Then they switched over to a press conference with the chief of the RCMP in Alberta, in which he explained the circumstances by which Ivy MacIntyre had been discovered; about how an individual who wishes to remain nameless but was “clearly obsessed with this case” acted on a hunch and followed the Rev. Larry Coursen to an abandoned shed off Route 2 around one hundred kilometers from Townsend, whereupon . . .
I clicked off the television. I couldn’t watch any more.
I ate the room-service breakfast, and I tossed the morning edition of the Calgary Herald that accompanied it (“IVY FOUND ALIVE” screamed the front page) into the circular bin beneath the desk. I had a shower and changed into clean clothes and opened my volume of the Paris Review Interviews and waited.
At nine a.m. there was a knock on the door. A new woman police officer was there.
“Sergeant Clark would like to see you now at headquarters. Can you be ready in five minutes?”
On the way downstairs, we didn’t take the main guest elevators. Instead we were escorted to a rear freight elevator and brought down to a service entrance on the ground floor. An unmarked car was awaiting us and took me and the woman officer the few short blocks to RCMP headquarters. This time we plunged again into its underground parking lot and I was brought upstairs by elevator.
Inside the interview room on the fourth floor was Sergeant Clark and a man in his early sixties who introduced himself as Inspector Laughlin. He had the sort of leathery face one associated with elderly ranchers and that somewhat distanced, detached manner which was Pure West. He stood up and took my hands in his large paws.
“Miss Howard . . .”
A pause. Then: “Well done.”
And that, thankfully, was the only note of congratulations sounded for the next two hours.
Sergeant Clark took over.
“We’ve been very firm in all public announcements to the press that the person who led us to Ivy MacIntyre wishes to remain anonymous—and this, of course, has created a media feeding frenzy. But only Inspector Laughlin, Officer Rivers, and the two officers who accompanied us to the shack know of your identity—and we plan to keep it that way.
“Now, we are aware that certain people at your place of employment might have known about your ‘interest’ in the Ivy MacIntyre case—and I have already personally spoken with Geraldine Woods late yesterday evening. I explained that I was entrusting her with a piece of highly classified information, and asked if she could keep a confidence. I then explained, as simply as possible, that you had been ‘greatly resourceful’ to us in the search for Ivy MacIntyre, but that—for assorted personal reasons—you did not want your identity revealed to the public. She was most understanding and also assured me that she would never reveal anything. You’ve worked with her. Do you believe her?”
“Unlike most everyone else at the library she’s not a gossip. And she is pretty honorable.”
“That was my impression—especially as she pointed out to me that it might be best to invent a story about you having left the country several days before Ivy was discovered.”
Personally, I couldn’t see Marlene or Ruth buying this—but I also sensed that Geraldine, in her own quiet, forceful way might make it clear to them that she would not entertain any discussion of the matter, especially if . . .
“I think you should let her inform the staff that I had a nervous breakdown and was dispatched back to a hospital in the States for treatment.”
“Do you really want your colleagues to think that?”
“I was heading for one before all this—and they all knew it. So . . . yes, by all means. Anything to cover my tracks.”
Clark looked to Inspector Laughlin for advice. His reply was a curt assenting nod.
“Consider it done then,” he said.
“Have they found the bodies in the cellar?” I asked.
“The forensic teams began excavation this morning.”
“And Ivy? I heard on the news she was classified as ‘Serious.’ ”
“She’s not in danger of dying. She is in danger of losing her foot, though the doctors are doing everything to save it. She hasn’t been interviewed by us as yet—and won’t be until her condition considerably improves. But she keeps asking for the woman who found her . . . and for her father.”
I was going to say something like: “You got that all wrong, didn’t you?” but Inspector Laughlin preempted me.
“A bad miscarriage of justice took place,” he said. “Nothing more. Nothing less. We will have to deal with the consequences of all that.”
“And Brenda?” I asked.
“You mean, you didn’t see her everywhere on the television this morning?” Clark asked.
“No. I avoided all that.”
“Lucky you. She played the overjoyed mother and grieving widow at the same time.”
“She’s now grieving for two men—as she was also involved with Coursen.”
“How do you know?”
I recounted the conversation I had heard between Coursen and his henchman, Carl, while sandwiched in his trunk.
“You didn’t mention this yesterday,” Clark said.
“There was a lot going on.”
“Point taken. But just to ensure that you didn’t forget anything else—and to have an official transcript of your version of events—I’d like to take you through the entire story again. We’re going to videotape it—but don’t worry, this will never be made public. And Inspector Laughlin’s going to sit with us, if that’s all fine with you.”
“I’ll do whatever’s asked.”
Another curt, acknowledging nod from Inspector Laughlin.
For the next hour I retold everything. As I spoke I could hear myself functioning not just as a witness, but also as the weaver of a tale. Courtesy of a night’s sleep and even a single day’s critical distance, I knew that this version—though completely similar to the narrative I spoke yesterday while driving back to the shack with Sergeant Clark—still had a more polished feel to it. I had never been able to talk about Emily’s death until that moment in Vern’s car. But this story came easily. Because it was a story I could live with. Because it was a story with an ending that wasn’t awful.
Clark rarely interrupted me as I spoke. Laughlin stared straight at me, his gaze level, unwavering. Only once did I see his face contort—when I spoke about the string of scatalogical abuse Coursen leveled at Ivy as he raped her. Even this hardened cop found that aspect of the story unspeakable.
When I was finished, Clark thanked me and said that I might as well have another night’s sleep in a decent hotel courtesy of the province of Alberta. “It’s the least we owe you,” he said . . . but I sensed this offer of a free room was a ruse to politely keep me under surveillance while the coroner confirmed that Coursen had died by his own hand.
“And while you’re killing time in the hotel room,” Clark said, “you might want to think about where you intend to spend your three months of paid sick leave. The sooner you are out of Canada the better.”
As I stood up to leave, Laughlin and Clark both got to their feet. A final handshake from each of them. A final quiet nod from Laughlin—and I was handed over to the woman police officer and escorted back, through the same clandestine sequence of underground parking lots and freight elevators, to the Hyatt.
There was an internet facility in my room and I checked my bank account. I had more than enough to live on for several months in a cheap corner of Europe. Only a week earlier, I had read an article in the New York Times travel supplement about how Berlin was the only affordable capital city left on the Continent. As it turned out, Lufthansa had a daily flight from Calgary to Frankfurt, with onward connections to Berlin. They even had a last-minute standby fare for just under $1,000. Not a bargain, but bearable. I called them up and reserved it for the following night.
Clark called me at five thirty that evening to check in.
“Any news from the coroner?” I asked.
There was an e
mbarrassed silence on the other end, then Clark said that the Calgary medical examiner had conclusively reached the decision that Coursen had cut his own throat and had died from massive hemorrhaging of blood.
“Meanwhile they have found two sets of bones in the basement—so it looks like everything he told Ivy was absolutely true. We now have every police force in the country with missing girls on the books inundating us. We’re going to spend years sifting through the other cases.”
“And I’m going to spend the next few months in Berlin.”
“Lucky you. When are you flying?”
“Tomorrow, actually.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, as there is now all sorts of media speculation about the ‘Lone Vigilante’—that’s what the Calgary Sun called you, but they are a rag—who saved Ivy. Already the press is giving us a very hard time about refusing to name you. We keep saying that we are just respecting your wishes—and with every statement we make the pressure grows. So . . . yeah, getting out of here tomorrow is a very good idea. And just to absolutely ensure that your exit is completely trouble-free I’ll pick you up at noon at the hotel, get you to your apartment to pack, then have you at the airport by three for the five p.m. flight.”
“How do you know what time the Frankfurt flight leaves?”
“Simple—I looked it up while talking to you.”
Another good night’s sleep. Another clandestine exit from the hotel, only this time into a car driven by Sergeant Clark. He got me back to my apartment and told me I had half an hour to pack. The time constraint focused the mind, but I owned so little in the way of clothes that I had my bag packed within minutes. All my bills—the rent, the utilities, the cell phone—were paid directly from my bank account. My salary would continue to roll in, at least for a while. I would continue to keep the cell phone off. No one knew my private email address, bar my banker back in Boston, and the professional address I used at the library would remain untouched during my absence. I was free to disappear again, slipping away under the radar.
Certainly that was Clark’s intention as well. At the airport he drove me into a special secure corner of the terminal, where I was privately checked in and passed through security, then accompanied by a member of the airport staff to a small lounge off the departures area. There was a bar there and Clark, who had insisted on accompanying me through these various formalities, opened up the fridge and said: “Can I buy you a beer?”
He returned to the sofa and handed me a bottle of Labatt’s.
“Was all this clandestine stuff necessary?” I asked.
“Probably not—but at noon today the Calgary Sun offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who could name the ‘Lone Vigilante,’ so why take chances? Anyway, I think you merit a stylish send-off—and I also want to make certain you’re packed off out of town.”
He clinked his bottle against mine.
“How’re you feeling, Professor?”
“Tired—despite the two nights in a good hotel.”
“Don’t be surprised if all this comes back and bites you in the ass in a couple of days. You don’t shake off everything you’ve seen overnight.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Still, when the dark stuff hits, keep in mind that old line about how if you save one life you save the world.”
“Sergeant,” I said, “that’s bullshit—and you know it.”
He looked momentarily taken aback by this, then shrugged and took another slug of beer.
“So much for my stab at profundity.”
“Save it for the next ‘Lone Vigilante.’ ”
“Or maybe I’ll try the line out again when you’re back in town . . . if you’d like to hear it again.”
“You never know,” I said.
But I actually did know. I wouldn’t be coming back to Calgary again.
Clark, however, was right about the return of the dark stuff. It happened a few nights after I landed in Berlin. I was staying in a cheap hotel near Mitte. I was still fighting jet lag. I was coping with the isolation of being in a strange, shadowy city with no command of the sprache. Jolting awake at four a.m. on my third night there all I could see in my mind’s eye was Coursen’s blooded neck, his clothes drenched in gore, his eyes frozen but reflecting the crazed fear of his last moments. He was beyond monstrous—and I couldn’t even begin to fathom the way he could do such appalling harm and simultaneously get through the day, ministering to others, acting smugly self-righteous, listening to his motivational tapes. And at that four a.m. juncture—when Coursen’s slashed and hemorrhaging throat filled my head—all I could think was: This is an image that will never quite leave me.
The next day the weather was clement, sunny—so I decided to walk off my nocturnal phantoms with a long hike down Unter den Linden. I turned left at the Brandenburg Gate, and then happened upon two acres of gray stone slabs. This was the Holocaust Memorial. Walking into it was an unsettling experience, as the slabs were laid out like sarcophagi in a cemetery. The deeper you walked into their labyrinth-like formation, the more they engulfed you. After fifteen steps into its epicenter you were entombed by it all—gray block upon gray block, removing all peripheral vision, all sky, all sense of anything beyond the absolute unyielding prospect of immutable slabs of rock, determined to bury you.
It was overwhelming, this memorial to a horror that was beyond words. It said everything by not trying to say anything. Its creator understood that a grief—whether collective or individual—is entombing. And how do you excavate yourself from a tomb?
I had no idea. But again, I worked at getting through the days.
Berlin improved once I discovered Prenzlauer Berg. It was a reconstructed quarter just north of Mitte; a place of nineteenth-century burgher sensibilities updated for the new century, and in a once-divided city remaking itself. Prenzlauer Berg was a place of young families—and that was hard. But on the bulletin board in its very excellent English-language bookshop, the St. George, I saw an ad for a small studio apartment. I paid it a visit. It was just fifteen square meters of living space, but off Kollwitzplatz—the best address in the district—and tastefully furnished in a simple bleached-wood style. The landlord was willing to rent it to me on a three-month basis, renewable thereafter. I didn’t have to buy anything for it bar sheets and towels. I signed up for an intensive language course at the Goethe-Institut. I spent six hours a day mastering umlauts and the dative case—and met a quiet Swedish artist named Johann. He’d come to Berlin on a fellowship to learn the language and to paint. Much to my surprise we drifted into a fling: nothing serious (he told me he had a girlfriend back home) and, through mutual agreement, pleasantly circumscribed. We went out two, maybe three nights a week together. We got cheap seats for the Berlin Phil or the Komische Oper. We went to jazz joints that didn’t have a cover charge. We saw movies at the cool little kino in an alley off Hackescher Markt. And then we would spend the night together in my fold-out (but still double-size) bed.
It was strange—almost impossible—at first to reconnect to that arena called physical intimacy. When Johann first made a move, my initial reaction was to flee. But fortunately that reaction was internalized and was supplanted by a far simpler thought: I wanted to have sex again.
Johann was decent, tender, and a little distant . . . which, truth be told, suited me fine. I liked being held by him. I liked being taken by him, and I liked taking him. We rarely talked about things that mattered to us—though I did hear about his authoritarian semi-aristocratic father who wanted him to join the family law firm, but still half subsidized his attempts to be an abstract painter. The fact was, he did have talent and the Ellsworth Kelly–style color studies he showed me demonstrated actual promise. But as he himself admitted, he had just enough of a trust fund to ruin him—and he preferred mooching in bars and cafés to getting down to the serious business of mastering his craft. He rarely asked me much about myself—and when he once commented, early on, that I seemed to be in the throes of
an ongoing sadness, I just shrugged and said: “We all have our stuff.”
And my stuff was something I simply didn’t want to discuss.
Nor did I want to go near anything to do with the press—though a week after I landed in Berlin I passed a newspaper kiosk and saw that, on the front page of a particularly low-rent tabloid, there was a grainy photograph of Coursen with the headline: “DAS MONSTRUM DER ROCKIES!” In the future, I averted my eyes whenever passing any newsstand.
But between intensive German, and my nights with Johann, and the fact that I could always fill a free evening with a concert, a film, a play, the time in Berlin passed easily. There was a playground on one corner of Kollwitzplatz and that had to be avoided. So too did a dinner with some German friends of Johann’s. When he mentioned that it was at the home of a couple with a five-year-old daughter I begged off.
“I’m not that keen on young children either,” he said. “But do what you want.”
That was the beginning of the end of things with Johann—not that it ever progressed beyond a pleasant enough convenience for both of us. He announced one day that he was returning to Stockholm in a week’s time. Jutta—the woman he’d been with for three years, a diplomat’s daughter, well-heeled—was missing him. And his father had offered to buy them an apartment if he would return to his long-abandoned law studies.
“I suppose I’ll be a part-time painter now,” he said, sounding a little sheepish.
“I’m certain you’ll have a very good life.”
“And what will you do now?”
“Return to the States—and find a use for the dative case.”
Beyond such facetiousness, I knew that I had to be doing something with my life. There was a part of me that couldn’t function without a sense of direction, of ambition, of some sort of purpose to the day. As I found out in those early months in Calgary, to drift meant to retreat deeper into myself. Even taking German classes now struck me as treading water. Maybe I just wasn’t good at playing the bohemian card. Or maybe, deep at heart, I was simply frightened of standing still for any longer. Whatever the reason, I knew that Dr. Goodchild was right all those many months ago in Calgary: What choice did I have in life but to go back to work?
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 121
