Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  My joke doesn’t change her expression.

  Jade comes back into the room wearing the moccasins. She boasts an ear-to-ear grin and a sparkle in her eye.

  “Mommy,” she says. “Look.”

  Heidi smiles down at her. “Wow, aren’t those lovely?”

  “Yes.” Jade comes over to me. “Look, Daddy.”

  “I’m glad you like them, honey.”

  “I love them.”

  I kneel down and kiss her on the forehead.

  “You’re special to me,” I say. “You know that?”

  She gives me an earnest expression only a child can. “Yes.”

  “I want to make you happy.”

  “Jaleesa too?”

  I nod. “Jaleesa too.”

  “And Mommy?”

  I glance across the kitchen to see Heidi has left, and I feel a shadow creep over me.

  Jade notices it, because she asks, “Daddy? What’s wrong?”

  I flash her a smile. “Nothing, honey. Daddy’s just tired from his flight.”

  “And Mommy?” she repeats.

  “Of course,” I say. “Mommy too.”

  26

  Halifax, October 24

  8:13 p.m.

  “Jesus,” Audra said. “I don’t know if it was testosterone or male stubbornness. But I almost couldn’t stand it in there.”

  Allan stood at his office window, absently watching the light traffic on Gottingen Street.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “You, getting a bit standoffish with Gagnon.”

  “Oh.”

  Audra moved up beside him. “Hey, you okay?”

  Expelling a breath, Allan ran a hand through his hair. He had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “This case,” he said. “The whole thing is getting to me.”

  “I’ve noticed. It’s frustrating me too.”

  Allan turned to her. “It’s more than that,” he said. “Ever feel like you’re running against the clock?”

  Audra frowned. “In this job, always. The worst sound in our world is the tick of the clock.”

  “Not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Allan tipped his head back, shutting his eyes for a couple of seconds. “I stopped by the Driscow house last Monday.” He grimaced. “I don’t know why. I just wanted to see Mary’s parents. See how they were doing.”

  “Guilt?”

  Allan nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Something happened.”

  “I found out Joyce, Mary’s mother, died in August. I didn’t know. And to make matters worse, Bill Driscow has advanced liver cancer. Doctors gave him a few months. By the looks of him, I doubt he even has that long. I wish I had never gone over there. I’ve been thinking about him ever since.”

  Audra didn’t say anything. Allan found her waiting him out with a concerned gaze.

  He said, “I want to give him closure. Do you think we can do that? Do you think we can catch this guy before Bill Driscow dies?”

  “Remember what you told Gagnon. That he’s taking the Pringle case too personally. You’re doing the same with the Driscow case.”

  Allan felt the truth of that. “Keep your emotions in check, right? Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. That’s what they tell us. I managed to do that in the first few years on this job. Young. Full of piss and vinegar. I thrived on the challenges.”

  “I remember that man,” Audra said. “I was the same way.”

  “You still are.”

  Audra smirked. “Not so young anymore. But still full of piss and vinegar.”

  “So what are your thoughts on these other cases?”

  “Like I said earlier, I’m reserving judgment.”

  Allan walked back to his desk, sat. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I just want to catch this guy so fucking bad.”

  Audra took a seat across from him. “So do I.”

  “You must have some theories.”

  “A few, yeah.”

  “The Pringle case looks random to me,” Allan said. “You get that feeling?”

  Audra spread her hands. “We can’t rule out that it’s connected to Li Chen.”

  Allan tilted his head to the side. “What are you thinking?”

  “Let’s consider the possibility. What if Hailey Pringle was the suspect’s first? It could explain the difference in his behavior.”

  “When I look at that case, I see a suspect who seemed spontaneous. Sloppy. Rushed, even.”

  “Nerves. He doesn’t have experience in killing. He’s not comfortable with it yet. He hasn’t developed his technique.”

  Allan could see her point. “There’s also a space of thirty-four months between the Pringle and Chen murders. Repetition makes you better, more comfortable. That’s quite a lull.”

  “You think he might’ve committed other murders in that time frame?”

  “We have to consider it,” Allan said. “Cross all the t’s.”

  Audra clasped her hands together. “Let’s check into unsolved murders out there. Those specifically committed in parks.”

  “How far do we go back? Four years? More?”

  “Keep it at four for now,” Audra said. “See how many cases we find.”

  “There’s an average of ninety unsolved homicides in Canada every year.”

  “I know. Let’s focus on Ontario and the Maritimes. That’ll keep our number down a bit.”

  Something new popped into Allan’s head. “The homicides in Huntsville preceded ours.”

  “I thought about that,” Audra said. “You think the suspect used to live there and moved this way after Chen’s murder?”

  “I wonder.”

  Audra shrugged. “Dunno, Al. For all we know, he doesn’t reside in either location.”

  “A transient?”

  “Another angle to consider.”

  Allan groaned. “Shit.”

  He picked up the phone and called Denis Gagnon.

  “Detective Stanton,” Denis answered. “What are you saying tonight?”

  In the background, Allan could hear glasses clinking, people murmuring and laughing.

  He said, “Doesn’t sound like you’re at the hotel.”

  Denis chuckled. “Henry House. I’m a bit gutfoundered. Never ate all day. The bellhop at the Westin told me to try the steak-and-ale stew. You know the place?”

  “Never been there, but I heard good things.”

  “Two-minute walk from the hotel,” Denis said. “Did you call it a day? Or still at the department?”

  “Still here,” Allan said. “Detective Price and I are racking our brains.”

  “Hmm. What conclusions have you come to?”

  “No conclusions. Just more questions.”

  “Uh-huh. I hear ya.”

  “I have a few questions for you,” Allan said.

  “Shoot.”

  “What airport did you use to fly down here? Pearson?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the closest one for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Billy Bishop?”

  “It’s an extra hour’s drive from Huntsville. Why?”

  Allan said, “I’m just wondering—if I were the suspect and lived in the Huntsville area—what airport I’d use to fly down here.”

  Denis paused. “Pearson and Billy Bishop are your likely choices. Billy Bishop if you wanted to fly Porter. Pearson for Air Canada and Westjet.”

  “Excuse my lack of knowledge about Huntsville, but how far is it from Toronto?”

  “Two hundred kilometers.”

  “A two-hour drive, then?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “If I were the suspect living here, I’d have to line up a car for once I got to Toronto.”

  “You could do that,” Denis said. “Or take a bus. Shuttle Ontario has two departures going a day.”

  Allan watched Audra leaning forward in the chair, her eyes narrowing.

  “I can see
the hamster running that wheel in your head,” Denis said.

  “See where I’m going?”

  “I think so.”

  “We need to get passenger lists from the airlines,” Allan said. “See who flew to Halifax from Toronto and vice versa in the days leading up to each murder.”

  Denis blew into the receiver. “Cross-reference for matching names.”

  “Exactly,” Allan said. “We’ll also check with bus stations and car-rental companies. The whole nine yards.

  “Detective Price and I also discussed looking into unsolved homicides through Ontario and the Maritimes. Have a firsthand look at them.”

  Denis said, “I’ll handle the Ontario side.”

  “Deal.”

  “What time do you want to meet in the morning?”

  “Just a second.” Allan put his hand over the receiver. He asked Audra, “What time in the morning?”

  She said, “Seven?”

  Allan nodded. “Seven okay with you?”

  “That’s six Ontario time,” Denis said. “But it’s fine.”

  “Just don’t have too many beers.”

  Denis chuckled again. “One glass of McAuslan...er...maybe two.”

  Allan smiled. “See you in the morning.”

  As he hung up, Audra checked her watch.

  “Quarter to nine,” she said, standing. “Better get home. Try to catch some sleep, Al.”

  Allan watched her walk out the door. Then he leaned his head back over the chair, gazing up at the ceiling.

  Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t relax. Shutting his eyes, he tried to empty the doubt and depression from his mind. Found it hard to do.

  Tomorrow was a new day, he told himself. Maybe it would bring something good for a change.

  The thought made him shake his head.

  Who the hell was he fooling?

  27

  Burlington, October 24

  8:35 p.m.

  Heidi, Heidi, Heidi.

  If you’re going to snoop, don’t make it so obvious. Put my things back in order.

  What would I hide in the pages of my books? An address? A phone number? A name of a mistress? A picture of her?

  I’m not sure what enrages me more—Heidi’s mistrust or that she left my office a mess. I ask myself if she did it intentionally to piss me off. Most likely. She knows how orderly my things have to be.

  I spend a few minutes rearranging my books alphabetically by author and aligning the spines evenly with the shelf. Then I straighten up the mouse and keyboard on my desk. Obviously, Heidi tried to access my computer as well.

  The thought of her trying to figure out my password amuses me. I wonder how many names she punched in before she got mad and gave up.

  I use the name of my first, a pretty blonde I met ten years ago in the quartzite hills of Killarney Park.

  I can still see her standing on the top of Silver Peak, gazing out at the breathtaking view, her hair blowing in the breeze.

  She was the catalyst to this enjoyable adventure. Twenty-four now, including the mountain biker on Saturday.

  I remember them all equally. Each location. Each face. Each confused, terrified look. Each little noise they made.

  I’m missing just one name.

  Taking a seat, I fire up my computer and search the web for any information on the mountain biker. Kimberley Daily Bulletin has a piece on him.

  Kimberley RCMP are asking for the public’s help in locating a missing man from Marysville.

  Twenty-seven-year-old Guillaume Mills is described as 5’ 10”, 165 pounds, with short brown hair and brown eyes. He has a tattoo on his left calf that reads, “Live To Ride, Ride to Live”.

  At approximately 10:00 a.m. Saturday, Guillaume left his home on 307 Avenue. He was last seen wearing a blue jacket, black cycling tights, and white cycling shoes. Family members said he was riding his bike for Kimberley Nature Park.

  RCMP are concerned for his safety.

  Smiling, I sit back in my chair. Guillaume Mills. I put the name to the face already seared into my memory.

  I wonder how long it’ll take them to find his body. Kimberley Nature Park has a lot of real estate, twice the size of Stanley Park. It could be days, weeks, even months.

  It took five months to find Lionel Gunn in La Mauricie. By then, animals had scattered his bones to different areas of the park. Police couldn’t even determine the cause of death.

  I search news out of Nova Scotia.

  What I find gives me pause. I pinch the skin of my throat.

  A police drawing of a man in a hood covers the front page of The Chronicle Herald. They call him a person of interest.

  I can’t say it’s like looking into a mirror. The eyes are all wrong—too expressive and set too far apart. The upper lip is too full. The nose is too large. And the eyebrows don’t have those sharp arches. The jaw and chin are the only things in the ballpark.

  The longer I stare at the drawing, the more it reminds me of a male model. Broad cheekbones. Not an ounce of fat on his face. I could call it a flattering recreation.

  The details in the write-up worry me. Someone guessed my height, weight, and eye color correctly. Nailed the clothing I wore.

  A roll of sweat trickles from my armpit. I sit back from the desk, wondering who saw me. How’d I attract attention to myself? Was I overly friendly? You know, that nice-guy curse. You smile a bit too much, and people think you’re weird or an imbecile.

  I dress according to my activity and environment, so I never look like that proverbial fish out of water. I wear sweats and running shoes whenever I jog. When I hiked the trails in Kimberley Nature Park yesterday, I wore my Gore-Tex boots, cargo pants, and shell jacket. I never carry a backpack like some hikers, but I did take a small EDC sling bag to carry my water bottle and a GORP bar. And of course, I had the new trekking poles I bought Thursday.

  Who’d I meet on the trails in Halifax? Three—no, four people come to mind.

  Shortly after I entered the park, I happened on a guy in a pea coat who was walking a Great Dane. I don’t think he even looked at me. I remember more of his dog than him. The thing was the size of a horse.

  Farther on, I met an elderly couple by the container terminal. They were busy talking to each other, but the old guy did give me a curt nod as we passed each other. I doubt he looked at me long enough to retain an accurate memory.

  Then came that odd fellow.

  He was jogging toward me with a big smile on his face and his eyes glued to mine. As we passed each other, his smile and stare never wavered. He greeted me with a boisterous hello. I flashed him a smile. Can’t remember if I spoke or not.

  I come back to what I said about someone who smiles a bit too much. People think you’re weird or an imbecile. That was my first impression of this fellow.

  He had to be the one who talked to the cops. But what made him think of me? Did he witness something? Was it my demeanor? Why am I being called a person of interest?

  I wonder about Heidi. What are the odds she checks the news out of Nova Scotia? I’ve never known her to. But if she did. Shit. Shit.

  I turn off the computer, get up from the desk, and pace the floor.

  If Heidi sees this story, would she have a light-bulb moment? Would she consider the scratch I came home with? The fact that I inadvertently called her the name of the actual victim? Would she then see my face in the drawing? And the clothing? Fuck, what about that? If she goes looking through my closet, she’ll find the hoodie and sweatpants I took to Halifax.

  My mouth is dry. My throat is constricted. My muscles are tense. I can’t remember the last time these weird sensations hit me all at once.

  I hear the girls laughing and splashing around in the bathroom. Heidi will be in there watching them.

  Quietly, I dart down the hall to our bedroom. Heidi and I have separate walk-in closets. I go to mine.

  Finding the hoodie and sweatpants, I take them off the hangers.

  I hear a noise and freeze.
It’s the sound of feet thumping on the bathroom floor. The girls are getting out of the tub.

  Hurrying from the bedroom, I go to the kitchen and stuff the clothes into an empty garbage bag.

  Tomorrow is collection day. Does the garbage go or just the blue boxes and green carts? I shake my head, unable to remember.

  Clenching my teeth, I fight through this chaos in my brain. I recall the piles of leaves raked to the curb all up the street. Every fall, the city comes around with a vacuum truck and cleans up the leaves for residents.

  Heidi raked ours. But I can’t remember what bins she set out.

  The bathroom door creaks open. The girls scamper into the hall.

  I rush out to the garage. Through the window in the roll-up door, I see our trash can at the end of the driveway. Perfect. As long as Heidi doesn’t see me.

  I take the bag outside and push it down inside the can. When I go back inside, I find Jade waiting for me in the kitchen. She’s wearing her Dora the Explorer pajamas.

  She opens her arms. “Night, Daddy.”

  I give her a big hug. “Good night, honey. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  I always thought that was a stupid nursery rhyme. Bedbugs. I mean, really?

  Jade gives me a little laugh and runs off to her bedroom. Jaleesa never comes out to see me.

  As I’m returning to my office, I run into Heidi coming out of our bedroom. She’s carrying folded bedclothes. She shoves them into my arms.

  “Here,” she says. “I thought you’d want to sleep on the couch again.”

  28

  Halifax, October 27

  11:55 a.m.

  Ted Taylor’s face stared up from below the murky water, his features contorted by fear and disbelief, his eyes bulging from their sockets. White froth was still visible around his nose and mouth.

  Audra pushed the photograph aside and picked up another. This one showed a long-range shot of the body lying face-up on the bank of a beaver pond, the head submerged in the water.

  “Rare,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  She tossed her gaze over to Denis. “Murder by drowning. You see it done to children, not adult males.”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded. “This guy isn’t afraid to get physical.”