Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  5. Attack was outdoors, involved surprise. No defense wounds

  6. No restraints

  7. Con approach possibly used

  8. Victim drowned

  9. Single impact injury to the head by cylindrical object

  10. No other trauma involved: stabbing, beating, kicking, strangulation, burning, or gunshot

  11. No DNA evidence available

  The waitress came over again, seeking assurance that the food was okay.

  Allan gave her a smile. “Everything was great.”

  “Would you like to look at the dessert menu?”

  “No, thanks. I’m full.”

  As she gathered up the plate and bowl, Allan stared at his last note again—no DNA evidence available. There was still the question as to the identity of the mystery bleeder on the tugboat wharf. Did it belong to Trixy?

  Allan set down his pen and read over his notes. When he compared the victims, he could see no similarities between them. They differed in every aspect—sex, backgrounds and lifestyles, friends and relatives, employment, and last known activities. The only unifying pattern that tied the murders together was the missing body parts. If not for that, everyone could’ve easily believed two different suspects had committed these crimes.

  Allan wondered what the suspect wanted with the body parts. Mementos? Something else?

  He realized he needed a psychological profile done up so he could get a better idea as to the type of man to focus on. Allan knew just the person to ask. He took out his cell phone and punched away at numbers.

  On the fourth ring, a gruff voice answered, “Dr. Terry Armstrong.”

  “Hello, Doctor,” Allan said. “This is Detective Stanton with the Halifax Regional Police.”

  A moment’s silence. “Ah, yes. I thought I recognized your voice. From the Simpson murder.”

  “Sampson,” Allan corrected.

  “Right. Right,” Armstrong repeated. “It’s been a while. What can I do for you?”

  “I need your help, your insight. I think we might have the emergence of a serial killer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Allan detected a new curiosity in the psychiatrist’s voice.

  “I’m pretty sure,” he said.

  Another pause. “Here in Halifax?”

  “No. I’m in Acresville at the moment.”

  “That homeless man?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I read about it in the Herald.”

  Allan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Can you help me?”

  “I’m tied up tomorrow,” Armstrong said. “But I can meet with you on Friday.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Excellent. I’ll get there early so I can review everything first.”

  “I’ll have it all ready for you.”

  “See you then, Detective,” Armstrong said and hung up.

  Drinking the last of his tea, Allan slipped a tip under the saucer, paid his bill, and left.

  The fresh-fallen night was dark, calm. Since dusk the sky had become low and an ugly gray. No rain, only a fine mist, not quite a fog.

  A block away Allan checked into the Greensway Hotel. His room was spacious and modestly furnished—a bed, set of drawers with a TV on top, a small table and chair. He tossed his suitcase on the bed and put the box containing the John Baker files on the table.

  He turned the TV on and flipped to CNN. On the screen an anchorman was talking about toxic tar balls being found in the Florida Keys. Allan watched for a moment and then lowered the volume.

  He unpacked his suitcase, stowing his clothes in the drawers and shelving his toiletries in the medicine cabinet. He hung his robe on a hook behind the bathroom door.

  As he went to the window to close the drapes, he stopped there for a time, gazing out. Under the gentle push of a breeze, the mist curled and coiled in the diffused glow of streetlights. A car appeared, heading north into downtown.

  When Allan noticed the tiny post office across the street, it made him think of Brian. He should really write his son a letter. Maybe tomorrow when he got a few minutes.

  Allan closed the drapes and went back to the case files. He read until the words began to blur, until his body began to ache for the bed behind him. Nothing, he realized, was going to leap from the pages and grab his attention.

  He checked the time, 11:34. He decided to take one last look at the photos then call it a night.

  He yawned as he spread the pictures in front of him. Less than five minutes later he was asleep facedown on top of the desk.

  38

  Acresville, May 20

  11:25 p.m.

  Hoss wanted to finish this before the thundershowers arrived. Already black clouds roiled on the horizon, making him anxious.

  The road he traveled on wove through an undulant valley. On both sides of him, the sharp pitch of mountainside was covered in a lush mixed forest. There was a river on his right, looping in and out of the trees. Occasionally, he could see the surface sparkle when touched by his headlights.

  Hoss wasn’t aware of how fast he traveled or the tightness of his grip on the wheel. His focus was on the world ahead, a reduced visible cone lit up by his headlights. The broken center line on the pavement was a blur, racing backward.

  Ahead the road took an abrupt climb. Within a minute the mountains gave way to gentle foothills. Hoss found himself gazing out at a generous panorama of Acresville. From this elevation, the small town was a mere cluster of lights cupped in a bowl of low hills. Encasing them, the continuing mountain range was a black smudge against the backdrop of sky.

  At a T-intersection two miles from town, he turned left. A gravel road brought him to the clearing where the Rolling Hills Cemetery was located. As he passed the wrought-iron gate that marked the only public entrance, he felt his chest tighten.

  He pulled over to the edge of the road and parked. When he cut the headlights, it became pitch black. The dash clock glowed 11:34.

  Hoss looked out through the windshield at the darkness ahead of him, looked into the rearview mirror at the darkness behind him. No sign of lights in either direction.

  He reached into his duffel bag and took out a flashlight. Then with the bag and flashlight in hand, he got out, inhaling the night air. He lifted out a shovel from the back of the pickup.

  For a moment he stood very still, listening, every sense alert. Close by a chorus of spring peepers sounded. Beyond that, the deep-toned rumble of a freight train cutting through the valley. Hoss could feel the heavy thump of its wheels hitting gaps in the rails.

  He flicked on the flashlight with a thumb. Then, moving quickly, he started into a brisk walk. On the road he was a shadowy figure dressed in coveralls and rubber boots, with a beam bobbing in front of him. His pickup now rested broken down and abandoned by the side of the road.

  He found the main gate secured by a chain and padlock. Cursing softly, he realized he would have to go over the wall.

  The moist breeze chilled the sweat on his face. He lifted the shovel and duffel bag over his head with one hand and picked his way through a tangle of shrubs with the other. Branches tore at his coveralls. Under his feet the ground felt spongy.

  When he reached the stone wall, he dropped to a crouch. He looked out to the road, seeing nothing. In the distance loomed a dark shape—his pickup.

  Hoss stood up and heaved the shovel and duffel bag over the wall. Seconds later, he heard the muffled impacts as they landed on the other side.

  He stuffed the flashlight in his back pocket. Then, grabbing the top of the wall, he dug his foot into a notch and pulled himself up. He swung his other leg over and dropped to the other side, falling onto his hands and knees.

  He withdrew the flashlight again, turned it on. In a widening arc, he swept the surroundings with the beam. Eerie shadows moved among the gravestones, shifting from light to darkness again. Around him the cemetery felt vast, peaceful.
Hoss stood very still. Only his eyes moved back and forth. Out of the darkness materialized headstones, a marble dove, a statue of a kneeling lady. At the edge of his consciousness, he could hear the spring peepers, fainter now.

  Five feet in front of him, he saw the shovel and duffel bag. He wiped his forehead and picked them up. Then he headed off into a sprint up the first low hill. At the flashlight’s outer reaches, he saw the front of the caretaker’s shed. Moving quickly, he followed a path that circled the shed, down the other side of the slope, and around the bottom. Here the night seemed even darker.

  In the distance came an angry roll of thunder. Hoss lifted his gaze and saw a flash of lightning ignite the horizon in stark relief. The black clouds were getting closer.

  Hoss moved through an area of newer graves, playing the light in every direction. Then he found it, the headstone with the angel holding a large heart.

  He put the duffel bag by his feet and removed two sheets of tarp from it. Carefully, he laid out one on either side of the grave. After he retrieved his gloves and slipped his hands into them, he positioned the flashlight on the bag so the conical beam spread across the ground in front of the headstone.

  He set to work by digging his fingers under the edges of the sod and pulling up on the corners. Freshly laid, the sod came up without any problems. Hoss set each piece, grass down, on the tarp to the left of the grave. When he finished, he picked up the shovel and began digging.

  The loose soil came away with ease. Hoss tossed a shovelful onto the tarp to the right of the grave and then went back at it again, working himself into a rhythm. Within minutes sweat beaded his forehead. Slowly, the mound of dirt beside him began to grow. The hole he dug began to deepen.

  By the time he was thigh deep, the beam from the flashlight did little good. It lit up the top walls of the grave but failed to reach the bottom. Hoss moved the light to the edge of the hole in front of the headstone and angled the beam downward.

  Wearily, he continued digging.

  Thirty minutes passed.

  Forty.

  Soaked with sweat, Hoss became frustrated. Belly deep in the hole now, and still no sign of the casket. He fished a handkerchief from a pocket and mopped his face and neck.

  Dirt trickled from the walls of the grave, spattering on his boots. All around him, he could feel the coldness leaching from the earth, the rich smell filling his nostrils.

  He should’ve come across something by now. He wondered if the grave was dug deeper than usual to allow for a second or third interment. It would be just his luck.

  He picked up the flashlight and shone the light around his feet. Nothing but broken soil and rocks.

  He labored on.

  Minutes later, a thump. The tip of the shovel stuck in something. Working it free, he put the shovel aside. Then he got down on all fours and began clearing away the dirt by the handful. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose. After a few moments, he leaned back on his heels and lit up the area before him. Patches of glossy wood showed through the soil. As he brushed away more dirt, he realized the casket was double-lidded, opening at the top and bottom.

  Pulse racing, he dug around the edges of the casket until he’d removed the soil just below the top lid. He crawled out of the grave, taking notice of the murky cloud cover now blanketing the sky. A breeze sprang up out of nowhere. Suddenly, an explosion of light flared above the mountain ridge. The sharp crack of thunder that followed seemed to vibrate the ground.

  Hoss retrieved a pry bar from the duffel bag then went down into the grave again. He pushed the wedge of the bar under the lid of the casket and gave a powerful downward thrust on the lever end. With two loud snaps, the clips holding the lid tight gave way.

  A chill rippled Hoss’s skin as he hoisted the lid and shone his light inside to reveal the body of an elderly man. He was dressed in a conservative taupe suit, white shirt, and a tie striped tan and orange. There was a smear of makeup on his collar. Someone had tucked a leather-bound Bible into his hands.

  His stillness made the hairs prickle on the back of Hoss’s neck. To him, the man looked more like a wax sculpture than real.

  Hoss stood up and inhaled a shaky breath. When he climbed out of the hole, the electric sky sent off a bolt of lightning, and for a split second, the entire cemetery lit up around him. Then everything went black again. Right above him came a clap of thunder, loud and percussive.

  The rain was close, perhaps only minutes away. He needed to finish this soon.

  Reaching into the duffel bag, Hoss brought out the hacksaw fitted with a new tungsten carbide blade.

  39

  Acresville, May 21

  9:30 a.m.

  “Imagine someone who has no conscience, no feelings of guilt or empathy. Someone who is emotionally shallow and lies excessively. Now instead of putting the face of a monster on that person, put your own on it. And you get a picture of what a psychopath looks like. He or she could be anyone.”

  They sat across from each other in Chief Brantford’s office—Allan, David, and Dr. Terry Armstrong. The forensic psychiatrist was a tall man with a long face and hollow cheeks. His sharp blue eyes seldom changed expression, and his thatch of gray hair seemed to accentuate his deep tan. Armstrong was an avid snowbird who enjoyed wintering in Florida with his wife. His voice and manner were relaxed and professional. He wore a white shirt and black slacks.

  A tape recorder, set up on the desk, captured his session.

  “Many psychopaths aren’t cold-blooded killers. That’s a stereotype. Yes, the more-violent ones can end up as serial killers, terrorists, or even wife beaters. But the more criminally inclined become con men, thieves, and politicians.

  “I want to stress that not all violent people are psychopaths and not all psychopaths are violent.

  “Since many have an exalted craving for excitement, you’ll find them working as stockbrokers because it satisfies that part of their behavior.

  “With others, they seek dominance and power over people. You’ll find these people in careers where they can exercise that power—politicians, lawyers.” Pausing, Armstrong gestured toward the two men. “Or even police officers. No offence, gentlemen.”

  Allan gave him a smile. “I think we’ve all come into contact with a psychopath at some point in our lives and never even realized it.”

  Armstrong nodded. “There are more of them in our society than you can imagine. Some say one percent of our population is psychopathic. Others think the rate is much higher, possibly one in twenty-five to thirty. That’s a staggering figure when you think about it.”

  Allan flicked his eyebrows. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that figure was even higher.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me to hear you say that, Detective,” Armstrong said. “I bet you can tell some stories.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  David said, “These body parts. Why would the suspect take them?”

  Armstrong crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the chair.

  “This ritualistic dismemberment,” he began, “is somewhat common among serial killers. They try to keep the feelings of power by preserving parts of their victims. The body part, in essence, becomes a trophy and is part of the killer’s ritualistic fantasy. Your suspect could’ve made totemic preservations by pickling those parts in jars.

  “Henry Lee Lucas and Edmund Kemper were two men who did this. Kemper kept his own mother’s head that he used as a dartboard. Dahmer is another serial killer who kept body parts around. Even Robert Pickton.”

  Allan asked, “What do you think he’s doing with them?”

  Armstrong drew a breath. “One of two things. First, I’d have to go back to my initial thought—this killer has made totemic preservations of them. He will use them at a later time to relive the murders in his mind.

  “Or secondly, I’d say the suspect took the body parts as a way to further dehumanize the victims.”

  David cleared his throat. “Can you give us your thoughts on the man we�
��re looking for?”

  Armstrong said, “It’s possible you’ve run into this man already through the commission of other crimes. He could’ve been into B and E, rape, or 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.”

  “We’ll go through our files,” David said.

  Armstrong added, “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, a breakup with a girlfriend, the birth of a baby into an already unhealthy relationship, or the death of a loved one.

  “As for the man himself. I think he’s a white male. Rarely do these men 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. 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?”

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

  “Then you’ll know if he’s a roamer.” Armstrong shifted in his chair. “I’d say this man probably lives alone. He’s 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. Look at John Wayne Gacy and Dennis Rader.

  “Gacy was a highly respected man in his community. Married. A father. Yet he killed thirty-three young boys.

  “Rader was also married. Had two children and was a Boy Scout leader.

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