my lights—which was attached to the Fort Massey United Church, corner of Queen and Tobin Streets, which seven nights a week had a public soup kitchen and served breakfast to “the lost and indigent” on weekend mornings. Fort Massey United was Martha’s church growing up.

  Emil was wearing a rumpled trench coat over a fisherman’s sweater and dark trousers, and was sockless under laceless black shoes. Talk about a fall from grace—though from what I’d learned of him, it wasn’t a long fall. He was unshaven, his hair was matted, and he had dark pouches under his eyes, possibly from the ravages of insomnia, but who knows? I’m just describing here.

  Detective Tides opened a file and took out a photograph, which he set on the table between them, turning it toward Robert Emil. “We think this is victim number three of your treacheries, ex-officer Emil, though this guy didn’t die at your hand. True, he almost died at your hand, but he didn’t technically die at your hand, and as much as we’d like to charge you for the fatal heart attack he had the day after Max Berall’s murder, we can’t. But our files tell us this man is all wrapped up in the disgusting piece-of-shit life you led back then, Emil, and so guess who’s today’s topic?” Tides tapped the photograph with his pointer finger. “Edgar Roth, Jewish radio personality. This picture was taken on March 5, 1945, a publicity shot for his appearance at Baron de Hirsch Synagogue, in the auditorium, separate from the area of worship.

  “Now, when this Edgar Roth was in Halifax in April of 1945, he stayed in the home of Max Berall—upstanding Jewish citizen Max Berall. Whom you murdered.”

  “No proof, no proof, no proof,” Robert Emil said.

  “You know something, ex-officer Emil?” Tides said. “Me and Detective Hodgdon and Detective Crauchet, whose acquaintances you have already made, among us we have decades of experience. And our experience tells us that when a shitbag like yourself doesn’t obtain a legal representative, when they don’t weep for a lawyer, sob, cry boo-hoo, it means deep down in their putrescent rotting soul they want to confess to evil deeds, and they have just enough dignity—I don’t really want to dignify the word ‘dignity’—they have just a smidgen enough dignity to do that on their own, and not have a mouthpiece lawyer to intervene with legal gobbledygook and bullshit. Somewhere deep down, it is offensive to such a person to be spoken for. Now, I wrote a bunch of letters to Sigmund Freud to ask him why this is, but he never wrote back. So I’m hard-pressed to explain it. One of life’s little mysteries, I guess.”

  “Can I get a coffee?” Robert Emil said. Then he exaggeratedly whined, “Pleeeease?”

  Hodgdon said to me in the viewing room, “Go get a black coffee, will you, Jakie? But bring it to me. You don’t want to go in there with Tides. He might whack you with a telephone book, you’d spill hot coffee on your new corduroys, eh?”

  I admit that as I carried the steaming coffee in a paper cup, I had a sudden urge to deliver it in person. To get a close-up look at my biological father. It seemed that Hodgdon intuited this, for when I returned to the viewing room, he said, “Don’t even think of it, Jakie.” He took the cup from my hand and held it. Soon Tides came out of the interrogation room and stayed a few moments, as if it was taking a little time for him to get the coffee himself. Then he went back in.

  Tides set the cup down in front of Robert Emil and backed up a few steps, maybe cautious that Emil might fling the scalding coffee at him, which I thought possible too. But Emil sipped it and said, “You think you’re getting a tip for delivering this coffee, you have y
our head up your ass.”

  “Boy oh boy,” said Detective Tides, “no manners.”

  Tides perused a few pages in the file and said, “Emil—the thing is, we found the dartboard in the closet of that fleabag room of yours. Your place of residence before the Home for Degenerate Christians—”

  “It’s Annex for Despairing Christians,” Emil said.

  “Oh, sorry,” Detective Tides said, a false note of contrition. “Oh, clearly you’re a Christian, ex-officer Emil. But are you in despair? And if so, what are you in despair about, exactly? Might it be that your conscience is so guilty, and if it’s tearing you all to pieces like that, your guilty conscience, how bad is it, really? What’s it like? Is it like you raped a woman in the alley and found out it was your mother? What’s it like, Emil?”

  This set Robert Emil off, and he drank the whole cup of coffee in two or three great gulps, then clutched his throat and screamed, “Waterrrrrrrr!”

  Detective Tides hustled from the interrogation room, poured a small cup of water from the dispenser near his work desk, and hurried back. He handed the cup to Emil, who stood and threw it back like a shot of whiskey. He was flushed and breathing hard. “‘Contrition takes many forms,’ said my priest once,” Detective Tides said. “I don’t think he was talking about scalding-hot coffee, though.”

  Robert Emil sat down, looking a little ill. He managed to say, “My mother was a good person.”

  “And I’m sure she would be very proud of you, Emil. I’ve never been so sure of anything. Very proud of her son’s accomplishments in life.”

  Emil hunched down to the table, laid his head on his folded arms, and said, “Don’t bring up my mother again or else I’ll kill you.”

  Detective Tides said, “Being in my position is a real burden sometimes. Like the burden of Job. But as for your mother, yeah, okay—even Job was commanded by God not to lie with a fetching maid.”

  Robert Emil flung himself across the table, but Tides easily dodged him. They grabbed each other. With some sort of judo move, Tides swept Emil’s feet out from under him, and Emil slammed to the floor. “Get up, motherfucker,” Tides said, feigning toward Emil, who stood and went back to his chair.

  “You have attempted to assault an officer of the law,” Tides said. “Mom is beaming with pride, whichever place she’s in. Anyway, I really can’t tell if we’re making progress toward your confession or not, ex-officer Emil. What do you think?”

  In the viewing room, Detective Hodgdon said, “A real artist at work. He’s very close now. You just watch, Jakie. Old Tides there, he’s the master. I can’t touch him. Once he gets the scent, I can’t even get close. You just watch.”

  Detective Tides stretched back in his chair, sighed a few times, and said, “Jeez, Emil, my nighttime reading lately? A thousand pages at least, factoring in your stupid file and so-called fictional tome, Detective Emil Detects. Allow me to suggest your next title: Detective Repents During a Life Sentence. What do you think? But I actually don’t give a shit what you think about literature. So here’s what. About that dartboard we found in your fleabag closet, Emil. It had on it the same publicity shot of Edgar Roth here”—he again tapped the photograph on the table—“and his face was all punctured with dart holes. Now, that wasn’t so nice of you, was it? And then we read in your file that you were spotted approaching the Baron de Hirsch Synagogue the evening of Edgar Roth’s final Halifax radio broadcast—what was his title that night again? Let me look it up.” Detective Tides found the right page in the file. “Oh, yes: ‘How the Jews Have Been Good for Canada.’ Very solid title, you ask me. And then here’s what happened, Emil. What happened is, you were heading right into the synagogue—what were you going to do? That’s when Officer Michael Palmer, five years on the job, intercepted you, as he was security that night, and asked you what was going on, and you must’ve panicked, because according to Officer Palmer, you got pale and said, ‘Oh, nothing, just interested in all sorts of religious thought is all,’ which didn’t square, Palmer said, with what he’d heard about you.”

  “I was just going there to see a radio celebrity, Hebrew or not, just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” Robert Emil said.

  “Sure, sure,” Detective Tides said. “I understand.”

  He sat motionless, giving Emil a baleful look for a good two or three minutes. Emil didn’t know what to do with this. He looked fidgety. Then Tides took from his file a few pieces of paper stapled together. When he did that, Detective Hodgdon, in the viewing room, handed me papers stapled together too. “You can read along if you like,” he said. “After all, it’s your Martha’s handiwork.”

  “Now, ex-officer Emil,” Tides said in a measured voice. “After many hard hours of research, our Detective Crauchet has provided us with a timeline as it applies to one Robert Emil. Say, whattaya know, that’s you. Let’s see here. Oh yes, it covers approximately eleven hours’ time on April 18, 1945. You sure packed a lot into those eleven hours, didn’t you? You were one busy bee, weren’t you? Why don’t you relax and let me read this to you—just relax and enjoy. Probably no one’s paid this much attention to you in a long time.”

  Detective Tides took a sip of water and read:

  3:15 p.m., April 18, 1945, Halifax, Nova Scotia. Officer O’Rourke and Officer Mezey serve notice to Robert Emil that he is to come to police headquarters to answer preliminary questions about the murder of Max Berall. Robert Emil claimed, at the crime scene, to have found Max Berall already deceased from gunshot wounds to the back and head. Robert Emil had called in the scene at approximately 1:15 a.m. on April 18.

  However, officers did not find Robert Emil at home, which was 23 Bishop Street, apt. 5. Notice was slid under Emil’s door. Officer O’Rourke and Officer Mezey then took up their search for Robert Emil in the city of Halifax.

  4:30 p.m., April 18, 1945. Officer O’Rourke and Officer Mezey receive information that a Mrs. Byron Phase, next-door neighbor of a Mrs. Estelle Yablon (203 Green Street, Halifax), found Mrs. Yablon deceased in her kitchen. Ambulance and officers dispatched to scene. It is determined that Mrs. Yablon was shot at close range. Note: this is the same Mrs. Yablon who provided the police sketch artist with a likeness of Robert Emil. Mrs. Yablon had been working in the office of Baron de Hirsch Synagogue and claimed she saw Officer Robert Emil “plain as day” in an alley alongside the synagogue. Said Officer Emil was approaching Max Berall from behind. “Max was still very much alive.” Mrs. Yablon taken to morgue.

  5:50 p.m., April 18, 1945. At this point APB is sent to all officers for apprehension of Emil “for questioning only.” At approx. 6:15 p.m., possible sighting of Emil leaving Oliver’s Pub on Lower Water Street. Officers dispatched to Oliver’s Pub. Bartenders and customers questioned by Officer O’Rourke and Officer Mezey. Sketch artist facsimile of Emil left at pub.

  Approx. 7:35 p.m., April 18, 1945. Robert Emil identified by name as man participating in “loud skirmish” at Halifax Free Library. Call made by librarian Constance Lily. Lily questioned by radio dispatcher informs that Robert Emil has “gotten rough with Nora”—this refers to a junior librarian, Mrs. Nora Rigolet, wife of American military pfc Bernard Rigolet, presently in Germany. Officers dispatched to Halifax Free Library.

  Approx. 7:50 p.m., April 18, 1945. Officers question Nora Rigolet at Halifax Free Library. Noted: bruises on wrist, nose possibly broken. Ambulance dispatched to scene. Noted: Mrs. Nora Rigolet is in ninth month of pregnancy. Medical personnel arrive. Officers O’Rourke and Mezey witness examination. Mrs. Nora Rigolet refuses to be taken to hospital. “I’m all right now. But Robert Emil said he was going to kill me.” Officer Mezey stays at scene. Mrs. Nora Rigolet lies down on chaise in private office of chief librarian, insists that library stay open until its usual closing time, 9:00 p.m. Chief librarian informs Officer Mezey that Mrs. Nora Rigolet’s personal physician is en route.

  Approx. 8:50 p.m., April 18, 1945. Officer Mezey calls in, informs dispatcher that he is experiencing “acute pain
in right side.” He is driving to hospital. (Appendicitis attack is determined as cause. Officer has appendix removed that same night.)

  When asked if Mrs. Nora Rigolet is secured, reply from Officer Mezey: “No. Send someone to replace me.” Dispatcher offers to send another officer to drive Officer Mezey to hospital. Mezey refuses. Approx. 9:40 p.m. Officer Mezey reports from hospital; goes in for removal of appendix. Approx. 10:30 p.m. Officer Katherine Sorensen arrives Halifax Free Library. Finds Mrs. Nora Rigolet in stressful labor in office of chief librarian. Officer Sorensen calls for ambulance. Dispatcher hears shouting in background, shot fired. Officer Sorensen informs that Robert Emil attempted to enter library waving “police revolver.” Officer Sorensen informs that she believes Emil was hit in leg but uncertain. Librarian Constance Lily locks front door of library, runs to back entrance, locks door there. Approx. 11:40 p.m., April 18, 1945. Officer Katherine Sorensen reports to dispatch that she has begun to assist in emergency birth. Ambulance personnel arrive. Male child is born to Mrs. Nora Rigolet at 11:43 p.m.