[Detective Allan Stanton 03.0] Sorrowful Road

by Alex MacLean

  “Can you sign this for me, please?”

  Luc scribbled his name on the line. Audra and Allan signed the bottom as witnesses. As Allan slipped on the disposable gloves, Audra began filling out the information on the submission box and evidence envelope—report number, Luc’s name, the date and time.

  “Are you chewing gum?” Allan asked him.

  Luc shook his head.

  Allan removed a pair of swabs from one package. Holding them together, he had Luc open his mouth, and then he proceeded to swipe the insides of both cheeks. He put the swabs in the submission box and closed it up. Audra took the box from him and placed it inside the evidence envelope, sealing it then sticking a biohazard tag over the flap.

  She said, “Okay, Mr. Saint-Pierre, you’re free to leave.”

  “We’ll keep you apprised of any developments,” Allan told him. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Luc looked at both of them, and Audra saw a pain in his eyes that she wanted to shrink away from. Without a word, he got up and left the room.

  Audra blew out a breath. “Well, that was tough.”

  Allan slipped off the gloves. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think he’s involved.”

  “Me either. A husband who stages a rape-murder of his wife rarely leaves her posed semi-nude like Kate Saint-Pierre was.”

  Audra raised her eyebrows. “That’s true.”

  “But we have to cover all bases.” Allan picked up the evidence envelope. “I’ll get this off to the lab. Be back in a bit.”

  “Al,” she said.

  Allan turned around, holding the door open with one hand.

  “If you ever want to talk,” Audra said, “I’m here. You know that, right?”

  Allan held her gaze for a moment, and she recognized the timeworn fatigue that she’d seen in other cops beaten down by the emotional and physical demands of the job. He’d been evaluated and given clearance to return to work, but part of Audra wondered if he was ready, really ready to come back. She worried about him, and so did Captain Thorne. Two officer-involved shootings in the span of a month, the second one ending in a shootout that cost four people their lives. Few officers ever witness that type of trauma in their entire careers. Few ever have to draw their weapons.

  Allan gave her a smile and a nod.

  “I know,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Audra watched him walk out. She found herself staring at the closed door long after he left.

  7

  Halifax, October 18

  6:18 p.m.

  “I didn’t find signs of forcible sexual contact,” Coulter said. “No injuries to the genitalia. No bruising or redness when I examined it with the colposcope. That’s common in females of Kate Saint-Pierre’s age, unless a foreign object is used. Evidence usually shows up on different parts of the body.” He sat back from his desk with a glum look on his face. “I didn’t find any signs there, either.

  “The clothing had no tears or missing buttons. No evidence of re-dressing. No bruising on the inner aspects of the thighs or knees. No DNA on the clothing or body. Wet mounts were unremarkable. We’ll see if the lab finds anything when they examine the slides and dry smears. Only a small amount of pubic hair was present, so the combings never produced any free foreign hairs.”

  Allan frowned. “So you can’t rule sexual assault this time?”

  Coulter spread his hands. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question right now.”

  “Whenever a female is found nude or partially nude,” Audra said, “you automatically think sex crime. You have to.”

  “I agree,” Coulter said. “The scene implies that. I just never found evidence on the body to support it. But the absence of injuries doesn’t always negate sexual assault, and the presence of them doesn’t always prove sexual assault. That’s the challenge. My decision is pending the lab results. In my experience, when I don’t find anything on the slides, the lab seldom does, either.”

  Allan leaned his head back over the top of the chair, closed his eyes. He saw Mary Driscow lying amidst the moss and leaf litter, and he winced as a pang of sadness and bitter regret shot through his chest.

  “Maybe he got interrupted,” Audra said. “Couldn’t finish what he started.”

  Allan opened his eyes and looked across the desk at Coulter.

  “These findings,” he said, “are very similar to those in the Mary Driscow case. The only difference is the suction lesion you found on her.”

  “You’re right, Detective. I had to review my reports on that case again. I’d forgotten the details.”

  “The slides were negative there as well.”

  “True.”

  “Did you look at your scene photos?”

  “I did.”

  “See the similarities?”

  “They’re undeniable.”

  “You ruled sexual assault based on that suction lesion?”

  Coulter’s eyebrows twitched downward. He shot Audra a quick glance then focused on Allan again. Allan noticed a slight flush appear in his cheeks.

  “Suckling the breast is sexual interaction,” Coulter said. “It doesn’t matter how subtle the interaction is. Penetration isn’t necessary for it to be sexually motivated. And penetration isn’t easily proven in females past a certain age. I based my conclusion on the totality of the scene. Not from the lesion alone.”

  From the corner of his eye, Allan saw Audra hunch forward, resting her elbows on her knees and turning her head toward him.

  “What are you thinking, Al?” she asked.

  Coulter tilted his head, a half smile forming. “I’m curious too, Detective.”

  “I’m wondering if we...if I looked at the Driscow case all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” Audra asked.

  “The sexual aspect of the crimes. Maybe it’s not about that at all.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Allan looked at her. “Exactly.”

  Coulter asked, “Do you think the suspect staged the scenes to look like sexual homicides?”

  “You don’t see that often,” Audra said. “Especially in stranger murders.”

  “No, you don’t,” Allan agreed. “It’s usually done by someone acquainted with the victim. They try to steer the investigation away from themselves. To hide the relationship.”

  Audra added, “Most often, the victim is found in their own homes or workplace. Not a public park. The suspect would have to know Kate Saint-Pierre was going to be there.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case here,” Allan said. “We’ll carefully compare the victimology. I believe Kate became a victim of opportunity. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Same as Mary.” He paused a moment, lowering his eyes. “Maybe I’m losing perspective, but to me, Kate Saint-Pierre’s murder smacks of a taunt. The date. The posing.”

  Audra said, “The posing might be to degrade the women. Humiliate them. Even demonstrate the suspect’s power.”

  Allan gave it some thought. “Possible.”

  “Maybe it’s part of his sexual fantasy,” Audra went on. “He poses them that way for his arousal. Takes photographs and uses them later to relive the murders or to satisfy his sexual fantasy.”

  “Paraphilia,” Allan said. “You think these could be lust murders?”

  “Don’t know. I’m just tossing theories out there.”

  Allan scratched his chin. “You might be on point.”

  “Who found Driscow’s body?”

  “Lara...Sara,” Allan frowned, unable to remember. “Something like that.”

  “A female?”

  “Yeah. Her dog actually found the body.”

  Coulter leaned into his desk, flipping open a folder and adjusting his glasses. “Sara Reis is her name.”

  Allan snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Thanks.”

  Audra looked over at Coulter. “The breakfast info I gave you, did it help narrow down the time of death?”

  “Very much,”
he said. “I found semi-digested food particles in the stomach. Volume was about one sixth of a cup. They had the color and consistency of banana and almond butter.”

  “Was death soon after she ate?”

  “Within a few hours, yes. Possibly one to two. I factored in everything.” Coulter ticked off the items on his fingers. “Rigor. Hypostasis. Body temp.”

  Audra referred to her notebook. “That would put the time between seven and eight.”

  “Or possibly a little later,” Coulter said.

  Audra said, “Luc Saint-Pierre told me Kate usually got home by eight, eight fifteen. I’m thinking a safe time frame is between seven and eight.”

  “The suspect was at the park rather early,” Allan said. “Maybe even before Kate.”

  The office went quiet for a few moments, only a low hum coming from the ventilation system.

  Eventually, Coulter said, “How many people would be there at that time?”

  “On a Sunday?” Allan shrugged. “A few, anyway. The park opens at six.”

  Audra said, “I’ve never been there that early.”

  “It’s a big park,” Allan said. “Easy to wander around unnoticed if you wanted to.”

  Audra turned back to Coulter. “Did you find any signs of domestic abuse on Kate’s body?”

  He shook his head. “No evidence of old or recent fractures or trauma. She was a well-nourished, well-developed female. As much as you would expect of someone her age.”

  “Ligature strangulation caused death, right?” Allan asked.

  “Yes, asphyxia caused by ligature strangulation.”

  Allan paused. “Right. Were there any other injuries besides the dismembered fingertips?”

  “There were abrasions to the palmar surfaces of the hands. Like you’d find if you fell forward and attempted to break the fall with your hands, perhaps on the gravel trail.”

  “It looked like the attack happened there.”

  Coulter gave a nod.

  “Nothing else?”

  “No, but getting back to the fingertips. Those were removed postmortem. I saw no vital reaction in the tissues.”

  “Well, that about covers it,” Audra said, closing her notebook and standing up. “We have a lot of legwork ahead of us.”

  Allan rose from his chair. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I’ll have the full report to you tomorrow,” Coulter told them.

  While they’d been in Coulter’s office, the blue sky had clouded over. The temperature felt as if it had dropped a few degrees.

  Crossing the parking lot to Allan’s car, Audra said, “I think Coulter got insulted when you questioned his ruling in the Driscow case. Did you see his face?”

  “Got a bit red, didn’t it?”

  Audra chuckled.

  “He’ll get over it,” Allan said.

  “So?”

  “What?”

  “Do you question it?”

  Allan turned his hands up. “Should’ve questioned it back then. I keep wondering if I spent all those months looking in the wrong direction.”

  Audra stopped by the trunk of the car, and Allan stopped with her.

  “So what are your thoughts on this?” she asked. “Your theory?”

  “I looked into every known sex offender on this side of Canada. None of them turned out to be the suspect. I even looked into men who had minor sex-related charges against them because that’s how a lot of these guys get started. In the end, I had one viable suspect. One, and DNA cleared him.”

  “And that has you questioning the sexual aspect of the murders?”

  “It has me looking at this from a different angle.”

  Audra placed a hand on the trunk of the car, her fingers drumming the metal. “Such as?”

  Allan drew a breath. “Motivation isn’t always easy to understand. Maybe this guy never sexually assaulted either woman. Maybe that’s the reason Coulter never found any injuries to prove it. Maybe that’s why there was no ejaculate. He never took it that far.”

  “The suction lesion on Mary Driscow’s breast. That is sexual interaction. Coulter is right. C’mon, Al, you know that yourself.”

  “I do. But what if it was just a sudden urge the guy had? An afterthought. He never did it with Kate Saint-Pierre.”

  Audra shook her head. “I don’t know, Al. I don’t know.”

  Allan said, “I’m just speculating here. You asked. I told.”

  “If sex isn’t this guy’s motivator, what is?”

  “What’s left?”

  Audra frowned. “Murder.”

  “Yeah.”

  For a moment, they shared a careful look.

  “Murder,” Allan said. “That just leaves murder.”

  8

  Burlington, October 18

  6:45 p.m.

  Kate Saint-Pierre.

  She’s a slim figure in black and pink, running down the path toward me. The low early sun streams through the woods and has a strobe-light effect on her body. Her ponytail bounces wildly. Her arms resemble pistons as they pump back and forth in sync with the short strides of her legs. I admire her form—head up, chest out, back straight.

  She rounds a bend in the trail and comes down the slope. Our distance is closing fast, two trains barreling straight for each other on the same track. Excitement surges through me. My heart races. My senses heighten.

  I hear the crunch of gravel under her feet, the rustle of leaves, the stir of a sudden gust high in the turning trees. I inhale the smell of earthy decay, a whiff of something citrusy. I can see a good one hundred fifty yards of the path trailing Kate Saint-Pierre, and there’s no sign of anyone else. There’s no one behind me, either. We’re the only two humans around. It’s beautiful, this serendipitous moment.

  About thirty feet separate us now. I notice her cheeks are flushed. Sweat glistens on her face. Her breaths sound deep and even; she’s not huffing and puffing at all. Probably a belly-breather, and that worries me. She could be an experienced runner who has a lot of gas left in the tank. If she gets away, I might not be able to catch her.

  Respectfully, I move to the edge of the trail, giving her room. Just before we intersect, she acknowledges me with a quick smile. I return the gesture. It’s a fraternal thing some runners do, like the motorcyclists and truck drivers you see waving to one another on the highways.

  As we pass, I casually stick my foot out, and she catches my instep so hard it makes me wince. She topples forward to the ground with a soft grunt. I stop and look down at her.

  “Oh, sorry.” I try my damnedest to sound concerned. “Are you okay?”

  She lies there on her stomach for a few moments, making little moaning noises. I wonder if she got the wind knocked out of her. Then she lifts her head and slowly pushes up to her knees. Her hands shake as she begins flicking bits of gravel from her palms.

  I reach into the pocket of my hoodie, gripping my piece of rope. The ends are knotted so my hands won’t slip off.

  “Are you okay?” I repeat.

  She looks back over her shoulder at me. Her eyebrows are squeezed together in a crease. Her mouth is twisted to one side. She spits out a caustic “Fine.”

  I give a look around. There’s no one coming. The park isn’t as busy as it was yesterday. Lucky for me; not so much for her.

  Kate Saint-Pierre begins to stand.

  “Here, let me help you,” I say, moving to the front of her.

  She holds up a hand to stop me. “I’m fine. Really.”

  No, honey. You’re not.

  It takes only a second for me to pull the rope from my pocket and loop it around her neck. Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. Her hands fly to her throat. Then she’s falling backward to the ground. A gush of air shoots out of her nostrils as my body weight lands on top of her. Quickly, I cross the ends of the rope and give it a sharp tug. She writhes beneath me, struggling to get free. She whips her nails into a crazy frenzy, clawing for my eyes. I feel the fiery lick as one of them scratches my cheek
, and it angers me to no end.

  I snap the rope tighter, and her hands scramble to it, trying to pull it free. I watch her face swelling, changing color. She looks up into my eyes, and I see the fear and confusion swimming among the tears. I’ve seen that look many times before. Each of those is burned into my memory. Stored there so I can pull one out at random and soak in warm reminiscence.

  The creak of the office door drags me, kicking and screaming, from my pleasant daydream. Right away, I click the mouse on my desk, and the news article about Kate Saint-Pierre disappears from the monitor.

  I swivel in my chair to face the source of the intrusion. Heidi stands in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Behind her comes the sound of Jade and Jaleesa laughing and splashing around in the bathroom down the hall.

  “Girls,” Heidi calls to them. “Don’t you be making a mess.”

  They call back, “We won’t, Mom.”

  I smile. Their laughter is infectious. It wraps my whole body in a warm hug. I read somewhere new fathers go through biochemical changes. Testosterone plummets. Estrogen levels rise. The brain rewires itself. Extra neurons form and make new connections. The father literally becomes motherly.

  There must be some truth to it, because when Jaleesa was born, a change did come over me. I felt a bond with her that I never had with any other human being. Until, of course, Jade came into the world. Then I had those feelings all over again.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Heidi asks me.

  “Going through emails,” I tell her.

  “Anything important?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Well...depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Your point of view,” I say. “It can be good news or bad. Depending on how you look at it.” I mimic a balance scale with my hands. “Good for the money. Bad that I’ll be on the road again.”

  Heidi shuts her eyes. Disappointment slumps her shoulders, deflates her. She crosses her arms and leans against the jamb.

  “Where to?”

  “Cranbrook. For a company called Flatbow Lumber. They have about a hundred fifty employees.”

  Heidi opens her eyes, frowns. “Is that in BC?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t been out that way for what, two years?”