Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  I FOLD THE PAPER AND lay it on the counter. Roger Pratt. I pull up his image in my mind. He’s a small man who stands on the cliff ledge, looking out through binoculars. His boots, cargo pants, backpack, and khaki Tilley hat remind me of many other hikers I’ve seen at Mount Nemo.

  I climb over a fallen cedar. Roger doesn’t hear me approaching on the rocks. I’m not sure what draws me to him, other than the fact that he’s alone and far off the beaten path.

  “Some view, what?” I say as I step up beside him.

  Roger’s body jolts at the sound of my voice. He turns to me with his mouth agape. His eyes give me the once-over, but he must consider me harmless, because he turns away and presses the binoculars to his face again.

  “Beautiful,” he says.

  I nod. Indeed it is. Fall has splashed color all over Milton’s countryside. There are green pastures dotted with bales of hay. Brown squares of freshly cultivated farmland. The panorama extends so far off in the distance, I swear you can see the curvature of the earth.

  It’s not only beautiful, it’s stunning.

  Roger points to a huge bird circling over the valley. “See that?”

  I squint. “What is it? An eagle? Hawk?”

  “Turkey vulture,” he says. “Riding the thermals. They can detect the minutest scent of carrion.”

  He hands me the binoculars. I bring the bird into focus. From a distance it looked black, but now I see it’s more of a brown color. With its prominent red head, it definitely resembles a turkey and is every bit as ugly.

  I give Roger back the binoculars.

  “Nature’s cleanup crew,” I say.

  “They’re so important to the ecosystem. Can you imagine the world without them? Full of rats and disease.”

  The world already is, I want to tell him. Take a look around.

  “They sure are ugly, though.”

  Roger laughs. “Nah, I think they’re beautiful, intelligent. Some cultures regard them as sacred.” He turns to me. “Tibetan Buddhists let vultures eat their dead. They call it a jhator or sky burial. It’s more out of practicality than anything else.”

  “Really? Sounds barbaric to me.”

  He smiles. “The Chinese thought so too. The body sustains the life of another living being. If you look at it that way, it doesn’t seem so bad. Buddhists consider it good karma. The body is just an empty vessel. The soul has already moved on.”

  He’s an odd fellow. I watch him turn his attention back to the vulture. Fate and circumstance has brought us together, I realize. Glancing behind me, I check the trees. The park feels vast, silent. There’s no one around.

  Roger continues his fascination with the vulture. He doesn’t notice me inching closer, moving my hand up to his backpack. With one powerful thrust, off he goes. Arms flailing, he falls over the edge. His high-pitched screams slice the air, and they seem to awaken the pleasure centers of my brain. I smile.

  Roger skids headfirst down sheer cliffside. He strikes a rocky protuberance, and the screams end. I stand on the ledge, watching his body disappear into the tree canopy far below. I never hear him hit the ground.

  Heidi’s voice comes to me, as if in a dream. I look at her. She stands by the table with her head tilted to one side and her eyes narrowed.

  “Pardon?” I say.

  “I asked you what the little smirk is for. What are you thinking about?”

  “You and the girls,” I tell her. “I’m just happy to be home.”

  6

  Halifax, October 18

  5:03 p.m.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” Audra said softly.

  Luc Saint-Pierre squeezed his eyes shut, and the muscles at the sides of his jaw bunched up. He looked tired, confused, and broken. He twisted the wedding band on his finger.

  “I can’t believe this,” he muttered.

  “When did you last see Kate?”

  He opened his eyes, and his stare seemed to burn straight through her, fixing on something not inside the interview room. Audra could tell a painful memory was flaring behind his blue eyes.

  “Yesterday,” he said. “When she left for her run.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Six thirty.”

  Audra checked the missing-persons report on the table in front of her, comparing the time Luc had originally given. They were the same.

  She said, “Kate’s an early riser.”

  “We both are.”

  “Yeah? You look fit. Did you often run with her?”

  Luc winced, dropping his gaze. “But not yesterday. The one day I should have.”

  “Weren’t feeling up to it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was a little hung over. We’d gone out to a dinner party with friends Saturday night.” A distant look spread across his eyes, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Kate had such a great time. She was so happy. Laughing.”

  Audra paused. “Where’d you go?”

  “The Bicycle Thief.”

  Audra knew of it. Down on Lower Water Street. A place frequented by the younger, hipper crowd.

  “Who’d you go with?” she asked.

  “Do you want their names?”

  “Yes.”

  “Larry and Faith Bradden. Owen and Scarlett Mercer. Faith and Kate were best friends.”

  Audra wrote the names down in her notebook.

  She asked, “So you were up with Kate Sunday morning, right?”

  Luc nodded. “I watched her head out the door.”

  “Did she drive to the park?”

  “Walked,” he said. “Or jogged. We live on Emscote Drive. So we’re close.”

  “Okay, I gotcha. Did you see her have breakfast?”

  “I had it with her.”

  “What’d she have?”

  Luc frowned. “Is that important?”

  “It’s important information for us.”

  “She had a banana and a tablespoon of almond butter.”

  “At about what time?”

  Luc gave a tiny shrug. “Around six.”

  “What’d you do after Kate left for her run?”

  “Went back to bed. Slept a few hours.”

  “What time did you get up again?”

  “Nine or so. I realized Kate hadn’t come back.”

  “How long is she usually out for?”

  “She’s usually home by eight. Eight fifteen.”

  “What’d you do when you realized she hadn’t come back?”

  Luc’s throat worked. “I waited until ten, then I went over to the park to look for her. When I couldn’t find her, I called you guys.”

  “Does Kate own a cell phone?”

  “Yeah, but she never takes it.”

  Audra leaned back in her chair. She watched him prop his elbows on top of the table and press his palms to his face. She regarded the backs of his hands. No scratch marks. None on his face, either. His hair didn’t seem to have any clumps torn out.

  She doubted he had killed his wife. His posture and demeanor told her as much. In some people you could just see and hear the deception leaking out of their verbal and nonverbal behavior. They would have nervous hand gestures or shift in their chairs. They would slouch back, as if distancing themselves from it all. They would overuse adverbs when answering questions or repeat the questions in order to buy time while they thought up an answer.

  Luc Saint-Pierre did none of that. He sat upright, cooperated, and gave direct answers. His grief seemed raw and genuine. And what about Mary Driscow? If Allan Stanton were correct in assuming the same man had killed her and Kate Saint-Pierre, then that person would have to be Luc. No, it just didn’t seem likely.

  But on the flip side, anything was possible. Experience had taught Audra not to become blinded by her opinion. Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true. In this profession, you had to remember things might not always be what they seem. And when a woman is murdered, the husband invariably come
s under scrutiny.

  Audra and Allan would interview Kate’s friends and family. See if any stories abounded about troubles in the marriage, maybe even a possible love triangle. Dr. Coulter would determine if Kate’s body exhibited any new or old injuries suggesting spousal abuse.

  “What do you think should happen to the person who did this?” Audra asked.

  It was a question meant to gauge reaction. A guilty person generally endorses a light punishment, while an innocent person endorses a harsher one.

  Luc lowered his hands to the table and balled them into white-knuckled fists. When he spoke, he bit off each word.

  “I know what I’d like to see happen. The person strung up by the neck.”

  Audra could see the daggers in his eyes. She felt a wash of pity for him as she pictured him fighting to keep it all together after a wrecking ball had just smashed through his life. That was why she regretted her next question so much.

  “Would you mind consenting to a DNA sample?”

  Luc’s gaze narrowed at her as if he didn’t understand the language. “What?”

  “Would you consent to a DNA sample?”

  “Why? Am I a suspect now?”

  Audra hated herself. “Should you be?”

  Luc shot her an emphatic “No.”

  “I’m sorry. But you have to realize we need to look at all angles.”

  Luc groaned. He said, “What do you need, my blood?” Forcibly, he began rolling up one shirtsleeve and dropping his bare forearm to the table. “Take it.”

  Audra shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s a buccal swab. We swipe the inside of your mouth. It’s fast and noninvasive.”

  Luc clenched his hands together and leaned back from the table.

  “Okay,” he said with a resigned tone. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Audra glanced up at the camera looking down upon the room and gave it a nod. Within moments, Allan came into the room carrying a DNA collection kit. He laid out on the table disposable gloves, cotton-tipped swabs, and an evidence submission box and envelope. He set a pen and a permission-to-search form in front of Luc.

  “Can you sign this for me, please?”

  Luc scribbled his name on the line. Audra and Allan signed the bottom as witnesses. As Allan slipped on the disposable gloves, Audra began filling out the information on the submission box and evidence envelope—report number, Luc’s name, the date and time.

  “Are you chewing gum?” Allan asked him.

  Luc shook his head.

  Allan removed a pair of swabs from one package. Holding them together, he had Luc open his mouth, and then he proceeded to swipe the insides of both cheeks. He put the swabs in the submission box and closed it up. Audra took the box from him and placed it inside the evidence envelope, sealing it then sticking a biohazard tag over the flap.

  She said, “Okay, Mr. Saint-Pierre, you’re free to leave.”

  “We’ll keep you apprised of any developments,” Allan told him. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Luc looked at both of them, and Audra saw a pain in his eyes that she wanted to shrink away from. Without a word, he got up and left the room.

  Audra blew out a breath. “Well, that was tough.”

  Allan slipped off the gloves. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think he’s involved.”

  “Me either. A husband who stages a rape-murder of his wife rarely leaves her posed semi-nude like Kate Saint-Pierre was.”

  Audra raised her eyebrows. “That’s true.”

  “But we have to cover all bases.” Allan picked up the evidence envelope. “I’ll get this off to the lab. Be back in a bit.”

  “Al,” she said.

  Allan turned around, holding the door open with one hand.

  “If you ever want to talk,” Audra said, “I’m here. You know that, right?”

  Allan held her gaze for a moment, and she recognized the timeworn fatigue that she’d seen in other cops beaten down by the emotional and physical demands of the job. He’d been evaluated and given clearance to return to work, but part of Audra wondered if he was ready, really ready to come back. She worried about him, and so did Captain Thorne. Two officer-involved shootings in the span of a month, the second one ending in a shootout that cost four people their lives. Few officers ever witness that type of trauma in their entire careers. Few ever have to draw their weapons.

  Allan gave her a smile and a nod.

  “I know,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Audra watched him walk out. She found herself staring at the closed door long after he left.

  7

  Halifax, October 18

  6:18 p.m.

  “I didn’t find signs of forcible sexual contact,” Coulter said. “No injuries to the genitalia. No bruising or redness when I examined it with the colposcope. That’s common in females of Kate Saint-Pierre’s age, unless a foreign object is used. Evidence usually shows up on different parts of the body.” He sat back from his desk with a glum look on his face. “I didn’t find any signs there, either.

  “The clothing had no tears or missing buttons. No evidence of re-dressing. No bruising on the inner aspects of the thighs or knees. No DNA on the clothing or body. Wet mounts were unremarkable. We’ll see if the lab finds anything when they examine the slides and dry smears. Only a small amount of pubic hair was present, so the combings never produced any free foreign hairs.”

  Allan frowned. “So you can’t rule sexual assault this time?”

  Coulter spread his hands. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question right now.”

  “Whenever a female is found nude or partially nude,” Audra said, “you automatically think sex crime. You have to.”

  “I agree,” Coulter said. “The scene implies that. I just never found evidence on the body to support it. But the absence of injuries doesn’t always negate sexual assault, and the presence of them doesn’t always prove sexual assault. That’s the challenge. My decision is pending the lab results. In my experience, when I don’t find anything on the slides, the lab seldom does, either.”

  Allan leaned his head back over the top of the chair, closed his eyes. He saw Mary Driscow lying amidst the moss and leaf litter, and he winced as a pang of sadness and bitter regret shot through his chest.

  “Maybe he got interrupted,” Audra said. “Couldn’t finish what he started.”

  Allan opened his eyes and looked across the desk at Coulter.

  “These findings,” he said, “are very similar to those in the Mary Driscow case. The only difference is the suction lesion you found on her.”

  “You’re right, Detective. I had to review my reports on that case again. I’d forgotten the details.”

  “The slides were negative there as well.”

  “True.”

  “Did you look at your scene photos?”

  “I did.”

  “See the similarities?”

  “They’re undeniable.”

  “You ruled sexual assault based on that suction lesion?”

  Coulter’s eyebrows twitched downward. He shot Audra a quick glance then focused on Allan again. Allan noticed a slight flush appear in his cheeks.

  “Suckling the breast is sexual interaction,” Coulter said. “It doesn’t matter how subtle the interaction is. Penetration isn’t necessary for it to be sexually motivated. And penetration isn’t easily proven in females past a certain age. I based my conclusion on the totality of the scene. Not from the lesion alone.”

  From the corner of his eye, Allan saw Audra hunch forward, resting her elbows on her knees and turning her head toward him.

  “What are you thinking, Al?” she asked.

  Coulter tilted his head, a half smile forming. “I’m curious too, Detective.”

  “I’m wondering if we...if I looked at the Driscow case all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” Audra asked.

  “The sexual aspect of the crimes. Maybe it’s not about that at all.”


  “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Allan looked at her. “Exactly.”

  Coulter asked, “Do you think the suspect staged the scenes to look like sexual homicides?”

  “You don’t see that often,” Audra said. “Especially in stranger murders.”

  “No, you don’t,” Allan agreed. “It’s usually done by someone acquainted with the victim. They try to steer the investigation away from themselves. To hide the relationship.”

  Audra added, “Most often, the victim is found in their own homes or workplace. Not a public park. The suspect would have to know Kate Saint-Pierre was going to be there.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case here,” Allan said. “We’ll carefully compare the victimology. I believe Kate became a victim of opportunity. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Same as Mary.” He paused a moment, lowering his eyes. “Maybe I’m losing perspective, but to me, Kate Saint-Pierre’s murder smacks of a taunt. The date. The posing.”

  Audra said, “The posing might be to degrade the women. Humiliate them. Even demonstrate the suspect’s power.”

  Allan gave it some thought. “Possible.”

  “Maybe it’s part of his sexual fantasy,” Audra went on. “He poses them that way for his arousal. Takes photographs and uses them later to relive the murders or to satisfy his sexual fantasy.”

  “Paraphilia,” Allan said. “You think these could be lust murders?”

  “Don’t know. I’m just tossing theories out there.”

  Allan scratched his chin. “You might be on point.”

  “Who found Driscow’s body?”

  “Lara...Sara,” Allan frowned, unable to remember. “Something like that.”

  “A female?”

  “Yeah. Her dog actually found the body.”

  Coulter leaned into his desk, flipping open a folder and adjusting his glasses. “Sara Reis is her name.”

  Allan snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Thanks.”

  Audra looked over at Coulter. “The breakfast info I gave you, did it help narrow down the time of death?”

  “Very much,” he said. “I found semi-digested food particles in the stomach. Volume was about one sixth of a cup. They had the color and consistency of banana and almond butter.”