by Alex MacLean
He wondered if anyone had looked out his or her windows. Given the rain and dark, how clear a view would they have had? The guy who had stopped right next to the Dumpster to have his smoke, within arm’s reach of Seth, hadn’t seen him hiding behind there.
Besides, Seth had been careful not to raise his face to any of the apartment windows. He’d finished his deed and hightailed out of there. The whole incident had taken mere seconds, even though it had felt like minutes.
Seth jerked the car back into the lane. His palms were damp on the wheel, his forehead feverish. He was sweating under the rainwear. He lowered his window an inch for some fresh air, and the sound of his tires slapping over the rain-soaked pavement hissed loudly through the open space.
Up ahead, the road branched left, and he took it down to the Bedford Highway. It was the long route into Halifax—skirting the western shore of the Bedford Basin—but going over either one of the bridges into the city was too risky. The tollbooths had cameras and attendants.
There was little traffic this late at night. Occasionally, watery headlights struck his eyes and passed him by. He made his way over the Fairview Overpass and took a right at the lights for Windsor Street. The drive home became dreamlike, filled with images of how he had killed Blake Kaufman.
He had arrived at Primrose Street shortly after nine and circled the block, trying to find a good location to watch from. Sobeys was closed, and Seth knew a lone car sitting in the parking lot of a closed grocery store looked too suspicious, especially in this neighborhood.
He found the perfect spot on Robert Burns Drive, parked up tight against the rear of someone’s pickup. It gave Seth a direct line of sight across two backyards, right behind Kaufman’s apartment building. In the failing light, he saw the PT Cruiser sitting there.
At nine thirty, the back door of the building opened. A shadowy figure emerged. Seth straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing. Through the dark rain, he could just make out the bulky form of a man, the tight-muscled strut Seth had come to know in the past few days. Kaufman went to the PT Cruiser and climbed inside. The headlights turned on.
Seth could feel his heart race, his body tense. At any moment, he expected the woman to come out next. She didn’t. The car moved away, heading for the lane between the two buildings, and disappeared.
Seth moved his hand to the ignition and gripped the key. He watched Primrose Street in the rearview mirror until he saw Kaufman drive past. Then he started the engine and spun the car around.
He braked at the stop sign and saw Kaufman down the street at the lights, turning right onto Victoria Road. With cold determination, he followed him at a safe distance. The night was still young, and plenty of cars traveled the streets.
Kaufman drove two blocks and turned into Highfield Park Drive. The street wove through a hardscrabble neighborhood packed with apartment buildings. At the next set of lights, he went down an off-ramp for Highway 111 and shifted over to the middle lane.
As Kaufman picked up speed, pulling away, Seth stamped on the gas. He gazed out past the sloshing wipers, his gaze fixed on the PT Cruiser. Like glowing red eyes, the taillights stared back at him through the thick veil of rain.
The highway was glossy black, the white lines barely perceptible. Shimmering water pooled out on all sides.
Seth watched Kaufman shift over another lane to the left. An overhead sign read Cole Harbor/Shearwater/Eastern Shore. A mile past it, Kaufman took Exit 7E and went up around the loop to Portland Street. He continued through two sets of lights and pulled into a strip mall. Only a few cars were in the parking lot.
Seth stopped at the curb, watching Kaufman get out of his car and jog to the doors of a Dooly’s pool hall. As he disappeared inside, Seth checked the dash clock—9:42. He wondered when the place closed. Midnight? One o’clock? Would Kaufman even stay that late? It didn’t matter. He would have to come home at some point, and Seth would be there waiting for him.
Seth drove away, brooding over the scene to come. The rain weakened to a steady shower by the time he reached Kaufman’s neighborhood again. He circled the block a couple of times, looking around. Where, he wondered, would be a safe place to park?
He found a spot on Jackson Road, in front of a vacant lot where, he guessed, a house had once stood. Weeds infested the property. Here and there, Seth could see patches of an asphalt driveway slowly being consumed by grass.
In many regards, the road mirrored Primrose Street—trees, smaller homes intermingled with apartment buildings. Across the street, a white house sat on the corner of Robert Burns Drive and Jackson Road. Two triple-deckers were on the other side of it. Seth focused on the second one up. It was set back from the road about ten yards with a short white fence edging the sidewalk in front.
Seth shut the engine off, and the windshield quickly filled with water. He convinced himself the car should be fine here. It was far enough away from the surrounding buildings that no one would be able to distinguish the make, let alone the license plate. His only fear was a cop driving by might stop to check out a seemingly abandoned vehicle left on the side of the road.
He had to take the chance. If he used the parking lot of one of the apartment buildings, someone might see him drive in or out. They might remember it when the cops came around asking questions.
Seth got out, looking up and down the road. He didn’t see anyone, so he grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat and slung it over his shoulder. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his raincoat, he crossed the road to the sidewalk.
The night air was steamy. Above him, the low sky churned a soupy mix of black and gray. Thunder rumbled somewhere off in the distance. Heavier drops of rain began to fall.
Seth reached the triple-decker with the white fence. On the west side of it, a long parking lot stretched back to a dark stand of trees. A light breeze swayed the branches, and through them he spied the lighted windows of Kaufman’s building.
Walking toward the back of the lot, he kept his head down. On the black asphalt, puddles sparkled and bubbled under the rain.
Seth made his way past two Dumpsters, across a short strip of grass, and into the cover of trees. It was dark in there, almost pitch black. He waited a couple of minutes until his eyes adjusted. Branches became vague shapes. Leaves dripped and fluttered.
Carefully, he worked through to the other side and stood in the shadows of the tree line. A shiny patch of grass stretched about twenty feet in front of him. Beyond it was the parking lot behind Kaufman’s apartment building. Every light was on, the tenants still up. The PT Cruiser wasn’t back yet.
Seth stared at the dark garbage Dumpster on the edge of the lot, and his eyes narrowed to slits. What a perfect hiding place. Crouched low, he jogged across the grass. He unslung the duffel bag from his shoulder, set it on the ground, and took out the Santoku knife. Putting it in the pocket of his raincoat, he hoped he wouldn’t cut himself when it came time to use it.
He sat down on the lip of a concrete pad and pressed his back against the Dumpster. He waited and waited while the intensity of the rain changed several times around him—downpour to a shower to a fine mist to a downpour again. The wind sprang up and found its voice. Occasionally, lightning flashed in the black clouds and thunder growled, vibrating right through his body.
Seth heard the thump of a door closing. The sound of wet footsteps grew clearer, closer. Seth tensed, a cold sensation creeping up the back of his neck. The hinges of the Dumpster lid grated as someone lifted it and tossed in a garbage bag. The lid dropped back down with a loud bang.
Heart pounding, Seth waited for the footsteps to leave. They didn’t. In the periphery of his vision, he saw movement at the corner of the Dumpster, and his eyes rolled toward it.
The shirtless man had skin so pale it almost glowed in the dark. His head was lowered to the light rain. He raised his hands, and his face lit up briefly in the flare of a lighter.
Muscles taut, Seth watched him smoking a cigarette. He dared not move or make a soun
d. Barely three feet separated them. If the man turned, he might see Seth hiding there.
He dropped the butt, and it fizzed on the wet pavement. Turning around, he walked away. Seth listened to the fading footsteps then the thump of a door closing again. He tipped his head back against the Dumpster and let out a long breath.
It wasn’t long after that when he heard a car. Lights washed over the backyard, spilling to the left. Seth edged to the end of the Dumpster and peeked around the corner. When he saw the PT Cruiser backing into a vacant spot, his mouth went dry.
He groped for the zipper of the duffel bag, brought out the shotgun, and pushed off the safety. He touched the pocket of his raincoat to reassure himself the knife was still there.
The sky let off a growl. The rain fell harder.
Seth looked around the Dumpster again. The car was fully parked. The headlights went out, and the driver’s door swung open.
Adrenaline coursed through Seth’s body. His heart began to pound with fast, heavy beats. This was it. The moment he had longed for. He held all the cards: surprise and a gun.
Kaufman stepped out of the car, his body picking up the interior lights. He shut the door, and he went dark, a shadow. As he began walking toward the apartment building, Seth rose to his feet and came out from behind the Dumpster. He aimed the shotgun low and gave an abrupt whistle.
Kaufman stopped. Slowly, he turned around and Seth pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was bright; the boom ripped through the air and echoed off the buildings. Nothing at the range had prepared him for how loud it would be—his ears had always been plugged—and it stunned him for a second or two.
Kaufman dropped to the pavement in a heap, writhing and screaming. Seth set down the shotgun and pulled out the knife. He leapt on top of Kaufman, grabbing him by the back of his head and lifting his face up toward him. Kaufman gritted his teeth, moaning. He seemed paralyzed by the pain.
“Look at me,” Seth said. “Look at me.”
Kaufman blinked through the rain. “You.”
“Me,” Seth said.
And thrust the blade straight through Kaufman’s eye.
38
Dartmouth, June 14
1:14 a.m.
At their cores, the murders were similar. This time the suspect had used the shotgun. This time he had plunged a knife into his victim’s skull instead of an axe.
The scene was a dark, unlit parking lot in back of two three-deckers on Primrose Street in Dartmouth. People stood at surrounding windows, brought out of their beds by the lights and sirens.
Rain dripped off the hood of Allan’s jacket as he squatted down and directed his flashlight over the body. Blake Kaufman lay on his back in the middle of the lot with his hips torqued to the side and one leg bent over the other. His arms were splayed across the wet pavement, and the fingers of his right hand looked as if they were reaching for the set of keys two feet away. His face, frozen in a painful grimace, stared straight up at the roiling sky. Rainwater had filled his open mouth and ran out in rivulets down the sides of his jaw.
Allan directed the beam over the black handle sticking out of the left eye. The handle resembled that of the chef knife he had at home in the kitchen drawer, only a bit smaller. He paused a moment, considering it. The axe. The knife. The suspect had chosen weapons from his own home?
On further inspection of the body, Allan saw a ragged tear in the right knee of the jeans caused by a single shotgun blast. He counted three fliers—single pellet holes—around the edge of the entrance hole, indicating the shot mass had started to spread. This told him the suspect had fired at a distance, possibly more than ten feet.
Beneath Kaufman’s mangled leg, Allan noticed the white plastic wad from the shotgun shell, and he nodded to himself. At a closer range of five feet or less, the entrance hole in the jeans would appear squarer with no fliers, and the wad itself would fly into the wound tract.
Allan played the beam around the parking lot, under the vehicles, looking for the profile of an empty shotgun shell. But the light reflecting on the raindrops and slick asphalt made it hard to detect anything. Better to search at daybreak. Natural light always worked best.
As Allan studied the scene, he came up with three key points. Dark parking lot. Ambush. Quick getaway.
The suspect had probably hidden behind the cars or the garbage bin at the south edge of the lot and waited for Kaufman to come home. He kneecapped him first with the shotgun—a ruthless and excruciating tactic meant to hamper mobility—then finished him off with the knife. Unlike Dory’s murder, the suspect spent little time fooling around. The murder was quick and strategic.
Allan stared at the knife again. He wondered why the suspect hadn’t finished the job with the shotgun. He’d already used it once and alerted tenants in the building. Had it malfunctioned in some way? Had he short-stroked the pump, causing the gun to jam?
Allan frowned, shook his head. Maybe the use of the knife had been deliberate, like the axe in the first murder. It brought him closer to his victim, made the crime personal.
Allan heard a voice shout over the rain pelting his hood. “That’s two.”
He looked up to see Staff Sergeant Rehnquist peering down at him. He was a twenty-five-year veteran, balding and bantam with a cleft chin and close-set eyes.
“One left,” Allan said.
“You think Higgins is next too, huh?”
“It’s a safe bet.” Allan stood up. “We better put a car on his residence. Keep an eye on things.”
“Ten-four.” Rehnquist reached inside his rain jacket and keyed his mike, placing the call to dispatch.
Allan took out his camera and began photographing the scene and body from all angles. Around him, uniformed officers finished cordoning off the area with barrier tape. The first officer found shelter under an awning atop the back door of Kaufman’s apartment building and scribbled down particulars for his report.
Allan walked around the parking lot, shining his light over the asphalt. The bad weather brought any item found into question. It could be potential evidence or useless debris washed or blown there from somewhere else.
He came up behind the vehicles parked on the right side. He examined the vegetation piled against a chain-link fence for signs of damage—flattened grass or broken limbs on the shrubs. Something that told him the suspect had been around there. Nothing.
Allan went to the south end of the lot, guiding the beam over the Dumpster sitting on a concrete slab. When he looked behind it, he saw a glistening path of trampled grass leading straight across a green lawn to a stand of trees several yards away. Allan looked over the trees to the rooftop silhouette of an apartment building fronting Jackson Road.
He turned the flashlight to the backside of the Dumpster again. The concrete underneath extended out a good foot or more, providing a wide enough lip for a person to rest his ass on. Did the suspect hide there? Seemed likely. Seemed very likely, in fact.
Allan took out his cell phone and made a call to the K-9 Unit. Wet grass can hold a scent better than dry, but a heavy downpour like the one coming down could scatter the scent on pavement. Drive it into ditches or the graveled shoulder of a road, possibly confusing the dogs.
Allan drafted a rough mental picture of what had taken place. The suspect had parked somewhere on Jackson Road, probably so his car wouldn’t be noticed in the immediate area. Much like he’d done with the first murder by parking on Birmingham Street, then walking to Todd Dory’s apartment.
He came down through the property in back and entered the fenced backyard of two occupied apartment buildings—28 and 30 Primrose. He crouched behind the Dumpster, where he waited for Kaufman. When Kaufman came home and walked toward his apartment building, the suspect came out, grabbed Kaufman’s attention somehow, then shot him in the knee as he turned around. Whether or not he tried a second shot was uncertain. In any case, he stabbed Kaufman through the eye after the latter dropped to the pavement.
Allan heard a sudden commotion, s
everal people yelling at once, their voices bouncing off the two buildings on either side of the lane. Cops ordering someone to stay back or be arrested. A male dropping an f-bomb on every third word.
Allan turned around and saw Rehnquist head over to the mouth of the lane for a look.
He glanced back over his shoulder at Allan. “Speak of the devil.”
“Higgins?”
“He got wind of this fast.”
Allan squared himself and walked to the lane. He saw Lee Higgins on the sidewalk, his face picking up the light from the street. Animated. Pacing. Ready to rip through his own skin and kill someone. He was a brawny guy, six-two, and probably tipped two hundred thirty pounds. He had a burr cut and a close-shaven chinstrap and mustache. Water beaded his black leather jacket.
Two officers had converged on him, holding up their hands. “Stay back,” they said. “Stay back.”
Allan came out of the lane, and Higgins became still, seeing him.
“That you, Stanton?” he called in a hoarse voice. “Huh? That you?”
Allan met his smoldering glare through the veil of rain, dipped his head once.
“Is that my boy down there?” Higgins pointed toward the lane. “Is it? You tell me, Stanton.”
“Calm down,” an officer said.
“Fuck you. Tell me to calm down.”
Color flushed into the officer’s face, and he reached around to his Taser holster and thumbed off the retention strap. Allan could feel the tension becoming electric. Lee Higgins was dangerous and unstable, a man who would probably kill a cop without giving it a second thought.
“Yeah, it’s him,” Allan said, approaching the barrier tape. “It’s Blake.”
Higgins breathed in heavily through his nostrils, both fists clenching and flexing at his sides. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, revealing Άρης tattooed across the front of his throat.