It happened at Ron Meyer’s place. You remember where it is, don’t you? Down highway 40, turn at Shouldice Road, then take a left onto Field Street - it’s like the fourth or fifth house on the right. The cops tell me that it occurred sometime near two a.m. He suspects it started as a break in, a quick crash and grab job, but it then escalated to something more. So, murder probably wasn’t the intention of the robbers, but murder is the abominable act they committed. Both Ron and his wife Julie were killed. I hear that Ron was even murdered execution-style! The town is in shock - people can talk about nothing else but poor ol’ Ron and Julie.

The question of ‘whodunit’ came up pretty quickly. Once the shock of the news wore off on people, their thoughts automatically turned to the question of culpability. “Who could have done such a terrible thing?” asked Ingrid, the local hairdresser. At the local restaurant slash greasy spoon, people were quietly muttering about the possible culprits. A day or two later, the patrons of the coffee shop reverted back to their first and most favourite topic: the weather. 

The officer from the Surete de Quebec in charge of the investigation, Constable Pierre Lebrun, felt that the suspect had to be a local person. First off, his gut feeling told him it was so, and his tummy never ever failed him. Secondly, though there were signs of a break in, there were no signs of a struggle, which lead the good constable to believe that the person or persons who broke in were somehow known to the victims. Lastly, from a young age, Pierre never believed in coincidences and happenstance. In his mind, there was no such thing as a random act of violence. 

Now, everyone in town knew that Ron Meyer was not a really well off person. Sure, he was comfortable in his style of living. All people in the community were comfortable. Now, everyone also knew that Ron had no known enemies. He was well liked by everyone. His wife, Julie, on the other hand was “a piece of work”. As Gertrude Lemay, the town’s elderly curmudgeon often put it, Julie was an “itch” preceded by a very large capital “B”. Got it? Shaun Venosta reminded the coffee crew at the restaurant that Ron and Julie did have a trial separation back in 1992. (“Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that”, remarked Louis St. Laurent, Shaun’s best friend). 

The funeral for the Meyers took place on a snowy Thursday afternoon. Fr. Tolstoy (no relation to Leo) lead the funeral mass. He talked about Ron’s kind heartedness; how it was that Ron donated of his time to the community as a volunteer firefighter and dog catcher. Of Julie, he remarked that she was a good wife, and it was tragic that her life ended so abruptly. Fr. Tolstoy (again, no relation to Leo) went on to talk about how this evil needed to be followed by the goodness of justice. He even included a prayer for Constable Lebrun and members of the Surete who were conducting an investigation. (“Lord, help them catch a break in this case and find the person or persons responsible. AMEN!) 

Now, Constable Lebrun had one very good clue. The person or persons who broke in used a crowbar to open the sliding door at the rear of the house. Furthermore, in do doing, a palm print was left on the glass. All Constable Lebrun had to do was match the print... something easier said than done. The palm print was fairly small, so the perpetrator had to be a smaller man, or a woman. In a town were most people were, well, larger shall we say, that made things easier. 

On the third day of the investigation, Constable Lebrun revisited the crime scene. He always liked to come back to the scene, and would try to see things with fresh eyes. As he walked through the house, something bothered him about the scene, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. That night, as he slept, his dreams saw him going through the crime scene. The only difference was that the house was on stilts, and there was a picture of Leonard Nimoy in every room... some with, and others without, the pointy ears. At 3:15 a.m. he got up to go pee and as he lay in bed drifting back to sleep, it hit him: he could find no personal papers belonging to Ron or Julie. No wallets, no purses, no credit cards, no diplomas on the wall. Nothing. With this new realization firmly ensconced in his head, he could not sleep. He got up, got dressed, and went to the crime scene. He checked it over, then drove the fifteen minutes to the cop shop. He checked the computer for any signs of use of Ron and Julie’s credit card. Ron’s CIBC Gild Visa had been used not four hours ago! Someone, someone really dumb, used the credit card to pay a bar tab at Atkinson’s bar in Shawville, a town about 23 kilometers away from HQ.  He grabbed a cruiser and went to the bar. 

Jack, the owner of Atkinson’s was just sweeping up the floor when Constable Lebrun pulled up in the cop car. Jack recognized Pierre immediately, and admitted him. Constable Lebrun explained why he was there; Jack went through the credit card receipts and found the one in question. The server was Jenny: “She’s a good server but is lousy at checking out credit cards to make sure they’re kosher”, Jack remarked. Apparently, Jenny left half an hour ago. Constable Lebrun drove to her home, knocked on the door, and waited. A couple of lights were turned on in the house, then the porch light came on. Rob, Jenny’s boyfriend opened the door. He was surprised to find a cop there. After some pleasantries and an explanation of why he was there, Constable Lebrun was invited in. He waited in the very cluttered living room. Jenny came down, wearing a very flimsy nightgown. She remembered the credit card payment. The person using the card was Paul duPal.. also known as “Paypal” to his friends. 

The next stop was at Paypal’s house. Constable Lebrun was about to give up when the porch light came on. Paul’s wife, Rita answered the door. She did not know where Paul was/ Did she know where Paul was? She couldn’t tell - she knew he was going out to drink, and would probably find a card game wherein he could wager, and lose, most of his paycheque. The next question was whether or not he would be expected to come home -- yes indeed, usually for breakfast and a power nap. Constable Lebrun thanked Rita for her help and returned to the cruiser. He quickly decided that the best next step was to return the marked cruiser, exchange it for an unmarked car, and return to stakeout Paypal’s house. 

At 5:21 a.m. a black Pontiac Vibe pulled into the laneway at Paypal’s house. Paul got out and swagerred over to the front door. Constable Lebrun pulled his cruiser in behind the Vibe and got out. He ordered a very stunned and confused Paypal to his knees, with his hands on top of his head. Paypal complied, quickly. Once he was in cuffs and placed in the back seat of the cruiser, the reality of his predicament sunk in. As he sat there, staring at the back of the Constable’s head, he confessed - not the crime of murder, as the cop would have wanted - but to the crime of fraud. He used a credit card he found lying on the road, near his house. He volunteered that the Visa card was in his back pocket. At the station, and with rubber gloves on, the good constable retrieved the card. No prints on it - the denim of Paypal’s jeans and the moisture of snow had removed all trace evidence. Back to square one, as they say, though Paypal was booked on fraud charges.

The case lingered on for a couple or three months. Constable Lebrun knew that the longer he waited, the less likely he was to catch the perpetrator(s) of the crime. After a time, active files that take up shelf space but are rarely opened get placed in the top drawer of the green filing cabinet - the less active drawer. After a year they get placed in the lower drawers, something that is always a bad sign, The good constable hated placing files in the green cabinet. He hated the reality of possible failure.  His fingers - no doubt like yours - were itching to tie a nice bow on the package and wrap things up.

On a hot afternoon in July, Fr. Tolstoy (no relation) called on Constable Lebrun at the cop shop. He wanted a few minutes of the good cop’s time. Constable Lebrun worried that the priest, who was the one who buried the Meyers, wanted to know how the investigation. Instead, what the parson told him caught the cop off guard. Fr. Tolstoy indicated he knew who the murderer was, but that the seal of the confessional prevented him from telling who it was. He was in a clear moral and spiritual bind. Constable Lebrun hadn’t been to confession since the sixth grade -- he found the whole process of telling one’s sins to another person to be an invasion of privacy, and a tedious exercise. Here it was, he wished he could order the priest to say who it was. Even if he did, it was not admissible in court. What Fr. Tolstoy (no relation) offered to do instead was to be a guide of some sort. He told the cop that he wanted to be the Constable’s “Deep Throat” - an allusion to the Watergate/Washington Post case of the 1970’s, except that with his strong accent, Fr. Tolstoy offered to be a ‘dip troat’. Constable Lebrun had no choice but to accept the offer.

To be continued...                       ©2008 John Stopa

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