Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  My relationship with my parents deteriorated over the years. I often wondered if they’d secretly wished I had fallen from the swing that day, especially Mom. The names she’d call me—evil, dangerous, the devil, a monster. She knew what I was long before I realized it.

  When I went off to business college, I never returned home. I haven’t spoken to Mom and Dad in fifteen years. I imagine they’re still alive. Probably still living in Almonte, in that old brick house on Wesley Street.

  I’ve been thinking about Joshua a lot lately. Where would he be in his life right now? Married? Kids? Have a decent career? What about us? Would we have a good relationship?

  These are my last few hours in British Columbia. I don’t know when I’ll be back here again. Depends if another company out this way needs my help.

  I get up and move to the window overlooking the bird sanctuary. I’m welcomed by a brilliant sunrise. A sliver of light traces the horizon and infuses the clouds overhead with beautiful red and orange hues. Elizabeth Lake is a mirror that reflects the colors, the mountains, and the reeds.

  I watch a flock of ducks flying in perfect V-formation. They head south and eventually disappear from my sight.

  I check the time: 8:08. My flight leaves for Calgary at 12:10. I’m not looking forward to the twin-engine jobbie I’ll be flying in. Even with a small amount of turbulence, it bobs around like a cork. Good thing the trip takes less than an hour. Any longer, and I’d have to fill up on Gravol.

  From Calgary, I’ll connect with my main flight back to Hamilton. I estimate I’ll be home by eight tonight.

  I wonder about Heidi, if her attitude has improved since I came out to Cranbrook. Every night I called home, she just put the girls on the phone. She never spoke to me.

  I bought Jade and Jaleesa a pair of suede moccasins last night. They’re native-made, with beaded flower designs on the tops. I don’t know if the girls will like them.

  I just won’t mention they’re trimmed with rabbit fur.

  24

  Halifax, October 24

  2:20 p.m.

  With Greek features and a head shaved so smooth it gleamed, Detective Denis Gagnon reminded Audra of Telly Savalas. Dressed in a purple blazer and gray trousers, he carried himself with an air of confidence, if she’d ever seen one.

  They set to work in the boardroom because it allowed them more space. Case files from four murders covered the sixteen-foot conference table. Allan sat to Audra’s left, reading over autopsy reports. Denis Gagnon sat opposite them, reviewing the Driscow and Saint-Pierre crime-scene reports. Audra studied photographs from the two murders in Arrowhead Provincial Park.

  She saw Hailey Pringle’s bludgeoned body first. She was a light-skinned girl with a slim build. The suspect had left her facedown on the park trail. Blood saturated her blond hair as well as the crushed gravel beneath her head.

  “He struck her several times,” Audra said.

  “It was a brutal attack,” Denis said. “The medical examiner said her skull was crushed.”

  “The suspect would’ve gotten Hailey’s blood on him. Probably a lot, from what I see here.”

  “I know. And nobody saw a man covered in blood that day.”

  “That’s the way it usually goes,” Audra said.

  She picked up another photo showing Hailey alive and well. She stood in the middle of a suspension bridge that hung over a lush forest canopy. She was squinting against the sun, a closed smile on a face softened with innocence.

  Audra turned the photo over. Someone’s handwriting said: Monteverde Rainforest.

  “Her husband gave me that,” Denis said. “Taken while they were vacationing in Costa Rica six months before.”

  Audra felt a stab of sadness. “Did they have kids?”

  Denis shook his head. “Hailey’s mother calls me every second Friday. Asks me if I got any updates. Four years now. She’s still looking for closure.”

  “You ever hear from the husband?”

  “I did for a few months after the murder. Then nothing. He remarried a year later.”

  “Was he ever a suspect?” Allan asked him.

  Denis nodded. “Only because he was a statistical probability. One-third of women are murdered by someone they know. But according to everyone I interviewed, he and Hailey were happy. No financial problems. No mention of abuse, infidelity, or jealousy.”

  “How’d he take the news of Hailey’s death?” Allan asked.

  “Bad.” Denis winced. “Bad and...genuine. You know?”

  “Yeah,” Allan said in a quiet voice. “I know.”

  Audra went back to the crime-scene photos of Hailey Pringle. She focused on the woman’s bare wrists below the cuffs of her scarlet jacket. No rings on her fingers, either.

  “Were any of her personal effects missing?” she asked.

  Denis said, “Her watch and wedding ring.”

  “Were they valuable?”

  “Ring was about four thousand. Had a point-forty-five-carat diamond in it. The watch, a hundred bucks. Nothing fancy. Pawnshops in Ontario are required to report any jewelry received by them. Nobody tried to cash in either item. For the longest time, I wondered if robbery precipitated the attack.”

  “We had no robbery in our cases,” Audra said. “What about Li Chen? Anything missing from him?”

  Denis lowered his eyes. “No,” he said. “The killer left behind his wallet, watch, and wedding ring. Sixty dollars in the wallet.”

  From the corner of her eye, Audra saw Allan look up from the reports. She waited a brief moment until Denis began reading again before she turned her face to Allan. As he met her gaze, the grim twist to his mouth told her he shared her skepticism—the Pringle and Chen murders didn’t seem to be related.

  When Audra picked up the first photo of Li Chen, a chill rippled over her skin. What she saw bore an uncanny resemblance to Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre.

  Li Chen lay face up on the mossy ground, his face turned toward the camera. His eyes were bloodred, and a prominent ligature mark drew a purple line over his throat. The suspect had severed every fingertip at the DIP joint.

  He fought back, Audra told herself. Just like Kate Saint-Pierre.

  Li Chen looked to be a short man, dressed in a red-checkered shirt and cargo pants. He still had a black camera bag slung over his shoulder.

  Pictures of the surrounding area showed the suspect had concealed Chen within a stand of trees. Audra dug through the autopsy photos, choosing a close-up of the ligature mark.

  “Whoa.” She held up the photo for Allan. “Check this out.”

  His eyes lit up. “Shit.”

  “Similar, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  Denis asked, “What’s that?”

  “The weave pattern in the ligature,” Allan said. “Looks like the one in our cases.”

  “Lemme see.”

  Audra gave Denis the photo. He compared it to close-ups of Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre.

  Eventually, he said, “Yes, yes. I’m really starting to think the cases are connected.”

  Audra shrugged. “I’m reserving judgment right now.”

  “Yeah?” Denis looked at Allan. “You?”

  Allan spread his hands. “I’m cautiously optimistic about one. Not so much the other.”

  “Hailey Pringle. You don’t think she’s part of this vicious cycle?”

  “The crime-scene characteristics don’t add up for me. Sorry.”

  Denis frowned. “Like what?”

  “He left her body as is. Why didn’t he hide it like the others?”

  “Maybe he got spooked. Someone was coming.”

  “Different cause of death too.”

  Denis tapped a finger on the tabletop. Then he loosened his tie so the knot hung by his sternum.

  “I respect your opinion, Detective,” he said. “But I’m sticking to my gut on this.”

  Allan thumbed his ear. “I know what it’s like to have a case like yours. You take it personal
ly. It becomes a case you have to solve. Not only for the victims’ families, but for yourself. That emotional investment can cause you to lose focus.

  “Last year, shortly after I submitted the Mary Driscow case to ViCLAS, they found a potential link to an unsolved rape and murder in a town not two hours from here. Same cause of death. Similar murder site. The suspect even left her posed.

  “From all appearances, the cases seemed to be connected. But there were also differences—”

  “Such as?” Denis asked.

  “Weave pattern in the ligature. I had DNA evidence. They didn’t.”

  “I’m assuming you’re telling me this because these cases ended up not being related?”

  Allan nodded. “They caught the man involved in that case last spring. He’d abducted a young woman right from her home. Drove her to a wooded area and tried to rape her. Luckily, she escaped.

  “Police tracked him down soon after. They found evidence at his place linking him to the other murder. When I looked into him, I discovered he had lived in Mary Driscow’s neighborhood at one time. That made me excited. It convinced me that I had my man.”

  “Obviously, you didn’t,” Denis said.

  A distant stare crossed Allan’s eyes. “DNA cleared him.”

  Audra watched him for a moment.

  “Well,” she said. “For the sake of arguing, let’s say these cases are related. What do we know about the victims?”

  “There are no links between them,” Denis said. “One male. Three females.”

  Audra nodded. “Their ages vary from twenty-two to thirty-four. They come from various backgrounds.”

  “Why does he choose them?” Allan said. “They have no specific physical or personal characteristics.”

  The room went quiet for a good minute.

  Denis spoke first. “Maybe he initially starts off looking for someone specific. His dream victim, so to speak. But he finds they’re not easy to come by. So he settles for a substitute instead.”

  “That’s possible,” Allan said. “What if he’s just picking people at random?”

  Denis widened his eyes. “That’s a scary assertion.”

  Audra chimed in, “Can we agree he never knew any of them?”

  “Yes,” Denis said.

  Allan gave her a single nod.

  Audra added, “He used a con approach or surprise attack on each victim.”

  “No sexual patterns to the crimes,” Allan said.

  “Uh.” Denis scratched at his cheek. “I read something in Driscow’s autopsy report. The ME determined sexual interaction.”

  “Based on a suction lesion,” Allan said. “Yeah, Coulter and I had this discussion the other day.”

  “Did he make a mistake?”

  “No. That’s where the DNA came from, after all. It’s just that I felt I’d put too much of my focus on the sexual aspect of the crime.”

  “Okay,” Denis said.

  Audra flipped her gaze from one man to the other. “The suspect’s targeting area is similar.”

  “Parks,” Allan said.

  Audra turned to Denis. “The areas where Chen and Pringle were found, are they only accessible by foot?”

  “Yes. Yours?”

  Audra nodded. “What’s that tell us about the suspect?”

  Allan folded his arms. “He’s physically fit. Maybe he’s into jogging. Hiking. Likes the outdoors.”

  “Driscow and Saint-Pierre were murdered in Octobers,” Denis said. “Li Chen in a June. Hailey Pringle in September.”

  “Three people strangled,” Allan said. “One bludgeoned.”

  Denis looked at him. “He chooses a method that brings him into close contact with his victims.”

  “Almost intimate,” Audra said. “Maybe you were right, Al.”

  Denis leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Right about what?”

  “Al thinks this guy might be a thrill killer.”

  “Hmm.” Denis looked up to the ceiling and exhaled. “He gets off on the rush. Interesting.”

  “I’m leaning toward that theory,” Allan said. “Take out the sexual motivator, and what’re you left with?”

  Denis smiled. “Uh-huh.”

  “If these cases are related,” Audra said, “he’s killing interprovincially.”

  Allan lifted his eyebrows. “Then where’s he from? Here, there, or somewhere else?”

  Audra shrugged. “There’s a bigger question—are these his only victims?”

  25

  Burlington, October 24

  8:05 p.m.

  The girls don’t know what to make of them.

  “They’re moccasins,” I say. “Made by natives out west.”

  Jade scrunches up her face. “Mock...a...zins?”

  Her effort to pronounce the word melts my heart, lifts a big smile on my face. I feel so proud of her. She still trips over longer-syllable words, but she’s only five. Every once in a while, I catch her saying liver room for living room, or sketty for spaghetti.

  “I like them, Daddy,” she says, giving me a hug.

  I look at Jaleesa. Clearly, she doesn’t like them. She stands there, her mouth hanging open and staring at the moccasins in her hands.

  “What do you think, honey?” I ask.

  She turns to me, and I see daggers in her eyes. “Why’d you get these?”

  “I thought you girls had enough toys.”

  “They’re ugly—”

  “Jaleesa.” Heidi appears in the kitchen doorway. “Have some respect. Your father is right, you girls do have enough toys. Besides, Christmas isn’t too far away. Santa will bring you more then.”

  “Santa isn’t real, Mommy.”

  I swear you can hear that proverbial record scratch, and the kitchen drops into silence. Heidi and I turn our heads to Jade at the same time. With an incredulous stare, Jade looks at Jaleesa, then at me, and finally at Heidi.

  “Santa isn’t real?” she says.

  Her chins quivers. I can tell the waterworks are close.

  “No, he’s not,” Jaleesa tells her. “It’s all a lie.”

  “Jaleesa”—Heidi raises her voice—“go to your room. Now.”

  Jaleesa throws the moccasins on the floor and leaves in a huff. She stomps down the hallway to her room. Heidi follows her.

  Eyes moist, Jade turns to me. “Is Santa real, Daddy?”

  “Do you think he’s real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think he’s real too.”

  That puts a hopeful smile on her face. She gives me another hug. Then she runs off with the moccasins.

  Clenching my jaw, I close my eyes for a second. I never wanted to push the Santa Claus myth on the girls. Heidi allowed that lie into our home when the girls were very young. She’d bake cookies for them to leave out on Christmas Eve. She’d even take a bite out of the cookie and write a thank-you note from Santa.

  Kids of Jade’s age marvel at the world and create their own fantasies regardless of what we do. Why set them up for such a letdown? It’s like the Easter Bunny story. Or the Tooth Fairy.

  Soon enough, our kids will realize it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, that they can’t always get what they want, that their friends will cut their throats, that they’ll struggle through tremendous odds, that their family members will die off around them, and then their own health will break down and they’ll die, too. With any luck, they’ll have some heirs to carry on their memories. Otherwise, they’ll be forgotten like an old song.

  Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, I twist off the cap and down a mouthful. A compulsion burns inside me to walk right back out the door, jump in my car, and drive off somewhere. I don’t know where, just far away from here. Ten minutes home, and I have one daughter throwing a hissy fit and Heidi not speaking a word to me. Jade is the only bright spot.

  Heidi marches Jaleesa back into the kitchen. My daughter’s face is red, and her arms are tucked tight into her sides.

  “What do you tell you
r father?” Heidi says to her.

  Jaleesa lowers her head, unable to meet my eyes. “Sorry.”

  I look at Heidi. “Why shame her into apologizing?”

  She glowers at me. “It’s about respect and gratitude.”

  I stare at her, realizing our time apart hasn’t improved her mood. I take another drink of beer as Jaleesa picks the moccasins off the floor and carries them to her room.

  I call after her, “I’ll try to get you something better next time. Okay, honey?”

  “Okay,” she answers.

  Heidi turns to leave.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She looks back over her shoulder.

  I try to break the ice between us. “The girls told me last night they liked the Treats In Our Streets.”

  She turns fully around, crosses her arms. “Yeah, they had fun. We all did.”

  “Good, good. I forgot to ask them what they went as.”

  “Jaleesa dressed up as a princess. Jade went as a ladybug.”

  “A ladybug.” I smile. “Like her backpack. Cute.”

  “Yes. Jaleesa was cute too.”

  “How’re things with you?” I ask. “You were in quite a mood when I left Thursday.”

  “A mood?” She raises an eyebrow, fixing me with a glassy stare. “Interesting way of putting it.”

  I gaze at her, remembering how that mountain biker’s face morphed into hers. I realize it was probably a mind trick. Sometimes my mind does seem to have a mind of its own. It likes to torment me, to take me down the dead-end streets and dark alleys of my past. It tricks me into seeing things, even believing things that aren’t real.

  Heidi’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “At least you came home with no cuts and scratches this time.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “You’re still on that?”

  She continues to stare at me with a look that a lizard would give a cricket or a mealworm.

  “I took your advice,” I say, smiling.

  She tilts her head. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “I used the electric razor you gave me.”