Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  “I haven’t seen it in my experience,” he answered. “But yes, Lieutenant. There are abrasions around the eye sockets and lips indicating that something in the harbor was nibbling at the body.”

  Allan glanced at his watch. It was nearly two-thirty. He’d barely slept the night before and was beginning to feel exhaustion taking hold of him.

  “How long will this take?” he asked Coulter.

  “Come to my office at five, Lieutenant. I should have some better info for you by then.”

  “I’ll do that,” Allan said, and left.

  He grabbed a coffee and muffin at a local Robins and then returned to his office. His desk was cluttered with a six-day compilation of the Brad Hawkins murder—handwritten notes, canvass, supplementary, lab and autopsy reports.

  A corkboard hung on the wall behind the desk and a map of Halifax was pinned to it. A red circle marked where Brad had been murdered. Below the map was an array of aerial and crime scene photos.

  Allan emitted a troubled sigh. He had no suspects. No clues. No witnesses. The case was just over a week old and already it seemed hopeless.

  He sat down, took a sip of coffee, a bite of his muffin. Then his gaze fell on the manila envelope containing the autopsy photos of Cathy Ambré. Allan inhaled.

  I’m so deeply sorry about your sister. I wish I could’ve found her sooner for you. Sometimes the wheels of justice move much too slowly than we’d like. At least we got Bernard Potter off the streets. If there can ever be any measure of justice in your death, that was it. You helped us save many lives.

  Had Trixy not disappeared, Allan concluded, Cathy might not have died. She might’ve beaten her addiction and went on to live a prosperous life. The whole tragedy left him with a deep sadness that infested his soul.

  At five, he went to Coulter’s office. It was spacious and well furnished—a U-shaped desk with family pictures, two plants, bookshelves, and filing cabinets. Doctorates showcased inside expensive frames adorned the walls.

  Coulter sat at his desk, typing on his computer. His gaze didn’t move from the monitor as he said, “Lieutenant, please have a seat.”

  Allan did so.

  “I won’t have my report ready for you until tomorrow,” Coulter went on. “But I know you’re a man who wants information as soon as you can have it. I can give you the pertinent details of my findings today.”

  Allan leaned back, steepling his fingers to his lips. “So what are we dealing with, Doctor?”

  Coulter stopped typing. “Homicide.”

  Allan expected as much. “How was she murdered?”

  “Miss Ambré was struck with a blunt, cylindrical instrument. I found a single impact injury to the side of her head. When I examined the skull, I found a linear fracture in the temporal region.”

  “Was the blow hard enough to cause death?”

  Coulter shook his head. “Varying levels of unconsciousness, yes. But not death.”

  “How much would a wound like that bleed?”

  “Most scalp injuries bleed rather profusely.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “Hemorrhaging in the eardrums. The lungs were heavy and voluminous. On dissection, there was fluid in the alveoli. There was also a large amount of silty water in the stomach.”

  “So she was alive when she entered the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Conscious?”

  “I can’t say, Lieutenant.”

  Head bent, Allan rubbed the bridge of his nose. So Trixy might’ve been knocked unconscious and then dumped into the harbor? By whom?

  “There’s something else, Lieutenant,” Coulter said. “I could be way off base, but when I examined the optic nerves, I noticed that they’ve been cut.”

  Hearing this, Allan’s eyebrows shot up. He felt a strange frisson.

  “Jesus,” he murmured. “How sure are you of this?”

  Coulter fell quiet. For the first time in Allan’s career, he thought he saw self-doubt appear in the medical examiner’s eyes.

  At length, Coulter said, “I’m quite sure. Certain, in fact. The wounds on the optic nerves were clean-cut. I didn’t see any ripping as one would expect to find, especially if a crab or some other ocean scavenger had been trying to tear out the eyeballs.”

  “It would require some skill or training for someone to remove a person’s eyes, wouldn’t it?”

  Coulter gave the slightest of shrugs. “Not really. You’d be surprised how easy it is. You can pop out a person’s eyeball with your thumb or finger.”

  For a few moments, Allan sat there, mulling everything over. Then he got up, thanked Coulter, and walked outside. He stopped at his car and brought out his spiral and pen. On a blank page, he wrote:

  1. Was Trixy with a john prior to her murder? Would that explain the missing clothing?

  2. Why the missing eyes?

  3. Homicidal drowning—uncommon.

  4. Alive when entered the water.

  5. Where and how did she enter the water?

  For a long time, Allan stared at his last remark. Then, closing his spiral, he took out his cell phone and called the serology department at the forensic lab.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” a female’s voice asked.

  “There are some blood samples being sent over from the medical examiner’s office under the name, Ambré. That’s A-m-b-r-é. First name, Trixy. I need those samples compared to the blood we found on the Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf on May ninth and I need the results ASAP.”

  “We’ll do our best, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and hung up.

  If the blood on the wharf belonged to Trixy, then whoever killed her also killed Brad Hawkins.

  More determined than ever, Allan returned to his office to work.

  33

  Halifax, May 18

  10:13 a.m.

  Allan read over the report again.

  At 1805 hrs on May 16, 2010, Constables Samuel Patterson and William Frieson of the Acresville Police Service, responded to a radio call to Timbre Road for a body discovered on the bank of Deer Creek.

  On arrival, the officers located and observed the male victim, believed to be in his 60’s, deceased at the scene. He was lying on his side with his head pointing in a northward direction. Officers noted that the victim looked to have been stabbed or shot repeatedly and was also missing his hands. The body was in an advanced stage of decomposition and there was insect infestation present.

  A subsequent search of the area did not turn up the weapon/s involved or the victim’s hands.

  The victim was later identified as a John Baker, 58, a homeless resident of Acresville.

  There is no suspect in the case.

  Allan set down the report, propped his elbows on the top of his desk, and lowered his face into his hands.

  Missing hands. Is this related to my case?

  Intuition told him that it was. Nova Scotia’s murder rate was too low for it not to be.

  Serial killer? Where is he?

  When Allan considered the victims, he couldn’t see any similarities between them. The only unifying pattern that connected the murders of Trixy Ambré and John Baker was the missing body parts. Brad Hawkins didn’t count, at least as a premeditated victim. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Allan rose and walked to the window. A combination of facts, instincts, and doubts ate away at him. For a moment, he watched the light traffic on Gottingen St. The morning was sun-washed. Just over the top of Citadel Hill were finger-like wisps of cloud.

  A prostitute and a homeless man. Two easy victims. Was that why they were chosen?

  He yawned, cracking his jaws. He was tired, he realized, his concentration drifting. Returning to his desk, he picked up the phone, dialed the Acresville Police, and asked for the Police Chief.

  “What can I do for you?” David asked him.

  For the next few minutes, Allan explained his concerns and suspicions about the murders.
On the other end of the line, there was a brief silence.

  At length, David said, “I can see why you think they’re connected.”

  “Do you have any witness in your case?” Allan asked.

  “No.”

  “Evidence?”

  David’s voice sagged with disappointment. “Nothing.”

  Allan winced inside.

  Great. That makes two of us.

  “Who found the body?”

  “Two local men,” David answered. “Roland Grant and Thomas Cussons. According to Grant, he and Cussons were out to his cabin for a weekend of fishing and drinking. The cabin’s located half a mile from where the body was found.

  “Just after five o’clock on the evening of the sixteenth, Grant stepped out to call in his dog. He could hear it barking somewhere in the woods, but it wouldn’t return for him. Grant feared it came upon a porcupine, so he and Cussons went out to bring the dog in. They found it sitting next to the body.”

  Allan considered this. “Were the background checks clean?”

  “Yes they were. Roland Grant is a married, forty-two year old with two sons. He works as an electrician for a local contractor. Thomas Cussons is thirty-nine years old, who is also married with one daughter. He runs his own welding company here in town.”

  “How was Baker murdered?”

  “He was stabbed multiple times.”

  Allan sat up straighter in his chair, feeling a tingle on his skin. “Has the autopsy report come in yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Has the body been released to the mortician?”

  “No. It’s still in Doctor Fitzgerald’s care,” David said. “Council hasn’t decided on what to do with John’s body.” His speech slowed. “The poor man will probably end up in a pauper’s grave somewhere.”

  “Acresville is a small town,” Allan said. “Do you have any Johnny Weirdos there? Local men who are known to exhibit odd behavior but have never really bothered anyone?”

  “No one that I can think of offhand. At least, no one capable of murder.”

  Allan paused a moment, thinking.

  “Do you want to come here and check things out?” David asked. “I could really use your help.”

  With sudden regret, Allan stared at a picture of Brian smiling at him from the edge of the desk.

  Shit. This can’t be happening.

  “I have a funeral to attend tomorrow, but I’ll head to Acresville after that,” he said unhappily and put down the phone.

  He leaned back from the desk, feeling wretched. In his mind, he watched Brian walking into the airport terminal amidst a trickle of other passengers, his son’s eyes seeking him out. When they found him, Brian’s face lit up. He lifted his arm in a wave and began to run toward his father.

  Allan felt sick.

  How am I going to break this to him? Goddamnit.

  Allan left for home at four o’clock. He parked in his driveway, shut off the car, and sat there for a while, staring at his home. Then he stepped out and went next door to ask Bob Ruse if he would care for Buddy while he was away in Acresville. Bob said he would and then invited Allan in for supper with his wife and two children. Wanting to avoid calling his son just yet, Allan accepted. He followed Bob inside, settled down to fettuccine alfredo and garlic bread. While eating, he tried to remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal.

  Afterwards, he stayed for a time, not saying much. He wasn’t prepared, he realized, for small talk. His manner was pleasant, yet his replies were brief—a feigned smile, a nod or a shake of the head. The painful phone call ahead troubled his mind.

  At six, Allan left a house key with Bob and then excused himself. As he walked through the back door, Buddy came trotting out of the living room, tail in the air. Allan reached down and scooped him up, rubbing his fingers behind Buddy’s ears. The cat began purring.

  “Looks like I’m going to be leaving you for a while. Bob is going to stop over everyday to feed you.”

  He put Buddy down and then filled the cat’s dishes with fresh food and water. After removing his jacket, Allan looked at the pile of dishes in the sink—a sign of how languid he’d been.

  He went into the living room, unfastened his shoulder holster, and put it on the chair by the fireplace. He glanced at his watch: 6:17. It was an hour behind in Toronto so Brian was probably in the middle of supper. Allan’s palms were damp as he stared at the phone on the coffee table. Abruptly, he turned away and went upstairs to the bathroom. He stepped into the shower. Twice he soaped. Twice he rinsed. Then he leaned heavily on the tile wall. He stood under the spray, allowing the hot water to jet over the back of his neck. For a long time, he stayed like that.

  It did nothing to relax him.

  Only when the water began to cool did he step out and dry off. He wiped the condensation from the mirror above the sink to meet his reflection. A tired man gazed back. The dark sacs beneath his eyes had deepened. The lines in his face seemed sharper somehow, as if he had aged five years in as many hours.

  Man, you’re looking worse.

  In his bedroom, he dressed in a T-shirt and plaid sleep pants. Then he went downstairs to call his son. Buddy, he saw, was now on the chair by the fireplace, sniffing the leather of his shoulder holster.

  The time was seven ten.

  Tentative, Allan crossed the room and took a seat on the sofa. For minutes, he stared at the telephone in front of him. He didn’t want to go through with this.

  Finally, he reached for the handset and stabbed at numbers. As the ringing began, he sighed. Part of him wished no one would answer. When Melissa picked up, he felt himself tense. Voice low, he asked for Brian.

  There came a brief pause and then Melissa said, “Hold on. I’ll get him.”

  From her dry tone, Allan wondered if she was still bitter over his remark last week.

  Within no time, Brian came on, voice beaming, “Hi, Dad!”

  “Brian.” Allan tried to smile. “What’s going on up there?”

  “Just playing in my room. Mom’s going to get my clothes packed on Friday. I can’t wait until this weekend.”

  Biting down on his lip, Allan closed his eyes.

  In a low tone, he said, “That’s why I called you, son. I have some bad news…”

  “Bad news?” Brian cut in. “What, Dad?”

  Allan drew a breath. “I’m not going to be home this weekend. I have to leave Halifax tomorrow on a case. It just popped up today.”

  The line was silent.

  “Brian?”

  Softly, his son asked, “When…when will you be home?”

  Allan exhaled. “I don’t know. Maybe next week. Maybe the next.”

  More silence.

  Fuck, I hate this.

  “Brian?”

  “I’m here.” Beneath Brian’s words was an undertone of disappointment.

  “I’m very sorry, son.”

  “You have your job, Dad. Mom told me that before. You have to catch the bad guys. I understand.”

  Allan felt his heart in his throat. All at once, tears sprang to his eyes. It was a moment before he trusted his voice to speak again.

  “I love you, Brian. Don’t ever forget that. Right now you might not understand how hard this is for me. But I really wanted to see you, to spend some time with you.”

  Brian was quiet again.

  Through the phone, Allan could feel his son’s dejection and he hated himself for it. In hindsight, his choices in life had caused this. He could have gone back to Patrol or quit the force entirely before Melissa left him. Then he could’ve kept his marriage intact.

  “Tell your mother that if she can’t get the money refunded for the plane ticket, I’ll send it to her.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell her.” Pausing, Brian added. “Well, I should get going.”

  Allan winced. “All right, Brian.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  “Good night. I love you, son.”

  All Allan heard in return was a click and then the bu
zz of the dial tone. Thumb and finger to his eyes, he cradled the phone, ensnared with grief.

  As he stood up, his thoughts drove him to the fireplace. He picked up the silver-framed picture from the mantle. It was a snapshot of another man’s life, in another time. Melissa and Brian smiled back at him. A Christmas tree, bedecked and lighted, stood behind them. A motley array of lights glinted off their chestnut hair.

  Allan swallowed.

  This home. This woman and the life they had. This little boy whom they had shared their love. Everything that defined who Allan was. Gone.

  He had taken the photograph on Christmas Day, 2008. Only seventeen months had passed since then, but the memory of that night seemed so long ago, so surreal.

  Face haunted, Allan fell into a deep reverie.

  * * *

  “Say Cheese.”

  Voices in perfect synchrony, Melissa and Brian obliged.

  Through the viewfinder, Allan framed their smiling faces and pressed the shutter release button. A flash lit up the room.

  They had just finished opening their presents. Wrapping paper lay torn and strewn everywhere. Brian rushed back to the toys Santa had left him, while Buddy playfully swatted at a low-hanging ornament on the tree.

  Allan handed the camera to Melissa. Flipping it over, she checked the count on the film.

  “The roll’s almost finished,” she said. “I’ll take an extra one to Mom and Dad’s. I want to get lots of pictures. Kevin and Mary are over there with the kids. Hopefully I can fit everyone in a single frame.”

  “How’s your brother doing?” Allan asked, watching Brian sort out pieces of his Lego set.

  “Don’t know. They just got in last night. I imagine he’s fine. Mom told me he had a hard time getting Mary to go on the plane though.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She never flew before.”

  “A couple drinks would cure that.”

  Melissa laughed. “I’m not sure about that.”

  Brian looked over. “What time are we going over to Grampy and Nana’s?”

  “In a few hours,” Melissa told him. “ You can still play with your toys for a while. Then you’ll have to get a bath and get dressed.”