by Alex MacLean
Hoss heard a voice telling him to do it. He needed to end this.
With a tight grip on the knife, he left the house in search of his father.
In single file, cows were exiting the milking parlor into the feedlot. Hoss knew his father would still be inside the building, cleaning up. He began to approach the parlor, his footsteps becoming slower the closer he got.
His father was there, standing with his back to him, spraying the floor with a hose. Completely still, Hoss watched him. He felt unable to move.
Do it, the voice repeated. Do it now.
Hoss swallowed. On tiptoes, he crept up behind his father.
Twelve feet.
Then ten.
Suddenly, the hose shut off and the man paused, as if he had heard something. Breath held, Hoss stopped in mid-step. He expected his father to spin around and catch him. His heart pounded in his ears, his nerves jangled.
With a shrug that was almost undetectable, his father turned on the hose again. Water showered the floor.
Eight feet.
Six.
Eyes narrowed on his target. Soon the man must look behind him.
Four feet.
Three.
Hoss could feel the hesitation in his hand.
Do it now.
In one convulsive motion, he lunged at his father, thrusting the blade deep into his side. A loud squeal echoed off the walls. The hose fell to the floor. Snapping sideways at the waist, the man reached for the cause of his sudden pain.
Hand shaking, Hoss wrenched the blade free. Then he recoiled in horror, staring at his father. The man turned to him, wobbling a bit. His eyes were stricken, his face a pantomime of surprise. He touched the wound and then looked at the blood on his fingertips.
“What...what have you done?” he said. “You little shit. You fucking little shit.”
He charged at his son.
In a panicky reflex, Hoss shot the knife out in front of him, felt the blade penetrate his father’s abdomen as the man’s forward momentum carried him into it. He grunted, sour breath expelling from his mouth.
Hoss pivoted out of the way, and his father tumbled to the floor in a heap. He struggled to get back up, fell down again to his hands and knees. The handle of the knife stuck out of his belly.
Hoss gaped in disbelief.
To him, his father suddenly seemed old, broken, vulnerable. His look at his son was furtive, almost timid. The fury in his eyes had dissolved.
“I was your father,” he choked. “Your flesh and blood.”
To Hoss’s amazement, his vision became blurred with tears.
“You were never a father to me.” He fought to steady his voice. “Never.”
A look of incredulity crossed the man’s face. Gingerly, he touched the handle of the knife. His shirt was becoming red around the guard. Throat working, Hoss watched him with a pity that he never thought possible.
“I was better...” The man coughed, and blood flecked his lips. “I was better to you than my father ever was to me.”
Hoss couldn’t stand to hear any more. He ran out of the parlor for the house. Behind him he could hear his father calling after him.
Hoss burst open the door of the kitchen. Overcome with emotion, he crumpled against the cupboard and sobbed.
Hours later, after he had summoned enough courage to return to the parlor, he found his father dead on the floor.
> > > < < <
Swallowing, Hoss’s thoughts shifted back to the present.
A tremor ran through his words as he spoke aloud to his father. “What would it have been like had you only loved me?
“Childhood is supposed to be a time of happiness, of magical things. Not of suffering and worry.”
Hoss touched his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath. He gazed out at the green sweep of mountains. The sky above them was a flawless splash of blue. In the quiet he could hear a few crows cawing.
When at last he looked at his father’s grave again, tears rolled down Hoss’s face. He didn’t try to stop them. This reservoir of emotion had to be emptied—just like the unresolved matters he had to finally get off his chest.
“You only fostered in me,” he said, wincing, “everything that was bad in you. I guess there never was any hope that I could live a normal life. Even with you gone, the pain never left. Nor did the memories.
“Maybe it’s only now that I can understand the circumstances that shaped the prick you were. As much as I tried to avoid it, I turned out even worse than you. God only knows what I might’ve become had I left this place before everything happened.
“I’m sorry, you old bastard. But even now on the eve on my own end, I can’t forgive you. All I can ask is that you understand why I did what I did. And maybe forgive me.”
Hoss turned away and began walking back to the farmhouse with his head down.
He didn’t plan to see this time tomorrow.
48
Halifax, May 24
8:16 a.m.
There was a rose etched in the upper corner of the granite headstone. With tired eyes, Allan read the inscription:
Beloved husband and father
Cecil M. Drake
August 23, 1954 – May 16, 2010
Absent from the body, Present with the Lord
For perhaps the second time since being laid to rest, Cecil Drake was about to be unearthed.
Allan stood in the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Sackville, watching the gravediggers prepare to lift the casket out of the ground. Since an excavator could disturb and damage neighboring plots, they were using a chain hoist and gantry instead. It was set up directly over the hole so the casket could be brought up by hand.
Privacy screens surrounded the area to keep out inquisitive eyes. Everyone allowed inside the perimeter had to be dressed in protective clothing and respirators—Jim Lucas, who documented all stages of the exhumation with his camera; Harvey Doucette, who sifted through the excavated soil; the superintendent of the cemetery and a man from the Department of Health, who oversaw everything going on; and, of course, the gravediggers.
Only one person who needed to be there was absent—Dr. Coulter. Allan had purposely given him a later time to arrive.
He checked his watch: 8:25 a.m. Thirty-five minutes to go. He tilted his head back and shut his eyes, expelling a breath that warmed his face beneath the mask.
For the first time in his career he hoped his gut was wrong.
The morning was warming under a clear sky. Around him came the sounds of briskly moving traffic on Highway 101.
When Allan opened his eyes, he noted the diggers looping heavy slings around either end of the casket and then attaching them to a large snap hook at the end of the hoist’s chain suspended above them. As they climbed from the pit, the first man out began pulling down on one of the chain loops, while the other guided the casket to the surface.
Allan moved aside. The casket, he saw, looked expensive. Here and there the high-gloss finish peeked out from the dirt and grime. Crosses were engraved in the corners, and decorative swing handles ran down both sides.
The diggers pushed the casket to one side of the gantry and then carefully lowered it onto a metal carriage next to the hole.
Allan stepped closer, examining the bottom edges of the casket lids. He found striation and impression marks in the wood where the locks were. Gently, he lifted on each lid to see if it would open.
Both would.
He shook his head, suddenly filled with revulsion. There was no question now. Someone had broken in.
Allan cringed at the thought of what he might find inside.
He called Jim over to photograph the marks.
“I can cast those impressions with silicone rubber,” Jim said, snapping his camera.
Allan remembered the pry bar found in Eagles’s trunk. “I’ll get you the suspected tool so you can make a comparison.”
“When’s Coulter coming?”
Allan glanced at the time again: 8:47. “Soon.”
>
“He should’ve been here throughout the exhumation.”
“I know,” Allan said simply.
He told the gravediggers to leave the partitioned area. When they were gone, Allan lifted the top lid of the casket a few inches to allow any gases to escape. He waited only briefly before he swung both lids fully open.
As his gaze fell into the casket, he felt himself swallow.
In repose, Cecil Drake was waxen, mannequin-like. He was dressed in a navy suit with a white shirt and striped tie. There were no shoes or socks on his feet.
“Jesus Christ.”
The voice, close to his ear, startled Allan. Jim had just seen the wickedness inside the casket.
The sleeves of Cecil’s suit jacket and shirt had been cut off and tossed on top of his legs. Both lower arms were missing. Cut off at the elbows. Just like the ones found in Eagles’s trunk.
“What’s going on, Detective?” Jim asked. “Is this why you were in Acresville?”
“Yes,” he answered softly. “I’m going to break protocol here, Jim. I know Coulter isn’t present, but there’s something I need to see.”
Allan reached in and pushed aside Cecil’s tie. Pausing a moment, he looked into the dead man’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I mean no disrespect.”
As he began to unbutton the suit jacket, Jim put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey! What are you doing, man?”
Allan snapped his head around. “Stand down. Please.”
Without another word, Jim took one step back, then another.
Allan turned back to the body. He fumbled with the buttons on Cecil Drake’s shirt all the way down to the trousers. When he finished, he felt a weird tingle on his skin.
He hoped he’d be wrong about this.
He opened the shirt and then winced. It was as he had expected, but it never lessened the shock.
A Y-shaped seam ran down Cecil’s torso.
Allan closed the casket lids and walked away. There has to be a simple explanation, he brooded. Still, he couldn’t piece it together. Logic seemed just out of his reach.
Murders. Grave robberies. Body parts.
Body parts.
That’s what it’s been all about.
But why?
Deep in thought, Allan left the exhumation site and removed the mask from his face. He saw Coulter’s van pulling into the cemetery. The time was 8:58.
Coulter parked behind Allan’s car and got out. He was dressed in Tyvek coveralls, and he was alone.
Allan went over to him.
“Morning, Detective,” Coulter greeted. “It’s shaping up to be a nice day.”
“That it is, Doctor. Where’s your assistant?”
“Called in sick this morning. Said he’s feeling fluey.” Coulter looked over at the partition of privacy screens. “What’s going on? You started without me?”
“We did,” Allan answered matter-of-factly.
Coulter’s eyes narrowed. “Whadda you mean? You know I’m supposed to be present.”
Allan gave a dismissive shrug. “I know that.”
“What’s going on, Detective? Why are we even here?”
“We’re here because of Cecil Drake,” Allan said. “Do you remember him? Fifty-five-year-old male. You performed the autopsy, didn’t you?”
Coulter frowned. “Yes. I couldn’t understand why you were exhuming his body.”
Allan studied him. How many years, he wondered, had he known Coulter, the medical examiner who seemed so dedicated to his work, so professional. Was it possible to misjudge someone that badly?
“How’d Cecil Drake die?” Allan asked him.
“Aneurysm, if I remember correctly. He died suddenly at home after being in apparent good health.” Coulter put both hands on his hips. “Why was he exhumed?”
“To find out if he still had both arms, which he doesn’t.”
Coulter’s mouth and eyes opened in surprise. “What?”
“Yesterday in Acresville we found an amputated set of arms in the trunk of a car. The car’s owner was shot dead.” Allan unzipped the front of his coveralls, retrieved the notebook found in Eagles’s car, and gave it to Coulter. “Cecil Drake’s name is in there with a check mark beside it. Cathy Ambré’s name is in there as well. Only she has no check mark. I don’t know what that means. Her grave didn’t look tampered with, but we have twenty-four-hour surveillance at the cemetery where she’s buried.”
Coulter quietly thumbed through the pages of the notebook. “I know these people.”
“You did autopsies on all of them?”
“I think so.” Coulter frowned. “I have to check my records to make sure.”
“Hector Walsh isn’t in there,” Allan said. “I don’t know what that means yet.”
Coulter looked up. “You told me his grave was dug up in Acresville. Someone took his head.”
“That’s right, and I’m not sure why. What I do know is that someone is targeting people on whom you performed autopsies, Doctor.” Allan leveled a finger at him. “Everything points back to you.”
Coulter blinked, swallowing. “My God, you...you think I’m involved in this?” he stammered. “How long have we been friends and colleagues, Al?”
Allan realized it was the first time Coulter had ever addressed him by his shortened name.
“Who else would I suspect? Who else was at each and every autopsy?”
A moment of awkward silence passed as both men stared at each other.
When Coulter spoke at last, his voice came out as a near whisper. “Lawrence. He was at all of them.”
“How well do you know the guy?”
“Not very.”
“He’s only been with you for a year or so, hasn’t he?”
“Not even that long. I hired him last August.”
Allan paused, staring down at the ground.
“You enjoy this work?”
“Very much.”
“It never bothers you? The sights, the smells?”
Sodero shook his head. “I find the human body very fascinating. I knew back in grade ten biology when I dissected a fetal pig that I would someday get into this type of work.”
“A fetal pig, huh? In my biology class we only dissected a starfish and a frog. And I found both to be rather disgusting.”
Sodero laughed. “We also used those for dissections. I must say the fetal pig was my favorite, though. Call me weird, but during my years in university I kept one preserved in a jar in my dorm room.”
“Did you give it a name?”
“I did.” Sodero smiled. “I called him Fred.”
“There is something,” Coulter said. “Lawrence grew up in Acresville. I remember him telling me that.”
Allan stared at him. Everything was beginning to make sense, the dots connecting.
He asked, “Did you tell him about the grave desecration in Acresville? About the possible connection to the murders there and here?”
Coulter shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe in passing.”
“He was at the office when I called you Saturday. He answered the phone.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did he work yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“All day?”
“Until quitting time.”
“Did he know we were exhuming Cecil Drake this morning?”
“Yes, I told him.”
“Before or after he told you he was sick?”
“Before.” Coulter touched the bridge of his nose. “He called me last night and told me that he couldn’t make the exhumation. He felt fluey.”
Allan’s face grew intent. “Tell me where he lives.”
49
Halifax, May 24
12:14 p.m.
Lawrence Sodero lived in a contemporary cedar with a low-pitched roof and huge windows. His Audi was parked in the driveway.
As Allan drove up to the curb in front of the house and shut off the engine, he felt leaden
with fatigue and uncertainty. Questions troubled him about this case—what possible reason could Sodero have for wanting human parts? If he was at work yesterday, then who murdered Stephen Eagles? Who else was at play here?
Allan shook his head. Against Sodero there was suspicion and probability but no hard proof, no smoking gun. Even so, he was the main suspect in a bizarre case.
Allan glanced at the house. If the search didn’t turn up body parts, or some other piece of evidence, he would be at a dead end. Again.
The clock in the dash read 12:20. He picked up the search warrant from the passenger seat and made sure everything was right. Satisfied, he folded it in half and slipped it into a shirt pocket. Before coming here, he had checked the gun registry to see if Sodero owned any firearms; he didn’t.
There was still the question of whether or not he owned any illegal ones.
In the rearview mirror Allan saw the SIU van pull into the driveway, blocking the Audi; Jim sat behind the wheel, Harvey beside him. Like Allan, they were still dressed in their coveralls.
His cell phone rang. It was Coulter.
“Go ahead, Doctor.”
“I went through my files and checked those names you showed me. I did perform autopsies on all of them.”
“The first name in the book was the earliest one?”
“Yes, it was,” Coulter said. “Do you remember Sonny Benson?”
Allan straightened. The name sounded familiar enough.
“Accidental overdose,” Coulter added. “You handled the investigation, Detective.”
Allan closed his eyes, remembering. Sonny Benson from Chebucto Road. Smoked too much crystal meth one night and was found dead on his sofa by his girlfriend.
“Happened last fall, didn’t it?” Allan asked.
“October thirty-first,” Coulter told him.
Allan watched the ERT van pull to the curb in front of him. “Lawrence was at the autopsy. I remember now.”
“Yes, he was.”