by Alex MacLean
“Did he have a hood over his head?”
Janelle nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Audra winced, a bit deflated. “Did you see his face at all?”
“No. He had his head down the whole time.”
“Are you sure it was a man?”
“Oh yeah. He had wide shoulders and didn’t have that woman’s roundness. Know what I mean?”
“I know. How tall did he look to you?”
“Average height.”
“Five-eight to five-ten?”
“Yeah. Closer to five-ten. I’d say.”
“How about his build?”
“Average. ’Bout a hundred seventy-five pounds.”
Audra wrote down the description. Not much to go on, that was for sure. “Was he carrying anything?”
“Uh-huh. He had a bag over his shoulder.”
Audra paused, looked her straight in the eyes. “What kind of bag?”
“You know, like a gym bag. I thought it odd, ’specially that time of night. I mean, what gym is open, right? Then I heard about the murder Monday night.”
“When did you first learn of it?”
“Last night.” Janelle jabbed a thumb toward next door. “My neighbor said she heard a gang member got shot.”
Audra considered how much information their spokesman had released to the media. Details were kept out to protect confidentiality. There was mention of a possible gang connection but nothing about the mode of murder. With the rash of shootings throughout the city in recent weeks, Audra could see how residents jumped to that conclusion so quickly.
“Is that all you know about the crime?” she asked.
Janelle nodded again. “Yeah.”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Took the kids over to my mom’s for the day. Came home last night.”
“I see,” Audra said. “How long did that bag look to you?”
Janelle stretched her arms to a length of around three feet. “’Bout that long.”
Audra chewed the inside of her cheek. Depending on the make and model of the shotgun, one could fit inside a bag that long. The axe would be no problem at all.
Audra wrote a few lines in her notebook. She remained cautiously optimistic. This could be a witness or a false lead.
She asked, “Did it have any distinctive markings? Stripes, logos, or writing?”
“I don’t believe so. Think it was all black.”
“Did the man’s clothing have any markings?”
Janelle shook her head.
“Did you notice his footwear?”
Janelle squinted at her. “Uh.” She thought about it. “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”
“Hey, no problem. What were you doing up at that time of night?”
“Sitting in the living room window, feeding my son.”
“Did you see where this man went?”
“He crossed the street in front of my building and went down Birmingham.”
“Did he resemble anyone you recall seeing in the neighborhood before?”
“Nobody I saw before. I see a lot of my neighbors, and he didn’t look like any of them.”
Audra read over the last page in her notebook. Satisfied, she closed it up. It was good to catch so much cooperation for a change. People had a reluctance to volunteer information, and with word out the murder had suspected gang ties, Audra knew many possible witnesses wouldn’t speak up for fear of reprisals.
She thanked Janelle and handed over her card.
“If you think of anything else,” she said, “please call me.”
Janelle gave her a clipped smile. “I will.”
Audra left the building, walking outside into the bright morning. The sun cast gleaming prisms on the windshields and mirrors of cars parked at the curbs. Audra could feel its soothing warmth on her face. Even though less than two weeks remained until summer officially arrived, spring temperatures still gripped the air.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, Audra watched the random bustle of the city pass by: a couple in matching blue jackets entering a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Morris and Birmingham; a bicyclist in spandex and a streamlined helmet whirring past; a woman across the street bending into the back of a car, buckling a toddler into a safety seat. Traffic sounds from adjacent streets came in the forms of engines slowing and revving, horns honking. Disembodied voices of pedestrians talked and laughed.
Audra crossed to the corner of Birmingham and peered down the street. Rows of older, wood-clad houses, many converted into apartments, lined both sides. Trucks and cars were parked at the curbs all the way down to Spring Garden Road, where Birmingham ended. Did the mystery man whom Janelle Gurnard described live in this side-street neighborhood? The area was not part of the initial canvass.
Audra knew she’d have to go to every door and hope to find a little civic help. Maybe she’d even meet this mystery man in the flesh, even rule him out as a person of interest. Coulter had estimated the time of death between one a.m. and four a.m. That gave a three-hour window of probability and it could be even wider. Estimation of time since death wasn’t an exact science like DNA or fingerprints. Too many variables were involved.
Audra walked across Birmingham to the Chinese restaurant. It was a nondescript building that looked like it might’ve been a variety store at one time. The lower half was walled in brick, and someone had sprayed graffiti on it. The upper half was covered in white siding. In the large window facing the street, four pieces of Chinese calligraphy, gold on a red background, were displayed below a neon Open sign.
Audra poked her head in the door, breathing in the savory blend of ginger and garlic and five spice. The restaurant was small, half full of diners. There were white tablecloths and red chairs. Walls heavy in Chinese décor.
Audra checked around for security cameras and winced when she saw only one over the counter area. She’d hoped there’d be one in the window looking out at Birmingham Street.
Her cell phone rang. The number displayed on the screen belonged to Jim Lucas of the Ident Unit.
“Better be good news,” Audra said.
A light chuckle. “Sorry. Not today.”
“What is it?”
“No prints on the axe.”
Audra dropped her head. “Not good.”
“Yeah, I know. Bummer.”
“It’s what we expected though. The suspect or suspects had gloves on.”
Jim sighed. “There’s still hope for the other prints we collected.”
“True. Maybe the gloves came off at some point and something was inadvertently touched.”
Jim paused, and Audra sensed they shared the same thought—sure, how likely was that?
“If so,” Jim answered finally, “we’ll find out.”
“Call me when you have good news,” Audra said.
“You don’t want to hear the rest of the bad news?”
A corner of Audra’s mouth twisted upward. “What else?”
“The maker of the axe was True Temper Kelly Works. Out of the U.S.”
“Let me guess, they’re no longer in business.”
“Long gone. This axe is old, and by old, I mean vintage.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. It probably sat around in someone’s basement or garage for years. Maybe even picked up at a yard sale. Only the suspect knows.”
Audra sighed. “When it rains, it pours.”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Audra said with a weak smile and hung up.
She cut across Morris again, walking slowly toward the corner of Queen. Her gaze drifted over the building Janelle lived in and then settled on the small parking lot to the left of it. Three out of the five slots were filled. Audra looked toward the front of the cars, where a small embankment rose to a picket fence. On the other side lay the parking area right behind Todd Dory’s apartment, now empty of yesterday’s beehive of activity. Barrier tape formed an X across the doorway, and a crime scene seal had bee
n placed over the door itself, extending across the jamb.
Audra checked her watch: 11:46. She turned to Atlantic News, the magazine shop next door. It backed right up to the parking lot and had a mansard roof with two dormers looking onto Morris. Like the Chinese restaurant, the lower part of the building that accommodated Atlantic News was built in the same red brick used in other old architecture in the city. The upper part, where several apartments were, was covered in white siding.
Yesterday, Audra had interviewed the tenants there. No one had seen or heard anything the night of the murder. Only the hard rain pelting the roof and windows.
Looking over the structure, her gaze froze on an object mounted to the corner of the building about eight feet above the sidewalk—a dome security camera discreetly watching the area.
Something leapt inside her. She stood there, unable to move, staring at the tinted bubble cover of the camera and feeling the mystery man in her blood.
14
Halifax, June 9
11:54 a.m.
Mrs. Zegray stood in front of the class, talking about the Acadian expulsion in 1755. Something about whole villages being emptied by the British. Land and livestock being seized. Families being torn apart, never to see each other again. An unforgivable number of Acadians dying of yellow fever, smallpox, or typhoid while on the deportation ships.
Daphne half listened. With growing anxiety, she looked up at the clock over the chalkboard. She watched the second hand ticking around the numbers, the minute hand creeping ever closer to noon. Six minutes until the bell rang for lunch.
She knew she’d meet those ninth graders in the cafeteria. Somehow she had avoided them in the hallways through two class changes but felt their presence in other students. There came a few outbursts of laughter amid the logjam of bodies; words tossed close enough to her ear made her believe they were directed at her, “Ewww, gross,” “Stinky skank.” She pretended not to hear, continued trudging along with her head down.
Where could she go for lunch? The library seemed the best choice. Quiet with usually a handful of students there reading. A teacher would be present too.
Daphne looked around the classroom. Most of the other nineteen kids ignored her now, like they’d contract leprosy if they went near her.
The loneliness was suffocating.
Tabitha Landes sat three rows over by the bookcase, her chin propped up on the heel of her palm. She was a slender girl with auburn hair pinned up into a neat chignon. She and Daphne had been inseparable for the past four years, but she no longer spoke to Daphne. In those rare moments their eyes met, Tabitha’s expression held an odd mix of pity and embarrassment.
For the first time in her life, Daphne understood the concept of having a broken heart and pain from losing a best friend.
“Before we end today,” said Mrs. Zegray. “There might be a pop quiz on the material we covered.”
The class let out a collective “aw.”
She held up her hands in mock surrender, her glance bouncing off each face. “I know. I know. Some questions you might want to remember: who was the acting governor at the time?”
Several students answered in unison, “Charles Lawrence.”
“When did the Seven Years’ War end?”
“Seventeen sixty-three.”
Mrs. Zegray smiled. “Very good. I see some of you were paying attention.”
The bell rang, and a jolt shot through Daphne. As if on cue, the students began rustling their stuff.
“Okay, everyone,” Mrs. Zegray said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you study.”
Chairs scraped the floor. Books closed with a slap. All around, the building rumbled with the sound of two hundred kids on the move.
Daphne remained at her desk, watching as the hallway filled up. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave the refuge of the classroom.
Slowly, she zipped up her binder and stacked it together with her textbooks. The last of her classmates left and melted into the crowd outside. There looked to be no wiggle room at all. The hallway had lockers, and that made it a hot spot for traffic and congestion.
Daphne waited a moment, then rose from her seat, hugging her books tightly. Her pulse raced as she walked toward the doorway. Mrs. Zegray followed her out, carrying an empty coffee mug in one hand. She locked the classroom door behind them and headed off for the teacher’s lounge.
Daphne’s locker was down a side hall. Careful not to bump into anyone or stumble and draw unwanted attention, she weaved through the mass of bodies. The trip past the locker section felt like walking the gauntlet; kids lined both walls. At any moment, she expected a name or insult to come flying at her. When she passed a group of girls, they began laughing, and in her paranoia, Daphne imagined them laughing at her.
She cut down the side hall. As she approached her locker, her pace slowed. She noticed something on the floor in front of it—a small, white box, roughly four inches long by an inch and a half high. It wasn’t until she came right up to it that she realized it to be a soapbox, put there by some idiot.
Daphne licked her lips, the roof of her mouth. She swept the box out of the way with her foot.
Someone off to her left said, “I can smell her from here.”
An eruption of laughter followed. Daphne turned her head to see three boys staring at her from five lockers down. The speaker had been Joey Sprague, a jock from the school’s basketball team. Tall, good-looking, big ego.
Holding her gaze, he hardened his stare. Daphne swallowed and turned away. Her hand shook as she reached for the lock.
Joey said, “Did you see that?”
Another boy replied, “Yeah, man. God, she’s ugly.”
Their laughter trailed them down the hall.
Eyes moist with humiliation, Daphne shook her head. The teasing was getting worse. No longer contained to a few nasty girls, it seemed to be jumping from person to person like a virus.
She fumbled with the spin dial and overshot the second number of the combination. She paused, angry with herself. Tried again and succeeded.
She took out the books she’d need for the afternoon classes. Then she hurried off to the library to wait out the lunch break.
15
Halifax, June 9
12:07 p.m.
“That him?”
“Think so,” Audra said.
The mystery man came into view, a hooded figure emerging from between the parked cars.
Seeing him for the first time, Audra felt a frisson of excitement, even though she wished for better picture quality. The tinted bubble cover made it feel like she was looking through sunglasses, and the rain didn’t help either. Big droplets ran down in front of the lens, distorting the image.
Audra sat in a back office with the manager of Atlantic News, watching the surveillance video on the woman’s computer monitor. The time displayed on the DVR viewer read 2:17 a.m.
The dome camera outside had a one hundred twenty–degree field of vision. It kept an eye on the parking lot behind the building as well as a good part of Morris Street.
The mystery man walked out to the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The rain gained strength around him, bubbling the puddles and flowing off his body like ropes. Perfect for rinsing the blood Audra knew he’d have on him if he were the killer.
She braced herself, anticipating him swinging around and giving her a money shot. But he never lifted his head, never looked in the direction of the camera. He turned his back to her, bent into the rain, and headed up Morris.
Audra stared at the duffel bag slung over him. Rectangular in shape, it extended from the hip to just above the shoulder. Sufficient to conceal a shotgun in.
Janelle Gurnard had been accurate in her description. The man was dressed in black rainwear that had no distinctive markings. Even the duffel bag was entirely black, with no company logo Audra could see.
A car approached, its twin beams illuminating the rain into bright shards. The man l
owered his head even more and seemed to reach for the rim of his hood. Audra wondered if he was trying to hide his face.
The car’s brake lights glowed red on the slick street as it coasted by and then stopped at the intersection of Morris and Queen. Audra watched it continue straight and vanish from the frame.
By the time the man passed the apartment building where Janelle lived, Audra could barely see him. The darkness of night and the rain worked in his favor. Now just a featureless shape slowly drifting from sight, he crossed the street to Birmingham and disappeared.
Audra continued to watch the video. A minute or so later, she saw lights funnel through the rain, coming from somewhere down Birmingham where the man had gone. They touched Morris Street, swept to the left, and washed over a brick building on the corner before disappearing.
Audra sat back in the chair. The lights had come from a vehicle. That much she knew. Was it the man leaving the area?
“Want to see it again?”
Audra crossed her legs and looked at the store manager, a middle-aged woman with nut-brown eyes and a bob cut. Her name was Tammy Donerson.
“Can you rewind it back more?” Audra asked.
Tammy clicked the mouse. “Just tell me when to stop.”
Audra watched the monitor. Everything reversed at a comical rate of speed—the rain, the headlights, the man. When the clock showed 1:35 a.m., she saw him again, walking backward out of the rear parking lot.
Tammy said, “Whoa,” and moved the cursor to the pause button.
Audra held up a hand. “No, keep it going. There...start it there.”
Tammy hit play, and Audra leaned in close with narrowing eyes. Through the thin veil of rain, she could just make out the man walking up to the distant corner of Morris and Birmingham, a shadow lit by the dim glow of a streetlight. He hesitated next to a Metro Transit bus sign. Audra wondered if he had been checking out the area first.
He sauntered across the street, head down, hands buried in his jacket pockets. As he came toward her, Audra focused on his walk, looking for a limp or signs of injury. None.
He reached up and pulled the hood down over his face, held his hand there to keep his anonymity. He seemed aware of the camera’s presence. Even with the distance and poor lighting, Audra could tell he had a glove on that exposed hand. It blended with the rest of his clothing.