Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Without hurry, the team moved through one yard, then another. Out of the reach of streetlights, the darkness seemed to absorb them. Within minutes they reached the target’s property. Crouched low, the team used the concealment of a hedge to move into the backyard. Once there, they stopped. Keating directed two men to oversee the front door. The remainder would go with him.

  As they approached the house again, their feet were but whispers in the grass. Rifles at the low ready, the team single-stacked the back door. Keating’s hand closed over the brass knob, expecting it to be locked. It was. The deadbolt was also engaged.

  Keating dipped a hand into a pocket and produced a leather pouch. Opening it, he ran his finger over an assortment of metal instruments. He chose a tension wrench and a pick, not unlike one found in a dentist’s office.

  Carefully, he slid the pick into the top of the keyhole of the doorknob. When he felt the hooked tip reach the rear pin, he gently lifted it. Next, he inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and applied a slight clockwise pressure to it. Breath held, he pressed his ear to the door, listening for the telltale click as he let the rear tumbler fall against the shear line.

  Five remained.

  One by one, he skillfully repeated the same procedure as the first, working his way from back to front. With each tumbler he felt more anxious. Beneath his balaclava he could already feel the sweat beginning to collect. As the final tumbler fell into place, the plug turned freely. Only the deadbolt remained. In less than a minute he defeated it.

  Keating inhaled. He moved a hand up to his helmet and flipped down the monocular, adjusting it over his right eye.

  Voice low, he talked into his mike. “Door has been unlocked. Team, switch to night vision. Going in.”

  Gently, he pushed on the knob. In slow motion the door swung inward. Holding up one hand, he gave the signal to enter. The first man in was the second in line. He headed to the left. Crisscrossing, the next man went to the right. Keating was the third one in, followed by the final man.

  Behind them the night wind slipped in. The rear guard closed the door. Its click was quiet.

  > > > < < <

  Down the street, Allan sat in a patrol car with Constable Darryl White, who worked in the Integrated Drug Unit. Both men had binoculars trained on Potter’s house.

  White was forty-two, tall, gangly, and ruddy faced. His hair was black with a smattering of white where it touched his ears.

  In terse sentences Keating’s hushed voice would come over the radio, relaying the team’s progress through the home. “Kitchen, clear. Moving on to the next room. Dining room, clear.”

  All at once, a light turned on in an upstairs window. Moments later, a shadow passed over the curtains.

  Allan keyed the radio. “Someone’s up.”

  Keating’s answer came back as a whisper. “Roger that. We hear movement above us. Advancing to the staircase. Stand by.”

  Seconds passed.

  A tense minute.

  Then another.

  Mouth pressed tight, White began drumming the steering wheel, his tension palpable.

  Suddenly, there was an instantaneous flash of light throughout the second-floor windows, and Allan knew the team had deployed a stun grenade. Even from this distance away, he could hear the percussive pop.

  For minutes the airwaves were silent. White moved his hand to the ignition and held it there.

  “C’mon,” he muttered, “c’mon.”

  Suddenly, the radio squawked to life. “Primary is in custody.”

  Hitting the button, Allan asked, “Roger that, Commander. Anyone else?”

  “Affirmative,” Keating replied. “One female.”

  White started the engine and stomped on the gas. The car peeled off, pushing Allan back in the seat. The sensation of acceleration, the flashing lights took him back to his days in patrol.

  With a trace of a smile, White gave him a sideways glance. “Hang on there, Al.”

  Far up the street the neighborhood pulsed with blue-and-red strobe as the other radio cars raced for the house.

  White pulled up to the front of the house and had one foot out the door before he had even shifted into park.

  The front door opened, and Keating appeared with Bernard Potter. Head down, the dealer’s hands were cuffed behind his back. His blond hair was mussed, his eyes puffy. He wore a bulky gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that were bunched up at the ankles.

  Like him, the young woman escorted out also had blond hair, long and braided in the back. She was blue eyed, slim, and startlingly attractive.

  Across the lawn, Keating and his men shepherded the pair to the driveway and put them into separate radio cars. As they were driven away, a thorough search of the house began.

  In the basement, the find was substantial—packets of heroin and cocaine, two brick-shaped bars of hashish, MDMA tablets with various logos and colors, bottles of Ritalin, weighing scales, and loose cash amounting to over twenty-six thousand dollars. The combined street value of the drugs was estimated at over three hundred thousand.

  Upstairs in the bedroom where Potter had been arrested, a loaded .45 caliber handgun was found tucked away in a night-table drawer. Either the man had no time to go for it, or had decided not to risk an attempt.

  Everything in the home of evidentiary value was bagged and tagged.

  Allan and Darryl White returned to the department to interview the suspect. The time was 8:15 a.m.

  After booking, Potter was taken to one of the department’s interrogation rooms, a windowless, soundproof cubicle with a wooden table and four chairs. A camera angled down from one corner, recording everything that went on.

  Allan and White were already waiting inside. When a uniformed officer brought in Potter, White extended his hand to the dealer, introducing himself; Allan remained seated.

  Potter sat down opposite the two men. He slouched back, clasping his shackled hands behind his head. His face showed no emotion.

  “Please state your full name and date of birth.”

  “Bernard Damien Potter. April twelfth, nineteen eighty-one.”

  “Do you have anything to say at this time, Mr. Potter?”

  “No.” His lips seemed to barely move.

  White opened a folder on the table. “In 2003, you were arrested for importing cocaine. Authorities intercepted twelve kilos of the drug on a container ship in Vancouver. You were subsequently found guilty and served your sentence at Matsqui Institution. After which, you moved down to this coast.

  “Didn’t like the weather out there? I hear it’s nice. At least the winters are mild.”

  Potter simply stared back. He neither moved nor spoke.

  From a manila envelope, Allan removed an 8x11 photograph. It was a blown-up headshot of Cathy Ambré taken at her autopsy. Slowly, he slid it across the table.

  “Do you know this young lady?” he asked.

  Potter leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. Mouth pursed, his face showed no emotion as his gaze swept the picture once then settled on the two officers.

  Arrogance entered his tone as he said, “Nope. Can’t say that I do.”

  From across the table, Allan eyed the man. It was hard, he found, to remain impassive.

  “You do know her,” White said. “Don’t lie to us.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “She went to your house last Monday night. Around one in the morning to be precise. She was there to buy some heroin from you.”

  Potter licked his lips, shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. A first crack was appearing.

  “No.”

  “Your drug killed her.”

  Potter’s head snapped up sharply. “What’s that?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Bullshit. Never seen her before.”

  “You did.”

  “No.”

  “Stop playing games,” Allan barked. “I have the taxi driver who drove her to your house. Maybe Cathy went there to see your girl
friend. Is that what she’ll tell us?”

  “Dunno. I was in bed.”

  Allan clenched his fists. Garbage. That was all he dealt with. A young woman was dead, and this piece of shit couldn’t care less.

  Fighting his temper, Allan put a finger on one corner of the photograph and dragged it back to himself. Then he reached into the envelope and brought out another picture. This one was a crime-scene photo showing the small empty packet found near Cathy Ambré’s bed.

  Potter’s gaze lingered on the picture. Longer, Allan saw, than it had on Cathy’s.

  “Forensics lifted your thumbprint from that bag,” Allan explained. “That’s what led us to you. And these same bags were found at your home earlier. All of them filled with your product.”

  A furtive look snuck into Potter’s eyes. “You looking for a confession?”

  “I don’t give a shit if you confess or not. We want to know why you were selling smack laced with coke. Did you not take into account the jeopardy you were putting people in?”

  Potter gave a look of astonishment. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Allan rose to his feet, leaning over the table. “The heroin you sold Cathy Ambré was contaminated. Did you intentionally do that?”

  Potter’s throat began working. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, the chain of his cuffs dangling between his wrists. For the first time he looked genuinely afraid.

  Finally, he shook his head. “I never touched it.”

  “I don’t believe you. Your drug caused her death. And we’re looking into the deaths of four others in the city who’ve died under similar circumstances. Criminal negligence causing death carries a stiff penalty in this country. Even steeper than the drug charges we already have on you. Up to life. You’re facing some serious time.”

  “I never messed with it. If the heroin was contaminated, it came in like that. It wasn’t me.”

  Bingo, thought Allan. His deadpan expression belied the satisfaction he felt inside. If only all criminals were this stupid.

  Potter slumped back in the chair. “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Sure you do,” Allan said and walked out of the room.

  28

  Acresville, May 16

  7:55 p.m.

  The ranch house, nestled amidst a lushly treed hillside, was clad in cedar bevel siding. Police Chief David Brantford sank into a wicker settee on the back deck. He struck a match and touched the flame to the end of a cigar clamped between his teeth.

  It was a pleasant evening. Behind the thin stand of trees in the backyard, the westering sun backlit the spindly branches and needle leaves. A gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and spruce. The only sound was the undulation of crickets chirping.

  Crossing his legs, David inhaled on the cigar and blew smoke at the sky. This was part ritual. Depending on the weather, he came out here after supper to unwind, to enjoy the peacefulness of nature. He’d never been the type to sit in front of a television set until bedtime.

  In his late fifties, he was a paunchy man with liquid brown eyes, balding gray hair, and a pepper-and-salt beard.

  From inside the house came the muffled sound of the telephone. It rang twice and then stopped. Moments later, the screen door opened and his wife, Margaret, appeared. She was a short woman, bordering on plump, with sea-gray eyes and light coifed hair. There was a kind, motherly look to her. A cup towel hung from one hand.

  “You’re wanted on the phone,” she said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sam, from the station.”

  David looked at his watch. 7:59 p.m.

  “Did he say what it’s about?”

  “Only that it’s an emergency.”

  David’s eyebrows bunched together. The cigar smoldered in his hand. Trails of white smoke wisped from the tip. He took one last puff and then ground out the nub in an ashtray on the arm of the settee. Because of her asthma, Margaret forbade smoking in the house.

  David walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone off the counter.

  “What is it, Sam?” he asked without preface.

  The voice he heard on the other end of the line was taut. “Sorry to bother you at home, Chief. But a body’s been found.”

  David felt himself tense. “Where?”

  “Timbre Road. I’m here now.”

  “Who found it?”

  “Two locals. Roland Grant and Thomas Cussons.”

  David considered the names but couldn’t recognize either one.

  “And how’d they come upon the body?”

  “Grant owns a camp up in the woods nearby. He and Cussons went up there yesterday for a weekend of fishing. His dog wandered off earlier this evening and wouldn’t return after repeated calls out to it. When they went out to look for it, they found it by the body. Must’ve picked up the odor.”

  David paused at this. “So the body’s in bad shape?”

  There came an intake of breath.

  “It’s not in good shape. We didn’t go that close so as not to jeopardize the scene. The body’s not skeletonized. I have no idea how long it’s been there. Few days. A week. Maybe longer. There’s insect activity...and one more thing, Chief.” Sam hesitated, finishing weakly, “There’s dismemberment.”

  David became quite still.

  “What?”

  “Yup.”

  “Perhaps animals did it,” David said. “It happens.”

  Sam said, “I don’t know. Everything’s equivocal right now, Chief.”

  At the corner of his vision, David saw Margaret watching from the doorway. Instinctively, he turned away.

  “Male or female?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “Caucasian male. Looks to be in his sixties. We haven’t touched the body. We’re waiting for Dr. Fitzgerald to get here. Willy says the victim looks like the park hermit.”

  David felt his heart lurch. He hoped to God it wasn’t his old friend.

  He asked, “Are Grant and Cussons still at the scene?”

  “Yes. Willy’s going to have them come down to the station.”

  “Keep them separated. And have their statements taken one at a time.”

  “Okay...” Sam’s words fell off. “I can see Dr. Fitzgerald’s van coming now.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” David said promptly.

  He put down the phone. Palms on the countertop, he stared absently at the sudsy water in the sink. His thoughts were a mix of foreboding and duty. He didn’t hear Margaret move up behind him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  The closeness of her voice startled him. “They found a man’s body.”

  “Do they know who it is?”

  He turned to her. “Not sure yet.”

  “I suppose they don’t know the cause of death either?”

  David exhaled. “The coroner will give that ruling. I’m going out there.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  He prepared to leave, grabbing his keys from the counter and his jacket from the closet in the living room. Margaret followed him outside to the front porch. She leaned a shoulder against the post and crossed her arms, watching him.

  Head down, eyes crinkled in thought, David climbed into his car. As he drove off, he saw Margaret in the rearview mirror, still on the porch, her hand lifted in a wave.

  Twilight was settling over the countryside. Soon, David realized, it would be too dark to launch a beneficial search of the scene.

  The road ahead wound through farmland and foothills. Much of the scenery passed without registering on his consciousness.

  He shot across a wooden bridge. Seven kilometers farther, a sign directed him to Timbre Road. As he turned onto it, his mouth became dry.

  Trees ran along both sides of the road. In the rearview mirror he could see only a cloud of dust, curling in upon itself.

  The time was 8:29.

  For the next minute he ascended a steep hill. At its top, red-and-blue strobe glanced off the sky.
David parked behind a black van. For a moment he stared at the white lettering across the rear doors: Coroner.

  Yellow barrier tape cordoned off the area; Police Line Do Not Cross repeated in black. The Ident van was parked on the other side of the road.

  Constable Sam Patterson stood a few feet from the van, looking down over the embankment. He appeared younger than his age of twenty-eight. He was dark haired and slim, with an athletic build.

  When David shut off the car, he became aware of the drone of a running motor. As he slipped out and walked over to Sam, the noise grew louder.

  “Do we know anything yet?” he asked.

  Sam turned to him. “It’s murder, Chief. Fitzgerald said the victim looks like he was stabbed.”

  David inhaled. With a knot tightening in his stomach, he stepped to the edge of the embankment and peered down. A grassy slope descended one hundred feet to a creek that measured perhaps four feet across. Two arc lights, powered by a portable generator, bathed the area. Bugs had already begun flashing within their beams.

  The dead man lay sprawled on the bank of the creek with his feet in the water and his pant legs ballooned up. Paul Fitzgerald, the young, dark-haired coroner, was crouched next to the body, blocking much of the view.

  On the other side of the creek stood James Bentley, snapping pictures from multiple angles. He was a twenty-six-year veteran who held the rank of staff sergeant and worked as the department’s sole Ident tech when needed.

  Sam walked over to David.

  “It’s going to be pitch black soon,” he said.

  “I know.” David cast a concerned glance at the dimming sky; a ridge of fluffy clouds ran along the horizon just below a gibbous moon. “We’ll have to postpone a search until morning. At least it’s not supposed to rain.”

  “Do you want me to stay here overnight?”

  David nodded. “Yes. I’ll have Terrance come in early for his shift in the morning to relieve you. Did Willy take Cussons and Grant into town?”

  “Yeah, he took Cussons in his car. Grant took his own truck in.”

  “Good.”

  Fitzgerald broke away from his work to look inside his medical bag for something, and it was at that moment David had a full view of the body. Even though the dead man’s face was twisted away, the trench coat was recognizable anywhere.