The car bottomed again as we left the mall parking lot and drove out the Dartmouth Road. The Halifax metro integrated major-crime team works out of a small office tower on Brunswick Street on the edge of downtown. We weren’t there. Inspector MacIntosh decided his team needed separation to focus on the Gardner case. The new Mountie provincial HQ is in Burnside, and all the specialized units that investigate crime outside Halifax sit there now. The federal synthetic-drug section made the move, leaving behind a lease on some high-end digs in a glass tower sitting above a trendy shopping mall in Bedford. He placed us there. Gotta love that Mountie money. I figured MacIntosh was using this case to do a bit of empire building. Coffee there was good, so I was okay with his agenda.
“We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before Thelma Waters becomes priority one. Let’s work Gardner through once more.” I released my grip on the dash and eased back into the seat.
“You first,” Blair said as he flicked the switch for the siren. Our car was unmarked, but it had all the toys.
“I’m liking Bobby. He has the violent history. I can see him falling back into the law of the jungle if he found out his pastor was a diddler.”
“Big difference between the Church of Salvation and the prison yard though,” he said.
“I know, I know. And I’m not the one to say a con can’t change his ways. It’s just a vibe I was getting off him.”
Blair guided the car past slower traffic and began the downward trek toward the Dartmouth waterfront. I knew he would take the MacKay Bridge. The Macdonald was a shorter run, but even with the siren, the streets in that end of the city were too narrow, and at this hour, clogged. I watched Blair push the pedal down as the big police engine growled in delight. I still get a rush from a finely tuned engine doing its thing. I just prefer it between my legs, not under a hood. His knuckles whitened above the wheel. The toothpick flipped from the right side of his mouth to the left and pointed out the driver-side window. He was chewing over the options.
“What about Sam? There’s motive we need to get at,” he said.
“Yep, for sure. We need to bring him in. Both of them. Easier to work Bobby, no messy young offender shit to deal with.”
“One good thing,” he said as he began pumping the brake to bring us in for a landing at the bottom of the hill.
“What’s that?”
“We can scratch Thelma Waters from the list.”
Halifax is a Navy town. A military moron named Cornwallis was the first to claim it. He started his career as a bedchamber servant for King Edward over in England. He managed to sneak out of the royal bedroom long enough to slaughter hordes of unarmed Scots. The blood lust impressed the King who, although reluctant to lose a man good with a bedpan, realized he had a new bully ready for battle. With no one left to kill in Scotland, the good King sent him off to clean up the royal mess here. Cornwallis built a fort on the hill overlooking Halifax Harbour and headed off into the woods to make war. He couldn’t find the French, so he drew Blair’s ancestors into a little game called genocide. The British say he won. Cornwallis didn’t procreate; Blair is here. I call that victory.
While the King’s men and the Mi’kmaq took turns scalping corpses, the first Haligonians cracked open the rum kegs and got to work. That was the bloody summer of 1749. Couple of centuries later, city planners still fight a losing battle against their drunken design. A fort on a hill in the middle of a foot-shaped peninsula makes perfect sense in a world dominated by slow-moving warships. Throw in some narrow streets and fast-moving cars, and you have the little city we love to hate. A siren is only good if the people in front of you have enough road to get out of your way.
The bridge dumped us onto the peninsula at the foot’s heel. We were fighting our way through the stop and slow morning ritual, trying to get to Point Pleasant Park at the big-toe end. The morning commuters didn’t seem to care that we had a date with a dead woman.
We arrived at Point Pleasant Park without killing anyone, so I figured things were looking up. Then, I saw Greg just outside the yellow tape. Now my brothers were beating me to crime scenes. Halifax is a small city, but I knew for a fact there was more than one Catholic priest in it. I don’t like coincidence, especially when it involves family.
Blair nodded toward him, as he shut off the engine.
“I know he’s the chaplain. Didn’t know he was getting called out now, too.”
“Maybe he keeps a scanner in the rectory,” I said as I opened my door and drank in the cool ocean air. Greg wasn’t our biggest problem, and he wasn’t the only one with a police scanner. The parking lot was littered with TV trucks and the point-and-click crowd. The lenses on the TV cameras swung our way as we headed to the scene. Nothing else for them to shoot.
Today’s roll of yellow tape cut a diagonal across the huge parking lot. It blocked access to the walking-and-running trails that circle the park. A deep green urban forest bordered the right side of the lot and spread out to the tip of the peninsula. It was once flattened by a hurricane, but it was making a strong comeback.
Just beyond the paved lot, the swells of Halifax Harbour crashed on a small sandy beach. For decades raw sewage poured down the harbour’s throat. The switch on the sewage-treatment plant had barely been thrown when the mayor of the day took a dip right here. Didn’t get him re-elected, probably got him a shortened life span.
To the left of the parking lot, the biggest of Halifax’s shipping terminals sprawled along the waterfront, stopping a container length short of the park. Its massive orange-and-yellow building blocks were piled so high you couldn’t see the sun, let alone the water. We walked up to Greg and the uniformed officer protecting the scene. Blair gave him our badge numbers, as I pulled my brother aside.
“Why are you here, Greg? Who called you?” I asked, feeling more than a little uneasy. If the average citizen had arrived at two crime scenes, we’d pull him in for some serious Q&A time. Perps often like to take in the show once they’ve set it in motion.
“Relax, Cam. I have friends on the force, even parishioners.”
He nodded toward the young officer in uniform. I didn’t know him, but he’d soon know me.
“So why’d he call you?” I asked.
“Thelma attended our prayer service for Pastor Gardner last night. He wanted me to know she’d been found dead. That’s all.”
I pulled out my notebook and marked the time and place.
“You saw the victim last night? What time?” I asked.
“She left the church at seven. She said she was coming here.” Now he was the one who seemed uncomfortable.
“Was he there too? Was Bobby Simms at the service?” I asked.
“Yes, he was. He left shortly after Thelma. Cam, I don’t believe he could…” His voice trailed off. He pressed his hand to the crucifix and looked at me with sadness in his eyes I had never seen there before.
“I do, Greg. He’s an ex-con with a violent past. Why would that be such a problem for you?”
“What about our brother? Gunner’s past is no better, and we still love him.”
I couldn’t argue the point.
“Gunner doesn’t know our two victims. Bobby does.”
“I’m sorry, I know. It’s not just Bobby. It’s all of it. Good people, people of God, are being murdered. If another man of God is behind it, well that kind of news will chase people from the thing they really need: faith in something more.”
“Christ, Greg, sorry, but really, where are your priorities? Thelma Waters is right over there.” I pointed toward the walking path and the beach. “Maybe worry about her a little and think of the mother Church later.”
“That’s not fair, this isn’t about the Church; it’s about the people who need it even if they don’t know it. Their souls are suffering, Cam. The level of alcoholism and drug addiction in this city proves it.”
I flared a li
ttle but swallowed it.
“I have to solve this thing before another body drops, brother. Like I said yesterday, it will be what it will be. I’ll need a list of everyone at the prayer service,” I said as I walked away, thinking about what he’d said.
Couldn’t argue with one thing. Addiction was sweeping the city. Junkies were stabbing each other over crack crumbs like they were the holy grail. College kids were popping ecstasy and making new friends with benefits every night. The prescription-med market rivalled the fast-food chains for volume. Beat it for profit. The Beamer and Cadillac crowd left it all in the rear-view, as they headed home to Bedford and the other burbs every night. Of course, out there the rich and powerful drunks beat their wives behind closed doors like the civilized men they were. I also knew religion couldn’t stop any of it. I sure as hell didn’t have the answer. My job was cleaning it up.
I looked back as Blair and I reached the end of the parking lot and made our way into the park. Greg looked small behind that white collar. I wonder if Cornwallis knew he was fighting a losing battle.
You see a lot in this job. Most of it ugly, most of it stupid, preventable shit people do to themselves or the people they love. Most of it you forget. Some of it you can’t. Blair and I knew Thelma Waters, not well, but we’d spoken with her only yesterday. Seeing her slaughtered—and that was the only way to describe it—meant she’d haunt us. We’d find a way to blame ourselves. I longed for a shot of Wild Turkey, knowing there would never be enough in any bottle to keep her away.
“Fuck,” Blair said, turning to look out over the water.
“Overkill,” I said.
“No shit.”
Thelma’s body sprawled at the foot of the cenotaph near a point of land overlooking the entrance to Halifax Harbour. A beautiful old anchor stood sentry near the water’s edge. Glance up and you see a wide-open horizon, an endless vista of deep-blue water. Nature’s beauty reminding you there is something bigger than you. Something divine, Greg would say. Look down, and you know there is evil. True evil, darker than the deepest ocean current.
Blood saturated her clothes. Her neck was cut wide and deep. I could see bone and tissue in the wound. The irregular oval of her severed windpipe was easy to make out in the mess. Her throat wasn’t so much slit as hacked open. There were stab wounds in the area of her heart as well, and I could see what appeared to be defensive wounds on her right forearm. It was overkill, yet it seemed her killer didn’t think it was enough. He took the time to make a display of his work. Her arms were spread wide, her feet together one on top of the other. I remembered her crossing her ankles when she was nervous. I fought the bile rising from my stomach as I remembered the living Thelma in that warm, sweet-smelling kitchen.
Her outstretched hands were open, palms up. The left palm was blood-filled, a hole visible in its centre. The right hand held a small blue book. I couldn’t see if there was a similar wound under it. Remarkably, her face was untouched. Her head rested on a neatly folded sweater, probably her own. That was perhaps the most disturbing part of the scene. Her face looked so innocent, like she was asleep. The contrast with the gaping wound where her throat should be was difficult to comprehend.
The waves crashed on the rocks a short distance away, the only other sound the clicking of Carla Cage’s camera. I still hadn’t had the chance to ask her opinion on the Gardner scene, and here we were at another. She walked slowly around the body. Kneeling to frame a shot I knew would include the cenotaph to help position the body in context for a jury. She lowered the camera after the click and looked at the body. I could see pain in her eyes. Her lips moved slightly as though she was talking to Thelma, praying maybe. Apologizing because she knew these pictures would deliver a pain that was unfathomable. Thelma’s family would someday see those pictures in a courtroom.
Like Carla, I knew there’d be a trial. We would catch this bastard. I couldn’t live if this guy was out there. Thelma’s family would never forget Carla’s crime-scene pictures. She looked at me. Hardness slid across her face. A silent promise passed between us. I’d catch him. She’d build me a bulletproof forensic case. Or maybe she was asking me to shoot the bastard to spare the family a trial. I was okay with that, too.
Half a dozen cops moved around the scene doing what we do. No one spoke. I’d never been to a silent crime scene. It wasn’t that she was cut up so bad; we’d all seen worse. It was the face. Like I said, we see a lot of shit in this job and try to shake it off. A mutilated hooker or street kid is a bad thing, but we sort of expect it. But a sweet-faced, white-haired old lady with her throat hacked up by some animal, well, that’s tough for any cop. I didn’t know my mother, but figured the others were thinking of theirs.
“Not much blood,” I said to Blair as I pulled out my notebook.
“No. He did most of it after her heart stopped pumping. Thank God.”
“I’ve had enough God today. Can’t see where He was around here, anyway.”
“Hard not to think of Him when you’re looking at a crucifixion, Cam. I think maybe the killer is calling God out on this one.”
“Got a feeling he’s playing for the other team,” I said, as I took my first step toward the body. The ground felt a little uneven. My knees felt the way they used to in the ring. After someone kicked me in the head.
Dr. Ian moved quietly for a big man. Didn’t hear him approach, barely heard a sound as he knelt beside the body. Blair and I moved away to give him space to work. Or maybe just to move away.
A uniform was standing about a hundred metres further along the path into the park. Two civilians stood with him. One was looking our way; the other stared out over the water. I’d bet that was who found Thelma. I nodded to Blair, and we walked over.
We told the officer to take a break and took a spot beyond the couple to allow them to look at us and not at the scene. He was a balding forty-something jogger in expensive running shoes with a top-dollar outfit to match. Just in case you didn’t know how expensive running suits can be, he wore a bulky gold watch on his left wrist just below the cuff of the jacket. She wore university track pants and a sweatshirt. The shoes were top-drawer, though. Spent the money where it mattered. She was also fifteen years younger than the cash-flasher. She didn’t look like the gold-digging type. At least he hadn’t rewarded her yet. Blair introduced us, and I took a long look at each. We had one person who saw too much, and one who didn’t seem to think he’d seen enough. I started with him.
“What is your name, sir?” Polite usually works.
“My God, how many of you do I have to tell?” He looked at her, putting on a bit of show.
“As many of us as it takes. Now what is your name?” No “sir” this time.
“Luke Weathers, and I expect discretion in this matter. I don’t need to be connected to any of this.” Giving us aloof with a little disdain now. His eyes still on her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weathers, if there is something you are trying to hide, maybe we need to take this downtown. Has anybody read you your rights yet?” That got at least half of his attention.
“What, rights? Are you insane? Do you know who I am? Of course I know my rights. I also know I just arrived to assist my secretary who wandered into this mess. I really don’t have time for this, and neither does she. Louise, you must tell them what you saw and be done with it. We’ve got work back at the office.”
“Mr. Weathers, shut the fuck up.” Had one hundred per cent of him now.
“What did you say, officer?”
“I said ‘Shut the fuck up.’ Got it now? You don’t tell a witness at a crime scene what to say or what not to say. If you say one more word to her, I will run you in for obstruction. This mess, as you call it, is the brutal murder of an innocent woman. Our witness isn’t going anywhere with you. If that is an inconvenience, well, fuck you. Now, did you see anything at all over there or anywhere else in the park while you were runni
ng?”
He gave me a hard stare and saw where it got him.
“I ran counter-clockwise, so no. By the time I got to this side of the park, I found Louise standing here with you people.”
“Fine, then we don’t need you now. But we may be in touch if there are any follow-up questions. You can leave.”
He looked at Louise. She looked at the ground. He looked back at me and then tried Blair. Nothing. He turned and headed toward the body. I reached out and put a firm hold on his left shoulder. He stopped but didn’t turn. I walked around in front of him.
“Sorry, closed crime scene. You’ll have to retrace your steps around the park.” I knew he could see his car from here, but I wouldn’t let him go to it. I watched as he stalked off in the opposite direction, and doubted if the walk back through the park would cool him off. Blair gave me a shrug. I shrugged back. Usually, we’d feel good after pulling the pompous out of a fool like that. We didn’t.
“Sorry about that. I’m Cam Neville; this is my partner Blair Christmas. What’s your name?”
She looked up for the first time since my discussion with her boss began. She gave me a half smile.
“Louise Deveau. Don’t you know who he is?” she asked.
“I know what he isn’t, and that’s a witness. You are, and that makes you much more important in my world.” The half smile was gone. She was remembering. Tears started to fall.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But, that poor woman. She…” Her hand went to her mouth. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Look, Louise, take your time. We don’t need this all at once. Just tell us, did you see anyone in the area when you arrived. Anyone out of place.”
“No. I came early to get a run in before work. I got this far and saw a sweater hanging from the anchor.” She pointed; we looked. No sweater.
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