A Little More Free Read online

  “So,” Boisjoli said, “someone who worked in the museum was likely paid off by the thieves. Keep looking.”

  Then Boisjoli and the other detective gave out some new assignments, and Dougherty and the others were told to keep their surveillance routines.

  The meeting broke up, and Dougherty went down the hall to homicide to look for Carpentier. The big office was almost empty except for one detective sitting at a desk by the window, tapping at typewriter keys one at a time in a slow, deliberate march. He looked up when he saw Dougherty and said, “Retourne au hall, à la salle de défilé.”

  “No, the meeting is over,” Dougherty said. “I’m looking for Detective Carpentier.”

  The typing man swivelled a little in his chair and looked at Dougherty and said, “À cette heure?”

  Dougherty said, “Oui.”

  “C’est les homicides ici.”

  Dougherty was thinking, You’re here, but he let it go and the detective switched to English saying, “Homicides usually happen at night.”

  “I know,” Dougherty said, “I was with Detective Carpentier last night at the scene.”

  “He was up all night with the mother of that biker, hearing stories about what a nice young man he was, how he loved dogs and kids. You were there?”

  “No, he did that with Detective Marcotte. This is for a different homicide, David Murray.”

  The detective nodded and said, “Oh yes, the American,” and he picked up some folders on his desk and looked through them saying, “Not much in that file.”

  “Not yet.”

  Then the detective looked at Dougherty and said, “You’re going to fill this?” He held up a folder.

  “I’m going to work with Detective Carpentier, yeah.”

  “Bonne chance.”

  * * *

  The woman said, “You don’t remember me?”

  Dougherty said no.

  “You arrested me last year.”

  “I can’t remember everyone I arrest.”

  “Yeah, I guess, you bust so many people.”

  “Just the ones that break the law.” And then, before she could say anything Dougherty said, “And it wasn’t last year, it was the year before.”

  They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the house on Hutchison Street, three storeys with an iron staircase coming straight down from the second floor, not the winding stairs more common on old Montreal houses. The McGill students who lived in the neighbourhood called it “the ghetto,” but Dougherty had a feeling the permanent residents raising their kids didn’t think of it like that.

  “You and the army, you dragged us out of bed.”

  Carpentier, standing on the sidewalk beside Dough­erty, said, “Why does every person say the army was in their house when we all know every arrest was made by the Montreal police.”

  “It was in St. Henri,” Dougherty said. “We had a tip an American wanted for murder was staying there.”

  The woman said, “Murder? I don’t think so.”

  “His bomb killed a man,” Dougherty said, “at the University of Washington.”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “You see,” Dougherty said, “you know all about it.”

  “And so do you.”

  Dougherty nodded a little. That was true, he’d recognized her right away. It was the workboots she was wearing, probably the same ones she’d been wearing when he’d brought her in along with the other members of the St. Henri Workers’ Collective, though then, and now, it looked like she was doing most of the work herself. Today she had a bag of groceries in one hand and a stack of mimeographed posters in the other.

  “You’ve changed,” Dougherty said. “Moving up the hill has been good for you.”

  “And arresting innocent people has been good for you,” she said, motioning to Carpentier, and Dougherty realized she thought he was a detective now. He let that go and then she said, “Anyway, haven’t you heard? We’re getting kicked out.”

  Dougherty said, “Yeah, I’ve heard something.” He’d been to a few of their demonstrations protesting against the high-rises some big developer was trying to build, arrested a few people, but not this woman. He said, “What’s your name?”

  “You can look it up in your files.”

  Carpentier stepped up then and said, “Look, miss, we’re not here about any of that, or any of your other issues, we need to talk to you about David Murray.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Dougherty was surprised — it was such an obvious lie, he wondered why she’d even bothered — but before he could say anything Carpentier said, “We’re just trying to find out who killed him, perhaps you can help.”

  “No, sorry.”

  “We’re trying to find out where he was on Saturday, who he was with.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He lived here?” Carpentier said, looking up the stairs to the second floor. “May we see his room?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She looked from Carpentier to Dougherty and then back to the detective and said, “You can talk to our lawyer. They have all the information at the Council office.”

  Carpentier said, “Is that really necessary?”

  “I think it is, yes.”

  Dougherty was about to leave but Carpentier said, “Mr. Murray’s parents will be here later today. Their son has been murdered, and we’d like to be able to tell them we’re doing everything we can and that his friends are cooperating.”

  The woman considered it and then nodded a little and said, “All right, come in.”

  They followed her up the stairs and into the building and waited while she walked down the hall and put the bag of groceries in the kitchen. Dougherty looked into the living room while they were waiting and saw the usual things he saw in student apartments: old couches, mismatched chairs, posters on the walls. Here, though, there were a few posters of impressionist paintings mixed in with Che and Jimi and notices about rallies and demonstrations.

  She came back from the kitchen and said, “This way,” and they all went up the narrow stairs to the third floor.

  “David hasn’t been spending much time here.”

  She opened the door at the end of the hall but didn’t go into the room.

  Carpentier said, “Was this unusual?” and she said, “What’s usual these days?”

  Dougherty walked into the room and thought it was true, it didn’t look like anyone had been spending much time in it recently. There was a single bed with a pillow and a blanket in a heap on the middle of the mattress and a dresser against the wall. Dougherty took a step to the window and didn’t think it could be opened, there were so many coats of paint on the trim and the frame.

  Carpentier, still in the hall, said, “When was the last time you saw David?” but before the woman could answer a man’s voice said, “Don’t say anything.”

  Dougherty couldn’t see the guy coming up the stairs but he knew what he’d look like: young, long hair, beard, jeans, jean jacket — maybe leather jacket.

  The woman said, “They’re homicide detectives.”

  “They’re pigs, they shouldn’t be in here — they don’t have the right.”

  Now Dougherty could see it was actually a corduroy jacket, but otherwise the guy looked just like he’d expected. Maybe a little older.

  Carpentier said, “Did you know Mr. Murray?”

  “Get out. You have no right to be in here.” Then the guy looked at the woman and said, “Why did you let them in? What’s wrong with you?”

  She was already walking away, saying, “Oh for Christ’s sake.”

  The guy turned to Carpentier and said, “You have to leave, right now.”

  Dougherty said, “Answer the question: how well did you know David Murray?”

  “I don’t have to answer any of your questio
ns.”

  “You don’t have to,” Carpentier said, “but it might help.”

  “I don’t help cops.”

  Dougherty turned back to the dresser and started looking through the stack of books, mostly paperbacks, and the guy said, “Stop that, you can’t do that.”

  Carpentier said, “We understand David was expected for dinner on Sunday but he didn’t arrive. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I’m not answering any of your questions. I’m calling my lawyer.”

  Dougherty said, “You all have lawyers?”

  The guy said, “Clearly we need them,” and he turned and walked down the stairs.

  Carpentier said, “Anything?”

  “Maybe he was homesick.” Dougherty held up a photograph that had been under the stack of paperbacks that showed a slightly younger, clean-shaven David Murray standing beside a woman who was probably his mother in front of a small house.

  “Maybe.”

  Dougherty took a last look around the small room and said, “Nothing else, but he must have had somewhere else he was living.”

  “Yes.” Carpentier started down the hall and Dougherty followed him.

  As they came down the stairs Dougherty heard some shouting and banging of dishes, so he pushed past Carpentier and headed towards the kitchen yelling, “Hey!”

  The woman was backed up against the sink, the guy right in her face.

  Dougherty said, “All right, back off,” and the guy turned, wild eyed and red in the face, and he said, “You get out.”

  Now Dougherty was a constable again, feeling familiar territory and he easily took charge, saying, “That’s enough,” and moving between the man and the woman.

  She said, “I don’t need your help,” and Dougherty was staring at the guy, looking him right in the eyes and the guy said, “Yeah, you get out.”

  Dougherty was still moving and the guy didn’t even seem to realize he was backing up himself, moving down the hall towards the front door where Carpentier was waiting. Dougherty said, “Talk to Detective Carpentier.”

  Then Dougherty went back to the kitchen and the woman said, “You do need to get out of here.”

  “If that guy thinks he’s a peace activist, he’s still got a few things to learn.”

  “And you’re going to teach him?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You need to get out.”

  They were looking at each other and Dougherty started to feel there wasn’t anything he could tell her she didn’t already know, so after a moment he nodded and started to walk away but he turned back and said, “You know, asshole trumps everything. No matter what people believe in or anything like that, an asshole is always an asshole.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  The tension was letting up, no doubt, and Dougherty stopped by the doorway to the hall and wanted to say something else but he couldn’t think of what to say, so he just nodded again and turned and walked down the hall.

  Outside, Carpentier was standing by himself on the sidewalk and Dougherty said, “What did you do to him?”

  “He remembered a more pressing engagement he needed to attend.”

  “Just like that, he remembered?”

  “Just like that. But he was right, we should talk to the lawyer. Come on, the office is on the next block.”

  Dougherty said okay, and they started walking. Carpentier said, “You’re single, aren’t you?” and Dougherty said, “What do you mean?”

  “You two,” Carpentier said, “flirting, talking about old times.”

  “I don’t even know her name.”

  “No,” Carpentier said, “but like she said, you can look it up.”

  * * *

  “At least you admitted you’re cops.”

  Carpentier said, “Of course.”

  The bearded man was coming around the desk in the small office, saying, “We’re never sure who we’re dealing with here.”

  “As I said, we’re homicide detectives.”

  Dougherty liked Carpentier saying that, even though he knew it was just to make talking to this guy easier.

  They were in the office of the Montreal Council to Aid War Resisters on the main floor of a three-storey walk-up at 3625 Aylmer, a block over from Hutchison. Down a few steps from street level was the Yellow Door Coffeehouse and the top floor was still an apartment. There were a few other offices in what used to be bedrooms and the living room of the main floor: Planned Parenthood, Legal Aid and the Milton Park Defence Council, where Carpentier and Dougherty had stopped first, but there was no one there, just a note taped to the door saying deliveries should go to the War Resisters office.

  “It’s still such a shock to think that David was murdered.”

  Carpentier said, “Yes, of course.” He and Dougherty had stepped into the small office and Carpentier had done all the talking, saying they were trying to find out who killed David Murray. The bearded man looked suspicious, but Dougherty thought Carpentier was doing a good job of putting him at ease.

  Then Carpentier said, “But he was among the underground?”

  The guy smiled and shook his head a little and said, “It’s not like that.”

  “No? What’s it like, Mr… . ?”

  The guy looked at Carpentier for a moment and then said, “Gardiner, my name’s Bill Gardiner.”

  Carpentier shook his hand, and then Gardiner said, “Come on, why don’t we get some coffee downstairs?”

  Lunch service was finished but there were still a few people in the coffeehouse playing cards and a couple of guys playing chess. Gardiner went to the counter by the door to the kitchen and got himself a mug and picked up the coffee pot, holding it up to Carpentier and Dougherty who both said, “No, thanks,” at the same time.

  Gardiner poured himself a cup and said, “They have hot apple cider if you want,” and this time Dougherty kept his mouth shut while Carpentier said no thanks.

  They sat down and Carpentier said, “What can you tell us about David Murray?”

  “Maybe you can tell me what you know first.”

  Dougherty said, “We know someone caved in his skull.”

  “That’s what happened?” Gardiner said. “I don’t know any of the details.”

  “We’re trying to find out who would do that, why they would do it. If Mr. Murray was in the underground he may have dealt with,” Carpentier paused and then said, “unsavoury people.”

  Gardiner laughed a little and said, “That’s a good word, very French, I like that,” and then looked at Dougherty and didn’t say anything else.

  “We know that Mr. Murray was denied landed immigrant status and wasn’t able to get a job legally,” Carpentier said. “Do you know how he was making his living?”

  “I know he wasn’t making much of a living. I told him, like I tell so many of the others who come in here, you can’t speak French, you should go to Toronto or Calgary.”

  “But he didn’t take your advice?”

  Gardiner looked at Carpentier and said, “No. He hung around. He works for us, he volunteers, he does some work for our sponsors and they slip him a little cash. Slipped him, I guess.”

  “What do you mean,” Carpentier said, “sponsors?”

  “People who support us financially. We get a little from the United Church, from some Quakers, the QFL and from individual donors. And we raise money ourselves putting on concerts here at the Yellow Door, Jesse Winchester, the McGarrigles, Louise Forestier and sometimes bigger places. We had Pete Seeger at Place des Arts, did you see that one?”

  “No,” Carpentier said, “I didn’t see that one.”

  “It was good. We tried to get Joan Baez but she said the men should go to jail rather than come here.”

  Dougherty said, “That’s easy for her to say.”

  Gardiner sai
d, “Yes, well, anyway, David did work for us and for some of the private donors, work in their houses, that sort of thing.”

  “It’s quite a network,” Carpentier said.

  “Built up over years. As the war in Vietnam gets bigger, so does the fight against it.”

  Dougherty said, “And the number of guys running away from it?”

  “They aren’t — we aren’t, I’m one of them — running away, Detective. All due respect to Joan Baez, but we feel we can do more to protest the war from here than we could from jail cells.”

  “So you saw Mr. Murray frequently?”

  Gardiner looked at Carpentier for a moment and then said, “Not really. The thing is, Detective, when American men first started coming to Canada in ’67, ’68, they were — we were — mostly of a type.” He drank some coffee and got a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.

  Dougherty watched him light up, wanting one himself and wanting to jump in with more questions, but he could feel Carpentier beside him waiting, giving Gardiner all the time he needed to say too much or the wrong thing.

  Blowing out smoke, Gardiner said, “I’m not saying we were better or anything like that, but we were mostly better educated, college graduates, from good families, and we were political, we were making the best choice out of what was available. We were refusing to fight an unjust war.”

  A man at a table in the corner said, “That’s check and mate,” and laughed. Another man said, “Again,” and the sound of the chess pieces banging on the board bounced around the room.

  Carpentier waited, and after a moment Gardiner said, “At first when the deserters started to come to Canada we didn’t know what to do with them and they formed their own group. They were different, you see — some had been to Vietnam, done a tour and were supposed to go back and do another and some had deserted during basic training. They were generally … not all, of course, but most, were more what you might call working class.”

  You might, Dougherty thought, and he almost said, Or you might call them guys like me.

  “Good men,” Gardiner said, “but they often had different issues. Some had barely made it through high school.”

  Dougherty said, “So?” with more of an edge than he wanted.