by Alex MacLean
“Was death soon after she ate?”
“Within a few hours, yes. Possibly one to two. I factored in everything.” Coulter ticked off the items on his fingers. “Rigor. Hypostasis. Body temp.”
Audra referred to her notebook. “That would put the time between seven and eight.”
“Or possibly a little later,” Coulter said.
Audra said, “Luc Saint-Pierre told me Kate usually got home by eight, eight fifteen. I’m thinking a safe time frame is between seven and eight.”
“The suspect was at the park rather early,” Allan said. “Maybe even before Kate.”
The office went quiet for a few moments, only a low hum coming from the ventilation system.
Eventually, Coulter said, “How many people would be there at that time?”
“On a Sunday?” Allan shrugged. “A few, anyway. The park opens at six.”
Audra said, “I’ve never been there that early.”
“It’s a big park,” Allan said. “Easy to wander around unnoticed if you wanted to.”
Audra turned back to Coulter. “Did you find any signs of domestic abuse on Kate’s body?”
He shook his head. “No evidence of old or recent fractures or trauma. She was a well-nourished, well-developed female. As much as you would expect of someone her age.”
“Ligature strangulation caused death, right?” Allan asked.
“Yes, asphyxia caused by ligature strangulation.”
Allan paused. “Right. Were there any other injuries besides the dismembered fingertips?”
“There were abrasions to the palmar surfaces of the hands. Like you’d find if you fell forward and attempted to break the fall with your hands, perhaps on the gravel trail.”
“It looked like the attack happened there.”
Coulter gave a nod.
“Nothing else?”
“No, but getting back to the fingertips. Those were removed postmortem. I saw no vital reaction in the tissues.”
“Well, that about covers it,” Audra said, closing her notebook and standing up. “We have a lot of legwork ahead of us.”
Allan rose from his chair. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“I’ll have the full report to you tomorrow,” Coulter told them.
While they’d been in Coulter’s office, the blue sky had clouded over. The temperature felt as if it had dropped a few degrees.
Crossing the parking lot to Allan’s car, Audra said, “I think Coulter got insulted when you questioned his ruling in the Driscow case. Did you see his face?”
“Got a bit red, didn’t it?”
Audra chuckled.
“He’ll get over it,” Allan said.
“So?”
“What?”
“Do you question it?”
Allan turned his hands up. “Should’ve questioned it back then. I keep wondering if I spent all those months looking in the wrong direction.”
Audra stopped by the trunk of the car, and Allan stopped with her.
“So what are your thoughts on this?” she asked. “Your theory?”
“I looked into every known sex offender on this side of Canada. None of them turned out to be the suspect. I even looked into men who had minor sex-related charges against them because that’s how a lot of these guys get started. In the end, I had one viable suspect. One, and DNA cleared him.”
“And that has you questioning the sexual aspect of the murders?”
“It has me looking at this from a different angle.”
Audra placed a hand on the trunk of the car, her fingers drumming the metal. “Such as?”
Allan drew a breath. “Motivation isn’t always easy to understand. Maybe this guy never sexually assaulted either woman. Maybe that’s the reason Coulter never found any injuries to prove it. Maybe that’s why there was no ejaculate. He never took it that far.”
“The suction lesion on Mary Driscow’s breast. That is sexual interaction. Coulter is right. C’mon, Al, you know that yourself.”
“I do. But what if it was just a sudden urge the guy had? An afterthought. He never did it with Kate Saint-Pierre.”
Audra shook her head. “I don’t know, Al. I don’t know.”
Allan said, “I’m just speculating here. You asked. I told.”
“If sex isn’t this guy’s motivator, what is?”
“What’s left?”
Audra frowned. “Murder.”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, they shared a careful look.
“Murder,” Allan said. “That just leaves murder.”
8
Burlington, October 18
6:45 p.m.
Kate Saint-Pierre.
She’s a slim figure in black and pink, running down the path toward me. The low early sun streams through the woods and has a strobe-light effect on her body. Her ponytail bounces wildly. Her arms resemble pistons as they pump back and forth in sync with the short strides of her legs. I admire her form—head up, chest out, back straight.
She rounds a bend in the trail and comes down the slope. Our distance is closing fast, two trains barreling straight for each other on the same track. Excitement surges through me. My heart races. My senses heighten.
I hear the crunch of gravel under her feet, the rustle of leaves, the stir of a sudden gust high in the turning trees. I inhale the smell of earthy decay, a whiff of something citrusy. I can see a good one hundred fifty yards of the path trailing Kate Saint-Pierre, and there’s no sign of anyone else. There’s no one behind me, either. We’re the only two humans around. It’s beautiful, this serendipitous moment.
About thirty feet separate us now. I notice her cheeks are flushed. Sweat glistens on her face. Her breaths sound deep and even; she’s not huffing and puffing at all. Probably a belly-breather, and that worries me. She could be an experienced runner who has a lot of gas left in the tank. If she gets away, I might not be able to catch her.
Respectfully, I move to the edge of the trail, giving her room. Just before we intersect, she acknowledges me with a quick smile. I return the gesture. It’s a fraternal thing some runners do, like the motorcyclists and truck drivers you see waving to one another on the highways.
As we pass, I casually stick my foot out, and she catches my instep so hard it makes me wince. She topples forward to the ground with a soft grunt. I stop and look down at her.
“Oh, sorry.” I try my damnedest to sound concerned. “Are you okay?”
She lies there on her stomach for a few moments, making little moaning noises. I wonder if she got the wind knocked out of her. Then she lifts her head and slowly pushes up to her knees. Her hands shake as she begins flicking bits of gravel from her palms.
I reach into the pocket of my hoodie, gripping my piece of rope. The ends are knotted so my hands won’t slip off.
“Are you okay?” I repeat.
She looks back over her shoulder at me. Her eyebrows are squeezed together in a crease. Her mouth is twisted to one side. She spits out a caustic “Fine.”
I give a look around. There’s no one coming. The park isn’t as busy as it was yesterday. Lucky for me; not so much for her.
Kate Saint-Pierre begins to stand.
“Here, let me help you,” I say, moving to the front of her.
She holds up a hand to stop me. “I’m fine. Really.”
No, honey. You’re not.
It takes only a second for me to pull the rope from my pocket and loop it around her neck. Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. Her hands fly to her throat. Then she’s falling backward to the ground. A gush of air shoots out of her nostrils as my body weight lands on top of her. Quickly, I cross the ends of the rope and give it a sharp tug. She writhes beneath me, struggling to get free. She whips her nails into a crazy frenzy, clawing for my eyes. I feel the fiery lick as one of them scratches my cheek, and it angers me to no end.
I snap the rope tighter, and her hands scramble to it, trying to pull it free. I watch her face swelling, changing color
. She looks up into my eyes, and I see the fear and confusion swimming among the tears. I’ve seen that look many times before. Each of those is burned into my memory. Stored there so I can pull one out at random and soak in warm reminiscence.
The creak of the office door drags me, kicking and screaming, from my pleasant daydream. Right away, I click the mouse on my desk, and the news article about Kate Saint-Pierre disappears from the monitor.
I swivel in my chair to face the source of the intrusion. Heidi stands in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Behind her comes the sound of Jade and Jaleesa laughing and splashing around in the bathroom down the hall.
“Girls,” Heidi calls to them. “Don’t you be making a mess.”
They call back, “We won’t, Mom.”
I smile. Their laughter is infectious. It wraps my whole body in a warm hug. I read somewhere new fathers go through biochemical changes. Testosterone plummets. Estrogen levels rise. The brain rewires itself. Extra neurons form and make new connections. The father literally becomes motherly.
There must be some truth to it, because when Jaleesa was born, a change did come over me. I felt a bond with her that I never had with any other human being. Until, of course, Jade came into the world. Then I had those feelings all over again.
“Whatcha doin’?” Heidi asks me.
“Going through emails,” I tell her.
“Anything important?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Well...depends.”
“On what?”
“Your point of view,” I say. “It can be good news or bad. Depending on how you look at it.” I mimic a balance scale with my hands. “Good for the money. Bad that I’ll be on the road again.”
Heidi shuts her eyes. Disappointment slumps her shoulders, deflates her. She crosses her arms and leans against the jamb.
“Where to?”
“Cranbrook. For a company called Flatbow Lumber. They have about a hundred fifty employees.”
Heidi opens her eyes, frowns. “Is that in BC?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t been out that way for what, two years?”
It’s closer to three, but I don’t correct her.
“Yes,” I say. “Been a while.”
“When do you have to leave?”
“The board of directors wants to see me on Friday. I’ll need to catch a flight Thursday.”
“Do you have to go?”
No, I want to say. It sucks being away from home so much. But I can’t decline the cash. I can’t wreak havoc on my professional reputation, either. In this stagnant economy, companies look for ways to cut costs, to survive. My business thrives on their financial troubles.
Besides, I want to go to Cranbrook. It’s a quaint little city nestled in the mountains. It’ll be nice to see what’s changed since my last visit. Just a short thirty-minute drive up the highway brings you to Kimberley Nature Park. I imagine it’s beautiful there right about now with all the larches in fall color, yellowing the foothills. I’ve been to the park twice before and came up short both times. Maybe I’ll get lucky this trip. Third time’s the charm, right? I’m a glass-is-half-full type of guy.
I say to Heidi, “Can I afford not to? Can we?”
“The Treats In Our Streets is on this weekend,” she tells me. “I was hoping you’d be home so we could all go.”
I wince. Every year we take the girls to that pre-Halloween event the city holds. Different businesses participate and give out candy and stuff to the kids. I couldn’t care less about it, really. But the girls love it. This will be the first year I miss.
“Shit,” I say. “That’s here already.”
Heidi’s mouth stretches into a tight line. “Saturday’s the twenty-third.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know where this month went.”
“You’ve hardly been home but for a few days.”
“Have to take the work when I can get it,” I say. “It keeps us in this place, Kate. It pays the—”
“Who?”
“What?”
Heidi comes off the doorjamb, tilting her head to one side and narrowing her eyes. “You called me Kate.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, you did.”
My body tenses in the chair. I find my eyes pulled into Heidi’s piercing stare. I can’t believe the Freudian slip I just made. Stupid me.
“Who’s Kate?” she asks.
I scramble for an answer. “I don’t know. Must be the fatigue. My brain feels...it feels like it’s running on fumes right now. I can barely think straight.”
“Ah,” she says.
I watch her gaze move to the bandage on my cheek then back to my eyes. The wheels are turning in her head. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
“Did you and her get into a quarrel? Is that what really happened to your face?”
My jaw tightens. I feel myself getting a little too warm.
“Of course not,” I say. “You think I’m cheating on you or something?”
“Are you?”
“No.” I trace the sign of the cross on my chest. “Honest to God.”
Heidi smirks and raises one eyebrow higher than the other. “Funny. I’ve never known you to be religious.”
I give her a dismissive shrug. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me. I know the truth. Too much on my mind lately with all this work.”
She crosses her arms, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. We remain like that for a few moments, looking across the room at one another.
Jaleesa calls out from the bathroom. “Mommy, we’re ready to get out now.”
“Be right there,” Heidi answers.
To me, she says, “Well, I better take them out of the tub before they turn into raisins.”
She turns to the hallway.
“Hey,” I say.
She stops and looks back over her shoulder.
“Are we good?” I ask.
She holds my eyes for a few seconds. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”
I watch her leave. Then I shut my eyes and exhale a long breath.
I must’ve asked myself a thousand times since marrying Heidi: what will I do if she ever finds out about me? To see who I really am. To learn of the things I’ve done. If she ever came between my freedom and me, could I do it? Could I kill my wife, the mother of my daughters?
9
Halifax, October 18
7:53 p.m.
“A thrill killer,” Audra said. “What, like Michael Wayne McGray?”
Allan set the evidence box on his desk and pulled the lid off.
“We should be open to the possibility,” he said. “Not get fixated on one direction. Like I did.”
“Whodunit cases are the hardest to solve.”
Allan gave her a lopsided smile. “They can’t all be dunkers, right?”
“You don’t know if you were wrong, Al. Sometimes it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
“All I know is I never caught him. Now another woman is dead.”
Audra watched him turn back to the box. He became very still as he stared into it. Only his jaw muscles twitched. He seemed hesitant, afraid to touch whatever was inside. Slowly, he withdrew a manila envelope and held it for a few moments, his usually kind eyes losing their softness, becoming sad.
“Here,” he said. “These are the scene photos from the Driscow case. Tell me what you see.”
Audra sat back and threw her feet up on the desk. As she began looking over the photos, she understood why Allan suspected the same man.
Arms outflung, Mary Driscow’s body faced the sky. Her bangs were swept back off her forehead, and her mouth and eyes were open. A prominent ligature mark formed an X on her throat.
The suspect had left Mary’s yellow running jacket hitched up over her breasts and her black tights pulled down to her ankles. It mirrored what he’d done with Kate Saint-Pierre.
“I bet this empowers him,” Audra said. “The way he seems to hunt them. How he kills them. How he poses
them in this degrading manner.”
Allan said, “So we’re in agreement it’s the same man?”
Audra nodded. “The evidence certainly suggests it.”
She could see nothing similar in the women’s physical characteristics. Mary Driscow had reddish-blond hair; Kate Saint-Pierre had dark brown. They had different hairstyles, too. Curly versus straight.
The women’s body types differed as well. Mary was pale and slender. She didn’t have a lot of muscle tone. Kate was just the opposite. She had a light tan, and her body showed the lean muscularity of an athlete who not only ran frequently, but also pumped a bit of iron.
Audra agreed with Allan’s theory—both women were victims of opportunity. In the wrong place at the wrong time. The park was the common denominator. The suspect had been there to hunt anyone who took his fancy.
So where had he been for the past year? In jail for some other crime? Or had he just sat around and waited to strike again on the anniversary of Mary Driscow’s murder? Maybe he had photos of the body to tide him over during that time. Maybe he even revisited the crime scene.
Audra knew these types of killers went through a cooling-off period where they’d blend back into their normal lives. That period could last weeks, months, even years before the urge to kill again became overwhelming. Dennis Rader went years between some of his murders.
Audra slipped the photos inside the envelope. She noticed Allan had begun taking out various reports from a second box and piling them on the desk.
“What’d Mary do?” Audra asked him. “Where’d she work?”
“She was a teller at the RBC on Quinpool.”
Audra chewed on the inside of her lip. “That would’ve brought her into contact with a lot of people.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“Just mulling shit over.”
“Uh-huh.” Allan set the empty box on the floor. “Care to share?”
Audra shrugged. “I was thinking about this guy. About the whole year he seemed to have waited around.”
Allan sat down on the other side of the desk. “I thought about that myself.”
“What’d Mary’s profile reveal?”