Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Audra grimaced, shook her head. “Jesus, Al. Why the negative Nelly?”

  Allan released a weighted sigh. “Sorry. I’m frustrated. I just want to catch this fucking guy.”

  “So do I. And this is the best lead we have right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Look at it this way—if they can sketch a likeness of the guy, it might be enough for someone out there to recognize him or even remember his clothing.”

  Allan nodded. “Let’s roll the dice.”

  Audra took out her cell. Allan waited as she called Erin Watson, the department’s sketch artist.

  When Audra hung up, she said. “She told us to bring him down.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yep.”

  Allan went back to the interview room. “Mr. Clattenburg, you have anything on the go for the next little while?”

  Liam froze, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “What’s up?”

  “We’d like to have you meet with our sketch artist. Describe this man to her.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Two hours. Three, tops. She doesn’t like to go beyond that. People’s memories can get confused if it drags on too long.”

  Liam perked up in the chair. “I’ll do it. When do we start?”

  Allan gave him a reluctant smile. “Right now.”

  17

  Halifax, October 21

  3:07 p.m.

  It could be the last face Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre had seen before they died. Or it could be the face of any number of people out there. That was the problem with composite sketches; they almost never resembled the suspect.

  The man in the hood had an angular bone structure—broad forehead and jawline, dimpled chin. Thick brows arched over deep-set eyes. A distinct philtrum formed a trench between the broad nose and oval lips.

  Add a spit curl to the forehead, Allan thought, and you had a man who looked a little like Clark Kent.

  He set the composite down, his mind anchored with pessimism. He couldn’t help it; he’d been down that road before. Once it was released to the public, he was sure the sketch would trigger dozens of calls from well-intentioned people. Allan foresaw a lot of valuable time and resources wasted chasing false leads.

  If nothing else, the sketch might raise public interest in the case.

  Allan opened his notebook and wrote down keynotes about the Kate Saint-Pierre case:

  1. Victim strangled.

  2. Ligature used. Brought to the scene by the offender. Removed after the crime

  3. Fingertips severed. Not recovered. DNA of suspect?

  4. No other trauma involved

  5. No sexual contact

  6. No restraints

  7. No theft

  8. Attack was outdoors. Public area

  9. Murder was planned

  10. Possible surprise approach with blitz attack

  11. Possible con approach with blitz attack

  12. Scene demonstrated control

  13. Suspect possesses characteristics under the organized dichotomy

  14. Process-focused, thrill killer?

  15. Used precautions—concealed body in the trees

  16. Left body displayed. Taunt?

  Suspect’s behavior linking the Driscow/Saint-Pierre cases:

  1. Same M.O.

  2. Similar approaches to victims

  3. Same weapon used

  4. Same method of murder

  5. Same geographic location

  6. Murders occurred exactly one year apart—Oct. 17

  Allan’s chair creaked as he leaned back from his desk. He shut his eyes, thinking.

  The same questions he had with the Driscow case nagged his brain about this one. The answers, he knew, lay in front of him, somewhere beyond his vision.

  The suspect could very well be into health and fitness. Just because Liam Clattenburg hadn’t seen him before didn’t mean the man never frequented the park at other times of day. These types of killers usually committed their murders within familiar territory. Maybe other park “regulars” knew who he was or at least remembered seeing him before. The physical description, and maybe even the composite, might be enough to jog their memories.

  Allan logged into his computer. He proceeded to download the ViCLAS booklet. It consisted of over two hundred sixty questions covering all parts of the crime. Once he finished entering the details from the Kate Saint-Pierre case, he’d email the booklet back to the ViCLAS center, where it would all be put into the database of solved and unsolved cases. An analyst there would begin searching for potential links to other crimes.

  As Allan worked his way into the victim information, his cell phone chirped. It was a text message from Melissa.

  “Penningtons called. I got the job.”

  Allan smiled, texted back. “Awesome!!”

  “I know, right.”

  “I’m happy for you. When you start?”

  “Monday.”

  “Congrats, sweetheart. I knew you could do it.”

  “Thanks. I feel like celebrating. Are you going to be late?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Supper out?”

  “Sure.”

  “The Urban Grill? I always wanted to try it out.”

  Allan checked his watch: 4:02. He had about an hour left of work to do in the ViCLAS booklet.

  He texted, “5:30 OK?”

  “Yes. Should I reserve us a table?”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  “OK.”

  “See you soon.”

  “OK. Bye. xoxo”

  “Bye.”

  Allan set the phone down and gave a fist pump. He smiled as he imagined Melissa’s face lighting up when she got the news. Good for her, he thought. Good for her.

  He went back to work on the ViCLAS questions, moving on to the offender information. He was halfway through when Audra came into his office. She had a thin pile of composites in her hand.

  “The presser’s scheduled for five fifteen,” she said.

  Allan looked over. “Who’s doing it?”

  “Thorne.”

  “Okay.”

  She indicated the composites in her hand. “I passed a copy along to all the officers involved in the initial canvass of Point Pleasant Park. Some aren’t on shift today.”

  “Anyone recognize him?”

  Audra shook her head. “Some of the guys said it looked like Brad Pitt. Smartasses.”

  Allan smirked. “I was kinda thinking Clark Kent. Minus the spit curl.”

  Audra’s mouth went slack. “What else do we have, Al?”

  “Nothing. That’s just it.”

  “We gotta try.”

  “I think we should take the composite to Point Pleasant Park. Show it around. See what happens. Maybe even take it to the different gyms around in the off chance it does resemble this guy. Maybe he’s a fitness nut.”

  “Good idea. What’re you doing?” She took a glance at the computer monitor. “Ah, ViCLAS.”

  “Just a thousand questions to go.”

  Audra laughed. “Jesus, you are in a mood today.”

  “Was,” he said. “Melissa texted me half an hour ago. She landed a job.”

  “No way.” Audra smiled. “Hey, that’s great. Where at?”

  “Penningtons. Over in Dartmouth.”

  “Right on. Bet she’s happy.”

  “She is,” Allan said. “We’re going out for supper to celebrate.”

  “Good.” Audra looked at her watch. “I have Steve Foster coming in. Hopefully, he remembers seeing this guy.”

  “Any luck on the other fella?”

  “Dustin Marks? I left a message for him to call me. Nothing yet.”

  “Maybe he’s working.”

  “Probably.” Audra turned for the doorway. “Have fun tonight. See ya in the morning.”

  Allan checked the time: 4:46. By the time he finished completing the ViCLAS questions, the time was 5:20.

&n
bsp; He promptly emailed the booklet off. Then he shrugged on his coat and headed out to have supper with his family.

  18

  Cranbrook, October 21

  3:56 p.m.

  George always shows me to my room, always gives me a piece of German chocolate as a complimentary gift.

  This is my third visit to Cranbrook, and each time, I’ve stayed here at the Elizabeth Lake Lodge. My window faces a bird sanctuary and lake that are backdropped by the majestic Kootenay Rockies. I find the sight beautiful and inspiring.

  A bluish-white hue tinges the mountain range. Jagged, snow-capped peaks thrust so high up they seem to pierce the cloud streaks.

  I hear it’s quite empowering to climb a mountain and stand there at the top, looking down at the world. The few mountaineers I know have told me it can be a life-changing experience. One day I’d like to give it a try just to see if I feel the same way.

  I turn from the window and set my watch to reflect the two-hour time difference. Back home, it’s closing on six o’clock. Heidi will have the girls fed and is probably cleaning up.

  I haven’t decided whether I’ll call tonight. Maybe I should wait. Give Heidi a time-out. She might calm down and collect her thoughts. Come to understand she’s overreacting.

  Still, I wonder if I’ll go back to an empty house.

  I imagine she’s rifled through my office by now, possibly even my dresser drawers and coat pockets. My computer is password-protected. Even if she could access it, I’m careful to delete my browsing history. It’s a good thing I keep these journals in a safe place, one Heidi would never think of.

  I always bring them on my business trips. Some evenings, alone in my room, I’ll add entries. Other times I’ll just sit, reminiscing over ones already written, reliving the experiences captured in them. They help flood my mind with euphoria, send soul-deep waves rippling through my body. It’s the next best thing to being there again.

  I unpack my bags and put everything in their proper order. This is a ritual I go through after I arrive at a hotel room. I’m not one to live out of a suitcase. The very idea of it seems so chaotic.

  I hang my wrinkle-prone clothes in the closet. Line up my toiletries in the bathroom. I leave my underwear sealed in Ziploc bags. I have this weird aversion to using dresser drawers in hotel rooms, no matter how clean the place is.

  Shrugging on my coat, I head outside to my rental car. I have two stops on my agenda. First, I want to pick up a set of trekking poles. Second, I want to have a good meal. I know of a Mediterranean restaurant that serves up some mean couscous crab cakes.

  Cranbrook isn’t very big. They call it a city, even though it’s no bigger than many towns I’ve been to over the years.

  The drive to the downtown core takes only a few minutes from the lodge. I stop at High Country Sports, a modest store that sits beside the desolate Armond Theatre. I’m not sure how long the theatre has been closed down, but the for-sale sign I saw during my last visit still graces the front window.

  I go into High Country. The clerk behind the counter is a teenage male with an emo haircut—long black hair highlighted with purple bangs. He wears a gray hoodie that has the words Life is dumb and I want to sleep printed on the front. As I walk past, he seems more interested in his cell phone than me.

  I find the trekking poles at the back of the store. The selection is adequate. I’m specifically looking for two-section aluminum poles. They’re stronger and can hold up to a little abuse. The carbon ones can’t take much of an impact. One good whack, and they’ll break or splinter. I found that out when I was at the Riding Mountain National Park a few years ago. Aluminum will just bend on you but can be straightened.

  I use poles on my hikes only once in a while. It depends on the terrain. My bum knee flares up if I trek up steep elevations for too long. And I know Kimberley Nature Park has some challenging spots.

  “The Black Diamonds are on sale,” the kid calls over. “Comes with three pairs of feet.”

  I look at the ones he points out. Carbon shafts with cork handles. Not what I’m looking for.

  “Have any aluminum poles?” I ask. “Two piece. Not three. Not the folding ones, either.”

  “The folders are the most popular.”

  “Not really what I’m after.”

  He puts down his phone, comes over. “There should be some Trail Pros left.”

  I watch him dig through the selection. Eventually he finds the brand at the back. He hands them to me.

  It’s an attractive set. Black aluminum shafts with foam grips and red straps. It’ll be a shame if I have to throw them away.

  “Are these on sale?” I ask.

  He nods. “All the Black Diamonds are. Twenty percent off.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take ’em.”

  “Right on, man.”

  He rings in the cost at the till. I pay him with cash.

  “Would you like to join our customer rewards program?” the kid asks. “You can get up to twelve percent back in store credit.”

  “How do I do that? Fill out a form or something?”

  “Just leave your name and phone number. Or email, if that’s preferable.”

  I don’t even give that a moment’s consideration. I always like to keep a low profile, not leave a trail behind for the wrong people to pick up on. That’s why I pay cash whenever possible.

  I politely decline his offer. He hands me back my change.

  “Have a good day,” he says.

  “You too.”

  I walk outside to my car and place the poles on the backseat. I feel those couscous crab cakes beckoning me from across town.

  Tomorrow, I’ll have a full day of consulting with Flatbow Lumber. I plan to get up early and jog the trails through the bird sanctuary.

  On Saturday I’ll drive north up to Kimberley Nature Park. The forecast looks promising: sunny, with the temps rising to twelve degrees by noon. Perfect hiking weather. Not too hot. Not too cold.

  Maybe it’ll get people out. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time.

  Third time’s the charm, right?

  That’s the eternal optimist in me speaking. I always look on the bright side of things.

  19

  Halifax, October 21

  6:00 p.m.

  The Urban Grill was near capacity.

  With a sweeping glance, Allan regarded the people there. “Good thing you called in when you did.”

  Melissa voiced her wonder. “I know, right. But it is a Thursday.”

  The restaurant was open and bright. Accents of creams and yellows contrasted well against the stacked-stone walls. Sputnik chandeliers hung over each table. They resembled stellar explosions—light bulbs shooting out at all different angles.

  Their waitress, an amiable blonde, introduced herself as Amy. She took their coats and then led them to a round table by the windows.

  “Nice chairs,” Melissa said. “They’re just like the ones Eames made in the fifties.”

  Amy said, “I’ve had a few people say that. Shell chairs, I think they called them.”

  Melissa nodded. “My grandparents had a pair.”

  “Cool.” Amy placed menus on the table. “What can I get y’all to drink?”

  Allan sat down, opened the menu. “Coffee for me, thanks.”

  Melissa said, “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay.”

  Amy turned to Brian. “And you, hon? What’ll you have?”

  “Um...do you have chocolate milk?”

  “We do. You want that?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Be right back,” Amy said.

  “Mmm...lobster poutine.” Allan looked over at Brian and wiggled his eyebrows at him.

  Brian laughed. “What’s that?”

  “Says here it’s lobster and chives chopped up in hollandaise sauce and halloumi cheese.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Melissa said.

  “Is that what you’re getting, Dad?”

  “Nah, I might just get a burger.”
/>
  “Me too. Can I have fries with it?”

  Allan said, “You can get whatever you want, son.”

  Amy returned with their drinks. “Are you ready to order?”

  “I’ll have the calamari,” Melissa said. “Beet salad for the side.”

  Allan stirred cream into his coffee, removed the spoon. “What’s your burger of the day?”

  “It’s a Greek burger. Feta cheese. Black olives. Really good.”

  Allan considered Brian. “I don’t think the little man will like it. He and I will get the Kobe burger. Fries with his. Asparagus with mine.”

  Amy flashed them a big grin. “Great. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Allan asked Melissa, “Excited, sweetheart?”

  She swirled her wine, looked over the rim of the glass at him. “You bet. It’ll be nice to start working again.”

  “We’ll have to make babysitting arrangements,” he said.

  “I’ll still be able to take him to school in the mornings. I’ll see if my parents can come over in the afternoons again. Stay with him until I get home.”

  Brian took a gulp of chocolate milk, held his glass above the tabletop with both hands.

  “Mom,” he said, “when are you going to work?”

  “Monday. Nanny and Pop-Pop might come over to babysit. Would you like that?”

  “Yeah. They’re cool.”

  Allan sipped his coffee, smiling at Brian’s use of the word “cool.” He first noticed him saying it when he went to Toronto for a visit. Since moving back home, Brian seemed to say it more often.

  When Brian was four, he’d run around the house and shout honky wonky then erupt into giggles. He’d thought they were the funniest words in the world.

  It was weird how you forgot quirky things your children used to say. Nonsensical words or phrases they made up out of nowhere.

  “Did you catch any bad guys today, Dad?”

  “Not today, son.”

  “How come?”

  “Some are harder to catch than others.”

  “Wait till I get older.”

  “And we become partners.” Allan gave Melissa a wink. “We’ll catch them all.”

  The smile that spread across Brian’s face was his mother’s—wide and warm like a big hug.