Consumption (33 page)

The ocean hung grey and cold across the eastern sky. Winter was coming any minute. She shivered. She could not remember her father ever having once raised his voice to her. She recalled her Charlie’s Angels Barbie, which he had brought from Yellowknife. She shut her eyes and cold rain began hitting the tundra all around her.

Pauloosie and Bridgeford sat in the police station facing each other across a coffee table.

“So, Pauloosie, I have to tell you again that if you can’t prove where you were the morning your father was killed, if you can’t come up with someone who saw you there, then I can’t eliminate you as a suspect in his death.”

“I didn’t kill my father.”

“Someone did.”

“Did you think about the Kablunauks he was in business with?”

“Is there something in particular you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“Do you know where the diamonds came from?”

“Which diamonds?”

“The ones he had in his dresser drawer.”

“I don’t know anything about those.”

“Are they still there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pauloosie.”

“Yeah?”

“Where were you?”

“Hunting.”

“Anyone see you out hunting?”

“No.”

“Where were you exactly?”

“You asked me all this already.”

“I know.”

“North bank of the Meliadine.”

“Funny, we’ve spoken to three people who were fishing the river that morning and none of them saw you, or anyone else, out there.”

“I didn’t see them—why would they see me?”

“Let’s say, for a moment, that you were somewhere you’re embarrassed about—with a girl, say—no one needs to know that. All you have to do is tell me, and if I can prove it, then everything stops there. No one finds out, not her dad, or her employer, no one.”

Pauloosie sighed and stared at the ceiling. Bridgeford leaned back in his seat. The wind rattled the windows. The constable began again, at the beginning.

“Can you tell me what you know of your father’s business dealings in the month before his death?”

Outside the window, the season’s first heavy snow was falling.

Pauloosie was released on his own recognizance after two days of questioning, mostly to get him out of one of the police station’s two cells so that he wouldn’t be able to speak to the next two men to be questioned, Okpatayauk and Simionie. There are no roads out of Rankin Inlet, and it was easy to ensure he didn’t get in an airplane. Pauloosie made his way immediately to Penny’s apartment.

She was waiting for him. He pulled his pack out of her closet and stuffed his sleeping bag in it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Going,” he said.

SEVENTEEN

CONSTABLE BRIDGEFORD SAT ACROSS THE CARD TABLE
from Okpatayauk. “Do you know why I brought you in?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Okpatayauk had his fingers interlaced on the table in front of him.

“I’m interested in what you can tell me about Robertson’s death.”

“I’m not interested in saying very much about that.”

“People tell me you weren’t friends.”

“You and me, we’re not friends.”

“I’m not dead.”

“There hasn’t been anyone killed by an Inuk up here since the town was built.” Okpatayauk was alluding to the more violent dispositions of the Bay Boys, and the habit of frightened young Mounties—indoctrinated by American police dramas—to pull their pistols when confronted by drunken hysterics.

“What are you saying?”

“It would be the first, if you’re thinking I did it.”

“You don’t seem to be trying very hard to persuade me you didn’t.”

“It isn’t my job to tell you who did it.”

Bridgeford rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you start by telling me you didn’t?”

“Why should I?”

The phone rang.

Bridgeford, relieved at the excuse to get away from Okpatayauk and let him stew a bit, picked it up. Okpatayauk watched him lift his eyebrows with surprise.

Bridgeford turned away and dropped his voice. “Yes?” he said. There were loud chirping sounds from the telephone receiver, and he held it away from his head until they stopped. “If you have anything to say, I’m happy to listen.” The chirping noises recommenced.

When Bridgeford sat down he said, “That was your girlfriend, Elizabeth Agutetuar.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She tells me you were with her all morning, in her apartment.”

“Well, she would.”

“She says two of her neighbours came over for coffee and saw you there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And one of the schoolteachers.”

“Oh.”

“And when you went to leave, in the afternoon, you stopped outside her door to talk to the priest.”

“Yeah.”

“Get out of here.”

Simionie had suffered insomnia for many years. This was not widely known. He was thought to be a phlegmatic man, not given to anxiety or outward displays of anything. This idea of him—held to a certain extent even by himself—was destroyed when he was brought in for questioning about Robertson’s murder.

He had watched so many late-night and early morning detective movies on television that he expected to be beaten within minutes of sitting down. He drummed his fingers nervously as Bridgeford made tea. “You want some tea, Simionie?” the constable asked.

“No,” Simionie spat.

“What’s the matter?” Bridgeford looked up as he stirred his Earl Grey.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Simionie said, trying unsuccessfully to affect world-weariness.

“Okay,” Bridgeford said, sitting down at the table across from him. “So what do you know about Robertson’s murder?”

“Nothing.”

“You seemed pretty worked up about it. I thought maybe you’d have more to say.”

“I don’t.”

“What were you doing that morning?”

“I was home.”

“Anyone else there?”

“My parents.”

“You live with them?”

“Yes.”

“So what were you doing that morning?”

“Watching TV.”

“What were you watching?”

“Gilligan’s Island.”

“What episode was playing?”

“The one where the Howells discover their wedding wasn’t valid and she decides not to remarry him after all.”

Bridgeford shook his head. “See, I was home that morning too, and that wasn’t it. It was the one where the professor makes a radio out of Gilligan’s fillings.”

Simionie opened his eyes widely for a moment and then he laughed. “They teach you that in detective school? Check it out. It was the Howells’ marriage crisis episode. I was watching it.”

Bridgeford drank his tea. “I love the one you’re talking about. The idea that what everyone assumed to be eternal is not.”

“You think even Gilligan ever thought marriage was eternal?”

“Maybe not.”

“That radio in the fillings one is pretty funny too.”

“Yeah.”

“You got some interpretation of that one too?”

“Something to do with the incongruence of technology in primitive settings.”

“I guess.”

“I’ll think about it a little more.”

“Can I go?”

“Yeah.”

Simionie got up and walked to the door. “Simionie?”

“Yeah?”

“Who do you suppose killed him?” Simionie stopped. “I dunno. This never happens here.”

Okpatayauk knocked on the door of the police station. Bridgeford opened up. “Yes?” he said.

“I want to confess to the murder of Robertson.”

“You’ve been drinking,” the constable said and closed the door on him.

Okpatayauk pushed it open. “No I haven’t. I cut him across the neck with my knife because of what he’s stolen from the Inuit.”

Bridgeford looked at him. “What about your girlfriend and all those people who saw you at home that morning?”

“They’re lying to protect me. I can’t stand the guilt.”

“The priest is lying to protect you?”

“Yeah. You never heard of a priest lying before?”

Bridgeford sat in the kitchen of the police station talking to Anna Kowmik, the dispatcher. Okpatayauk was reclining comfortably in one of the cells. “The thing is,” Bridgeford said, “if we just blow him off, and we find a better suspect, Okpatayauk’s confession will be seen as reasonable doubt unless he recants.”

“So what do we do?”

“We proceed to charges and sentencing and wait for him to lose his nerve.”

“You don’t think he did it?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“He’s a thinker. He’s not explosive.”

“Why is he confessing then?”

“Attention. He’s making some sort of political point.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been wrong before.”

“What if he doesn’t recant?”

“Then maybe I’m wrong.”

“Do you think Pauloosie did it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“He
is
family. And that cut was deep.”

Nodding. “Whoever did it knew him enough to hate him.”

“I have to say, I got that vibe from the boy.”

“Me too. I’m not saying he couldn’t have done it. Hey, you were off Saturday morning. Did you watch
Gilligan’s Island?”

“Yeah.”

“Which episode did they show?”