Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  “As an adolescent, this man could’ve gotten into B and E, rape and auto theft before finally graduating to these recent murders.” Armstrong paused to stress his final point. “This proclivity toward criminal acts is an important part of a surfacing serial killer.”

  David looked openly surprised. “So it’s possible that we’ve run into this man already through the commission of other crimes?”

  “It’s very possible.” Armstrong steepled his fingers in front of him. “Another important issue to consider is the recent stressor, the triggering event that brought about this murderous rage in this man. What was it that set him off?

  “This could’ve been a job loss, a separation or divorce, the break-up of a girlfriend, the birth of a baby into an already unhealthy relationship, or the death of a loved one.”

  The office became quiet. In the silence Allan could hear the whir of the tape recorder. Watchful, Armstrong shifted his gaze from one man to the other, as if waiting for a response.

  “A lot to consider,” Allan said at length.

  Armstrong nodded. “Yes.”

  Leaning forward, Allan checked the tape recorder. The cassette inside was near its end. He mashed the stop button, then the fast-forward. Once the recorder clicked off, he flipped over the cassette and prepared it for the next part of the session. Beside him, David glanced at his watch.

  “Anyone want a break before we continue?” Allan asked.

  “I’m fine,” David said.

  “Me too,” Armstrong seconded.

  Allan pressed the record button on the tape recorder. “Can you give us your thoughts on the man we’re looking for, Doctor?”

  Eyes focused on the desk, Armstrong’s face became a mask of deep reflection. Then, looking up at last, he started, “First, he’s a white male. Rarely do serial killers cross ethnic lines. He possibly hates one or both parents. I’d put him in the thirties to early forties age bracket. I base this on the fact that he took time with his victims. Younger killers tend to murder quickly. An in and out sort of thing. They don’t spend much time with their victims.

  “This man is settled in Acresville. He either owns a home or rents. He knows the area too well to have just moved here recently.

  “Have you checked to see if there’s been any similar murders committed throughout the Maritimes or Canada?”

  “I’m waiting to hear back,” Allan said. “I just submitted the info yesterday.”

  “Then you’ll know if he’s a roamer. Personally, I don’t think he is. Sure he struck in Halifax, but the city isn’t too far away.

  “This man probably lives alone. He’s either single, separated or divorced. Most serial killers are solitary people. Loners. But it’s here that I want to stress some caution. It’s quite possible that he is married. Remember what I said about John Wayne Gacy. He was married with children.

  “It’s also possible this man could be living with someone who doesn’t take much notice of his comings or goings. Perhaps an elderly parent or grandparent.

  “He will undoubtedly have the behavioral traits of a psychopath. He will seem charming, yet it’s only superficial. Underneath that facade, he will be callous and cold.

  “Like I mentioned at the first of the session, he will have no conscience, no feelings of guilt or remorse. He will lie excessively. Even if you discover some evidence linking him to one of the crime scenes, he’ll have an excuse for it. However preposterous his excuse will sound to you, I guarantee he’ll have one.

  “He’ll be emotionally shallow. He’s possibly a manipulator with good verbal skills. Intelligent, but only educated through high school. No post-secondary education. Though despite his intelligence, his grades in school would’ve been only mediocre.

  “He is physically strong and is either currently employed in an occupation that requires this or has been.

  “Undoubtedly, he is sly and cunning. Well organized. Self-centered. A braggart. Feels superior to you. He’s probably following your every move through news broadcasts and the papers. At his home, you could find a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about his murders as well as books dealing with atrocities.

  “In the course of your investigation, you might actually pick up this man as a suspect. But there could be some difficulty in nailing him as the killer, especially if you have no concrete evidence that would incriminate him.” Hesitating, Armstrong inhaled a breath. “I think he’ll be a hard nut to crack. Pardon my pun, gentlemen.”

  As he listened, Allan tried to form a mental picture of this man. “Do you think he’ll stop?”

  Armstrong spread his hands. “It’s possible. What scares me is the fact that he’s killed three people in the span of a few days. As I mentioned before, a lot of these men are driven by murderous fantasies. Some believe that if these men are caught before they start murdering, then rehabilitation is possible. Personally, I think that is naïve. Even dangerous.

  “Once they start acting out these fantasies by carrying out acts of murder, these fantasies tend to become so indelible, so embedded in the killer’s mind and his murders become so routine, that rehabilitation is next to impossible.

  “Dahmer stated that while serving time in prison he still had compulsive thoughts of murder. And if ever released, he was afraid he’d kill again.

  “Another reason I don’t believe in rehabilitation is because these killers make up the upper echelon of psychopathic behavior, some of the most violent of them. You can’t treat someone with psychopathic behavior. How do you teach these people to love, to have a conscience, to develop an emotional landscape where there was nothing but barren terrain before?”

  Stopping a moment, Armstrong looked at both men.

  “Picture this, gentlemen,” he continued. “I am the killer. For the first time in my life I’m getting attention. I’m in the limelight. I hold Acresville trembling in the grips of my hands. I have power. I have dominance. I relish this. Why should I stop now?”

  David let out an audible sigh. “You know, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

  “I apologize if I’ve disheartened you. I really pray this man does stop. Sometimes they do on their own accord.”

  “But you don’t think he will?” inquired Allan.

  In a different tone, one that was low and tinged with regret, Armstrong said, “I honestly don’t believe he will.”

  In the periphery of his vision, Allan saw David frown with worry.

  “What steps can we take next?”

  “I think you should contact Services Canada for a list of men who had applied for unemployment insurance recently. Check the backgrounds of these men for possible suspects. Remember what I said about the stressor. It’s possible something happened to this man that provoked this sudden violence in him.

  “As well, contact the welfare office for men who recently applied for financial aid. Look through your files of past offences, specifically repeat offenders who had an escalation toward more violent crimes. Not your garden-variety petty thief. Remember what I said about a serial killer’s proclivity toward criminal acts throughout their lives.

  “These murders might also be his first ones. Andrei Chikatilo was forty-two before he killed for the first time. And I firmly believe this man is in an age bracket close to that—thirties to early forties.”

  Another silence fell over the office. There was nothing more to cover, Allan realized, no more questions he could think of to ask. He shut off the recorder.

  A sudden gust of wind slapped the building, tossing a spatter of raindrops against the office window. As the three men looked, Allan saw a flash of lightning in the belly of the clouds. Soon everything across the street was lost behind a gray downpour.

  “Driving in that’s going to be a royal pain in the ass,” Armstrong said.

  “Stay a while, Doctor,” Allan told him. “There’s no sense rushing back.”

  “I have some appointments this afternoon, Lieutenant.”

  A knock came at the door. David got up
to answer it.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  It was Sam, Allan saw, and he had a concerned look on his face. He drew David into the hallway, speaking to him in hushed tones. David winced and seemed to expel a short breath.

  “Well, I’m on my way,” Armstrong was on his feet now, shrugging on his overcoat.

  Rising from his chair, Allan extended his hand across the desk. “I appreciate your help, Doctor.”

  “Anytime. I just hope I was some help.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Armstrong nodded briskly. “Good day, Lieutenant,” he said. With that, he was gone.

  When David came back into the office, he walked toward the desk and rested his hands on the back of a chair. There was a grim expression etched in his face.

  “What is it?” Allan asked.

  David drew a breath. “We have a problem at Rolling Hills Cemetery.”

  40

  Acresville, May 21

  11:13 a.m.

  Herb parked his truck two miles up Mountain Point Road, a fire access route that joined a network of others on the mountainside. Visited only by hunters during season or nature lovers, out here buried in the forest made it the perfect meeting spot.

  He cracked the window, breathing in air that carried a clean, wet smell. The treetops around him swayed under a stiff wind and above them, a crinkled blanket of dark clouds swathed the sky.

  The dash clock read: 11:15. If Slick arrived on time, he’d be there soon.

  Herb switched off the ignition and sat there with his hands on the wheel. Waiting. Thinking.

  Beads of rain gathered on the windshield, combining with others to stream downwards in wandering rivulets.

  Herb retrieved an envelope stuffed with $20 bills from his shirt pocket and set it on the seat next to him. He let out a troubled sigh and leaned back in the seat. As he shut his eyes, he remembered the day Slick showed up at his home.

  * * *

  Herb felt an instinctive flash of surprise and caution when he answered the front door to see his childhood friend. His first thought was to wonder what brought this man here, especially after everything that had happened in recent weeks.

  “Hello, Slick,” he said. “What’s it been, two years since I last saw you?”

  In profile, Slick appeared fidgety. He started, hesitated, and then came forward with his hand extended. “Hello, Herbie. Something like that.” He leaned back, dark eyes appraising him. “You look the same. Still big as a house.”

  Herb paused a moment. To him, his friend too looked much the same—pale skin, thin face, the long, unkempt hair he’d had since a teenager.

  “You must’ve come into town to visit your parents.”

  Slick nodded. “I just came from there. They told me you were fined for some environmental mishap.”

  Remembering, Herb winced. The pain and outrage, he realized, was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. “Front page news in this one-horse town. I was accused of dirty dairying. Fucking court took everything away from me.”

  “What happened?”

  Herb ran a hand over his jaw. “The effluent pond at the back of my property overflowed and ran into the Elm River that runs adjacent to my property line. Out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t even notice it. Two agency officers from Environment Canada showed up here one day last month after someone reported seeing a bunch of dead fish in the river. They traced the problem back to the effluent pond.”

  “So they fined you?”

  Herb nodded. “Yeah. Nearly one hundred thousand dollars, Slick. I never had that kind of money just kicking around. They fined me for violating water quality, for discharging effluent into the water without a permit and for not notifying Environment Canada of the spill.

  “The judge said he was going to make an example out of me. I guess he accomplished that—crippled me financially. My insurance didn’t include an environmental liability package, and the banks were leery about lending money to a farm they deemed environmentally unsound.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to sell this property. So instead, I sold what equipment I could to pay my creditors and the back wages owed to my farmhands. A local competitor bought my entire herd of Holsteins.”

  For a moment, Slick stood there on the porch, quiet. Behind his head, a streak of contrail split the sky in half.

  At last, he scowled and said, “Dirty dairying. More like dirty fucking government. What about the big industries who’s been polluting the lakes and oceans for decades? You never see them fined, do you?”

  Herb felt an envelope being pushed into his hand. He opened it and saw a small wad of cash.

  He gave Slick a quizzical look. “What’s this?”

  “A down payment. I have a job offer for you, but I’m not sure how you’ll respond. All I ask is that you listen to it with an open mind. I’m risking a lot by even telling you.”

  Curious, Herb stepped aside, allowing Slick to enter the living room. With a wave of a hand, he gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

  He closed the door behind them. Then he took a seat on the chair across from Slick.

  “So tell me,” he said.

  In detail, Slick outlined his proposal. At first Herb couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Astonishment came, then disgust. Just listening made him feel dirty, involved in some sick way. All at once, he remembered his friend’s gradual advance into crime. It began as a boy barely in his teenage years when a change came over him. Something seemed to short-circuit. He became defiant, uncooperative in school. His grades suffered a steady drop. He would miss classes or show up under the influence of alcohol. At home, his parents were having marital problems, teetering on divorce. Weeks of counseling eventually brought about reconciliation. Despite this, Slick’s delinquent behavior worsened. He would steal cigarettes from his parents and secretly sell them to kids at school. Shoplifting, robberies and drug dealing marked his teenage life. At age 23, he was arrested for pushing narcotics to an undercover cop in Halifax.

  Now, Herb believed, it was Slick’s absence of conscience and of consequence that had brought him here. A man who was driven by some misfiring machinery he could never understand.

  “My God, man. What are you involved in?” Herb asked him, incredulous. “Hasn’t prison changed you? I thought you turned over a new leaf when you got out.”

  Slick seemed to blink, as if taken aback. Then he said with quiet dignity, “I did for a time. Or at least I tried for Mom and Dad’s sake. But life after prison is tougher than it is on the inside. I’ve come to realize that. No one wants to hire an ex-con. You’re forever branded.

  “Besides, I am who I am, pal. I can’t change that. You can’t run away from who you really are.” He leaned forward. “What the fuck’s in this shit town? Nothing, that’s what. There’s no work here, no money to be made. It was your decision to stay. I got out.”

  Herb could only look at him.

  Got out for what? he wondered. A better life of crime?

  Abruptly, he rose from the chair and he walked to the fireplace. Hands on the mantle, he gazed down into the dark hearth.

  “I had no choice but to stay.”

  Across the room, he heard Slick rise. “Because your dad walked out and left you here alone?”

  At once, Herb became very still. A surge of emotion swept over him—fear, shame and regret.

  How many times have I betrayed everyone with that story?

  His father, overwhelmed by the grief of his wife’s passing and the pressures of operating the dairy farm, just packed up one day and left. No one ever questioned it, no investigation ever launched. The man had a reputation around town for being irrational.

  In the last few weeks, Herb had seen his world crumple, his farming business end. Now the past had come back to haunt him.

  Herb swallowed and said in a hushed tone, “The farm was all I knew.”

  “I’m offering you something to think about.”

  Herb turned a fraction. “It
’s sick, man. Not to mention immoral.”

  Slick was behind him now. “It’s immoral what the fucking government did to you. It wasn’t your fault what happened. Big industry has been polluting the environment for decades, but nothing has been done about it and nothing ever will. These idiots in our government don’t care. They’re only in it for the gold-plated pensions and outrageous spending allowances. And to act like they care about the environment, they pick on the little guy.” Slick put a hand on Herb’s shoulder. “And that little guy is you, pal. Like that judge saying that he was going to make an example out of you. That’s to make everyone believe they’re actually cracking down on polluters. It’s all bullshit.”

  In his heart, Herb agreed with Slick. “But do you realize what you’re asking of me?”

  Slick paused a moment, considering him. “I know this seems shocking, but after a couple of jobs, it’ll be like clockwork.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Herb remarked, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Please.” Slick touched his arm. “I don’t want you to tell anyone about this. Like I said I’m risking a lot by even telling you. There’s a lot at stake here.”

  Herb simply stared at him. He was starting to regret allowing Slick back into his home. Through the living room window he looked out at the front lawn, where as a teenager, he had often tossed a football back and forth with a scrawny, dark-haired boy he nicknamed Slick. Without realizing it then, the two would become best friends.

  Next to him, Slick stood, quiet.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” Herb said finally. He looked at the envelope in his hand, and then handed it back to his friend. “Sorry, man, but I can’t do this.”

  Slick’s shoulders dropped. Herb saw disappointment cross his face.

  “I understand, pal.” Slick turned his watch over. “I have to go now.”

  He walked to the front door, paused there a moment, one hand on the knob, and then stepped outside.

  Herb turned back to the fireplace. Behind him, he heard muffled footsteps on the porch. Seconds later, the sound of a car started and then the crunch of gravel as it pulled away.