Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  “He will undoubtedly have the behavioral traits of a psychopath. He will seem charming, but it’s only superficial. Underneath that facade, he will be cold and callous.

  “He will have no conscience, no feelings of guilt or remorse. He will lie excessively. Even if you discover some evidence linking him to one of the crime scenes, he’ll have an excuse for it. However preposterous his excuse will sound to you, I guarantee he’ll have one.

  “He’ll be emotionally shallow. He’s possibly a manipulator with good verbal skills. Intelligent but only educated through high school. No post-secondary education. Though despite his intelligence, his grades in school would’ve been only mediocre.

  “He is physically strong and is either currently employed in an occupation that requires this or has been.

  “Undoubtedly, he is sly and cunning. Well organized. Self-centered. A braggart. Feels superior to you. He’s probably following your every move through news broadcasts and the papers. At his home, you could find a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about his murders as well as books dealing with atrocities.”

  Allan tried to form a mental picture of this man. “Do you think he’ll stop?”

  Armstrong spread his hands. “It’s possible. If you’re right, he’s killed three people in the span of a few days. That scares me.” Stopping, Armstrong looked at both men. “Picture this, gentlemen. I am the killer. For the first time in my life I’m getting attention. I’m in the limelight. I hold Acresville trembling in the grip of my hands. I have power. I have dominance. I relish this. Why should I stop now?”

  David let out an audible sigh. “You know, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

  “I apologize if I’ve disheartened you,” Armstrong said. “I think you should contact Services Canada for a list of men who have applied for EI recently. Check the backgrounds of these men for possible suspects. Remember what I said about the stressor.

  “Also contact the welfare office for men who recently applied for financial aid. Look through your files of past offences, specifically repeat offenders who had an escalation toward more-violent crimes. Not your garden-variety petty thief.”

  A silence fell over the room. With the session over, Allan reached over and shut off the recorder.

  He said, “Thank you for taking the time to do this.”

  Armstrong smiled. “My pleasure. I hope I’ve been a help.”

  A knock came at the door. David got up to answer it. It was Sam, Allan saw, and he had a concerned look on his face. He drew David into the hallway, speaking to him in hushed tones. David winced and expelled a short breath.

  “Well, I’m on my way.” Armstrong was on his feet now, shrugging on his overcoat.

  Rising from his chair, Allan extended his hand across the desk. “I appreciate it, Doctor.”

  “Anytime, Detective.”

  The two men shook hands, and Armstrong left.

  When David came back into the office, he walked slowly toward the desk and rested his hands on the back of a chair. Allan noted the dazed expression etched in his face—raised eyebrows, mouth open slightly.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  David shut his eyes, and his throat moved.

  “We have a problem,” he said. “At Rolling Hills Cemetery.”

  40

  Acresville, May 21

  11:13 a.m.

  Hoss parked his pickup two miles up Mountain Point Road, a fire-access route that joined a network of others on the mountainside. Visited only by hunters during season or nature lovers, the secluded location made it the perfect meeting spot.

  He cracked the window, breathing in air that carried a clean, wet smell. The treetops around him swayed under a stiff wind, and above them, a crinkled blanket of dark clouds swathed the sky.

  The dash clock read: 11:15. If Slick arrived on time, he’d be there soon.

  Hoss switched off the ignition and sat there with his hands on the wheel. Waiting. Thinking. The Coleman cooler sat on the passenger seat beside him.

  Beads of rain gathered on the windshield, combining with others to stream downward in wandering rivulets.

  There was a movement up ahead. A black car was approaching, moving slowly over the soggy road, swerving occasionally to avoid potholes filled with rainwater. It stopped across the road from him.

  Hoss picked up the cooler from the seat and stepped out, hurrying through the rain to the passenger door of the car. As he got in, Slick kept an eye on the mirrors. He was Hoss’s age, with a small frame and thin face. His long, stringy hair hadn’t changed much since he was a teenager. It had earned him the nickname Slick because of the gunks of gel he used to put in it back then. A stupid little name that friends gave each other and seemed to stick with them for a lifetime.

  Like Hoss. When Slick began calling him that, Hoss thought it had something to do with a horse. Not that he was hung like one, but because of his physical size. He later found out the name was based on a character from Bonanza.

  “Did you get it?” Slick asked.

  Hoss opened the lid of the cooler, and Slick looked inside.

  “Awesome,” he said. “Money’s in the glove box.”

  Hoss opened it up and took out a fat envelope. He lifted the flap and saw a small wad of cash inside. It looked to be all there.

  He said, “What this guy want with these? Is he building some kind of Frankenstein monster?”

  Slick shrugged. “Dunno, man. He told me, but I didn’t understand all that medical jargon. He’s a bizarre motherfucker. But I guess he always was.”

  “I only have a vague memory of him from school. Looked like Poindexter.”

  Slick laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. He hasn’t changed, either.”

  Hoss tucked the envelope into a breast pocket. Then he turned to the side window, staring at the rain dripping from the branches.

  “So, how’re you finding it?” Slick asked.

  “Meh, it’s money. And I need it right now.”

  “Fucking government, eh? I still can’t believe they did that. Dirty bastards.”

  Hoss clenched his jaw. The pain and outrage was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

  “That’s all they are,” he said.

  Slick’s cell phone rang. He checked the number on the display.

  “Lookee here,” he said. “It’s Poindexter.”

  Slick answered. Hoss could barely hear the voice talking on the other end.

  “Okay,” Slick said. “Hold on a sec.”

  He reached past Hoss’s knees, opening the glove box and retrieving a pen and a blue-covered notebook. He opened it to a blank page.

  “Go ahead.” He scribbled with his pen. “I got that other job tonight, but I’ll get to this one over the weekend.”

  He hung up.

  “Anything for me?” Hoss asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Slick said. “But I might get you to help me with one.” He held up the notebook. “This one.”

  As Hoss looked at the name on the page, a sudden image flashed in his mind—a gaunt young woman sitting behind a birthday cake with her thumb raised in the air. He wondered if it was the same woman.

  On the page, Slick had written:

  Dartmouth Memorial Gardens

  Cathy Ambré

  41

  Acresville, May 21

  12:02 p.m.

  It was no act of murder, but it filled Allan with a revulsion that equaled his sense of foreboding. A light rain pattered steadily against the hood of his raincoat as he stared down at the desecrated grave of Hector J. Walsh.

  He glanced around the dreary landscape. Nearby, David and Sam talked quietly to the cemetery’s caretaker. His name was Jack Greer, a squat, chubby man of fifty who was balding on top. The rain had pressed his remaining hair flat to his head. He wore dark work pants and a flannel jacket, no hood.

  Allan watched them for a moment. Then he focused his attention on a mound of sod heaped to one side of the grave. Lips pursed, he stared at
it.

  He wondered if this was the work of their suspect. It had to be. Did he actually dig up the grave or just make it look that way?

  Allan knew that question would have to be answered. He slowly shook his head, absorbing the task in front of them.

  Four boot impressions were in the topsoil where the sod had been. He knelt to one knee for a better look. Two, he saw, had clear details of the sole and heel design; the other two contained a small amount of standing water. From their general characteristics, they all appeared to have been made by the same pair of boots.

  Allan reached into a pocket of his raincoat and produced his notebook. On a blank page, he wrote down his time of arrival, the address of the scene, those present, and the weather conditions.

  Someone shouted, “Detective!”

  Allan looked up, saw David coming over.

  “Do you need to speak to Mr. Greer?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  David motioned the caretaker to join them. As he approached, Allan’s gaze drifted to the man’s boots, to the mud that rimmed their soles. Inwardly, he winced.

  Without ceremony Greer said, “Damn kids, I tell ya.”

  Allan shot him a quizzical look. “Pardon me?”

  Greer leveled a pudgy finger at the grave. “This,” he said in a disgusted tone. “Last year, they kicked over headstones. Tossed flowers around. They even sprayed graffiti on the wall outside. This year they’re messing up graves.”

  Allan appraised him for a moment. “Was the front gate locked when you got here this morning?”

  Greer nodded his double chins. “Yeah. But they can easily climb over the wall.”

  Allan scribbled down the details. On the dampening paper, the ink was barely taking.

  “Did you check for any other desecrations?”

  “Yeah. This was the only one touched.”

  Looking around, Allan tried to gauge the size of the cemetery. It was large, he realized.

  “You checked everywhere?” he prodded Greer.

  Another nod. “I did. Since those incidents last year, I do a quick walkabout every morning. Damn kids.” Palms out, Greer gave a light twitch of his shoulders. “I don’t understand it. What’s the attraction? You gotta be sick in the head to do stuff like this.”

  Allan closed his notebook, the page too wet to write on. He had written very little anyhow.

  “There are a lot of idiots out there,” he said. “You quickly realize that in my line of work. Vandalism reflects the attitude of the group of people committing it.” With his pen, he pointed to the man’s feet. “Can I see the bottoms of your boots, please?”

  A guarded look came across Greer’s face. “What for?”

  Allan showed him the impressions in the topsoil.

  “Those belong to me,” Greer said with a trace of apology in his tone. “I removed the sod when I noticed the lumps under.” He turned, lifting one foot, then the other. “See?”

  At once Allan noted the similarities in the sole design. Disappointed, he let out a sigh. He knew it. He just knew it.

  “The sod was in place when you got here?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t how we left it. You couldn’t tell we even put it down. There were no gaps or overlaps. Not like the mess this morning.”

  “Were all the pieces messed up or just a few?”

  “All of them. And they all had big lumps underneath. We rake and roll the soil before laying the sod.”

  Allan paused, thinking that over. “When was the burial?”

  “Wednesday morning.”

  Allan scratched his chin. Buried Wednesday, desecrated on Thursday night. He wondered if the suspect knew Walsh or his family.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That’ll be all for now.”

  Greer wiped rain from his face. Then without another word, he turned and left. Several yards away, Allan heard him mutter under his breath, “Damn kids.”

  As Greer disappeared down the slope of the closest hill, David looked to Allan.

  He said, “I don’t believe kids did this. Do you?”

  Allan lifted his face to the sky, blinking against the raindrops coming down.

  “No. No, I don’t,” he said.

  “If it’s the suspect, he just told us he’s still in the area.”

  Allan detected an edge in David’s voice. Despairingly, he felt David’s burden as his own. Though never spoken, Allan could sense the attitude of other officers in the Acresville department. All hope seemed to rest on him to solve the Baker murder.

  “Dr. Armstrong thought he might be from here,” he said.

  Sam asked, “Why would he do this?”

  Allan shook his head. “Don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s taunting us. Trying to get under our skin.”

  “It’s working,” Sam said.

  Allan threw him a glance. “Just stay focused.”

  Face troubled, David stared into some void. “You know what we need to do, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Allan mumbled. “We need to do an exhumation.”

  “Just to make sure,” David said.

  “The Department of Health won’t allow it in this rain,” Allan told him. “We’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I think the rain’s supposed to let up this afternoon.”

  “I’ll call Fitzgerald to get everything lined up,” David said.

  “Let’s get the funeral register book,” Allan said. “Run the names through the computer.”

  David’s eyes narrowed. “You think this man was at Walsh’s funeral?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Allan paused, amassing his thoughts. “Did he just pick this grave by chance? You have to ask yourself that. We should check the obituary to see if it said where Mr. Walsh was going to be buried.”

  “I’ll take care of all that,” David said and left the scene.

  James Bentley arrived and held a briefing with Allan and Sam. The men exchanged concerns about the weather. Everyone agreed that the rain was going to hamper the investigation. The topsoil in the grave had already turned to mud. To safeguard against further damage, they pitched an awning over it.

  Sam took up his post at the front gates of the cemetery. Only authorized personnel would be allowed past him. There would be no visits granted to loved ones.

  Allan retrieved his camera from his car and photographed the scene at varying distances and directions. James moved out from the gravesite with a metal detector. When he didn’t find any evidence, he switched his search to the stone wall where the perpetrator’s likely point of entry and exit had been. Allan helped him.

  By midafternoon, the rain had become sporadic—moments of showers interrupted by lulls. Surrounded by it for so many hours, Allan felt the dampness beginning to seep into his bones. He needed to sit. He needed to eat. Already the day seemed too long.

  His cell phone rang. It was David.

  “I have some information,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Hector Walsh and his wife lived in Halifax for the past twenty years. They’re originally from Acresville. They had bought the plots at Rolling Hills when they lived here.

  “The family held a graveside service on Wednesday morning. Apparently Mr. Walsh never wanted a funeral. He said they were too expensive.”

  “Who was at the service?”

  “Only his family and a few close friends.”

  “Have you seen the obituary?”

  “I have. There was one in the Gazette and the Herald. They were identical and never mentioned where the burial would take place.”

  Allan exhaled. “Thank you.”

  Hanging up, he shook his head, confused and frustrated.

  And the mystery deepens, he thought.

  42

  Acresville, May 22

  10:30 a.m.

  “History is marred with accounts of grave robberies,” said Fitzgerald. “During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, your final resting place wasn’t necessarily your final resting place.”


  Crossing his arms, Allan watched a fluffy cloud drift by in the rich blue of the morning sky.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  They stood several feet away from the gravesite as James Bentley prepared for the exhumation of Hector Walsh. After choosing a datum point, he divided the top of the grave into grids using lengths of string tied to metal stakes driven into the ground. Sam documented everything with photographs.

  Two other people were at the site—Jack Greer, who sat inside a backhoe, and a man from the Department of Health, who made sure proper protocol was being followed. Everyone present had to be dressed in full protective gear—Tyvek coveralls, gloves, goggles, masks, and safety boots.

  “Resurrection men used to steal entire corpses,” Fitzgerald continued. “Some of the men were actually surgeons and medical students who wanted the bodies to dissect and study. Others were simply profiteers who sold the bodies to medical schools.

  “They used to target fresh graves. Not only because the soil would be easier to dig, but the body would be in better shape.”

  “Good thing we have willing donors nowadays,” Allan said.

  Fitzgerald laughed. “Yeah, isn’t that the truth? I don’t condone what they did back then. The practice did lead to many advancements in the field of anatomy.”

  Allan raised his eyebrows. “I bet. Sick way to do it.”

  He watched James removing the top layer of soil from the grave and dumping it into buckets lined up on the edge. After he filled each one, he lugged them to the wet sieving area assembled nearby. There he spread the soil over a box sifter and hand-checked it first. Then he used water to separate the soggy dirt from any articles it contained. So far he’d found nothing but rocks and pebbles.

  The old soil from the grave would be trucked away; new soil would be used in the reburial.

  When James got several feet down, he had Sam help him install wooden shoring along the walls of the hole to prevent a cave-in. His coveralls were caked with mud. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  Allan’s cell phone rang, breaking his focus on the activity around him. He turned away, pulling the mask below his chin.

  “How’s everything going?” David asked him.