Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Finally, Bradley locks his briefcase and leaves. He is the last one out, the night shift has already arrived. He’s looking forward to his supper. As he gets into his car, he asks himself why, if Froelich is lying, he would come up with a “war criminal” story, of all things. The obvious answer is that good liars stick close to the truth, and it’s probably true that Froelich was in a concentration camp. Perhaps he is something of a Communist sympathizer too — the Soviets like to inflate the number of war criminals said to be at large in the West. In any case, he strikes Bradley as a bitter man; he didn’t want to cut wood, didn’t want to run a sewing machine — Bradley’s own father worked in an asbestos mine — if these people don’t appreciate the freedom we fought for in this country, they’re welcome to find another. But that is subjective and has no bearing on the case.

As Bradley drives across Goderich’s town square — coming into bloom now around the courthouse — he entertains a simpler scenario: Froelich came up with this story because he knows that his son is lying and needs an alibi for the time of the murder. And how could the boy possibly know the time of the murder unless he committed it himself? Froelich has also provided an excuse as to why that alibi can never be corroborated, for if the alleged air force man were involved with a war criminal for some shadowy purpose, he would have good reason not to come forward. Doesn’t Froelich know that he risks looking like a crackpot? A liar? Or is he crafty enough to have come up with a fairy tale that, by its very outlandishness, is not entirely self-serving and is thus plausible? He is supplying a red herring that can never be traced, and hoping it may serve as “reasonable doubt.”

Bradley respects doubt even when he doesn’t share it. His job is to parse doubt. To reduce it to a level below reasonable. Like a good scientist, he is skeptical, especially when it comes to his own leanings. He switches on his brights as he leaves the town limits.

A child is dead. But Bradley has decided that, before he sets a fifteen-year-old boy on track for the gallows, he will consider very carefully how to investigate Froelich’s story as discreetly, as thoroughly, as if he believed it himself.

Bradley is a father too.

ON TUESDAY MORNING the children come into the classroom after the long weekend to see whose art Mr. March has put up on the wall, and which one among this anointed group is marked with a gold star. The usual suspects are represented: the bossy girls, Gordon Lawson and Marjorie Nolan. Marjorie’s picture is all-purpose religious and she has driven home the point by affixing a caption, “Moses Among the Cattails.” What is shocking, however, is that Grace Novotny’s art is not only up on the wall, it is the proud bearer of the coveted gold star. This is shocking not because the butterflies have been deemed the best — they are the best — but because they were done by disgusting Grace. With her bandaged hands like the Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb. They are still swaddled. Filthy and frayed.

Just before recess, the principal, Mr. Lemmon, announces over the PA system, “Girls and boys, I have a very sad announcement to make. One of your schoolmates, Claire McCarroll, has passed away. Let us all observe two minutes’ silence now for Claire and her family. Feel free to pray quietly to yourselves.”

Mr. March makes them all stand and bow their heads. Two minutes. Like on November 11. It seems the silence goes on forever. Then finally, when it’s over and the normal sounds trickle back into the day, it’s difficult to remember what the island of silence was like. And Claire is gone. Washed over. A blank spot that will be worn down by the tide until the water runs smoothly again. Madeleine tries to picture Claire’s face but it keeps stretching and distorting in her mind’s eye.

Her face was covered with her underpants. Inspector Bradley has gone over the photographs, the autopsy report and the lab results. Peculiarities of … (d) Skin: intense cyanotic lividity of face and neck; intense cyanosis of the nails and extremities of fingers… . Although no semen or acid phosphates were found in her, there has clearly been what the pathologist noted as “a violent and very inexpert attempt at penetration.” There may have been ejaculate on the ground, he may have forced her to watch him masturbate — common pedophile behaviour — but it would have been washed away by the rain. The killer tried to rape her, then he strangled her.

Stomach: unremarkable

Intestines: unremarkable

Pancreas: unremarkable

Liver: unremarkable …

Hymen: destroyed …

Lower vagina: contused …

He is a sexual deviant, that much is clear. A pervert with an underdeveloped sexual nature. And then there is the way he left the body: decorated, almost. As if she were only sleeping and it had all been a game — although the bulrushes in the shape of a cross hint at an awareness that she was dead.

The police are looking for an immature man with access to little girls. An inexpert sexual practitioner, known to the child, for there is no evidence that she was abducted, no sign of a struggle. He could be a teacher. Or a student. A friend. Bradley has already interviewed the victim’s teacher and, now that the time of death has been confirmed, will interview him again tomorrow along with all other male staff, regardless of the outcome of today’s search for the alleged air force man in the Ford Galaxy. Then he will draw a circle around the murder scene, and interview every farmer in a five-mile radius.

Note on time of death: This opinion would place the time of death between 4:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. Wednesday, 10th of April 1963, based on the following observations and assumptions:

1. the extent of decomposition …

2. the extent of rigor mortis …

3. the limited degree of digestion …

If Richard Froelich had been out on Highway 4, waving at an air force man between four and five, he would not have had time to murder the child, and arrive home when several people — not just his family — have said he did.

Bradley has set himself up in the office of the recreation director overlooking the curling arena at RCAF Centralia. He will question each man individually, that is how thorough he is prepared to be. He has not shared Froelich’s story of a war criminal with his staff or his superiors, and certainly not with Woodley or any RCAF personnel.

Bradley is scrupulous. He and his team will interview upwards of twelve hundred air force personnel. They will start at eight A.M. Bradley is scrupulous, but he has told someone about the war criminal connection. He has told the father of the murdered child. Mr. Froelich’s story has turned out to be doubly useful; Bradley was able, without lying, to tell Captain McCarroll that he was looking for a war criminal in connection with the death of his daughter. McCarroll has already assaulted a police officer. Who knows how he might react if he found out that the boy up the street is under investigation for the rape and murder of his child?

“Everybody’s been very kind, very Christian,” says Blair McCarroll.

“Very Christian,” says Sharon McCarroll, smiling.

Jack says, “I’m glad.” He is on the couch in the McCarrolls’ living room, because they insisted he sit for a moment.

“Especially you and your good wife,” says Blair.