Barrington Street Blues (5 page)

“I don't bargain with my clients, Eve-ette.”

“Why-vette.”

“Why-vette. If I came all the way out here, I'm going to do your bail hearing, so there's no need for bargaining. We'll have the hearing on Monday, and you'll be out. Now, should I even ask what you were offering to do for me, or should we move on to discuss your bail application?”

“You don't even want to hear what I got to say?”

“Go ahead.” I hoped it would not take long, so I could get home.

“I know somethin' nobody else knows.”

Yeah, whether the mayor likes to be the lamb or Little Bo Beep when he —

“I know somebody who was there when that murder happened.”

“What murder?”

“At the Fore-And-Aft.”

Not a muscle in my body moved. I stared at her.

“You know, when that guy got shot.”

“Two guys were shot.”

“The Leaman guy.”

Leaman? It was Graham Scott who got shot: he took two bullets to the head. Leaman put a bullet in his own brain — I would not have described that as getting shot. “That was a murder and suicide,” I said. Did she know I was involved in the case? I doubted it. Ross Trevelyan's was the only name that had been mentioned in the media, as far as I knew.

“Yeah, right.” Yvette snickered. “The
suicide
.”

“That's the way the medical examiner saw it.”

“That's ‘cause the medical examiner wasn't down on his knees in the parking lot doing some young dude when Leaman got iced.”

Oh, Christ. What was she saying? She sat back, triumphant, arms folded against her scrawny chest. I took a deep breath.

“Tell me.”

She made a “maybe I will, maybe I won't” gesture, but I sat tight. It wasn't long in coming.

“That bitch Wanda is gonna be sorry she fucked with me at my trial. She thinks nobody knows she was there. But she didn't count on me doin' my duty as a good citizen, just like she done on the witness stand. Wanda was with this guy —”

“Who was the guy?”

“Beats me. Anyway she was doin' him around the back of the bar. They just finished when they heard voices and then a gunshot. The guy she was with zipped up his pants and took off. She vamoosed in the other direction. She didn't want to see nuthin'. And didn't want nobody seein' her. She was on probation for a whole lot of charges, and she was breachin' her probation just bein' out at that time of night. Let alone bein' high. Eckcetera, eckcetera.”

“Let me get this straight. What exactly did she hear?”

“Guys hollerin' and a gunshot.”

“A shot or shots?”

“A shot, I think she said.”

There was one bullet in Leaman, two in Scott. Did this mean Leaman was shot first and Scott appeared some time later? Or did Wanda hear the first round fired at Scott? If so, what accounted for the gap between the shots?

“And you said guys were shouting?”

“Yeah.”

“What were they saying?”

“I don't fucking know. I wasn't there.”

“What did Wanda say?”

“Just that they were hollerin' and then blam! End of conversation.”

“What time was this?”

“Late. Three, four in the morning.” She fixed me with a slightly wall-eyed gaze. “So I figure the killer don't know there was a witness. Witness Wanda. And she sure as hell ain't talkin'. And there's the john, too. Whoever he was.”

“How do you know this?”

“She was bombed one night and started blubbering to me about it. Scared the killer knew she was there and would come and get her. Guess she got lucky. ‘Cause she's still walkin' around. Let's hope for her sake her luck don't run out.”

This is the day I'm gonna roll the dice.

— Mel “Snake Eyes” Rooney

The conversation haunted me all the way home. I decided not to add to the obvious stresses in Ross Trevelyan's life until I had to. He was counting on this case as an account receivable, and as a beacon sending out the signal that Ross was a lawyer who specialized in the potentially lucrative business of plaintiff-side personal injury litigation. I would leave him in peace for now and do a bit of investigating on my own.

First thing Monday morning, I retrieved the file from Ross's office and read through it again, trying to find a starting point for a quiet probe into the shooting. The police had canvassed people who worked at the bar, but nobody had seen or heard anything. The shooting happened after hours. None of the staff had seen Leaman or Scott in the place that night. Nobody in the file could, or would, identify any connection between the two men. If either of them had been selling drugs to the other, there was no reference to that in the material we had before us. There was a police report indicating that Leaman and Scott had never been incarcerated in the same institution at the same time. Leaman had spent considerable time in the addiction treatment centre; Scott had never been treated there. I
scribbled a note about Wanda Pollard being a possible witness. But something else struck me while I was reading through the file: the one piece of hard evidence that might be traceable was the gun. The Luger was an antique. It had almost certainly been stolen. The police had tried various gun collectors but had not found the owner. I wondered whether it was a souvenir brought over from Germany after World War Two.

I picked up the phone and dialled. “Up for a game of darts tonight, Burke?”

“Darts? You're at loose ends for something to occupy yourself, I'm thinking.”

“A beer then. I want to head out to the Legion for a bit of detective work. Thought I'd start with the one on Cunard Street.”

“And what do you hope to find out at the Legion?”

“I'd like to trace a piece of German weaponry. Namely the Luger that was used in the Fore-And-Aft shooting. I'm hoping to reassure myself this was really a suicide.”

“I thought it was one of your partners who was doing the work on this.”

“I'm doing a little sleuthing to convince myself we have a case. Ross is a true believer, if you'll pardon the expression. He sees gold within his grasp. I, however, tend to think
fortuna vitrea est; tum cum splendet frangitur
.”

“Is that you, Collins? I thought I heard someone speaking to me in the language most dear to my heart.”

“Why should that surprise you? Have you heretofore regarded me as an unlettered buffoon?”

“Not at all, at all. So. Fortune is like glass; it glitters just at the moment of breaking. That's how you see your case?”

“That's how I see all my cases, Brennan. But, yes, I'm particularly suspicious of this one. I intend to investigate a little further.”

“Ah. Come by and pick me up around nine-thirty. I'm giving a seminar at the theology school before then. High Christology in the Gospel of John. I didn't see your name on the registration list.”

“So give me the crib notes.”

“That would be a start. See you tonight. How were the Rankins?”

“The Rankins were great. You should have hung on to that ticket.”

“Nah. You know how it is when MacNeil wants something.”

“No, I don't actually. All I know is when she doesn't want something.”

“Don't be telling me that. You banjaxed it again?”

“Later.”

I had just put the phone down when Ross Trevelyan called, to remind me that we had a witness coming in. I picked up the file and headed for Ross's office. We chatted about other matters while we waited for the psychologist who had treated Corey Leaman at the Baird Centre. Ross's secretary brought him in, and we stood to greet him.

“Doctor Swail-Peddle? Nice to meet you. I'm Ross Trevelyan. This is my partner, Montague Collins.”

“Hi. Call me Gareth.”

I shook his hand. Gareth Swail-Peddle was short and slight with a small face nearly hidden by his salt and pepper beard. Tiny dark brown eyes were magnified by huge glasses. He sat in the chair beside mine, and relieved himself of a large canvas shoulder bag.

Ross sat behind his desk. “So. Gareth. Thanks for coming in. I'd normally say ‘how can I help you?' but I guess in this case it's ‘how can you help us?'”

“Well, let me be upfront with you, Ross. And Montague. I'm what you would call a disgruntled former employee! That's not always a positive indicator of credibility. True, I was unjustly dismissed from the Baird Centre, and my relationship with that organization is conflictual. But I'm here to tell the truth and do whatever I can to help the survivors of Corey's suicide.”

“Monty and I are most appreciative, Gareth. What can you tell us about Corey?”

“Well, as you probably know, Corey was admitted to the facility on more than one occasion. He struggled with an addiction to cocaine and of course he had family issues as well. So many people do. During his most recent, and final, admission I was of the view that his recovery had not progressed to the point where he should have been discharged. Our director did not share my view.”

“The director is Doctor Edelman?” I asked.

“That's right.”

“And your position was what?”

“I am a clinical psychologist. I was on staff as a therapist.”

“What happened?”

“Well, Corey's recovery was —”

“No,” I interrupted again. “I mean, what happened with you? How did you end up leaving the centre?”

There was a quick tightening of the lips but, if Swail-Peddle was annoyed at the change of subject, he did not let on. “Doctor Edelman and I had what might be called a personality conflict. He is a fine psychiatrist. But he is very controlling. He could not accept that my treatment methods were as valid as his, and he made my situation there untenable. It's all for the better. I have opened my own practice, and the self-actualization I am able to achieve now is something I could never have achieved as a staff psychologist. So, as bitter as the parting was, I really should thank Edelman for his unintentional role in my self-fulfilment as a therapist! Back to Corey, though, it was Edelman who had the final say in discharging Corey prematurely from treatment. His methods were very orthodox; he failed to see that they were ineffective. Corey should have been admitted to our Phase Two program, which involves a much longer stay and a more intensive course of therapy. But no. Corey was out, and you know the result.”

“I take it you'll have no trouble facing off against Doctor Edelman if and when this goes to court?” I asked, thinking that he probably lived for the day he could castigate the psychiatrist in a public forum.

Swail-Peddle smiled and held out his hands in a nothing-to-hide gesture. “No trouble. I won't conceal from you the fact that I was frustrated in my efforts to get a hearing before Doctor Edelman. Now perhaps I will. Though I imagine he will become quite unpleasant, through his own lawyer, if I challenge him in public.”

“Yes, I would say the Baird Centre will mount a vigorous defence,” Ross put in, “but we intend to counter it.”

“I don't suppose you have any notes or a chart relating to Corey?” I asked. “The records would have stayed at the centre, I presume.”

“His chart, his medication records, and so forth would still be on file at the Baird.”

“We can subpoena those.”

“But I believe I may have some notes of my own. I kept a diary and some of the entries may relate to Corey.”

“If you could provide those, we'd appreciate it.”

“I'll call and let you know what I've found. And if there's anything else I can do for Corey's family, don't hesitate to get in touch.”

“So, what do you think?” Ross asked me when the psychologist had departed.

I leaned across his desk and said,
sotto voce
: “Maybe he pulled the trigger himself.”

Ross reared back: “What are you saying?”

“You know what the police always say about overly helpful witnesses, people who insinuate themselves into the investigation.”

“No. I don't.”

“You should have kept up with criminal law, Ross. Cops always suspect people like that.”

“But we're not in the business of suspecting people, are we, Monty? And neither are the police on this one; they're not looking for a killer. As for us, we are in the business of establishing that Leaman's
suicide
, and his regrettable decision to take Graham Scott down with him, was in fact the fault of the Wallace Rennie Baird Addiction Treatment Centre. And now we have Doctor Swail-Peddle.”

“At least we can be fairly sure he's not using an alias. Name like that, he didn't make it up.”

“Be serious, will you, Monty? We have the good doctor providing inside information that supports our case. He was utterly candid about his dispute with the centre. He has nothing to gain by helping us. I think we should be grateful.”

“Nothing to gain but revenge against his former employer.”

“Which he — again, candidly — admits will sour for him once he is forced to undergo cross-examination by the centre's counsel at trial.”

“You're right. If he's on the level, his evidence will be very helpful indeed.”

†

I drove downtown to St. Bernadette's that evening to pick up Brennan Burke for our excursion to the Legion. He was just getting out of his car when I pulled up. “Give me two minutes to get rid of
this collar if we're going to be lifting a few.” I told him to go ahead. “How was the seminar?” I asked when he joined me in my car.

“Sure, it was brilliant. How could it be otherwise with myself at the head table? So, what exactly are you trying to find out?”

“If there are any genuine war veterans on hand, I'll be asking whether they know of someone who brought a Luger back with him.” He looked skeptical. “It's worth a try. It's the only place I can think of to start.”