Adam's Witness Page 3

  Grace capitulated to exhaustion and went home — not too far a drive from the paper, over the steaming river to the tree-lined neighbourhood of Buena Vista, where she could just barely afford a little bungalow on her unspectacular reporter’s salary.

  After a few minutes of sitting in the dark, Grace made her way into the kitchen; she was hungry again, despite having scarfed down McPhail’s hummus, vegetables and granola bar. Peanut butter on toast with bananas: That sounded good, and quick.

  She barely made it through her little meal. She fell onto her bed, removing her clothing from a prone position. Teeth unbrushed, sticky with peanut butter, she fell asleep.

  *******

  The phone was ringing. Damn it. What time was it? Why was her mouth full of fuzzy cotton?

  Ah yes, peanut butter. Grace came up through layers of sleep, and tried to focus her crusty eyes on her alarm clock. It was noon, or so it said.

  You’ve got to be kidding, she thought. Noon! Nine hours had passed, as if they were a moment. She reached for the bedside phone, and realized it wasn’t ringing. It was her cellphone. Where the hell was it?

  Still half-dressed, she stumbled into the living room and started searching for the phone. It had stopped ringing, which didn’t help in finding it, but then started again. It seemed to be coming from the crumpled bag lying in the corner.

  There you are, you blasted implement, thought Grace.

  “Hello!” she said, sinking onto the couch. “It’s Grace.”

  “Ms. Rampling. It’s Adam Davis,” said a powerful baritone voice.

  Okay, I know that name, said Grace’s barely-awake brain.

  “Sergeant Adam Davis,” the voice added, its owner obviously perceiving the pause.

  “Oh! Hello, Sergeant. How are things going? Have you found the murder weapon? Do you have a suspect? Is . . .”

  Adam cut her off, laughing.

  “Ms. Rampling, I can’t answer those questions just yet. How are you doing? You had quite the night. I’ll bet that even in a reporter’s life, yesterday was a bit unusual.”

  “You could say that, yes. I’m fine. I managed to get nine hours of sleep.”

  “Yikes,” said the police officer, actually sounding contrite. “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, I was up. I had to answer the phone.”

  “Very funny. I thought that joke went out with Don Rickles.”

  “I have an extremely sophisticated sense of humour,” said Grace, having to laugh. It was a bit strange, talking to this policeman she had just met as if he were an old acquaintance.

  “Sorry to wake you, really. I was wondering if you could make it down to the police station this afternoon. There are a few details I’d like to firm up.”

  “I could, but I don’t know when. I have to meet with the editor sometime this afternoon, and the news editor, whom you met last night — John. Four o’clock might work, but could I call you back, after I check in with the bosses?”

  “No problem. Here are my numbers,” he said, reeling off three phone numbers in quick succession. She hoped she wrote them down correctly.

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I can, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Rampling.”

  “It would be okay with me if you called me Grace. Ms. Rampling makes me sound like a suspect. Or my mother.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not sure that’s appropriate just now. Talk to you soon.”

  “Yes. Okay. Thanks, Sergeant.”

  Grace hung up, wondering if she should be worried about the formal way he addressed her. She also wondered if Detective Sergeant Davis had had any sleep at all. Then she wondered why that thought had even occurred to her.

  Chapter 6

  “Well, Grace. You had quite the night,” said the editor, Steven Delaney, when she appeared for the editorial meeting at two. “In thirty years in this business, I can definitely say this has never happened before – at least, not on my watch.”

  “Hi, Steve,” said Grace, dropping into one of the square, stained easy chairs in his office. “I guess it’s a rare thing for a reporter to find the body.”

  “Extremely rare, I’d say. So, here we are, to discuss what comes next. Has anyone else had a similar experience, here or in any other newsroom?” asked Steve.

  Everyone shook their heads. John was in his usual place in the corner by the window; Steve, as always, drew up his office chair in the middle; city editor Claire Davidson took up the chair on one side of Steve, with managing editor Mark Williams taking up the last spot.

  “The closest thing I can come up with is the time Robert, by luck or coincidence, was on the scene when that woman drove off the bridge,” said Mark. “Great pictures at the scene, but then he felt he had to go and help the lady out of the river, instead of getting a picture of her.”

  He shook his head with mock severity at Robert’s putting the woman’s life before a photograph.

  “It’s not the same, though. He was a witness, but obviously there was no crime. It was an accident.”

  “I hate to ask this question, but will Grace be just a witness? Or will she be, theoretically at least, a suspect?” asked Steve. “She was first on the scene.”

  That cast a pall over the room. Grace went white. Despite the joke she had made while talking to the sergeant, about not calling her Ms. Rampling because it made her feel like a suspect, she hadn’t seriously considered it.

  “Hell. Can they really think I’m a suspect?” she asked.

  “Well, the sergeant told you not to leave town,” John said.

  “That’s because I’m their star witness, he said!”

  Another pause in the conversation, as the editorial group grappled with the implications. They were all so familiar with the legal aspects of journalism — libel, publication bans, conflict of interest — but this was new territory. Grace could be in conflict as a reporter on the story, if the police did indeed consider her a suspect.

  “I suppose we don’t know she’s a suspect until they tell us so, right?” Steve said. “And again, it would be a procedural, a theoretical thing. They can’t possibly think that she might, indeed, be the killer.

  “So let’s just carry on as usual, until and unless they tell us otherwise. She is indeed a witness, but that doesn’t bother me a lot; journalists are witnesses. That’s one of the things we do in society. It’s no different because she actually found the body. That’s my view. Anyone else?”

  “The police may see it differently,” Mark said slowly. “They may not entirely trust Grace if she is both a witness and the reporter covering the story. For example, if they question her, can she report on that?”

  “That’s a good question. We better find out. Grace, have you been in touch with the police today?”

  “Yes. The sergeant called and invited me down to the police station. I meant to tell you when I came in. He would like to ask me more questions. I said I’d be there about four; is that okay with you, Steve?”

  “Of course, that’s fine. But I’m going to get on the horn with our lawyer. I hope Bill’s in today. I want to know exactly where you stand, Grace, on what you can report. “

  “Who’s following the story today?” asked Claire. “I assume, Grace, that you want to stay on it? But you’re going to need some help; and, if we find out you can’t continue, we need a second reporter up to speed on this.

  “I don’t need to say this out loud, but it’s going to be one of the biggest stories of the year, and possibly the next two or three years, depending on when they find the killer and when he goes to court.”

  “Lacey was helping Grace last night,” said John. “Thank God she was here. And she was really good, too — caught up to the mayor and found the priest within about an hour, while Grace was putting together her story and talking to the Pride Chorus guys. No luck finding the secretary, though.”

  “Let’s find out what other stuff Lacey is working on. She’s been helping in arts while Brenda is away; can they spare her? Oth
erwise, I have no problem with that,” said Steve.

  “Can I just say,” broke in Grace, who was feeling a bit emotional, “how absolutely fantastic John and Lacey were last night? Not to mention Jim and Kathy. Thanks, John,” she added, trying not to get maudlin.

  “You were pretty amazing, too, Gracie,” said John.

  What a lovefest, she thought. But really, the team was incredible when it was on its game, and it was, very much so, the night before.

  “Well, now that I know I have the best damned news team in the city, verified by themselves, can we get rolling?” said Steve, in his slightly snarky but kind way. He smiled at Grace and John. “I’ll call the lawyer. Grace, put off heading to the station as long as you can; I’ll try to reach Bill before you go. It’s a whole two minute walk, so you can wait until just before four.”

  “I’ll go and get the news releases from the police, and see what the other outlets have published by now,” said Claire to John and Grace. “Meet me at my desk in about ten.”

  Grace went to her desk and poked her computer’s on-button, threw her purse in a drawer, and sat down. She called the police station to confirm her four o’clock interview. Immediately after she hung up, the phone rang.

  Naturally, thought Grace. Why would today be any different? She could see the red light flashing, indicating waiting messages. Someday, she mused, I will take my revenge on the damn phone and beat it with a stick.

  “StarPhoenix newsroom, Grace Rampling speaking.”

  “Hello, Grace, my name is Frank Stephens.”

  “Hi, Frank.”

  “I’m Bruce Stephens’ father.”

  “Oh, hello. How is Bruce today?” she asked. She was actually quite concerned about him. It was brave of him to stand up for his choir, to call her and to provide attributed quotes. She quite liked him. He was, as far as she could tell yesterday, pretty forthright.

  “Bruce is doing quite well, although he is shocked about the death of the bishop. Quite a bizarre turn of events,” said Frank Stephens.

  “But the reason I’m calling is to thank you for the story on the choir. It’s not always easy to have a gay child. I appreciate your support in this regard, if you understand me. I think that kicking Bruce’s choir out of the church was a . . . a terrible thing to do.”

  “I appreciate that, Frank, thank you. But it is my job. We try to cover stories that are human rights issues, and hopefully make the city a better place. So no thanks are necessary.”

  “Well, still, I’ll bet reporters don’t always get a lot of positive feedback. And that must have been a very late night for you. So, I thought I’d call and let you know someone appreciates your efforts.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you. Tell Bruce if they reschedule the concert to let me know. I’d like to come.”

  “I’ll do that, Grace. Thanks. And thanks again for your story, even if it ended up being overshadowed by the bishop.”

  “I guess it did. Thanks for calling, Frank.”

  Well, that was nice, thought Grace, on her way to the city editor’s desk.

  “Anything new from the police?” she asked Claire.

  “Not much. No killer, no murder weapon, no witnesses besides you, and no motive. Perfect. What the hell are we going to do for a folo?”

  “Offhand, I can’t think of anything brilliant. Maybe something will come to me after I see the police. John?”

  “We can get some reaction. Try to get more of a bio going on the bishop, what’s happening with the church — how long will it be closed, how the parishioners feel, that kind of thing — until we get more facts. We can get going on that, and then see what Grace brings back.”

  “Good plan,” Claire agreed. “I’ll assign the bio and the church update. We’ll re-evaluate when Grace gets back from the cop shop.”

  ******

  Grace was not entirely looking forward to her meeting — or would that be interrogation? — at the police station. She was usually the one asking the police questions. It was going to be strange sitting on the other side of the tape recorder.

  She was somewhat armed with the lawyer’s advice, which as usual erred on the side of the journalist. The reporters loved Bill Cooke. He was always on their side, as much as he possibly could be within the law. Basically, she was free to report anything, unless the police actively made a strong argument as to why she couldn’t.

  “Don’t ask for permission, Grace,” said Bill. “Just do your job. If they bring it up, we’ll discuss. And if you become something other than a witness, we’ll regroup.”

  Grace headed out the south door just before four, getting a few supportive thumbs up from her colleagues as she went.

  “Tell that cop to keep his voice down,” John called after her. “You know. Sergeant Boom.”

  Grace laughed. “I’ll see if that makes any difference.”

  The police station was exactly a block and a half away from the StarPhoenix, if you used the newspaper’s front door. She walked quickly, past the brownstone apartments and along the dirty melting windrows created by snow cleared from the winter streets. It wasn’t Saskatoon’s most beautiful time of year.

  She presented herself to the desk sergeant at two minutes to four, and explained that she was there to see Sergeant Davis.

  “Have a chair, Ms. Rampling. I’ll call the sergeant.”

  Grace spent her short wait checking her notebook. She really wanted to be helpful and clear, and did not want to dither.

  “Ms. Rampling,” said a big, now-familiar voice.

  Grace looked up at the sergeant and in that moment felt her heart stop. He stood towering over her, with his head slightly cocked to the side, considering her. Oh my God, thought Grace, he’s . . . beautiful. Why didn’t I notice that last night? Right. Because I was terrified and throwing up all over the place.

  Damn, Grace’s brain added. That’s just great, having unprofessional thoughts about the sergeant. Please, don’t let me show that on my face.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” she managed to say, standing up and offering her hand.

  “Thanks for coming down,” said Adam, his big hand taking hers. “We’ll go into one of the rooms down the hall. James will join us.”

  “James?

  “James Weatherall. He’s the police officer who identified the bishop last night.”

  A sharp and sudden memory of the noise James made when he turned the body over came to her, as if it had been taped and replayed.

  “Right. I remember him.”

  They reached the little room. Grace found it daunting. It was grey and airless, without windows, and furnished with a small table, a recording system and four very uncomfortable-looking chairs. A bright light was suspended from the ceiling. It really is like those awful interrogation rooms in TV police shows, Grace thought.

  She almost tried to make a joke. “I confess!” was almost out of her mouth, in an effort to make the room seem less intimidating. But she bit it back. It didn’t seem professional, under the circumstances. And who knew if they would take it seriously?

  “Please take a chair, Ms. Rampling.”

  The door opened to reveal James Weatherall, who came over to Grace and introduced himself by name and rank, shaking her hand.

  “How are you, Ms. Rampling? That must have been quite the night for you,” he said.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Constable Weatherall,” she said.

  “Would you like coffee? Water?” he asked.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Ms. Rampling,” started Adam, managing not to break the light with his voice. “We will be recording this conversation, as I’m sure you know. Can you please start by stating your name and occupation.”

  Grace complied.

  “Ms. Rampling, you were in St. Eligius Cathedral last night. Can you please tell us again how you came to be there.”

  Grace almost asked him why she had to go over that again, since she had explained her reason for being there last night, but t
hen understood with a small, unpleasant thrill that they could be testing her response. They would compare it to what she said last night.

  “We just want it on tape,” said Adam, seeing the shadow cross her face. “It’s all right, Ms. Rampling.”

  Grace went over the evening’s events again, hoping what she was saying matched exactly with what she said last night, starting with the phone call from Bruce Stephens and ending with nearly tripping over the body.

  “Did you at any time hear anyone or anything in the cathedral, or see anyone?” asked Adam.

  “I did not. It was very quiet. After I saw the body, I looked around as much as I could. I was a little, well, worried.”

  “What were you worried about?”

  “That there was someone in the church, and he or she had killed this person.”

  “Did you know the bishop was dead?”

  “Not until later, but he looked awful. There was a lot of blood, he was very pale and that sort of thing, so I thought he might be.”

  “When did you realize he was dead?”

  “After I called 911 and my editor, I got up the courage to crawl over to him — I was hunched between two pews — and check his pulse. There was no pulse, and his hand was cold. I was then quite sure that he was dead.”

  “Those would be good indications,” said the sergeant, with a little smile. “Did you notice the quality of the blood? I mean, was it . . . sorry,” he stopped, as she paled a little. “Was it, well, runny or congealing? Sorry,” he said again.

  Why was she being so squeamish? She had seen lots of pretty awful things. But somehow, this was very different. And there was so much blood.

  “I . . . I’m not sure. It wasn’t still flowing, anyway,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I had the feeling he had been dead for a while. Not a long while, but not just a few minutes, either.”

  “And what time was this?”