Incidents in the Life of Markus Paul by David Adams Richards

disheartened by how small-potatoes the local story was, and so he had spurred young Doran on.
    And this is what Doran wrote:
    “The murder of a First Nations man, Nathan Blacksnake, in Saskatoon last month brings home our rather blasé attitude toward the death of Mr. Hector Penniac, a young Micmac man who went to work a boat up on the Miramichi, and was found dead in the hold at quarter past eleven that morning. He lasted at this job—a job that he needed—just two hours. That in itself is a tragedy. What is more so is the attitude of those in authority who must deal with this. How much are they willing to divulge to us? The ship has already sailed, the case seems closed; it is being called an accident. Hector Penniac graduated with honours, and wanted to be a doctor and come back to a reserve sorely in need of gifted men. Some people on the reserve are hesitant to talk—and who can blame them? For years we, as white men, told them what they could and could not do. If we are to respect ourselves as human beings, that must change now, and the guilty, whoever they are, must be held responsible.”
    Although Doran never stated it, when he mentioned Mr. Blacksnake, who was sickeningly beaten to death by three white men, he implied that Hector Penniac had been murdered too. No one wanted a bad story or a wrong story—but a story, like anything else, has its own life, and Max Doran, in trying to be fair, was in fact following the life of the very story he had created. So far the paper’s owner had been spared embarrassment by his connection to the land claim case on the river and to the Dutch shipping company, of which he himself owned a percentage. But in receiving compliments from certain friends and people in positions of authority, especially at the university, Doran again felt shallow—for he believed he had written in the main what Isaac Snow had wanted, and this sat very heavy on him.
    Roger was twice more taken in by the police to be questioned. He sat in the office and said what he had said before—he’d had nothing to do with Hector’s death. He had not hooked, and he was sorry for the death of the man. The police became as insistent as temper allowed, calling him a coward and a bully, saying that he would not get away with it. “Would you know how to hook to have the clamp jam open—I mean, if you did it?”
    “Yes, I would jam it open. The weight would shift and might make the logs fall—I suppose … but it wouldn’t be for certain.”
    “But you could do it?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s damn funny that you know what happened. I mean, that’s what people say you did, as a prank. You didn’t really want to kill him, did you—just have fun and scare him so he would quit and you’d get the job?” a policeman named Hanover asked. “Why don’t you just admit how surprised you were that Indian fella got a job? And now you are sorry about it—we know that.”
    “Sure—except I didn’t hook.”
    They kept Roger in the office more than four hours. But finally they had to let him go home.
    Both times, First Nations men went to the police station and waited in the dry, listless parking lot to hear what would happen. And both times Roger came out, walked past them and went home. Both times, he reiterated he had not hooked. And there was no proof he had hooked, except for the leaners, who were both drunk and said so.
    Both times, Joel Ginnish shrugged and put his hands out as if all this was beyond him, and then they all turned and followed Roger back to his house.
    “You hay our nets, you’ll be in for it,” one of the men said.
    “Yeah—or step over our line, too, when you’re in your yard.”
    “Or speak to our women,” someone else said.
    Then they all broke out laughing, even Roger. And all of them would laugh, and then stop laughing, and then Joel would say something, and that would strike them all as funny, and all of them, even Roger, would laugh again.
    Doran went back to Saint John and