Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  “Oh shit. Yes. Him.”

  Logan perked his chin up. “You have an eyewitness?”

  Audra said, “We had a guy approach us about a man he saw the morning our second victim was murdered. We don’t know if it’s the suspect or not. We have yet to locate him. But this possible witness agreed to do a composite.”

  “Did you bring copies?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll give them to you.”

  “Awesome.” Logan looked at Allan. “Have you guys reviewed any unsolved cases in BC?”

  Allan shook his head. “We didn’t want to overwhelm ourselves, so we limited the search to Ontario and the Maritime provinces. Just to see what was out there. And we looked specifically at unsolved murders that had occurred in parks.”

  “You’re thinking that’s his target area?”

  “Seems to be. If, of course, we are looking for the same man.”

  Audra asked Raines, “Any evidence of sexual interaction?”

  “No signs to suggest any,” he said. “I took swabs and scrapings, but it’ll be weeks before I hear back on the results.”

  “What about hypostasis?” Allan asked. “Was it consistent with how the body had lain?”

  “One hundred percent,” Raines said.

  Logan added, “We determined Mr. Mills had been murdered in the lookout area then dragged into a stand of trees, some twenty-five feet away.”

  “We have similar suspect behavior in some of our cases.” Allan checked his watch: 3:16 p.m. “What time’s sundown?”

  “Around six thirty.” Logan looked at his own watch. “You want to head up to Kimberley Nature Park?”

  “We’d like to see the crime scene before dark.” Allan flicked his gaze from Audra to Denis. “Are you guys satisfied with everything here? Any other questions for Dr. Raines?”

  Audra frowned, shook her head. “I think we covered everything.”

  “I’m good too,” Denis said.

  “You can always call if you think of questions later,” Raines said. “Corporal Scott has my number.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Allan said, extending his hand.

  Raines gave it a firm shake. “My pleasure.”

  After Audra and Denis exchanged good-byes, the four of them walked outside into the bright afternoon sun.

  Crossing the parking lot to the Suburban, Logan said, “There’s some rough sections of ground at the park. Did you all bring appropriate footwear?”

  Allan nodded. “I brought my sneakers.”

  “Me too,” Audra said.

  “I only have these Oxfords,” Denis said. “I wasn’t planning on going on a nature hike when I flew down to Nova Scotia.”

  Logan appraised Denis’s feet. “What’re you, about size ten?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a pair I can lend you,” he said. “We’ll swing by the house before we leave town. I live right here in Cranbrook. Oh, and we’re going to have to pick up some bottled water.”

  33

  Kimberley, October 28

  4:49 p.m.

  Logan led the way up a steep hillside, across the top of a field covered in golden grass, and into dense woods where the bushes moved in to hug the trail.

  Audra found the walk in the crisp air invigorating. She especially enjoyed the impressive views of the valleys and mountains surrounding them. On the way back, she told herself, she’d take a few photos to show Daniel and Daphne.

  “The park is mostly maintained by volunteers,” Logan said. “They’ll replace signs that fell off trees. Clear any deadfall blocking the trails and cut it up into firewood. People collect it to use in their stoves and furnaces. That’s why you don’t see any lying around.”

  “The crime scene is quite a ways in,” Audra noted.

  “Two and a half, three kilometers.”

  At the back of the line, Denis said, “My body disagrees with you. It tells me it’s more like ten.”

  Looking over her shoulder at him, Audra raised an eyebrow at his peaked complexion. She’d heard him huffing heavily after thumping up the slope of the first hill, but he’d kept going, not even stopping once to take a sip from his water bottle.

  “Hey,” she said, “you okay?”

  He waved it off with a shake of his hand. “Pfft, I’m fine. Wait until you get my age. I have a good twenty years on y’all.”

  “Were you ever a smoker?” Logan asked.

  “Nope. Age, I think. I’m sixty-two. Plus, these extra pounds I’m carrying in the old bread basket don’t help.”

  “Maybe you should’ve waited with the vehicle,” Allan said.

  “And what, miss all the action?” Denis gave a light chuckle. “Don’t think so.”

  “It’s not far now,” Logan assured him. “We’re almost there.”

  Denis said, “Wasn’t there an easier route?”

  “Easier, yes. Shorter, no. If we came in on Higgins Street, we’d have less of a climb but a longer walk. I’m talking at least two more kilometers.”

  “Shit. How’d you get the body out?”

  “Airlifted it.”

  “Ah, there’s an idea. Why didn’t we bring the chopper up here?”

  Logan’s laugh echoed in the trees. “No place to land it.”

  “Great.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Logan said, tossing him a smile. “The way back is mostly downhill.”

  “Ha, good thing.”

  The trail intersected with another, and they decided to take a brief water break.

  Logan pointed up a path. “Scene’s just through there. Myrtle Mountain Viewpoint.”

  Audra noticed a sign on a tree that read, Mountain Mine Road.

  She looked around, trying to picture the suspect prowling these trails. Had he encountered Guillaume Mills entirely by chance, or had he known Mills would be here? According to family members, Mills was an avid mountain-bike enthusiast who had come to the nature park hundreds of times. Saturday would be his last ride through this vast wilderness.

  As she screwed the cap on her water bottle, she caught Denis’s eyes.

  “I’m getting old,” he said.

  She noticed the sweat beading on his bald head. “You going to make it?”

  “Oh, I think so. There’s no better way to find out just how out of shape you are than to do something like this.”

  Logan said, “Hills will do that.”

  Denis cleared his throat and spit into the bushes. “The first one was the worst.”

  Logan nodded. “Sunflower Hill.”

  “Got its name because of sunflowers?” Audra asked.

  Another nod. “Come here in April or May, and the hill is covered in them.”

  “Nice,” she said.

  She looked over at Allan. Shoulder against a tree, he quietly sipped his water. He appeared pensive and troubled. Audra could almost hear the machinery grinding away within his brain.

  She noticed how dissociated and irritable he’d become as this investigation trudged along. She knew he blamed himself for imaginary oversights in the Mary Driscow case. Now he was putting additional pressure on himself to find her killer before her father died.

  And to intensify his torment, none of them knew if they were getting closer to hearing those metal bracelets click on the suspect’s wrists or further away.

  “Shall we continue?” Logan said.

  Denis groaned. “We better. If I stop for too long, I might not get started again.”

  They headed up Mountain Mine Road.

  Audra looked off to both sides of the trail. The slender pines were packed tightly together, almost chokingly so. She caught sliding glimpses of blue sky through the shifting trees. Except for the sounds of their footsteps, the woods were silent.

  In minutes, they reached the overlook, and Audra found herself gazing out at the mountains, bright gold under the lowering sun. A crisp breeze whipped up from the valley, and she zipped up her jacket.

  Near the edge of the overlook, someone had built a conv
enient makeshift bench by crisscrossing stacks of firewood for the legs and using skinned poles for the seat. Denis made a beeline for it and sat down. He was breathing heavily. Audra wondered if he’d be able to make it back.

  “We just released this area this morning,” Logan said.

  “Where’d you find the water bottle?” Allan asked.

  Logan led them to a spot in the grass about fifteen feet from the bench. “Right here,” he said. “We never found anything else. No blood. No signs of even a struggle. But it rained here Sunday and overnight Tuesday.”

  Audra said, “This spot must get a lot of foot traffic.”

  “Oh yeah. People come up here for the view.”

  It was easy to see where SAR had found the body; remnants of barrier tape still clung to the trees. Audra spent a few minutes looking inside the grove where the body had lain, picturing it there from the crime-scene photos she’d studied on the drive to the park.

  She turned to Allan, who was taking notes. “What do you think?”

  “Similar behavior,” he said.

  Audra agreed. “Think it’s the same guy?”

  He clicked the pen and closed his notebook. “Not a hundred percent. But I’m leaning.”

  “Me too,” Audra said. “Too many similarities.”

  For a moment, they shared a cautious look, then they walked over to where Denis sat.

  “Are you going to live?” Allan asked him.

  He chuckled again. “Afraid you might have to piggyback me down?”

  Allan smiled. “It has crossed my mind.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Detective.” Denis pointed off to a cluster of buildings in the center of the valley. “What’s that town out there?”

  “Marysville,” Logan said.

  “Looks bigger from up here.”

  “It’s not much to drive through. If you blink, you’ll miss it.” Logan leveled a finger toward a large valley off to the east. “That’s the Rocky Mountain Trench over there.”

  Denis’s eyes shone. “Beautiful vista.”

  Allan said, “It’s the first thing you’re drawn to when you come out here. Makes me wonder if Mr. Mills was looking out at it when the suspect struck him from behind.”

  Denis looked up at him. “Seems likely.”

  Logan walked to the edge of the overlook and pointed down the embankment. “See those trees?”

  Audra and Allan joined him.

  “Yeah,” Audra said.

  “That’s where we found his bike. We figured the suspect pushed it down there.”

  Audra remembered the pictures. “Trying to delay discovery.”

  “Two flyovers didn’t even spot it. I’m hoping the lab will be able to recover some latents.”

  Denis seemed to have gained a second wind. He got up and walked over to them.

  “So you got any theories?” he asked.

  Allan said, “Like I told Detective Price, I’m seeing similar suspect behavior. The difference is in the method of murder.”

  “Let’s assume our suspect is behind this one,” Audra said. “When we consider the dates and locations of the other murders, it tells us he hasn’t been moving in one direction or the other but zigzagging all over the place.”

  Allan breathed in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. “And we haven’t looked into Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, or even other unsolved cases here in BC.”

  Denis said, “How do you think he’s traveling?”

  Audra considered that. “Hitchhiking seems unlikely. So I’d say, one, by car. Or, two, by plane.”

  “Either way,” Allan added, “he has disposable income.”

  Audra frowned. “Let’s say Liam Clattenburg did see our suspect that morning. What’d he say about Mr. Darling?”

  “Clean shaven,” Allan said. “Clean clothes. He looks to be in shape.”

  “Not how you’d describe a drifter.”

  Allan shook his head. “I say he’s housed somewhere.”

  Denis said, “But where?”

  Allan spread his hands.

  “I’ll have our guys take the composites around to all the hotels in Kimberley,” Logan said. “Maybe someone will recognize him.”

  Audra said, “If he flew, he came into the area via the same airport as us. Right?”

  “Canadian Rockies. It’s the only one here.”

  “Can you get their passenger lists?” Allan asked. “We can check who was on the flights coming into the area in the days leading up to the murder and leaving the area in the days after.”

  “Maybe check into car-rental companies too,” Audra said.

  Logan pushed his shoulders back. “I’ll get right on that once we get back in town.”

  “Speaking of which,” Denis said. “Has anyone noticed the sky over there?”

  They all turned. Over the top of the mountains billowed dark clouds, mounting as they watched.

  Logan said, “I did hear rain in the forecast.”

  “We should head back,” Audra said. “You better lead the way out.”

  34

  Almonte, October 29

  4:45 p.m.

  Time hasn’t done much to change the face of Almonte. Fifteen years away, and everything is as I remember. Only it all looks smaller for some strange reason. Maybe it has something to do with living in Burlington for so long.

  Almonte used to be a bustling mill town. The woolen industry was its lifeblood, providing lasting jobs for people to raise their families around.

  But times change. Cheaper imports from Asia started taking over the markets. The mills in Almonte couldn’t compete. One by one, they began shutting down.

  The Rosamond Mill No.1 was the last to close its doors in the 1980s. My grandparents had worked there until they retired. Shortly after its closure, the old mill was transformed into condos. Adaptive reuse to the tune of two, three, four hundred thousand dollars a pop, depending on how many bedrooms you want.

  I drive up Mill Street, Almonte’s main drag. I see downtown has kept much of its old-world charm. It resembles a lot of other small towns built during times of prosperity. Brick and limestone buildings. Antique stores. Gift shops. Art galleries and bistros.

  I hang a right at the lights. A block farther, I turn left onto High Street. It takes me through a residential area to John Street, where I hang another left. As I cross the railroad tracks, I lift my foot off the gas.

  My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel. I feel a quiver in my stomach, a prickling of my scalp.

  Wesley Street looms ahead.

  I don’t know if my parents still live there, but I feel them nonetheless. The power of nostalgia surprises me.

  Turning the corner, I see our old house. It looks the same, right down to the turquoise front door. The place is a boring Georgian. Red brick. Gable roof. If my parents had installed some window shutters, it would at least dress the house up a little, make it more appealing.

  No one looks to be home. If my parents do live there, Mom could be inside. Dad could be at work. He’s sixty-two, so I doubt he has retired from Mannion Petroleum. I always pictured him working well into his golden years.

  I see that the paved drive and single-car garage are new. The backyard has gone through a major transformation. It’s nicely manicured, with a few ornamental cedars and boxwood. The massive oak tree is gone. So is the picket fence Dad had put up to keep Joshua and me away from the railroad tracks.

  As a kid, I used to love the shriek of the whistle as a freight train approached the crossing on John Street. That clickity-clack of the metal wheels rolling over the tracks. You could feel the rush and speed and unstoppable force of the train shake the whole house as it passed.

  The tracks are still there, but it doesn’t look as if a train has rolled over them in some time. The track bed is overgrown with weeds.

  I turn my car around at Stanley Sanitation and park across the street. Wesley is a short street. Four houses on one side, three on the other.

  I sit there
for a while. I don’t know why. Curious, I guess.

  At 5:15, a red pickup appears on the street. I know right away that it’s Dad. I’m not sure if you call it brand loyalty or blind loyalty, but Dad always drove a Ford. Never mattered if the company put out a lemon, he stuck with them as long as I can remember. It’s probably a matter of tradition—his father always drove a Ford too.

  My guts become jittery. My knee bounces, hitting the bottom of the steering wheel.

  I watch the pickup turn in to my parents’ driveway. It stops in front of the garage. The driver’s door swings open, and he steps out.

  I must say, the fifteen years haven’t been kind. The old man is sporting a chrome dome and a white beard. He’s also packed on some weight.

  He reaches into the cab and produces the same metal lunchbox he carried when I was a kid. It makes me smile. The thing looks like a relic.

  I wonder if he or Mom ever thinks about me. Ever wonder what I became. Where I ended up.

  Dad, maybe. Mom, probably never. I was her pariah. Her demon spawn.

  As Dad shuts the driver’s door, I pull my car into the street. He’s walking toward the garage when I pass. On impulse, I toot the horn at him. He half-turns, lifting a hand.

  I laugh to myself. The old fool doesn’t even know who the hell he just waved to.

  I decide to stay the night in town. The seven-hour drive up from Allegheny did me in. I’m exhausted, and it’s another five hours back to Burlington. Too much for one day.

  I plan to grab a room at the Riverside Inn then find a good place to eat. Maybe that bistro I saw on Mill Street.

  But there’s somewhere I want to go first. I’ll be remiss if I don’t.

  I find a flower shop downtown and buy a ground vase with a bouquet of blue peonies, white lilies, and orchids. The pretty blonde behind the counter gives me directions to Auld Kirk Cemetery. I must’ve been twelve when I was last there, twenty-one years ago.

  Lanark County Road is a scenic drive past open fields and scattered farms. The trip is shorter than I remember. The cemetery is only two to three miles from town. I see it up on the right.

  There’s an old church just inside the gates. It has the same Gothic Revival architecture as other churches in the area. Box-shaped. Rubble stone masonry. Lancet windows in the front and sides.