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Book: I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel by William Deverell
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Authors: William Deverell
Tags: Mystery
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see an intelligent man like Gabriel lying to the police, creating an alibi that could be so easily exposed.
This day had already set a record for being the worst of my dismal life. It was near its end, ten-thirty, and I finally managed to eat and keep down my tin of sardines and six saltines, all the while desperately hoping Ophelia hadnât seen me cringing my way out of the Beanery.
There was one last document.
23/4/62, at 1500 hours, transcription of recorded interview with Gabriel Swift, in cells at Squamish Detachment. Present were S/Sgt. Knepp and U/S Cst. Jettles. Suspect not restrained. Suspect looked like heâd been in a brawl, with what we observed as facial bruising
.
K: You been cautioned you donât have to say anything. You remember that warning, Gabriel?
S: (nods)
K: You prefer Gabe? I heard on the reserve itâs Gabby, which is good, because weâd like to hear you do some talking
.
S: This is totally crazy
.
K: Okay, we just want to straighten out a few things here, then if everything checks out maybe we can all go home
.
S: Home to what? Whoâs going to pay for garbaging my cabin? I want a list of everything you took. I want it back, every damn book and magazine, my radio and my records
.
K: Settle down, son. We just want to ask a few questions about what you were doing Saturday afternoon
.
S: I told you. I was with my girl
.
K: Uh-huh. Where, exactly?
S: In my cabin
.
K: Doing what?
S: I was teaching her chess. We were listening to music
.
J: Teaching her chess? Thatâs all you did?
(no response)
J: We just talked to Monique, pal. She never saw you once on Saturday
.
K: So it looks like you got some explaining, right, Gabriel?
S: Why am I in this cell, Sergeant? Am I charged with something?
K: Right now, weâre just holding you for investigation. You want to rethink what you were doing on Saturday? You were with Professor Mulligan, right? A part of the time anyway
.
J: We donât say you did anything, Gabriel, but we heard he invited you to go fishing with him
.
S: You heard that from whom?
J: From whom? Whom? Who learned you such refined English, Gabriel? Your fishing buddy, maybe? Professor Mulligan?
S: Fuck off, you fat creep
.
K: Whoa, whoa, letâs all cool down here, and watch your language. Letâs talk about the deceased. What were your relations with him?
(no response)
K: Sounds like youâve got something to hide. Iâm not saying you and him had a fight; maybe something else was going on between you
.
S: Let me ask you a question, Sergeant. Are you making up this case out of pure bullshit because I dropped you for calling me a lippy fucking Indian shit?
At this point interview was concluded, as suspect wasnât willing to cooperate further at this time
.
I returned to the prologue of this interview.
Suspect looked like heâd been in a brawl
. Remarkably, during the Q and A session these so-called peace officers hadnât asked how heâd got those bruises.
I was prepared to gamble my soul that Gabrielâs version was the gospel truth. Impatient with his attitude, Knepp had delivered a few shots to his head. The sidekick, Jettles, had taken that role literally, aiming a kick below the ribs. Quite a feat, unless Gabriel was down on the floor.
There wasnât much else in the file: a note that the abandoned clothes had gone to Vancouver for analysis, along with various scrapings, tweezered unknowns, and fingerprint lifts.
Framed by a fascist fucking cabal of racist brownshirts
, as quoted, more or less, by a
Sun
reporter.
I would head up there on the weekend to undo what damage I could. I would have to skirt around Knepp and his crew and be careful in my approach to Chief Joseph. I would have to reach out to his cowed daughter before her lying words gelled as false memory.
I told myself that Ophelia Moore would only get in the way were she asked to accompany me.
F RIDAY , A PRIL 27, 1962
I was committed
This day had already set a record for being the worst of my dismal life. It was near its end, ten-thirty, and I finally managed to eat and keep down my tin of sardines and six saltines, all the while desperately hoping Ophelia hadnât seen me cringing my way out of the Beanery.
There was one last document.
23/4/62, at 1500 hours, transcription of recorded interview with Gabriel Swift, in cells at Squamish Detachment. Present were S/Sgt. Knepp and U/S Cst. Jettles. Suspect not restrained. Suspect looked like heâd been in a brawl, with what we observed as facial bruising
.
K: You been cautioned you donât have to say anything. You remember that warning, Gabriel?
S: (nods)
K: You prefer Gabe? I heard on the reserve itâs Gabby, which is good, because weâd like to hear you do some talking
.
S: This is totally crazy
.
K: Okay, we just want to straighten out a few things here, then if everything checks out maybe we can all go home
.
S: Home to what? Whoâs going to pay for garbaging my cabin? I want a list of everything you took. I want it back, every damn book and magazine, my radio and my records
.
K: Settle down, son. We just want to ask a few questions about what you were doing Saturday afternoon
.
S: I told you. I was with my girl
.
K: Uh-huh. Where, exactly?
S: In my cabin
.
K: Doing what?
S: I was teaching her chess. We were listening to music
.
J: Teaching her chess? Thatâs all you did?
(no response)
J: We just talked to Monique, pal. She never saw you once on Saturday
.
K: So it looks like you got some explaining, right, Gabriel?
S: Why am I in this cell, Sergeant? Am I charged with something?
K: Right now, weâre just holding you for investigation. You want to rethink what you were doing on Saturday? You were with Professor Mulligan, right? A part of the time anyway
.
J: We donât say you did anything, Gabriel, but we heard he invited you to go fishing with him
.
S: You heard that from whom?
J: From whom? Whom? Who learned you such refined English, Gabriel? Your fishing buddy, maybe? Professor Mulligan?
S: Fuck off, you fat creep
.
K: Whoa, whoa, letâs all cool down here, and watch your language. Letâs talk about the deceased. What were your relations with him?
(no response)
K: Sounds like youâve got something to hide. Iâm not saying you and him had a fight; maybe something else was going on between you
.
S: Let me ask you a question, Sergeant. Are you making up this case out of pure bullshit because I dropped you for calling me a lippy fucking Indian shit?
At this point interview was concluded, as suspect wasnât willing to cooperate further at this time
.
I returned to the prologue of this interview.
Suspect looked like heâd been in a brawl
. Remarkably, during the Q and A session these so-called peace officers hadnât asked how heâd got those bruises.
I was prepared to gamble my soul that Gabrielâs version was the gospel truth. Impatient with his attitude, Knepp had delivered a few shots to his head. The sidekick, Jettles, had taken that role literally, aiming a kick below the ribs. Quite a feat, unless Gabriel was down on the floor.
There wasnât much else in the file: a note that the abandoned clothes had gone to Vancouver for analysis, along with various scrapings, tweezered unknowns, and fingerprint lifts.
Framed by a fascist fucking cabal of racist brownshirts
, as quoted, more or less, by a
Sun
reporter.
I would head up there on the weekend to undo what damage I could. I would have to skirt around Knepp and his crew and be careful in my approach to Chief Joseph. I would have to reach out to his cowed daughter before her lying words gelled as false memory.
I told myself that Ophelia Moore would only get in the way were she asked to accompany me.
F RIDAY , A PRIL 27, 1962
I was committed
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