Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  In the five days since Cathy’s death, Philip’s appearance had changed dramatically. He looked haggard, diminished, and weary. His eyes held a haunted quality and were bruised by dark crescents. Allan couldn’t imagine how hard this had to be for him.

  He said, “I’m sorry to have to put you through this again.”

  Philip lowered his head. “I know you are.”

  A knock came at the door, and Dr. Coulter poked his head in.

  “Are we ready, Detective?” he asked.

  Allan gave a slight nod.

  As the door closed, Philip inhaled a deep breath and turned to the window with a stiff, grim composure.

  Coulter drew the curtain aside. A body lay on a metal gurney just on the other side of the glass, covered by a white sheet. Coulter walked over to it and then pulled the sheet down to the woman’s upper chest. With merciless clarity, the overhead lights captured the puffy face and the waxen skin that was blotched with dark, irregular patches. Allan noted that Coulter had closed the eyelids to conceal the missing eyes.

  For several minutes, Philip didn’t move, only stared at the woman with his mouth agape.

  Allan hated this.

  “How...” Philip tried to speak, but his parched voice was lost in a hard swallow. “How does a father not know his own daughter?”

  “You can’t ID her?”

  Philip shook his head. “It’s her face. What’s wrong with it? It looks bloated. And Cynthia never had those huge blemishes before.”

  “It’s from the time she spent in the water,” Allan said.

  Quietly, Philip’s mouth formed a small “o.”

  “The hair is similar,” he said after a time. “How many other women do you have missing in the city?”

  Only one this recent, Allan wanted to say.

  “She was found wearing clothes that Cathy had described in the missing persons report,” he said. “But there are other ways of confirming identity. Dental records. Blood tests.”

  Arms folded, Philip turned away, staring at the floor. Moments passed before he looked at Allan again.

  In a tone laced with melancholy, he said, “Cynthia had a diamond-shaped birthmark on the nape of her neck. You should be able to see it under her hairline.”

  Allan left to convey the information to Dr. Coulter. When Allan returned to the viewing room, he stood at the window with Philip and watched Lawrence Sodero turn over the body. Coulter adjusted his glasses and examined the back of the neck. He glanced at the two men in the window and gave them a solemn nod.

  For what seemed a long time, Philip visibly strove to keep from breaking. Then he lowered his head and emitted a shaky breath. Watching him, Allan could feel the depth of his loss.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ambré.”

  Philip’s eyes were moist. “Cynthia and I haven’t spoken to one another in three years,” he murmured. “But I still loved her.”

  Allan looked into his ravaged face. “I know you did.”

  Philip placed a hand on Allan’s arm and squeezed. “Please find the one responsible for this. Bring the fucker to justice.”

  It was a simple plea from an anguished father, Allan realized, yet it filled him with a mix of dread and duty.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” he said.

  Tears ran down Philip’s face now. “I know you will.” He walked toward the door and then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Carol and I would love to see you at Cathy’s service on Wednesday. Can you make it?”

  “I already set time aside for it.”

  Philip nodded. “Thank you.”

  Heartsick, Allan watched the door close behind him. He knew that it would be a tough road ahead for Philip—both daughters gone in the span of a week. How could any father bear the guilt of not having protected either of them?

  With a heavy sigh, he went to the morgue. Coulter and Sodero were preparing for the autopsy. Allan stared at the swollen wreck lying on the gurney.

  He asked, “How long do you think she was in the water?”

  “A week. Maybe more.” Coulter slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “If you look at the hands and feet, you’ll see the maceration is well established. There are signs of early skin separation in the big toes. It takes roughly a week to reach that stage.”

  Allan shifted his gaze to the opaque, wrinkled skin in those areas. The time frame seemed right to him—Trixy had gone missing eight days ago.

  “Any idea as to the cause of death?”

  Coulter said, “Nothing until the autopsy, Detective. But if she drowned, it’ll be tough to determine.”

  “What about the missing eyes?”

  “They could’ve been removed by marine life,” Sodero said. “Crustaceans, especially crabs, are known to attack the soft parts of the face—the eyes, nose, and mouth.”

  Coulter added, “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. “I’ll stop back in a few hours. See what you found out.”

  He grabbed a coffee and muffin at a local Robins and then returned to his office. His desk was cluttered with an eight-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 let out 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 muffin. His gaze fell on the manila envelope containing the autopsy photos of Cathy Ambré. Her death left him with a deep sadness that would probably be with him for a long time. If her sister, Trixy, hadn’t disappeared, Cathy might still be alive. She might’ve beaten her addiction and gone on to live a prosperous life.

  If there was any measure of justice in her death, it was that she helped take Bernard Potter off the streets. Cathy had saved many lives.

  At five, Allan went to Coulter’s office. It was a spacious room, well furnished. His desk was covered with family pictures. Doctorates that were showcased inside expensive frames adorned the walls.

  Coulter typed on his computer. “Detective, please have a seat.”

  Allan did so. “What’re we dealing with?”

  Coulter stopped typing. “Homicide.”

  It didn’t surprise Allan. He’d expected as much.

  Coulter said, “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?”

  “Varying levels of unconsciousness, yes. But not death.”

  “Would a wound like that bleed much?”

  “Oh, yes,” Coulter said. “Nothing bleeds like the scalp.”

  Allan steepled his fingers in front of him. “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.”

  Allan rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wondered if Trixy had been knocked unconscious and then dumped into the harbor.

  “There’s something else, Detective,” 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?”

  “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 ey
eballs.”

  “Would that require some skill, training?”

  Coulter shrugged. “Not really. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to pop out a person’s eyeball with your thumb or finger. Then it’s just a matter of cutting the exposed optic nerve.”

  Allan mulled everything over for a moment. Then he got up, thanked Coulter, and walked outside to his car. He took out his pen and notebook. On a blank page, he wrote:

  1. Was Trixy with a john prior to her murder?

  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 notebook, he took out his cell phone and called the serology department at the forensics lab.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

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

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “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.

  32

  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. He also had the lower parts of his arms removed. 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 arms.

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

  There is no suspect in the case.

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

  Missing arms. Is this related to my case?

  Intuition told him that it was. He had to at least explore the possibility.

  Serial killer? Where is he?

  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 Street. The morning was sun washed. Just over the top of Citadel Hill, fingerlike wisps of cloud drifted across the sky.

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

  Allan 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.

  David said, “I can see why you think they might be connected.”

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

  “No.”

  “Evidence?”

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

  Allan winced inside.

  “Who found the body?” he asked.

  “Two local men,” David said. “Roland Grant and Thomas Cussons. According to Grant, he and Cussons went 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 said, “Were their backgrounds clean?”

  “Clean as a whistle. Grant is a married forty-two-year-old with two sons. He works as an electrician for a local contractor. Cussons is thirty-nine years old. He’s 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 Dr. 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?”

  “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, 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. He knew there was no way he’d be able to spend the long weekend with him. He was too deep into this investigation now to take any time off at all. This couldn’t be happening. Shit. Shit.

  “Detective?”

  Allan shut his eyes. “I have a funeral to attend tomorrow. But I’ll head up after that.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

  Allan hung up 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 running toward his father.

  Allan felt sick. How was he going to break this to his son?

  33

  Halifax, May 18

  5:53 p.m.

  Allan’s neighbors agreed to care for Buddy while he was away. He left a house key with them and then returned home, where he grabbed a quick shower. For long time he just stood under the spray, allowing the hot water to jet over the back of his neck.

  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.

  In his bedroom, he dressed in a T-shirt and plaid sleep pants. Then he went downstairs to call his son. He noticed Buddy sitting on the chair by the fireplace, sniffing the leather of his shoulder holster. Allan realized he’d been so preoccupied, he forgot to put his pistol away.

  He 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 the numbers. Part of him wished no one would answer. When Melissa picked up, he felt himself tense. In a low voice, he asked for Brian.

  “Hold on,” Melissa said. “I’ll get him.”

  Allan wondered if she was still bitter over his remark last week. Her dry tone made it seem that way.

  Brian came on, voice beaming, “Hi, Dad!”

  “Hey, little man.” 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 till this weekend.”

  Biting down on
his lip, Allan closed his eyes.

  “That’s why I called you, son. I have some bad news—”

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

  Allan drew a breath. “I don’t think I’ll 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. He hated this.

  “Brian?”

  “I’m here.”

  Allan heard the undertone of disappointment in Brian’s voice, and it made him sick inside.

  He said, “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. 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.

  Allan felt a wetness on his cheeks, streams of it. “Tell your mother that if she can’t get the money refunded for the plane ticket, I’ll send it to her.”

  “I will.” 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 buzz of the dial tone. Thumb and finger to his eyes, he cradled the phone. Grief ensnared him.

  His thoughts drove him to the fireplace. He picked up the silver-framed picture from the mantel. 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.