Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Dr. Judy Galloway looked directly into Allan’s eyes. “When you think back to the shooting yesterday, what aspect of the incident affected you most?”

  “That I was forced to take the life of another human being,” Allan said.

  “Would you say that was the worst part?”

  “Yes, most definitely.”

  They sat in David’s office, just the two of them. It was part of the critical-incident interview that had been arranged after the shooting of Herb Matteau.

  Galloway appeared to be around Allan’s age, with perceptive blue eyes, blond hair, and subtle makeup. She wore a tailored red business suit, and she spoke in a quiet, level voice tinged with a distinct Newfoundland accent.

  “Was this the first time you had to use lethal force?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you were to watch a videotape of the incident, only your twin brother was involved, how would you rate his actions?”

  Allan paused for a long moment. “Ten out of ten.”

  Galloway studied his expression with a cool curiosity. “That’s a high mark.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the best part of the incident?”

  “Best part?”

  “Yes.”

  Allan spread his hands. “That neither my partners nor I were seriously hurt.”

  “Were you functioning normally before the incident?”

  Allan stared at the desk between them. “I’ll admit I was angry.”

  “With whom?”

  “The suspect.”

  “Why?”

  Allan looked up. “Because he had murdered four people and shattered the lives of three families.”

  Galloway wrote something down. “As the shooting took place, did you experience any perceptual distortions?”

  “Everything seemed to slow down.”

  “Did you experience tunnel vision?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about amplified or diminished sounds?”

  “My shots sounded like a cap gun. Not as loud as they should’ve been.”

  “When you saw the suspect bringing his gun up toward you, what went through your mind?”

  “That I was going to be shot.” Allan breathed in. “I heard of officers, when being shot at, suddenly wonder if they had unplugged the toaster before leaving home in the morning. But nothing weird like that happened to me. I really didn’t have time to think, only react.”

  “How did you feel right after the shooting?”

  “Shaken.”

  Galloway tilted her head. Looking into her face, Allan felt himself being appraised.

  “How did you feel when you found out the gun wasn’t loaded?”

  Allan crossed his arms. “Guilty. Regretful.”

  “Did you second-guess your decision to shoot?”

  “No. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if the gun was loaded or not.”

  “So you don’t blame yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Were you still angry with the suspect at that point?”

  “Yes, a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the man had used us to take the easy way out.”

  “So you don’t feel justice was served?”

  “No.”

  Galloway sat back. Finger to her lips, she seemed to consider his answer.

  “It’s been twenty-four hours since the shooting,” she said. “In that time, what physical responses have you experienced?”

  “I feel tired.” Allan moved his shoulders a fraction. “That’s all.”

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Galloway continued to write. “Were you preoccupied with what happened at the shooting?”

  Allan shook his head. “Not really. I thought about it, but not obsessively.”

  “How do you feel about yourself, Detective?”

  That gave Allan pause. “Myself?”

  “Yes. Do you feel good about yourself? Are you happy in your life?”

  Allan winced inside, suddenly uncomfortable. He contemplated his answer in pained silence.

  No, he wanted to tell her. He wasn’t happy. He felt alone. He felt troubled. He clung to a forlorn hope that his life would improve in some way.

  “I feel quite good about myself,” he said and then found himself unable to look at Galloway.

  “If, in the coming days,” she told him, “you begin to experience vivid flashbacks or nightmares; if you experience any increased feelings of anxiety, anger, or irritability; or if you find yourself becoming estranged from your family and friends, be sure to call me at once.”

  She gave him her business card.

  Allan stared at it.

  “I will,” he said at last.

  “I would like to see you again in a week, Detective.”

  Allan looked at her. “To see if I’m showing symptoms of something?”

  Galloway nodded. “To see how you’ve been coping. You need to realize that you’re human. It’s normal to feel things.”

  52

  Halifax, May 25

  3:55 p.m.

  As Allan slowed his car for the lineup of traffic at the tollbooths for the MacDonald Bridge, he glanced at Galloway’s card on the dash. Much of the trip from Acresville had taken place without his awareness; preoccupied with his interview with her, he had driven mainly on instinct.

  Perhaps he should call Galloway again to discuss the other problems that he’d been having—the difficult time he had since Melissa left with Brian; the loneliness of being single again; the job that was taking its toll on him.

  Before he could do that, however, there remained a more pressing issue at hand.

  The car ahead of him drove off as the gate lifted, and Allan pulled up to the coin bucket, tossing in three quarters. He crossed the MacDonald Bridge into Halifax, bothered by something he couldn’t put his finger on, filled with a sense of uncertainty and premonition.

  The day was dark, overcast. A light but steady rain fell. In the clouds were flashes of lightning, faint rumblings of thunder, the weather strangely mimicking the dreary mood he was in.

  The traffic moved at a snail’s pace. It took Allan fifteen minutes to reach the home of Frank and Barbara Hawkins. When they didn’t answer their door, he phoned them and left a voice message, asking them to call him as soon as possible. He had important information regarding the case of their son, Brad.

  Allan then drove to an affluent neighborhood in the south end of Halifax to confront the melancholic task of visiting Philip and Carol Ambré once more.

  Philip answered the door. He looked weary and haggard, even more so than he had at Cathy’s funeral. His clothes hung loosely off his frame, as if he were withering away from the inside out. When he saw Allan, a brief glint of surprise appeared in his eyes.

  “Detective Stanton. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Allan looked into Philip’s ravaged face. “Hello, Mr. Ambré. I have some news to tell you.”

  Philip’s expression changed but slightly, a narrowing of his eyes. He drew aside, stepping back into the house. “Please, come in.”

  Allan entered the foyer. “Is Carol home?”

  Philip shook his head. “She’s sleeping.” He closed the door behind them. “The doctor has her on a sedative.”

  For Allan, the words carried a sense of hopelessness, an inability to fully comprehend what had happened to them.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Philip asked.

  “We caught up with the man responsible for murdering Cynthia.”

  Philip stood straighter. “Who is he?”

  “His name was Herbert Matteau. A dairy farmer from Acresville.”

  “You speak of him in the past tense.”

  Allan nodded. “He was killed in a shootout with us yesterday.”

  “I heard about a shooting on the news last night, but they didn’t say what it was about.”

  “That’s because we
’re not releasing much information right now. The investigation is still ongoing.”

  Philip’s mouth formed a small “o.”

  Allan watched him take this in. Beneath Philip’s grim expression, he saw a certain brightness and satisfaction appear.

  “What was this man’s connection with my daughter?” Philip asked him. “Was he a customer of hers?”

  “There was no prior connection, Mr. Ambré,” Allan said. “This man was angry at the world. He came to Halifax one night looking for a victim. Unfortunately, he found Cynthia.”

  Philip winced and briefly shut his eyes. “It might sound harsh, but I’m glad the fucker is dead. At least my tax dollar won’t pay to keep him in one of our cushy prisons.”

  “I understand.” Allan held out his hand. “I have to head back to my department now. You take care of yourself.”

  Philip accepted the hand with a firm grip. “Thank you, Detective. For everything you did. You’re a good cop.”

  Allan suddenly felt sad. He gave him an appreciative nod and then stepped outside into the rain. As he walked back to his car, he realized Herb Matteau’s death had spared the Ambrés from being dragged through years of an upside-down court process that often treated criminals better than their victims. At least now they could somehow begin that long road of pain and recovery.

  Allan reached his department at 4:51. He shut off his car in the parking lot and just sat there for a while, not moving. The rain beat an even rhythm on the roof.

  Through the streaked windshield, he stared at the blurred shape of the brick building where he had worked for the past twelve years.

  He inhaled a deep breath, let it out in one long exhalation. His life was about to change, and he didn’t know if for better or for worse.

  He got out of the car and walked across the wet pavement with slow steps. The last ten or so feet to the department seemed like a great distance. Once inside he went straight to Captain Thorne’s office.

  Outside the door, Allan paused a moment to ensure that he was set. Then he knocked.

  “Come in,” Thorne said.

  Allan found Thorne studiously hunched over his desk, his gaze jumping over a heap of paperwork. His office was spacious, ornate, with a mass of windows overlooking Gottingen Street.

  “Al.” Rising from his desk, Thorne held out his hand. “Great job.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” Allan gave him a weak handshake. “It got scary yesterday.”

  Thorne sat down, and his voice became soft. “I can imagine. It’s not easy shooting someone. Self-defense or not. I just want to let you know the department’s behind you.”

  Allan swallowed over a hard lump growing in his throat. “I appreciate that.”

  “How’re you making out?”

  “Doing okay.”

  “Chief Brantford called me earlier and commended you. I must say it was the weirdest case in our department’s history.” Thorne sat back with a look of astonishment on his face. “Who would’ve ever thought Lawrence Sodero was behind the whole thing. I bet Coulter is still in shock over it.”

  Allan said, “Goes to show that you really don’t know anyone these days. I think Coulter will be a little more cautious about who he hires in the future.”

  “I bet.”

  For a moment, Allan looked down at his shoes. There was so much he’d come here to say, but now faced with the task, he found it difficult. He walked to the windows, gazing out at the steady flow of traffic on Gottingen.

  Finally, he said, “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Captain.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  Allan turned to him. “I’ve been thinking of leaving the force.”

  Thorne blinked. “What? Why?”

  Allan exhaled, feeling sick inside. “I can’t do this job anymore.”

  “What do you mean? When did this all start?”

  “A few months ago. Maybe longer.”

  Thorne seemed to consider him. “How bad is it getting to you?”

  “So bad that I feel like the job is killing me,” Allan said. “My wife left me. My son might have nothing to do with me again. I can’t sleep. I can’t concentrate.”

  “Do you think it’s more about the loss of your family than your job?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is. But how can I be sure?”

  Thorne gave him a quiet look of understanding. “Have you been seeing someone about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Allan spread his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “We have counselors for this sort of thing.”

  “I know. I spoke to one this morning.”

  “Did you mention any of this?”

  Allan shook his head. “No. The interview dealt mainly with the shooting yesterday.”

  “I think you need to see someone, Al.”

  “I think I just need to get away from the job, Captain.”

  Thorne lowered his head, thinking. Allan’s mouth felt dry, his palms damp. The office was silent now; neither man spoke.

  At last, Thorne raised his eyes. “Before you do anything rash, how about taking some time off? A few weeks. I’ll put you on leave. After the shooting yesterday, it’s to be expected. Don’t throw away your career, Al. You’re good at this. Whether you think you are or not.”

  Torn, Allan paused a moment to consider the offer. “All right. I need to wrap up this investigation first.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Allan turned for the door to leave. Behind him he heard Thorne rise from his chair.

  “I’ll give you three weeks,” he said. “If you need more time, just let me know.”

  “Thanks.” Allan nodded once and then left.

  He went to his office, closed the door, and sat at his desk. Resting his forehead on clasped hands, he shut his eyes. Outside, the rain was pouring now, big fat drops that pounded the windowpane.

  When Allan opened his eyes again, he stared at the picture of Brian smiling at him from the edge of the desk.

  Allan missed him. He wanted to see him. He needed to see him. Life was short and so damn uncertain. It could change in a heartbeat.

  Allan picked up the phone and called Air Canada. He told the agent who answered that he wanted to book a flight to Toronto.

  She asked, “When do you want it, sir?”

  Allan considered the date. Brian’s birthday was coming up. Allan would like to be there by then, if not before. Could he wrap up this whole bizarre case in time?

  “Let’s book it for June eighth,” he said.

  That would be two days before Brian’s birthday.

  When he hung up, he sat back in his chair. And for the first time in a long time, he felt himself smile.

  ONE KILL AWAY

  1

  Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold.

  Andre Maurois

  HALIFAX, NS, JUNE 8, 2010

  1:48 a.m.

  The dead man had a look of horror frozen in his eyes.

  Seth Connors stared at the body, admiring his handiwork. Joel Black had said, “If a murder can be experienced aesthetically, the murderer can, in turn, be regarded as a kind of artist—a performance artist or anti-artist whose specialty is not creation but destruction.”

  Seth smiled. Yes, he agreed. His creation was definitely a work of art.

  He moved around the body, careful not to step in the rivulet of blood pushing its way across the kitchen floor. He was sweating and trembling from the adrenaline. The muscles of his arms and shoulders quivered as if he’d been pumping weights for the last hour.

  A slender man of thirty, he had a shadow of a soul patch under his bottom lip and hair shaved close to his scalp. A thick scar cut a diagonal path across his left cheek, ending at the edge of his nose. He wore a black rain suit and lightweight hiking boots. Black nitrile gloves sheathed his hands.

  With a slow sweep of his head, Seth looked around and swallowed painfully against a dry throat. Th
e kitchen had blood, so much blood, everywhere. Spatters of it flecked the cupboards, refrigerator, walls, and ceiling, as if flung with a wet brush. Empty beer cans lined the counter, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Grease stains marred the stovetop, and a cast-iron frying pan with hardened bacon fat inside sat on one burner.

  Seth glanced at the window shuttered with a worn roller shade. Hard rain battered the glass, and for the first time since coming here, he heard the wind moaning through cracks around the frame.

  He approached the kitchen table. On top of it lay a long duffel bag, a Remington 870 shotgun, a roll of duct tape, and an opened package of zip ties. He picked up the shotgun. In his hands, it felt heavy, lethal. Good thing he never had to use it. A shotgun fired inside a home produced a deafening blast, and it would surely alert neighbors.

  Eyes shut, he let his finger graze the trigger. He suddenly became overwhelmed by an urge to jam the barrel into his own mouth and blow his brains out, ending the nightmare once and for all. But there was still work to do.

  With an audible sigh, he pressed on the safety and packed the gun away in the duffel bag. His hand froze on the roll of duct tape when he saw the blood spots on his glove and sleeve.

  Got some pig on me, he thought, wincing with disgust.

  Seth finished packing the rest of the items, zipped up the duffel bag, and then slung the bag over his shoulder. He stopped briefly at the kitchen door and looked over his shoulder at the dead man on the floor. The body made weird twitching movements, as if still alive. That was impossible.

  Seth switched off the light and cracked the door open to peer out at the rear parking lot. The rain swept across his field of vision in slanted sheets. He could see no one around. Only three empty cars by the back fence.

  He pulled the hood over his head and stepped outside, closing the door softly behind him. Off to the right was a short picket fence. Seth ran toward it and leaped, putting his hands on the top and swinging his legs over in one fluid motion. Landing on the other side, he dropped into a crouch and repositioned the duffel bag on his shoulder. His gaze touched each window, dark and light, of the surrounding buildings. There was no one in the streets. No cars coming. No signs of an urban neighborhood that had just witnessed terror and brutality.