Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  “Then it got even worse. It became nonstop. More kids joined in. It seemed like everyone hated me. They called me a bitch. Ugly. Dork. Fucktard. They shoved notes into my locker...”

  Audra felt herself choke up. She clenched her jaw until her muscles hurt, balled her hands into fists, so hard her nails dug into her palms.

  “Girls who used to talk to me stopped. My best friend won’t have anything to do with me anymore. I know she’s afraid this will happen to her, so she stays away.

  “A couple of weeks ago, kids started getting physical. They pushed me into lockers, bumped into me on purpose, knocked my books out of my hands. They even started posting stuff on Facebook. Stupid, immature stuff. Other people I don’t even know joined in by writing bad comments about me.”

  Daphne paused. Her eyes began blinking rapidly, and her chin began quivering. Watching, Audra’s own eyes misted, and her chest tightened. It ripped her apart inside to see her daughter in so much anguish.

  Daphne held up more paper. “I never want to show my face at school again. I wish I could go back to when I was happy. I cry myself to sleep. That’s when I can fall asleep. Most nights, I can’t.

  “I’ve even begun to hate myself. I’m an embarrassment to my parents. Both of them are so successful. I wish I could be more like my mother. She’s so strong and brave. I love her so much. And Dad too.” Daphne wiped at an eye. “Thanks for taking the time to watch my video. I just wanted to get this off my chest.”

  Daphne reached toward the laptop, and the video ended.

  Audra could feel her heart pounding. She sat there, staring at the black screen, unable to hold back the grief any longer, and it flooded out of her in gushes.

  “Oh God, honey,” she said, sobbing. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you tell me about all this?”

  She dropped her head into her hands. The tears rolling off her face came not only from the mother, heartbroken over her daughter, they also came from the twelve-year-old girl who had suffered through a similar hell.

  32

  Halifax, June 13

  5:01 p.m.

  Allan frowned when he walked into his office and saw the folded newspaper atop his desk with a yellow sticky note slapped on it. He peeled the note off, recognizing the handwriting as Captain Thorne’s: Thought you’d like to read this.

  Allan crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it in the wastebasket. He took out Audra’s files from the briefcase and stacked them on his desk before finally having a look at the newspaper. It was Saturday’s edition of the Acresville Gazette. Slowly, he read over the front-page story.

  More Trouble on the Farm

  The dairy farm belonging to serial killer Herbert Peter Matteau is the focus of another investigation. Police are on the scene today with earthmovers, dump trucks, and ground-penetrating radar amid concerns it might hide the remains of Matteau’s long-estranged father, Herbert George Matteau Sr.

  A cousin of the family living in La Guadaloupe, Quebec, reported to authorities that she hadn’t heard from Matteau Sr. since late October 1991, shortly after his wife, Marilyn, passed away.

  So where has he been for over nineteen years? Herb Matteau Jr. told family members his father’s drinking worsened after his mother’s death, and one day he just up and left. No prior notice. Nothing.

  The cousin, who wishes to remain anonymous, said the family believed the story because Matteau Sr. had a temperamental personality, drank heavily, and talked about leaving the struggling dairy business behind. Now, after hearing of the murders committed by Herb Matteau Jr., the few surviving family members are questioning the story.

  In a brief interview, Acresville Police Chief David Brantford said, “We explored the most obvious avenues first: a social security number trace and financial records. Mr. Matteau’s bank account hasn’t been touched, nor has he filed a tax return since 1991.

  “We’ve been poring over unidentified bodies cases throughout Canada with no luck yet.”

  When asked if he believes the farm could hide the remains of Matteau Sr., Brantford stated, “That would be speculation. At this point, we’re simply exploring all avenues as to his whereabouts. There’s no evidence that a crime was even committed. Though the circumstances are suspicious.”

  Investigators reported weeks ago that some parts of the Matteau farmhouse were almost museum-like, not having been touched in years.

  Born in 1938, Herbert George Matteau would be seventy-two now.

  Allan folded up the newspaper and put it down, not knowing what to make of the story. Nineteen years was a long time to have dropped off the face of the earth. But there was a smattering of people who voluntarily walked away from their lives all the time for one reason or another and became lost among the population. Their disappearances were never reported, never missed.

  On the flip side of that, Allan believed there must’ve been a confluence of social, psychological, and biological factors in Herb Matteau’s past fueling the bloodshed he unleashed. In a way, killing his father made sense. It hinted at abuse in his life, at an unstable environment that could plant the seeds for his antisocial and violent behavior in later years.

  Against his will, Allan pictured Matteau standing on the back steps of his farmhouse, the revolver gripped tight in his hand and that eerie resignation about him. The image had invaded Allan’s dreams since the shooting had happened. Only in his dreams, the chain of events differed, became weird.

  Matteau’s revolver is loaded, and he brings it up in front of him with lightning speed. Allan raises his own gun in response, but the trigger isn’t there. His index finger taps frantically at empty air as the madman in front of him opens fire. Allan hears the loud pops, sees the muzzle flashes, so bright they sear his eyes. He feels the fiery heat of the bullets rip through his flesh, shredding his organs to pieces. The blood sprays out of the wounds like a water pipe springing a leak and gathers around his feet in an expanding pool.

  The dreams always ended with Herb Matteau glaring at him through ribbons of smoke curling up from the end of his revolver.

  Allan wondered if the nightmares were the result of post-shooting trauma. Guilt might be eating away at his subconscious, even though on the surface he felt what he’d done was necessary and justified. After all, he’d thought the revolver was loaded, and Matteau had murdered four innocent people. Indirectly caused the death of Cathy Ambré. Had her sister, Trixy, not disappeared, Allan was convinced Cathy wouldn’t have taken her life. Trixy had been the pillar of support Cathy needed to lean on.

  Strangely, Allan realized, he’d had no nightmares while in Toronto. He wondered if they would come back now that he was back in Halifax, back in this tiring job.

  Allan sat down and rolled up his shirtsleeves, scooted his chair close to the desk. He started to review Audra’s files, searching for some loose piece of information that would help point him toward the path of a killer.

  Audra and other officers had interviewed more than one hundred people during the initial canvass and recanvass of the area. Only one had seen a suspicious man in the neighborhood during the time of the murder. The same man as on the surveillance video.

  Even if the murder had occurred in broad daylight with witnesses, Allan knew most of them wouldn’t say a word. Dory was a known member of the Black Scorpions, and they had a reputation around Halifax for violence. Two of their members—Jarret Shapiro and Sullivan McAda—had been sent to prison last fall for the murder of Ruben Gamble, a poor bystander cut down in a botched drive-by shooting of a rival gang member. The Black Scorpions were also suspects in several unsolved home invasions, break-ins, and assaults throughout the city over the past few years.

  Dory’s murder came as no surprise to Allan. Those were the risks associated with that culture of violence and danger. What came as a surprise was the sheer brutality of the killing. One could assume it had been a gang-initiated murder or been done by a rival drug gang vying for territory. But why spend so much time with Dory? Why use an ax
e?

  While uncommon, axes had certainly been used by gangs in the past. So had hammers, cleavers, and chains. They used almost anything they could get their hands on. But it was rare in Halifax. More often than not, gangs in the city used guns they stole from homes around the province. Sometimes black-market ones if they had those connections.

  Allan read Audra’s list of criminals associated with Dory outside of those in his gang. There were nine of them, and Allan recognized each name. Four were back in jail. Two had moved away. One had died in a car accident. The remaining two had alibis.

  Allan propped his elbows on top of the desk, lowered his face into his hands, and rubbed his temples. He felt exhausted, weighed down by the day. He needed a jolt of caffeine to keep him awake. There was still so much more work to do.

  Rising from his chair, he left the office and went down to the lunchroom to grab a coffee.

  33

  Halifax, June 13

  5:49 p.m.

  Tabitha Landes lived on Oakland Road in a taupe-colored Cape Cod with a front portico supported by white columns.

  Audra parked in the driveway behind the family car. She got out and walked a flagstone pathway to the front door. The early evening was turning dark and somber, the air heavy and moist.

  Audra rang the bell. From inside came the clink and clatter of dishes then a woman yelling that she’d get it.

  Joanna Landes, Tabitha’s mother, opened the door. She was a tiny woman, barely breaking five feet. She had dark hair, cut short and shaggy, and a sharp little nose and chin. Seeing Audra, her face lit up with surprise.

  “Mrs. Price. What can I do for you?”

  Audra got right to the point. “Tabitha. Is she home?”

  “She’s up in her room,” Joanna said, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “We just finished our supper.”

  “Can I see her, please?”

  “Sure.” Joanna stepped aside. “C’mon in.”

  Audra walked into the foyer. The place smelled of roasted onions and peppers, and it triggered a growl in Audra’s stomach. She saw an office to her left, tucked behind French doors. To her right, a staircase with oak treads and white balusters rose to the second floor. Straight ahead, an archway opened into a sprawling living room.

  “Is everything all right?” Joanna asked her. “You seem on edge.”

  Audra looked at her. “Did Tabitha ever tell you what was going on at school with Daphne?”

  Joanna frowned, shook her head. “No. Why? Is something going on?”

  “Lots.”

  “Like what?”

  Audra dropped her gaze to the floor, not wanting to get into the details.

  Joanna said, “We asked Tabby why Daphne never comes around anymore. We thought they got into a fight.”

  Audra looked up at her. “What’d she tell you?”

  “Just that Daphne stopped speaking to her.”

  Audra clenched her jaw, feeling anger spring to life inside her. She shut her eyes, opened them again. Keep calm, she told herself. Keep calm. You’re overtired. You’re emotional. No need to upset the applecart.

  “What happened there?” Joanna asked. “Do you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. I know exactly what happened. Can I see her, please?”

  Joanna hesitated. “Sure.”

  She walked over to the staircase and put a hand on the railing.

  “Tabby,” she hollered. “Can you come down here for a sec?”

  She stepped back, crossing her arms. Audra heard thumping feet upstairs, then Tabitha came down the stairs, wearing jeans and a raglan top. When she saw Audra, her mouth dropped open, and she stopped on the landing, not making a move to go any farther, looking like she might bolt back upstairs at any second.

  Audra stared at her, remembering the girl who for years had come over to the house for sleepovers with Daphne, watching movies or singing karaoke in their living room. A girl who had tagged along with the family to Boston during their vacation last summer so Daphne could have a friend to chum around with.

  “Hi, Tabitha,” Audra said.

  Tabitha’s blue eyes skipped across Audra’s face and settled on the landing. Her “hi” came out barely audible.

  Joanna said, “Mrs. Price wanted to ask if you know what’s going on at school with Daphne?”

  Tabitha gave a little movement of her head, more a twitch than a shake. She never looked up.

  “Kids have been bullying her,” Audra said. “I know you know. I want their names.”

  Tabitha flicked her hair back with nervous fingers. Her gaze rose to Audra’s and froze there. It lasted only seconds, but it was long enough for Audra to see that awareness swimming in her eyes.

  Lips parting, Joanna turned to Audra. “What were they doing to her?”

  “Calling her names. Shoving her into lockers. Tripping her. Knocking books out of her hands.”

  “Oh my.” Joanna touched her throat and looked over at her daughter. “Tabby, what do you know about this?”

  Tabitha’s eyebrows arched outward, and her mouth drooped. “Nothing, Mom.”

  “That’s not true, is it?” Audra said. “That’s why you ended your friendship with Daphne, right? You were afraid the kids might target you too. Look out for number one. That’s life’s golden rule.” She shook her head, disgusted. “I tell ya, the first sign of trouble, you find out who your friends really are.”

  Tabitha blushed. She lowered her head, not making eye contact with anyone. Joanna flipped her gaze from her daughter to Audra in a back-and-forth motion.

  She said, “Well, no. It was Daphne who ended their friendship. Not Tabby.”

  Audra tensed, felt herself begin to breathe faster, heavier.

  “Tell your mother, Tabitha,” she said. “Tell her how you stopped answering Daphne’s calls. How you never replied to her texts. How you unfriended her on Facebook.”

  Tabitha didn’t respond. She just stood there, red faced, head bowed, a child being scolded.

  “I’m not blaming you,” Audra continued. “I only want some names. They’ll never know it came from you.”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Joanna put her hands on her hips. “What’s the big deal, Mrs. Price? A couple of kids teased Daphne. So? It’s just a part of being a kid.”

  At that point, something snapped in Audra. She flew right up into Joanna’s face with her index finger nearly touching her nose.

  “My daughter is at the hospital,” she barked. “In a coma because of this. So don’t fucking tell me it’s just a part of being a kid. People who say shit like that never went through it themselves.”

  Joanna’s eyes widened, and one hand shot up to her gaping mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We didn’t even know.”

  The surprised expression on Joanna’s face gave Audra pause, and she stepped back a foot, stricken by her own shame.

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I crossed the line.”

  Tabitha stared at her with the same surprised look as her mother, only her eyes glistened with tears. Audra inhaled a deep breath and turned for the door, walked out. As she crossed the front lawn, she heard the muffled sounds of Joanna and Tabitha arguing inside the house.

  Audra climbed into her car, shaking. She closed her eyes and lowered her forehead to the steering wheel, defeated, feeling like a fool. She forced herself to breathe easily, trying to calm down.

  It took a few minutes before she felt safe to drive.

  She turned off Oakland Road and went down Robie Street, drove two blocks to the hospital. Over the city, the dark clouds flickered with light.

  She went into the hospital and hit the button for an elevator. As she waited, when she took out her cell phone to shut it off, she saw an alert on the display telling her she had one new message. Audra frowned.

  It had come from Tabitha Landes, and the message was short and to the point: Margi Tanner.


  34

  Halifax, June 13

  6:42 p.m.

  Audra told Daniel everything. The heartbreaking video Daphne had made, conveying her story of the bullying she’d suffered at school, about how lost, hopeless, and alone she felt.

  Audra told him about the encounter she’d had with Tabitha and her mother, about the name Tabitha had sent her.

  Quiet, Daniel traced the rim of his coffee cup with a finger. Then his face pulled back in a painful wince.

  They were hunched at a table near the Tim Hortons kiosk in the hospital’s Goldbloom Pavilion. The place was quiet, not many there at this hour.

  “So,” Audra said. “I’m going to have a chat with this Margi Tanner.”

  Daniel looked across the table at her. “Think that’s wise?”

  “I have to do something.”

  “As a cop or Mama Bear?”

  Audra shrugged. “Just going to set things straight with her. That’s all.”

  Daniel frowned. “I’ve seen your temper, babe. You can fly off the handle pretty quick. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to tear a strip off this girl myself. But I think we should go to the school. Report this. I can’t believe the staff never saw any of this going on. Don’t they have hall monitors anymore?”

  “They can’t be everywhere. And it’s not like these kids are going to carry on in front of them.”

  Daniel leaned back in the chair, locked his hands behind his neck, and stared up at the ceiling.

  “I’ll stop by the school first thing in the morning,” he said. “Talk to the principal there.”