by Alex MacLean
The room around him was shadowed and quiet. Faint light from the hallway dimly illuminated his surroundings. Looking around, he made out vague shapes as a dresser, a night table, a wind-up clock whose hands read 2:30. Sunlight cut through around the edges of the drawn blinds.
Slowly, the understanding of who and where he was came back to him—not a little boy, but a grown man of thirty-six years, alone in his bedroom. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn last night.
Trying to sift through the wreckage of his memory, he encountered flashes of lucidity, blackouts of obscurity.
Sudden images. A woman swathed in black water. Her desperate flail to keep from drowning. Her frantic cry for help.
Hoss winced. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. On the floor by his feet lay an empty whiskey bottle.
He stared at it. Everything began to make sense. He’d hit the bottle as soon as he came home last night. Got drunk out of his mind.
He lowered his forehead onto clasped hands. The nightmare had come again. Third night in a row.
More and more lately, his thoughts seemed to drift back into a past he wished to forget.
He stood up and felt the shakiness in his legs, the queasiness in his stomach. He went to the window and yanked the cord to raise the blinds, squinting against the sudden rush of bright sun. Only a ridge of cotton-like clouds over the mountains threatened to pilfer the rich blue from the sky.
Hoss walked out to the hallway for the bathroom. His footsteps became leaden as he approached his parents’ bedroom. A chill worked through him like an electric current, the residue of the nightmare still fresh on his mind.
The door was closed. Behind it he knew the room lay untouched since the death of his father over eighteen years ago. Not since then had Hoss gone in there. Now, with fear and foreboding, he turned the knob and pushed on the door. It yawned open with a heavy protest.
Hoss stood on the threshold, looking inside. The room was as he remembered it. Hardwood floor. Felt wallpaper. The only differences were the signs of dormancy—the stale air, the thick layers of dust covering everything, the festoons of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.
In the far corner was a dressing table with a large oval mirror. Hoss imagined his mother sitting there in her blue Sunday dress and faux pearls, applying makeup as she prepared for morning mass. Her perfume bottles, powder boxes, and Victorian hand mirror were still there, remnants of what was once life.
On the wall above the bed hung a framed print of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper. The bed itself was unmade, the covers thrown back by his father just hours before he died.
Hoss shut his eyes. Painful memories began to squeeze their way out of his brain like pus.
He hurried to the bathroom and splashed handfuls of cold water on his face. As he lifted his face to the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, he saw a haunting image of his father lying in a heap with the handle of a knife sticking out of his belly.
“I was your father.” He spit blood on the parlor floor. “Your flesh and blood.”
Hoss gripped the edge of the sink, sneering into the mirror. You’re dead. Stay that way.
15
Halifax, May 9
2:45 p.m.
When Allan returned to the crime scene, the barricades were still up. A uniformed officer waved him through.
The press remained camped out at the corner of South and Lower Water Street. Through the side window Allan saw a reporter spot him and begin jockeying for position. To avoid him, Allan edged his car up behind the mobile command station and parked. He signed himself in to the scene and briefly conferred with Sergeant Malone.
The Underwater Recovery Team, he saw, had moved their search farther from shore. Jim and Harvey from the Ident section had walked every inch of the parking lot a second and third time. Soon, they decided, it would be released back for public use. Nothing of value had been found.
The door-to-door canvass wasn’t going well at all. Nobody interviewed had seen or heard anything suspicions.
The search of the alleys and Dumpsters had generated few articles of interest—a butter knife, a jackknife, and a screwdriver. None were close to the approximate length or thickness of the blade used in the murder.
The missing notepad wasn’t found either. Allan believed the killer of Brad Hawkins had either disposed of the items in the unyielding depths of the Halifax Harbor or simply carried them off.
He spent the remainder of the day assisting with the canvass, and then he gathered up the reports from officers and returned to the station. He stopped at the coffee room for a fresh cup of brew and then went to his office. Seated at his desk, he read over logs from the previous night to familiarize himself with the calls. Perhaps his mystery truck had been involved in another incident.
Motor Vehicle Collision – 9:16 p.m. A two-vehicle collision occurred at the intersection of Quinpool Road and Oxford Street. One driver was charged with operating a motor vehicle without a valid license. Neither party involved required medical treatment.
Assault With A Weapon – 10:13 p.m. Gottingen Street. A lone male was approached by a group of four males asking for a cigarette. When he said no, the victim was beaten and struck in the face with a metal pipe. He was taken to QEII for treatment of facial lacerations. No description of the suspects could be made, only that they were all wearing bandanas over their faces. The matter is under investigation.
Motor Vehicle Collision – 10:42 p.m. Kempt Road. One vehicle struck another from behind. Driver of struck vehicle was taken to QEII for non-life-threatening injuries.
Vandalism – 11:25 p.m. 7890 Waterloo Street. Homeowner called to report two people throwing beer bottles on his property. One vehicle was damaged. Two males matching the description of the suspects were detained on South Street. The pair will appear in court on Monday.
Robbery – 12:05 a.m. Stan’s Variety. Robie Street. Owners, who live upstairs from establishment, called after hearing noises in their store. When officers arrived, a lone male fled on foot. After a short pursuit, he was caught. The suspect will appear in court on Monday to face several charges.
Assault – 1:38 a.m. Lower Water Street. An older red sedan approached a lone male, 21. Inside, 4 males and 1 female uttered verbal threats. They were described as being between 17 and 25. 2 blacks and 3 Caucasians. When the victim ignored them, the 5 suspects exited the vehicle and proceeded assaulting the man. They fled in the vehicle. The victim was taken to QEII for treatment. The incident is still under investigation.
Assault With A Weapon – 2:06 a.m. Waterfront Bar & Grill. Hollis Street. An altercation ensued between two males who were ordered out of the bar. One male produced a knife and stabbed the other man in the abdomen. Additional officers were dispatched to disperse the crowd that had gathered around. The victim was taken to the QEII. He is in serious condition. The suspect will appear in court at a later date.
Suspicious Death – 5:45 a.m. Lower Water Street. A man’s body was found in the Impark lot by a coworker. Responding officers pronounced the victim dead at the scene. Major Crimes and the Forensic Identification Unit were notified. The incident is still under investigation.
Allan leaned back in the chair and entwined his fingers behind his head. Time, he knew, had an unsettling way of mocking a murder investigation. Once the hours begin ticking away, the greater chance witnesses can forget what they saw, and the greater chance suspects can form alibis. If the ongoing door-to-door canvass didn’t produce any witnesses, Allan knew he was in for a long haul.
If Brad had been someone else, then a lead might be easier to establish. The investigation would reveal who the victim was, the people he hung with, the enemies he might’ve had. A meaningful chronology of what he did in the last hours of his life could be created.
Allan had a gut feeling Brad Hawkins had walked into something that cost him his life.
But what?
Allan pored over the canvass reports and concluded the officers who handled the n
eighborhood Q&A had done a good job. From the reports, he made a list of who lived where. What addresses had no answer, so a follow-up could proceed in the morning. He began running the names of those interviewed through the computer for prior criminal histories.
He worked into the early evening, when the phone rang. He snatched at it.
It was the serology department at the forensics lab. Preliminary results were in from the blood typing of Brad Hawkins and the mystery blood found on the wharf. It was already evident that there was no match. Brad Hawkins had type O blood, common in over forty percent of the population. The blood on the wharf was type B, much rarer.
Allan straightened.
He said, “Thank you for the information. Do you have an ETA for the DNA profile?”
The female voice on the other end paused a moment. “At least a month, Detective.”
“Please keep me apprised of any further developments.”
“We will. Take care.”
Allan hung up and closed his eyes. All at once, he felt drained, enervated by the activities of the day and lack of food.
He stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk, wondering who the mystery bleeder was. Suspect or another victim? If another victim, then who? Was the person injured or dead?
Allan picked up the telephone and called around to the local hospitals to see if anyone had shown up with stab or cut wounds throughout the early-morning hours. No such luck.
His last call was to the Vice Unit to see if anyone had been reported missing from the night before. Only one, he was told—a local prostitute named Trixy Lynn Ambré. She had failed to come home from work. Her sister filed the report earlier in the day.
Allan said, “I’ll come down to look at it.”
“Face it, Al. You just miss us here in Vice. And you use any excuse to come back and see your old friends.”
Allan smiled at the joke. The rich baritone voice on the other end belonged to Marc Zwicker. He had worked with Allan during his brief tenure in the Vice Unit.
“You got me,” he said.
“Come on down. I’ll have the report waiting for you.”
When Allan got back to his office with the file, he spread it out on his desk. The report revealed Trixy Ambré was last seen leaving her apartment on Brewer Street at approximately 10:30 p.m. The probable cause of her disappearance was unknown. She had no previous history of going missing before. A dental chart was unavailable. She had no acknowledged disability or dependency. She was known to Vice as a prostitute who had been arrested twice in the past year. At any rate, Trixy Ambré did not seem to have a reason to disappear.
Vice had already made visits to the local hospitals, the train station, and the airport. No one had seen her.
The supplementary report listed blood types. All were circled unknown.
Allan picked up the accompanying photo. It showed a young woman with a pale, unblemished complexion, not covered by makeup. Her blond hair was tied in a ponytail. Her level blue eyes conveyed a somewhat serious look.
Allan turned back to the main page of the report. The person who had reported Trixy missing was Cathy Ambré. It was then he noticed the two women lived at the same address.
After gathering up the file, he left the office for his car.
16
Halifax, May 9
8:05 p.m.
Allan drove through a low-rent neighborhood in the north end of the city.
Coasting slowly down the street, he passed a run-down convenience store with lottery signs covering the windows. Three kids on bikes loitered on the sidewalk outside the entrance. Farther on, he came upon a row of old brick apartment buildings. The first one was a condemned shell, gutted by a fire late last fall. Sheets of plywood still covered the windows and main door. Black soot marred the brick. A heavy load of winter’s snow had left a sag in the roof.
Like much of the neighborhood, city officials seemed to have forgotten about the building. No order had been issued for its demolition.
Two buildings up the street Allan found the one he was looking for. The dwelling bore its age, with no attempt at upkeep over the years. Its brick facade was blackened by weather and time. Below the overhanging branch of an elm tree ran a patch of moss down one side. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows of the basement and first floor.
Allan pulled his car to the curb, shut off the engine, and got out.
Five concrete steps led him to a glass door. He opened the door and entered the building. From all appearances the inside reflected as much neglect as the outside. Graffiti defaced the walls. There were holes in the plaster the size of fists. The carpet was stained and smelled musky. The floorboards creaked underneath his step.
Doors ran down both sides of the hallway. In front of him a stairwell rose to the second floor. Grabbing hold of a flimsy banister, he climbed two steps and then stopped. He had seen much poverty in his life, conditions in which no one should have to live. In recent years, the disparity between the rich and poor seemed to be escalating. Yet despite the privation here, there was one small sign of a fight for human dignity in the face of such hardship—a child’s red tricycle sitting above him on the landing.
Cathy Ambré’s apartment was the last door on the right. Allan knocked softly. There was silence. Then came the sound of movement inside. The door cracked open to the length of a safety chain. The woman who peeked out had black curly hair and green eyes. She was wearing a red blouse and black slacks.
“Miss Cathy Ambré?”
The woman’s lips parted. “Yes?”
“I’m Detective Allan Stanton with Halifax Regional.” He flashed his badge and ID card. “Earlier this afternoon you filed a missing persons report about your sister, Trixy.”
Cathy’s throat moved. Her wary eyes moved to his badge, to the folder in his other hand, and then back to his face.
“I did,” she said cautiously. “It’s not bad news, is it?”
“No. But I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”
Cathy hesitated for a moment. “Okay.”
Gently, she shut the door. There was the sound of a chain sliding across a latch. When the door opened again, Cathy drew aside.
“Come in.”
The apartment was small, the furnishings spare and undistinguished. To his left, Allan saw a small, square living room. Inside sat a gray sofa with worn arms. A glass-top coffee table and a twenty-inch television were perched on a wooden stand in the corner. The single window faced Brewer Street. There still remained enough of the setting sun to brighten the room inside.
Opposite the living room was the kitchen. An old electric stove. A table with two place settings. Here and there, pieces of linoleum had peeled off the floor. The sink was empty, the countertop wiped clean. Despite the condition of the building, the apartment was well kept.
Allan noticed Cathy still holding the door open. There was something unhealthy about her. Skin too pale. Dark smudges under her eyes. Body wire thin, almost anorexic. Posture slightly stooped, as if she were suffering from osteoporosis. The most striking feature about her was the staring look of her eyes.
Then Allan saw the raised scars in the crooks of her arms. He studied her for signs that she might be under the influence of drugs. Her pupils were not constricted. Her speech, though soft, was clear, not slurred.
Allan said, “This will take a few minutes, Miss Ambré. You can shut the door.”
She did. Slowly, she shuffled toward him with downcast eyes. The frequent kneading of her blouse revealed her uneasiness. Allan noted the frailty to her steps.
Concerned, he asked, “Are you feeling well?”
She looked up. “I’ve been sick. But I’m getting better.”
He gestured to the living room. “Maybe we should sit down.”
They walked to the sofa and sat. Allan placed the folder on the coffee table and opened it. He read over the missing persons report again. Beside him, Cathy was quiet, watchful.
Attached to the report was the
color picture of Trixy Ambré. Allan held it up.
“How recent is this?” he asked.
Cathy said, “I took that at the first of the year.”
“We have your sister on file. She was brought in a couple of times for prostitution.”
A new tone entered Cathy’s voice, one bordering on accusatory. “So you’ll treat Trixy’s disappearance in some cavalier fashion because to you she’s just a hooker?”
Allan paused a moment, taken aback. “We don’t discriminate, Miss Ambré. Your sister’s profession can put her into precarious situations. I came here to see what her demeanor was before she disappeared. Perhaps she’s missing on her own accord.”
Cathy gave him a look of incredulity. “I can’t see Trixy doing that.”
“What was her frame of mind when you last saw her? Was she acting differently?”
“Differently?”
“Secretive or preoccupied about something?”
“No.”
“Was she complaining of anything?”
“No.”
“Tell me about the last moments you saw Trixy...”
17
Halifax, May 8
10:05 p.m.
The hallway was dark. There was a crack of light under the bathroom door. On the other side of it, Cathy knew her sister was getting ready for work.
Cathy knocked once and then opened the door. Trixy stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully applying mascara to enhance the blueness of her eyes. Fresh out of the shower, she wore a pink terrycloth robe. Her hair hung in wet strands.
From the doorway, Cathy watched her.
“When will you be home tonight?” she asked.
“The usual.” Trixy didn’t turn. “Probably daybreak. Depends on how much business I pick up.” She capped the mascara and set it on the sink. “You need to get your rest. Remember what the doctor told you.”