A Killing Spring (14 page)

Beside me, Ed Mariani shuddered. “What do you make of that performance?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m glad it’s over. I hate seeing Jill like that, and I’m not in the mood for a rerun of Tom as the suffering hero.”

Ed’s expression was bleak. “I’m never in the mood for
Tom as anything.” Then he shook himself. “I’d better get over and thank people for coming. Barry used to be a camp counsellor and he says you should always kill an event before it dies on you.”

It didn’t take long for the Faculty Club to clear. The painful ritual of saying goodbye was over, and people were anxious to get back to the concerns of the living. When the last guest had left, the Faculty Club staff began clearing off the buffet table and carrying dishes towards the kitchen, and I went over to the memorabilia table and began to pack up.

As I worked, I remembered the warmth of the eulogies, and the question that had been troubling me since I’d heard about Reed’s death floated to the top of my consciousness: given the fulfilment and the promise of his life, how could Reed Gallagher have had such a death? It was a question for a philosopher, and as I closed the last carton, I knew that it would be a long time before I had an answer. I was just about to tape up the box when I realized that I didn’t remember putting in the photograph of Annalie and Reed. I checked, but the mahogany table was bare. It was obvious I was mistaken, that I’d wrapped the photo and absent-mindedly stuck it in the box with the rest. The prospect of unwrapping everything and checking didn’t thrill me, but the idea of losing the picture appealed to me even less. Reluctantly, I pulled everything out and began to search. The photograph wasn’t there.

I was baffled. There had been signed pictures of celebrities that were rare enough that they might have tempted a light-fingered mourner, but an old newspaper picture of Reed Gallagher and a girl nobody knew hardly qualified as a collectible. The only logical possibility was that someone had picked up the photograph, wandered off, and put it down somewhere else. I went back to the Faculty Club office and asked the manager, Grace Lipinski, to ask the cleaning staff
to keep an eye out for the photograph. Then I went back to my repacking.

I’d just about finished when old Giv Mewhort came out of the bar. He was wearing a vintage white suit that would have been the very thing for one of Gatsby’s parties, and his face was pink with gin and emotion. He picked up one of Reed’s photos and said, “ ‘The noblest Roman of them all’ – too famous doubtless to be cut.” He smiled sardonically. “Although, from what I hear, Reed Gallagher hardly died a stoic’s death. Still, he was the best of a sorry lot and a good man to drink with.” He replaced the photograph carefully in the box. “I shall miss him.”

The carton was unwieldy, and Barry and Ed offered to carry it down to the car for me. When we’d stowed it safely in the trunk, the three of us stood for a moment in the sunshine. I started to tell them about the missing photograph, but they both looked so weary I decided to give them a compliment instead.

“It was a terrific afternoon,” I said. “I know how much work goes into making an event seem that effortless. You both did a great job.”

Ed frowned. “I supposed you noticed that Kellee Savage wasn’t there.”

“I noticed,” I said, “and I’m worried.”

When I parked in front of our house, Angus was shooting hoops, and Leah was trying to teach Taylor how to skip rope. Benny, who, in repose, was beginning to look uncannily like a fox stole, was curled up on the step, watching.

When she saw me, Taylor held out her skipping rope. “Do you want a turn, Jo?”

“At the moment, I’d rather have my toenails ripped out one by one,” I said, “but thanks for asking, and thank you, Leah, for giving T a hand with the womanly arts.” Leah was
wearing shorts, and I noticed she had a Haida tattoo of a fish on her calf.

I pointed to it. “Is that new?” I asked.

She smiled. “So new that even my parents haven’t seen it.”

“How do you think they’ll take it?”

Leah grinned. “Oh, they’ll probably want to rip my toe-nails out one by one, but my dad always says that as long as my grades are good, and my name doesn’t end up on the police blotter, they’ll adjust.”

“Sounds like a wise father,” I said, and I headed for the house. When I got to the porch, Taylor called out, “Don’t forget. I’ve got a birthday party.”

“Since when?” I said.

“Since Samantha gave me the invitation.”

“I didn’t see any invitation.”

“It’s been in my backpack all week.” She squinted as if she was envisioning the missing invitation. “The party’s from four-thirty till eight o’clock.”

I looked at my watch. “Taylor, it’s already twenty to five, you can’t just …” I shrugged. “Never mind. Come on, let’s drive out to Bi-rite. What does Samantha like?”

“Horses.”

“Fine, we’ll get her a flashlight.”

Taylor ran to the porch, scooped up Benny, then came running after me. “Why are we getting her a flashlight?”

“Because they don’t sell horses at Bi-rite. Now come on. Let’s go.”

Benny was not a happy passenger – he yowled all the way to the drugstore – but we did find a flashlight, a card that had a horse on it, and, on the clearance counter, a gift-wrap pack in what appeared to be the Old MacDonald motif. Close enough.

When we got back to the house, Taylor dumped our booty
from the drugstore on the kitchen table and began wrapping. I pulled some turkey soup from the freezer, put it on to heat, and started to make dumplings. Within five minutes, Samantha’s present was ready, dinner was under way, and the phone was ringing. It was Alex, and I invited him to join us for dinner. Half an hour later, Taylor was cleaned up and at the birthday party, and Angus and Alex and I were sitting in candlelight eating soup. Once in a while, I just have all the moves.

As soon as he’d finished his second bowl, Angus jumped up. “I’ve got to go down to the library. Can one of you drive down with me?”

“Take your bike,” I said. “We’d like a chance to talk. Besides, I’m too old to jump up from the dinner table.”

“You’re not old,” he purred.

“Thank you,” I said, “but you’re still taking your bicycle.”

After Angus left, Alex and I carried the candles and our coffee into the living room, and traded our news for the day.

When I told Alex about Reed and Annalie’s picture disappearing, he raised an eyebrow. “You think someone stole it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably not. It’s just that I was already on edge when I discovered the photograph was missing.”

“On edge about what?”

“About all the things that don’t make sense about Reed’s death. Alex, I wish you could have been there this afternoon. That memorial service would have given you a very different perspective on the Reed Gallagher case.”

Alex’s eyes were troubled. “There is no case, Joanne. Not any more. It’s all wrapped up. The death certificate will read ‘accidental death due to cerebral anoxia’ – lack of oxygen to the brain.”

“You sound as if you don’t think that’s what he died of.”

Alex shook his head. “Oh, I know that’s what he died of. Splatter Zimbardo worked this case hard, and he’s as good as they come. The question marks aren’t with the pathology reports; they’re with our part of the investigation. It’s not that we haven’t done our stuff. We have, and the physical evidence is solid: we’ve got the bottle of Dewar’s that Gallagher was drinking from that night; we’ve got the tumbler he was using; we’ve got the glass ampoules that held the amyl nitrite he inhaled; we’ve got the seduction outfit he was wearing, and the hood he had on and the electric cord that was around his neck. Gallagher’s fingerprints are exactly where they should be on every single item, and there were no signs of a struggle. All the evidence points in one direction.”

“Except you don’t believe the direction it’s pointing in.”

“I believe it. I just don’t understand it.” He leaned forward. “You know, Jo, cops don’t talk much about the role imagination plays in police work, but it’s essential. When an investigation into a sudden death starts moving in the right direction, it’s like watching a movie playing backwards. You can see what happened in those last hours and, crazy as it sounds, you can feel the emotion. We’ve put all the pieces of the puzzle together on this one, but I still can’t see the pictures. And I can’t feel whatever it was that Reed Gallagher was feeling when he tied that cord around his neck.” Alex picked up his coffee, took a sip, and turned to me. “Tell me about the memorial service, Jo.”

As I told Alex about the tributes Reed’s friends and colleagues had paid him, and about the sense of loss that had been in the Faculty Club that afternoon, his dark eyes never left my face. When I finished, he said, “Not a stupid man.”

“No,” I said, surprised. “Not at all.”

“And yet that’s what Zimbardo says Gallagher died of.
Stupidity. He says if Gallagher was into that scene, he should have known better than to use liquor with the amyl nitrite. The combination sends blood pressure through the floor. When Gallagher’s blood pressure dropped, he must have blacked out. With the veins in his neck compressed from the cord, and the chemical stew from the poppers and the booze sludging his veins, and the hood, he was just too weak to fight for air. It was like drowning.”

I felt my stomach lurch. At the Faculty Club that afternoon, Ed’s graceful party had seemed to banish the ugliness of Reed’s last hours in the rooming house on Scarth Street, but now the horror rushed back. All the show tunes and fond memories in the world couldn’t negate the fact that Reed Gallagher had died a terrifying and humiliating death.

Alex put down his coffee cup. As if he’d read my mind, he said, “It’s a hell of a way to die.” Then he shrugged. “But that is the way it happened. Case closed.”

“Alex, you just said this doesn’t feel right to you. How can the case be closed?”

“I’ve told you, Jo. Because there’s no evidence to suggest that Gallagher’s death didn’t happen exactly the way Zimbardo said it did, and the book says you can never prove a positive with negative evidence.”

I thought of Kellee Savage. In police parlance, the fact that she hadn’t shown up for Reed’s memorial service would be negative evidence, but for me it was another piece in an increasingly unsettling puzzle.

“Alex, do you remember telling me that you were going to check out the last twenty-four hours in Reed Gallagher’s life?”

“Sure. It’s standard procedure. The report’s in the file downtown.”

“Would it be breaking any rules to let me see it?”

“No. The case is closed. There’s public access, and you’re part of the public.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you checking up on me?”

“No, I’m still trying to figure out what connection Kellee Savage, that student I told you about, had with all this. I was just curious about whether Reed Gallagher talked to her the day he died.”

“Her name wasn’t in the report, but Gallagher’s secretary did say he had a meeting with a student that afternoon.”

“Then the student’s name should be in Reed’s appointment book.”

There was an edge of exasperation in Alex’s voice. “Give me a little credit, Jo. I did ask. The secretary said Gallagher told her the meeting was private – the only reason he mentioned it at all was because he was leaving the office.”

“Could I look at the report?”

He stretched lazily. “Sure, I’ll make you a copy on Monday.”

“Alex, could I get a copy tonight? I understand what you said about negative evidence, but there must be times when negative evidence points towards something being seriously wrong.”

“You think this is one of those times …?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that the last time I saw her, Kellee was miserable, but she also said something like, ‘I should have known it was too good to last.’ When I tried to get her to tell me what she meant, she wouldn’t, but I’ve found out since that Reed Gallagher chose her for the top internship the School of Journalism gives out. She’s an ambitious young woman. If she knew she was in line for that placement, there’s no way she’d be jeopardizing it by missing classes for a week. And there’s no way she wouldn’t have shown up at her benefactor’s memorial service. Even if she
didn’t have feelings for him, there were a lot of important people there.”

Alex looked hard at me. “Jo, why are you getting so involved in this now?”

“Maybe because I didn’t get involved when I should have.”

For a moment he was silent. Then he said wearily, “Bingo! Not getting involved when you should have is the one explanation I’m open to right now.”

“Are things worse with your nephew?”

“Yeah,” he said. He leaned forward and blew out the candles, but not before I saw the anger in his eyes.

The light was fading as Alex and I walked down towards the Albert Street bridge, but the night was mild, and the hotshots who drive up and down Albert Street on weekend nights were out in force. When we got to the middle of the bridge, I leaned over the railing to check the ice on the lake. It hadn’t started to break up yet, but there were dark patches, and the orange rectangles that warned of thin ice had been placed along the shoreline.

“Look,” I said. “Signs of spring.”

When Alex and I walked into the police station, some uniformed cops greeted him, but he didn’t introduce me, and as we walked down the hall together, I tried to look innocent or at least bailable. I’d been in Alex’s office only twice before; both times I had been there on official business, and my mind had not been on the decor. That night as I looked around, I thought how much it was like his apartment: neat, spare, and impersonal. Among the standard-issue furnishings, there were only three personal items. Taped to the inside of the door was a computer-printed sign: “Don’t Complain. Expect Nothing. Do Something.” A
CD
player
and a case filled with classical discs were within easy reach on the shelf behind the desk, and on the wall facing the desk was a medicine wheel. An elder told me once that the medicine wheel is a mirror that helps a person see what cannot be seen with the eyes. I remembered Alex’s anger when he spoke about his nephew, and I wondered what he’d been seeing in this mirror lately.