(2012) Cross-Border Murder (32 page)

“When did he phone you?”

“That same afternoon. He wouldn’t tell me the reason.”

“Do you know that Gooden plagiarized from Monaghan’s work?”

He looked up in surprise. “No.”

“So Gooden phoned you that afternoon. Why?”

Symansky compressed his lips and looked down at his hands. Finally he said, “He wanted to get into Monaghan’s office that night and xerox everything of pertinence. He wanted my help.”

“What kind of help?” I remembered Symansky had told me and Gina at his house that he had been nowhere near the building that evening.

“He knew I had a copier in my office. At first he wanted me to stand guard. Do the copying. But as you know I had an engagement that evening at McGill.”

“So you told me.”

“Yes. And what I told you was the truth. But not all of it. I returned to my office before going to McGill. I met Gooden. I gave him a key to my office so he could access the copier. And then I participated in a minor subterfuge designed to give Gooden at least the semblance of an alibi. You see it was important that suspicion be deflected away from both Gooden and myself should Monaghan conclude the next day that someone had broken into his office.”

“So what did you do?”

“At the back of the building there’s a stairwell with a fire exit. One of those doors that can only be opened from the inside. We waited until the security guard was at his desk near the front door. Then Gooden left. On the way out he spoke to the guard in a way that ensured that someone would remember his leaving the building. Then I let Gooden back in through the fire exit door. He hid out in my office until the coast was clear. I left for McGill also ensuring that the security officer noticed the time of my departure.”

We lapsed into silence.

“How did Gooden break into Monaghan’s office?”

“He had a master key to the building. How he got it I don’t know. I remembered thinking at the time,” he said, a regretful smile playing with the corners of his mouth, “that maybe I should put a special safety lock on my own office! As I told you, I was not his friend and I had no personal reason to trust him. But then I decided it would only draw attention to myself. But from that day on I made sure I kept no incriminating documents there.”

“So what happened that evening when you left Gooden in the building to xerox Monaghan’s files? Did Monaghan catch him doing it? And was he murdered as a result?”

Symansky did not reply immediately. Two students making their way towards the administration building had come into earshot. As they passed, they mumbled an awkward greeting of respect, and cast a curious glance in my direction. The firm nod and encouraging smile he gave them told me that he enjoyed his position at the pinnacle of this institution. I could not help wondering how many lies he might be willing to tell in order to keep it. As their footfalls died away, he said, “no, I don’t believe that’s what happened. At least, I did not believe it at the time.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely the possibility must have crossed your mind when you first heard of Monaghan’s murder?”

“Yes. But you see there were other factors which made that seem unlikely. Montini had been taken into custody. Gooden had phoned me late the previous evening to tell me his mission had been a success. I had detected nothing in his voice to indicate that anything had gone wrong. In fact he told me that he had rushed to complete everything early because he had seen on Monaghan’s desk a note about the scheduled meeting with Montini. And finally a xeroxed set of the documents was sitting on my desk when I arrived the next day. Under the circumstances it all sounded very logical.”

“If all of this had come out at the time, the investigation might have taken a different turn.”

“Yes.” Symansky sighed and looked at his watch. “But as I’ve said we all had our reasons for keeping silent. It saddens me now because so much of what happened back then now seems so pointless, but had I been questioned by the police, I probably would have lied.”

“So what did Gooden phone you about last Tuesday?”

The question caught him by surprise. He hesitated. He looked puzzled.

“Who told you about that phone call? Not Gooden, surely?”

“No.” I did not bother to elaborate.

“It was a very strange call,” he muttered.

I waited.

“At first he told me Naomi Monaghan had been murdered. He wanted to know whether I or the CIA had any reason to be involved. I told him, if I remember correctly, that I thought it was a ridiculous suggestion. Then he reminded me that Washington had been involved in having the charges dropped against Montini and the Monaghan investigation closed. I probably didn’t handle my end of the conversation very well. I thought maybe he was still involved with the RCMP. But I really doubted that. So why the phone call? It didn’t make sense. I became very prudent in my answers. I probably only succeeded in sounding evasive.”

“So why did he phone?”

“I wish I knew.” He seemed to be struggling with some inner dilemma. “Later, I thought that maybe he expected me to report back to the CIA, and thus through a circuitous route back to the RCMP, perhaps to warn them that Naomi’s death might become an eventual problem and that maybe they should keep an eye on the investigation. Try to put a lid on it the way they did with the Monaghan investigation.”

“Did you?”

“Call the CIA? No. I told you I’m through with all of that and I meant it. The next day another possibility occurred to me, but it seemed a bit far-fetched.” He gave me a weak smile, intended to convey both his own puzzlement and frustration. “It occurred to me that he may have thought his line was bugged or that he had decided to record the phone call. His end of the conversation would make him look innocent and divert attention elsewhere. Possibly towards me and the CIA.” He watched my reaction. “Was that why you came here to grill me?”

I did not answer. My thoughts were elsewhere. For a moment I wondered whether Gooden’s phone call had indeed succeeded in diverting my attention. I had earlier written Symansky off my list of prime suspects. But should I have? What if Symansky were lying and Gooden’s phone call had been a puzzled but genuine inquiry? I wondered what Gina and Phil were making out of all of this.

“The truth,” Symansky said, breaking my train of thought, “is often hard to pin down.” There was a sense of wonder in his voice which I had not expected. “Sometimes, I suspect, it’s even harder to pin down than a network of carefully prepared lies.” He turned to me with a frown. “Surely that problem must have plagued your career as a journalist?”

I wanted to ignore his question. I felt he was searching for an opening, trying to find some common ground, some way of removing the hard, if not hostile, nature of our conversation. Hendricks had sought to do that. But he had not found my Achilles’ heel. Symansky, I prudently reminded myself, had social skills and an innate charm that Hendricks had lacked.

“Journalists don’t have the time to sit around and philosophize about that kind of problem,” I said, wondering what more I might be able to extract from him.

“A pity,” he said.

“But since I’ve stepped back into academia,” I said in a tone designed to keep him in his place, “I’ve stumbled upon enough lies to last me a lifetime.”

“Yes I suppose you have,” he admitted sadly.

“It’s not a supposition, Mr. Symansky,” I replied testily, “and not something to philosophize about. But a harsh reality with very real and very harmful consequences.”

He turned to look at me. His jaw stiffened and his eyes glared. He was not a man to go down without a fight. “Don’t make the mistake, Mr. Webster, of thinking that it has anything to do with academia! Places like this one have no strangle-hold on the breeding of liars. Many people lie to protect themselves. And if you disdain, as you put it, to philosophize properly about the kind of lies you’ve encountered, then believe me, you’ll fail to grasp the truth that you claim to be seeking.” The lines around his mouth tightened. He glanced at his watch before continuing. “If Gooden is trying to shift blame onto the CIA, and indirectly on to me, and if I sit here and give you what I know about Gooden, stuff that may prove to be harmful to him, how are you going to tell which one of us is lying and which one of us is telling the truth?” As he spoke he had grown angry. “You expect me to reveal all. But why should I? Because you’ve threatened me? I’ve just told you that when threatened the human instinct is to lie. If anyone is to trust you with the truth, it has to be because they’re convinced you can separate the truth from the lies. Can you?”

It was a good question. He had indeed found my Achilles’ heel. He had almost managed to reverse the tables. He was using anger to challenge me, as I had used my anger earlier to try and force answers out of him. I knew that I would have to sort out the truth from the lies later. Life gave no guarantees about being able to do this. One expected truth to be consistent, to have the hallmark of constancy: it doesn’t. Anyone who lives long enough, can be dedicated to the truth in the morning, only to feel compelled to lie before night has fallen.

He glanced at his watch again. “I must be getting back, I have a lot of work and much of it is scheduled. I think I’ve told you all I know.” If I had expected him to make a last plea for himself and Stella, I was disappointed. The only plea he made if one can call it that, was a collective one. We rose and started back. “A lot of careers and reputations are now on your shoulders, but I presume you realize that. Stella’s, mine, Gooden’s.” He paused and his voice took on an odd distant note. “And belatedly possibly the reputations of Monaghan, his wife Naomi, Frank Montini, and I would imagine even Harold Hendricks. It’s a heavy load.” As we stepped up the pace, he threw me a disarming smile. “They used to say that the dead could not rest until the truth was out. But then we don’t live in superstitious times! Do we?”

He had the kind of charm that presumed everyone would like him if only he was given the chance to relate to them in a meaningful way.

I left him at the front door. A few minutes later I saw the van slowly arrive to meet me. As I got in, although I could not be sure at that distance, I thought I saw Symansky standing just inside the glass doors watching us. I felt my stomach churn. I knew that if he had been watching, he would surely have been able to identify the special antenna which Phil had temporarily attached to the roof of the van but had yet to dismantle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
 

When we arrived back at the house, Mary asked how it had gone.

“Went well. Like a pro.” Phil beamed.

“Very, very interesting!” Gina said.

Mary looked at me.

“My mind’s like mush right now,” I murmured, “what he told me needs careful assessment. What I’d like to do is lie down for an hour.”

“Mary could listen to the tape while you do that,” Phil said, “when you’ve recharged your batteries, we could order in some food and decide where to go from here.”

I went upstairs. Like a pro, Phil had said about the interview. I knew he meant the quality of the taping. Oh, he and Gina were in general also satisfied about the substance of the interview. But on the drive back, Phil had expressed at least one caveat.

“You see,” he had observed, “he was clever enough to make sure that the tape would be useless as evidence in court against Gooden.” I must have looked puzzled because he added, “all that philosophical stuff about truth and lies. In effect he was saying that the most natural thing for him to do was to lie to you.”

“And it probably was.”

“Sure. And any defense attorney would try to point that out. But the fact that it’s on the tape would give the defense attorney a field day with a judge or jury. So much so that any prosecutor would decline to introduce it as evidence.”

“You’re suggesting that Symansky knew he was being taped.”

“Well, he’s crafty enough to have figured that out, don’t you think?”

I didn’t. But as I lay down on the bed I thought about Symansky’s admonitions. In the absence of incontrovertible evidence, the task was going to be to sort through the truth and the lies that were layered like a sub-text in almost everything anyone had said to me. I found myself hungering for a different kind of evidence.

An hour and a half later when I arrived downstairs, food was being laid out on the dining room table. Phil and Gina had picked up a bucket of chicken wings done in a hot Cajun sauce, and Mary had made a salad from green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, bacon bits, slices of hard boiled eggs and oil and vinegar.

“I think he told you the truth,” she said to me by way of a greeting. That and the pungent smell of the food made me feel better. As any puppy dog knows, happiness consists almost entirely of food and an occasional pat on the head. As we ate I began to notice that Phil and Gina were having a hard time containing themselves. Finally Phil sighed. “Gina and I have a plan. We would like your reaction to it.”

“Can’t it wait until after we’ve all had our coffee?” I muttered, reaching for another chicken wing.

“Not really,” Gina jumped in, “it’s a matter of timing. If we all agree I’d like to move on it as early as possible this evening.”

“Okay,” I said. I wiped a smear of Cajun sauce from my upper lip.

“I want to persuade Naomi’s friend to set a trap for Gooden,” Gina said.

And with that she had my attention. For a half hour I listened. Gina and Phil alternated, presenting aspects of the plan and the reasoning behind it. I played devil’s advocate, probing for weak spots. All I succeeded in doing was to smooth out some of the rough edges. But then I also wanted to see Gooden flushed out into the open. I glanced at Mary who had so far remained silent.

“I have some reservations,” she said, her fork toying with the limp lettuce on her plate, “if Naomi’s friend agrees we have to be sure that she’s not going to be in any danger, and that means we shouldn’t proceed unless the police are involved.”

I nodded. “And I doubt that she will agree,” I said, “certainly on the two occasions when we met she was pretty hostile.”