Best not to look back at the wreckage we cause
As thoughtlessly as rain falls from the sky.

Our terrible transgressions!

Sometimes, though, a cry is heard
That will not be extinguished:
The song of something nobler
Rising from the ruins of our crimes.

3 - Terrible Transgressions

“Is he going to be ok?” Leda asked.

“Can’t say.” The paramedic pushed the gurney toward the waiting ambulance.

“Where are you taking him?” Strachan said. Helen’s physical presence – tall, blonde, muscular, with the full voice of someone used to being obeyed – caused the medic to turn.

“East General,” he said. “Are you a relative?”

“No,” Helen said. “We’re…friends.” She didn’t add that she and Leda Maguire had met Dr. Hamish Burrows earlier that day, that they barely knew him, but had liked him enough to ask him to join them for dinner… an idea that was dismissed when he stepped in front of a moving bus.

Helen touched the piece of paper in her pocket, the bloodied sheet she’d removed from Hamish’s hand. She had a feeling it was important. She pushed it deeper into her jacket, just as a large policeman waved his arms at the crowd.

“Did anyone see what happened here?” the policeman shouted.

“We did,” Leda said. Her voice, as always, was steady.

“This way, please, ma’am. We’ll need your statement.”

Helen joined Leda, and together they gave the officer the ‘facts’.
***

At East General, Helen Strachan paced in front of the I.C.U. nursing station.

Leda sat on a hard, straight-backed chair and watched her new friend. “Any news?” she asked.

“One of his lungs was damaged. There’s internal bleeding. They’re not telling me much.”

“His wife should be here soon. I don’t want to leave until someone shows up. He shouldn’t be alone…”

“I agree,” Helen said. “By the way, I didn’t want to mention it earlier, but Hamish was carrying something.” She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket.

Sitting beside Leda, she smoothed the page on her knee so both she and Leda could see.

“It’s a suicide note,” Leda said.

“It’s a confession,” Helen added. “He’s telling his wife he was unfaithful.”

“Can we forget we saw it?”

“I think that’s best. At least until we know whether he’ll be all right.”

“If he doesn’t make it,” Leda said, “we’ll have to give it to the police.”

Helen folded the paper carefully and slid it back into her pocket. The words, though, stayed in her mind:

My dear wife,

Hamish

A tiny woman in blue jeans and a sweater approached the nurse’s station. Her voice was frantic as she asked about Hamish Burrows.

“Are you a relative?” Leda asked, joining the woman at the desk.

“I’m his wife. The police said there’d been an accident.”

“I’m Leda Maguire and this is Helen Strachan. We were there when it happened. We didn’t want to leave till you arrived.”

“Thank you. Did you see the accident?”

“It was a bus. The police are investigating.”

Sandy Burrows dug into her pocket for a tissue. Her eyes were as wild as her long, curly hair.

“Do you want us to stay awhile?” Leda asked. “At least until the police get here?”

“Thank you, that would be good,” Sandy said. “I have to go in now.”

Sandy followed the nurse into the I.C.U., leaving Leda and Helen sitting in the hard, straight chairs.

“We’re supposed to catch a flight back to Toronto tonight,” Helen said.

“Under the circumstances, I’ll stay. You can head back if you like.”

“Nah. We’re in this together, Leda. Never a dull moment.”

“That’s the spirit!” Leda allowed herself a tiny smile in the midst of the tragedy unfolding around her.
***

Professor Rhonda Copps left the accident scene promising to call Hamish’s wife Sandy, but didn’t. His wife was the cause of their problems – she stood in the way of their happiness. Because of her, Rhonda had to cover up her love for Hamish. She didn’t owe Sandy Burrows anything.

Besides, the cops would call Hamish’s next of kin.

Rhonda picked up the phone and dialled the number she’d found on-line.

“East General I.C.U.,” an aged voice answered.

“I’m calling about Dr. Hamish Burrows. He was brought in by ambulance about an hour ago. Is he all right?”

“Are you a relative?” the receptionist asked.

Rhonda suppressed her annoyance.

“I’m his sister,” she said.

“Doctors are trying to assess the extent of his injuries. If possible, you should come here.”

“Yeah. Ok.”

Rhonda hung up the phone. She almost smiled at the prospect of confronting Hamish’s docile little wife at the hospital, but knew a scene like that was beneath her dignity.

She poured herself a Scotch and water. It was going to be a long night.
***

The minutes passed like hours for Helen. She wasn’t accustomed to sitting still. Finally she excused herself.

“Bring me back a coffee, please,” Leda said, as her friend headed for the elevator.

Leda watched a pair of officers approach the nursing station, whispering something. A woman rose from behind the desk and scurried into the I.C.U. A moment later she returned, followed by Sandy Burrows.

“Didn’t I see you at the scene?” the policewoman said to Leda.

“Yes,” Leda said. “My friend and I were there when it happened.”

“They were kind enough to stay with me,” Sandy said.

“Mrs. Burrows, I’m Sergeant Tacoma. Has anyone spoken to you about the accident?”

“Just that my husband was hit by a bus. I don’t understand. How did it happen?”

Tacoma led Sandy toward the chairs.

“Mrs. Burrows, I have to ask you a few questions. Would you like to sit down?”

Leda stood to make room.

“I have to get back to Hamish,” Sandy said. “He’ll be wondering why I’m not there.”

“This will only take a moment, ma’am. Did your husband seem at all troubled lately?”

“What do you mean, troubled? Hamish was fine. We were fine.”

“Was he acting out of the ordinary lately? Any changes in mood?”

An image flashed in Sandy’s mind: the other night, when they were having dinner, and he’d seemed so…. tired. Yes, that was it, he’d said he was tired. That’s why he’d been so withdrawn.

“Hamish has been working very hard lately. He was exhausted. Forgetful. That’s probably why this happened. He wasn’t paying attention.”

“Mrs. Burrows…”

“Stop calling me that. Are you trying to imply something about my husband? Just say what you mean.”

“We have reason to believe,” Tacoma said, keeping her voice as low as possible, “that it wasn’t an accident. The people we spoke to said it appeared as though Mr. Burrows stepped in front of the bus deliberately.”

“Dr. Burrows,” Sandy said. “My husband was a doctor of Psychology, Officer. He understood depression very well. I don’t believe for a moment that he attempted to take his own life.”

“I understand,” Tacoma said. Leda noticed the kindness in her voice. “But, if there was anything at all, anything that might make you think otherwise, please let me know. It could make a difference, especially to the bus driver.”

“Well, please, by all means,” Sandy said, standing and pulling herself up to her full height of not more than five feet, “do let the bus driver know how concerned I am for him.”

“Please, sit down,” Tacoma said.

“What about you?” Sandy said, turning toward Leda. “You were there. Did my husband deliberately throw himself in front of a bus?”

Leda met Sandy’s eyes, seeing the frightened woman’s tangible need to hear the right words, to be comforted, consoled – to be right about her husband.

“I’m sorry, Sandy,” she began, “I’m afraid it looked that way to me.”

Sandy fell into the chair, her breath abandoning her body as if she had been struck.

“Oh,” was all she said.
***

Inspector Brown hurried into Toronto’s 52nd Division, passing a pair of traffic cops and the desk jockey, Matt Cummings.

“Hey, Jack,” Cummings said, nearly knocking over his Tim Horton’s cup, “what’s shaking on the Lowry case?”

“Just here to grab the forensics reports.”

“They’re on your desk. This Robert Lowry, he was a character.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We had his family in this morning. A chunk of change there, for sure. Hamilton talked to them. You should check with her.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“No problem. Anything on the Boston connection?”

“I’m hoping the family gave us something on that.”

Cummings looked like he was busting to share some news.

“Anything else, Matt?” Brown asked.

“His sister swore he always kept a journal. Your guys didn’t come across a diary at his place did you?”

“I don’t think so.”

According to the neighbours, Lowry was a loner, a strange dude who came and went carrying books, rarely talking to anyone. He appeared mildly autistic or paranoid, with a compulsive streak.

He didn’t seem like the type to open the door to strangers. The whole premise of a ‘robbery’ was flimsy. The only things missing were his laptop, a handful of books from his shelf, judging by the dust surrounding where they had stood, and now, it seemed, his personal diary.

As Starky liked to say, it was a real mystery.
_______________________________

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 4 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!

Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

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