Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  David grimaced.

  Johnny, he thought sadly. Who did this to you?

  Up the road a bit, a heavy rope marked the entrance into the crime scene, stretching down the embankment north of the victim. David went to it, sliding down the hillside, grabbing at clumps of grass, nearly tumbling to the bottom. He moved slowly along the bank of the creek, mindful of burrows and fallen branches. The woodland on the other side was dark and gloomy.

  As David got closer, he saw Fitzgerald directing the beam of a flashlight around the ground by the body.

  David called out to him, “How long do you think he’s been out here?”

  “A week, maybe,” Fitzgerald shouted back over the sound of the nearby generator. “There’s decomp and bloating present. I’ll be able to establish a better time frame when I get him back to the morgue. We’re lucky the local wildlife didn’t find him.”

  David frowned. “Didn’t find him? What do you mean? Sam told me there’s dismemberment.”

  “There is,” Fitzgerald said. “But the only animal that did this was the two-legged kind.”

  The words stopped David. “What was cut off?”

  “Both arms. Cut off at the elbows.”

  “No way.”

  Fitzgerald looked over, his blue eyes serious. “Oh, yes. The forearms and hands are gone. Never saw anything like this before.”

  “Animals couldn’t have done that?”

  “Chief, there’s no damage to the sleeves of the coat. Whoever did this rolled them out of the way.”

  As David reached the body, he stared down at it, unable to move. It was Johnny Baker, all right. David’s old friend from school and well known to town residents as the park hermit.

  David remembered a boy in high school who was short and chubby, like him. Outgoing. Bright. Someone the teachers thought would go somewhere in life. All David saw now was the emaciated shell of a man who had let his demons knock him down one too many times.

  For a moment, David lowered his head in silent grief. He touched his forehead, his heart, and each shoulder in the sign of the cross.

  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

  May God be with you, Johnny.

  James Bentley walked over to him, camera dangling from a strap around his neck.

  “What do you say we remove the body tonight and come back in the morning to finish searching the scene?”

  David nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

  James pointed to the embankment. “There’s a path of matted grass and fall-like indentations in the soil leading from the edge of the road straight down to the body.”

  David’s gaze moved up the slope to where Patterson stood looking down. It definitely had the earmarks of a dump job.

  He said, “I wonder if he was murdered here?”

  “Someone brought him out here. That’s for sure.”

  David paused, staring at the creek cascading past.

  “Fitzgerald hasn’t checked the body for ID,” James said. “But I think the victim’s the park hermit.”

  “He is.” David turned to him. “His name was John Baker.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Many years ago.”

  “What made him become such a social oddity?”

  “The bottle. That became his demon.”

  “Did he have any family?” James asked.

  “Don’t think so. Parents died years ago. Johnny never married.”

  “Shame.”

  David nodded. He watched Fitzgerald slide a probe thermometer into a mass of maggots writhing on the abdomen. Suddenly exposed to the powerful arc lights, they began dropping off the body in a steady line. David brought up a fist to his mouth, knuckles touching his lips, as he tried to fight the rise of a late supper.

  Fitzgerald recorded the temperature in his notebook. When he finished, he took out a plastic spoon from his medical bag and began using it to collect specimens of maggots in two jars.

  “We’re going to have the body removed tonight,” David called to him. “Return at daybreak to continue the search.”

  Fitzgerald tightened the lid on a jar. “Sure, Chief. I’m going to come back then as well and check the soil for pupae.”

  “Will you do the autopsy tonight?”

  Fitzgerald checked his watch. “I can. I want to get these little critters”—he held up the jar—“off to Halifax for analysis.”

  “Did they do much damage?”

  “Only a little. We’re lucky there aren’t too many flies around yet. If this was the middle of July...well, there wouldn’t be much of a body left.”

  David turned to James. “Did you locate the arms?”

  “Not yet. I looked on the hillside, along the bank of the creek, even downstream, but they’re not here.”

  David shook his head. He felt a strange sense of foreboding.

  “Why the hell would someone do that? Why the hell would someone even harm Johnny? He never bothered anybody.”

  James spread his hands. “Beats the hell out of me, Chief. Looks like we have a sick fuck on our hands.”

  29

  Acresville, May 17

  8:15 a.m.

  Hoss pulled on a pair of gloves and opened the creaky basement door. Below him a flight of narrow steps disappeared into a murky darkness. He flipped the light switch and went down. The dank smell of moist soil flooded his nostrils. One dimly lit bulb hung from a wire in the middle of the ceiling joists, casting long shadows out to the concrete walls.

  The basement itself was open and unfinished, with an earthen floor. Resting on a slab of concrete, a furnace took up the center floor space, its pipes jutting in all directions.

  Hoss crossed to the freezer against the right-hand wall. A blast of cold air struck his face as he lifted the lid and bent inside. He took out two jumbo freezer bags containing the half arms he had stolen, and carried them upstairs.

  There was a Coleman cooler on the table. Hoss put the frozen arms inside it and closed the lid. He removed his gloves.

  The clock on the wall read 8:23. Almost time to leave. He wondered what the hell they would want next.

  The uncertainty made him anxious. He went to the kitchen counter and slid open the linen drawer. From beneath a pile of dishtowels he withdrew his .38 revolver. He didn’t need to check the cylinder; he kept the gun loaded at all times. Tucking it in the back of his pants, he pulled his shirt over it.

  To calm his nerves, he poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass and gulped it down in one swallow.

  The morning sun, brightening, hit his face through the kitchen window. As Hoss squinted out at the rolling pastures, he found himself remembering with terrible clarity a little boy and his dog plunging through the cornfield that used to be there.

  > > > < < <

  “C’mon, Jessie,” the boy called out, maneuvering his way through the stalks of young corn.

  The family dog, a black-and-white cocker spaniel, was close behind him, bounding and frolicking tirelessly.

  The day was clear and sun washed, with a modest wind.

  Suddenly, the boy became aware the dog was no longer following him.

  “Jessie?”

  He staggered around in an erratic circle, searching. Every direction looked the same—row upon row of stalks.

  He whistled sharply and waited, expecting the dog to come leaping out of nowhere.

  Seconds passed.

  A minute.

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, the boy called out, “Jessie. Here, boy.”

  The spaniel still didn’t come.

  Often the dog would wander off with its nose to the ground, chasing the scent of some other animal. The little boy thought this to be one of those times.

  “Jessie.”

  A moment later, the boy began to search for the dog.

  Retracing his route, he eventually saw the spaniel through gaps in the stalks.

  “There you are.”

  The dog turned and looked at th
e approaching boy. It gave a wag of its tail and then turned back, its floppy ears alert.

  “What is it?”

  The boy lapsed into silence, listening. He could hear something faint but distinct. Interspersed with the wind hissing through the maize, it sounded like a voice.

  The cornstalks were just over the boy’s head. On tiptoes he craned his neck, looking out and over the tops. He gasped when he saw a figure high above the golden sea of gently moving tassels—the scarecrow his father had put up to keep away the crows.

  So far, it hadn’t done a good job.

  The scarecrow was tied to a wooden crucifix. Beneath a tattered hat that slouched over a burlap face, a few straws were poking out where the boy’s mother had stitched a sad mouth. Bird droppings pocked the checkered shirt and gray coveralls that clothed its hay-filled body.

  When the boy’s gaze trailed past the scarecrow, he saw his father standing at the edge of the field. The words coming from his mouth were lost in the wind, but his gestures alone told the boy that he was furious about something.

  The boy’s heart began thrashing. He wondered if his father was drunk again, because that meant only bad things were going to happen.

  The boy spun around, searching wildly for an escape. At the far end of the cornfield lay a tightly choked stand of trees. To the right were rolling pastures and grazing cows; to the left, the west pasture and its timothy that had yet to be hayed.

  There was nowhere to run. His father would only find him. And then he would be in deeper trouble.

  Slowly, the boy started back through the corn with fear growing inside him. His legs were like lead. In his paranoia he imagined the terrible beating awaiting him and felt sick to his stomach.

  Within minutes he emerged from the cornfield. His father stood just inside the fence, meaty hands balled at his sides. He wore a thick beard and moustache, and a red-and-black flannel shirt that reminded the boy of Paul Bunyan.

  With panic gripping his heart, the boy walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. His mouth felt dry.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  For a long moment, the man didn’t move or speak. Just bored his eyes into his son with a fiery intensity. Unable to control his nervousness, the boy began to fidget.

  The man spat at him. “You little shit.”

  He came forward in a rush and grabbed hold of his son’s shirt. The boy could feel the seam tear under one arm as his father yanked him forward, thrusting his contorted face close to his. A prominent vein stood out in the center of his forehead.

  “Didn’t I tell you to clean out the parlor when I went to town?” The smell of whiskey wafted on his breath. “Morceau de merde.”

  The boy watched his father’s face, reddened by drink and anger. The man had said no such thing before leaving for town.

  The boy choked in a small voice, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  His breathing labored, the man gave his son a heavy-lidded stare.

  At the edge of the cornfield the spaniel watched the pair with its head lowered and tail tucked between its hind legs. The man shifted his gaze to the dog then back to the boy.

  “Oh, you’re going to be sorry, all right,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  He slung the boy against his hip and carried him back to the house in the crook of his arm. Once inside, he hurled his son across the kitchen floor as if he were weightless. With a short cry the boy struck a chair, knocking it over.

  For a long moment, the man stood near the back door. His eyes bored into his son with intensity akin to fury. The boy sat in a huddle, too afraid to move or speak. In the silence, disembodied voices drifted from the living room. His mother, he knew, was watching her soaps. She wouldn’t come to his rescue.

  The boy had learned why over time. No one messed with his father, especially when he’d been drinking. One day some drunk at Gary’s Tavern had, and the boy’s father sent him to the hospital. Broken nose. Two missing teeth. Fractured cheekbone.

  The man walked to the refrigerator now, jerked open the door, and brought out a beer. He twisted off the cap and tossed it into the sink. Then he tipped the bottle to his lips, guzzling down the beer until it was gone. He wiped his lips, set the empty bottle on the counter, and then leered at his son again. His nostrils flared, and his jaw muscles jumped repeatedly.

  As the boy watched him, his throat moved in convulsive swallows.

  “I’m gonna teach you to never disobey me again,” the man said.

  The boy stared at him, not understanding.

  “But I didn’t, Dad.”

  “Shut up,” his father barked.

  A vacant look came across the man’s face. He looked at the doorway leading into the living room then back to the boy.

  “I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

  The boy froze at something in his father’s voice—a sinister calmness he hadn’t heard before. Still too afraid to move, he watched the man disappear into the living room.

  A moment later, he heard his mother say, “Now where are you going with that?”

  “You just never mind,” his father shot back.

  When the man came back into the kitchen carrying his 30.06 Remington, the boy felt his heart lurch. Without a word, the man reached down and tugged his shaken son off the floor. Together, they went outside to the backyard.

  > > > < < <

  Hoss turned away from the window and shut his eyes. He wondered why it was all coming back to him. He hadn’t thought about that horrible prick of a father in years. But now he was back, bleeding his son’s thoughts and dreams.

  Hoss wanted another drink, needed another drink. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. 8:43.

  In two minutes the phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Do you have them?” Slick asked.

  Hoss’s gaze moved to the cooler on the table.

  “Yeah,” he said. “All ready to go.”

  “Meet me at the same spot in half an hour.”

  30

  Halifax, May 17

  11:36 a.m.

  The patchy breeze and flawless sky made it a perfect day to be out on the water.

  Nick and Heather Baldwin had spent over two hours sailing their boat off the shores of McNabs Island when they heard something thump along the hull. At first they thought they had struck a piece of driftwood, until Heather went to the starboard side and gasped at what she saw in the murky water. A dead body was just visible below the surface, floating facedown. It was a woman, nude and bloated.

  Now, thirty minutes after the discovery, the Underwater Recovery Team anchored their Boston Whaler near the body. As the boat rocked gently in the waves, Monika Chase braced herself on the gunwale and peered over the side. She was a thirty-four-year-old police diver who was fit and lean, with blond-haired good looks.

  Her dive partner was Robert Worsley. At forty-two, he was compact, with a cordial face, graying hair, and a moustache. He had over twenty years of experience as a police diver.

  “She’s been out here for a while,” he said. “I doubt this is where she entered the water.”

  Chase nodded. “I agree. Things don’t remain stationary out here. Current’s too strong.”

  She assessed the surface conditions of the water—two- to three-foot waves with little chop. Should be a routine recovery. As Worsley began taking pictures, Chase recorded the position and location of the body in a notebook.

  When she finished, she paused a moment to watch an osprey hovering above the waves halfway between them and the lighthouse on a tiny islet connected to McNabs Island. The bird suddenly plunged into the water feet first and remained there for several seconds before lifting into the air again. It had a fish gripped within its talons.

  Chase smiled. Nice catch.

  She then got a mesh body bag ready to take with her, unzipping it, folding it in half, and then rolling it up tight so most of the air could escape. Worsley retrieved his underwater camera with attached strobe. Then he and Chase went to the port side,
where they put on their facemasks and fins. Before entering the water, the backup diver made a final check of their equipment. After he finished, he popped off the dive door.

  Worsley stepped out into the water first, immediately followed by Chase. In unison they disappeared below.

  The water was cold and turbid. The sun’s rays reaching beneath the surface highlighted the curtain of sediment.

  As Chase swam closer to the body, she observed the pair of shoes on the feet, the stockings gathered around the ankles, the dark miniskirt draped around the waist.

  She adjusted her buoyancy so she could suspend vertically, and then she circled the body. She noted the scavenger activity. Here and there chunks of flesh had been picked away.

  Chase dipped under the body, looking up at it. The face was bloated and discolored. As Chase’s gaze moved to the abrasions around the eye sockets, she became very still. A steady plume of bubbles shot out from the side of her regulator.

  The eyes were missing.

  She motioned Worsley over to document the injuries with his camera. After he finished, Chase unfolded the mesh bag and carefully began to cover the body with it. Careful not to touch the hands, she tucked the limbs inside, noting the absence of rigor as she did.

  She zipped up the bag around the body, gripped one of the carrying straps, and with Worsley’s help, ascended to the top. As they broke the surface of the water, they made themselves buoyant. They swam toward the boat, and the backup diver on board lowered a Stokes basket over the side to them. Chase and Worsley carefully strapped the body bag inside it and then helped the diver haul the basket in slowly, so the water could drain through the mesh.

  On board again, Chase retrieved her cell phone and made two calls.

  The first was to Dr. Coulter. The second to Allan Stanton.

  31

  Halifax, May 17

  2:15 p.m.

  The autopsy viewing room was cool and quiet. Though its purpose was to minimize the shock and smells, in Allan’s experience, it did little good in moments like this.

  He stood beside Philip Ambré in front of a curtained window, waiting for Dr. Coulter to reveal the body of the woman pulled from the Halifax Harbor. Allan was quite certain that the body belonged to Trixy Ambré. He wished that it could be someone else. In two days, he knew, Cathy would be laid to rest. Now here was her father, waiting to learn the fate of his only other daughter.