Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Slowly, I creep toward her. She doesn’t hear me coming up behind her. I bring the rock down hard on the back of her head. Her body jolts as if from a sudden shock of electricity. The water bottle falls from her hand and rolls off the edge of the cliff.

  She drops to her hands and knees, moaning. I smile down at her. The euphoria flooding my brain feels several times stronger than it did with the animals.

  With every ounce of strength I have, I hit her again. Shock runs through my forearm. The woman’s eyes pop open, and she collapses to the ground. She shudders and twitches for a good ten seconds then lies still.

  At any moment, someone coming might catch me. I throw the rock as far as I can. It lands in the trees below with no sound.

  I drag the woman to the edge of the cliff and hurl her over. I watch her body skidding down the cliffside for several yards, then it begins tumbling, picking up speed just before disappearing into the trees.

  Stark murdered his second victim the following October while he hiked the Sentiers de l’Estrie in Quebec. The victim’s name was Raymond Simard, a thirty-two-year-old businessman from Sherbrooke.

  In his entry, Stark described how he tried to stun his would-be victim by hitting him over the back of the neck with his trekking pole. Only the carbon pole broke in two, and Stark and Simard ended up wrestling on the ground. Stark won out by thrusting a broken piece of the pole through Simard’s eye, killing him. He then dragged the body off the trail and hid it in the trees. He later ditched the broken pole in the Magog River.

  Too close for comfort, he wrote. Next time, I’ll try an aluminum pole. See how it holds up. Carbon is obviously too brittle.

  In April of 2002, he met Heidi Riggs at the Delta London Armouries. She’d been working the front desk when he checked in at the hotel.

  Both of us just stand there grinning at each other like two idiots, he wrote. Is it love at first sight? I don’t know, but my legs are like jelly. When I go up to my room, I can’t stop thinking about her. I have to ask her out.

  By that time, Jacob Stark had murdered five people. Three men, two women. All at different parks across Canada.

  During his five-month courtship with Heidi, Stark would claim his sixth victim while hiking the Johnston Canyon trail in Banff National Park. The man’s name had been Tyler Crane, a thirty-seven-year-old bartender from Banff.

  Stark had pushed him off a catwalk into a rushing mountain creek. He watched as the powerful flow carried the man off and swept him right over a steep waterfall.

  Several entries later, Stark learned of Crane’s name through a news article on the Internet. He seemed amused that the RCMP in Banff considered the death an accident.

  Case closed, he wrote.

  As Allan read over the entries about Tyler Crane, it reminded him of Roger Pratt. Both men had sadly gone to their deaths without raising any suspicions.

  Allan leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. He felt as if he could sleep for a week. His eyes were watery and scratchy; he rubbed them lightly with his knuckles. His mind seemed to be getting lazy. He had to fight to keep his concentration during the last several pages of Stark’s journal.

  He picked up a cup of coffee—his third—and took a sip. Audra sat across the table from him. She had the third journal set aside and was well into the fourth one. Denis sat at the end of the table, just opening journal six.

  Both detectives looked as tired as Allan felt.

  Whenever they’d come across an entry where Stark claimed he had murdered someone, they would record the person’s name and all the pertinent details.

  Allan glanced at the sheet of paper beside Audra. She had written several names on it. Denis had a bunch of names on his paper as well.

  Allan felt a quiver in his stomach, a prickle up the back of his neck. He wondered just how many people Stark had murdered over the past decade.

  Allan had finished the first journal an hour ago. He estimated he had about one hundred fifty pages to go in the second. Halfway there.

  He drew a breath and went back to reading.

  Jacob Stark had married Heidi in September of 2002.

  I didn’t know if I was for marriage, he wrote. I was always a free bird. But I’m twenty-seven now. Maybe it’s time I brought some normality to my life. Whatever the hell that is.

  I’m reminded of a quote I saw once, “Normal is for people without any courage.”

  But Heidi is talking kids. I must say the idea of being a father, of having little creations of mine running around, leaves me with a warm and fuzzy feeling I never had before.

  So why not take the plunge?

  Three weeks after their honeymoon, Stark flew to Regina, Saskatchewan, to consult with a potash company. While in the city, he nearly claimed his seventh victim as he jogged Wascana Center Park.

  I see her coming toward me, he wrote. Ponytail bobbing. Arms swinging like pendulums. Hips swiveling side to side. I can tell right away she’s one of those race-walkers.

  As we draw closer, my excitement reaches a fever pitch. I touch the electrical cord in my jacket pocket.

  We’re about ten feet apart when something over her shoulder catches my eye. There are people on the trail, walking in my direction.

  Helplessly, I watch the woman race-walk her way right past me. My excitement plummets. I end up doing one more lap around the lake before returning to my hotel room disappointed.

  Those are the breaks.

  Stark’s daughter, Jaleesa, was born on May 25, 2003. He described the worry, relief, joy, and pride most new fathers experience.

  He wrote, The nurse finally lets me hold her. I stare down at this tiny bundle of pink skin and actually tear up. It’s a raw emotion I feel, almost inexpressible. My heart literally feels like it swells inside my chest. I never experienced such a powerful affection toward another human being before. Not even Heidi.

  I made this little girl.

  Five weeks later, Stark would find his seventh victim.

  He had flown to Saint John to consult with a limestone company. He stayed in the area for two days after his meetings were over, so he could visit the Fundy Trail Parkway. It was located forty-five kilometers away in St. Martins. He’d never hiked the trails there before and was excited to experience the park for the first time.

  But he also had an ulterior motive: he went there to hunt.

  Fundy Foot Path is a tough trail, he wrote. Grueling cable staircases up steep climbs. Narrow paths. Jagged cliffs. Crossings over shallow creeks. But the views of the Bay of Fundy are gorgeous. At some points on my hike, I can hear waves crashing below me.

  The trail itself can be over fifty kilometers, depending on which end you start. It takes hikers three to four days to complete, but I plan on doing only a small part of it. I never brought any camping gear. I never do.

  I meet a few hikers along the way. Couples. Groups of three and four. No one alone.

  It’s not until I head back that I see him. He’s huffing his way up a steep cable staircase. I stand at the top, watching him take the steps one at a time.

  He’s not an old fellow, probably midthirties. But he’s carrying a few extra pounds of body weight, and his backpack is enormous. It looks to be a 105-liter bag. Way too big to lug around in summer.

  “Careful,” I call out to him. “It’s a long way down.”

  When he pauses to look up at me, I notice his hand grab hold of the cable railing to keep from falling back.

  “Yeah,” he says. “No shit, eh?”

  His face is flushed. Sweat drips off the end of his nose. It’ll be a shame if he has a heart attack before he even reaches me.

  Step by step, he draws closer. I wonder if I should use my trekking pole or just my hand.

  He makes it to the top step and bends over, sucking in big gulps of air. I wait until he pulls his hand off the cable railing and places it on his knee before I put my palm on his sweaty head and give him a push.

  Arms flailing, he cries out as he g
oes tumbling end over end down the steps. Partway down, his body veers off the staircase and over the jagged rocks of the hillside. He bounces off the trunk of a tree and continues on at a fast pace. Belongings in his backpack spill out and fly all over the place.

  I begin down the steps as the man’s body tumbles across the trail and into the bushes on the other side.

  When I reach him, I’m not sure if he’s dead or not. He’s facedown, not moving or making a sound.

  I turn him over. His eyes are closed.

  I sit on his chest and press both hands down over his nose and mouth. His body bucks beneath me for several seconds then lies still. I keep my hands where they are for a full minute just to make sure.

  Days later, Stark would learn the man’s name: Morgan Cusak, a group-home worker from Sussex, New Brunswick.

  Allan let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. The remaining pages of Stark’s second journal talked about his home life. How his heart melted when his daughter gave him her first beaming smile. How she was staying awake for longer periods in the day and seemed more fascinated by her surroundings.

  In the final entry, Stark was about to leave for Victoria, BC. He looked forward to hiking the Galloping Goose Trail for the first time.

  Allan closed the journal and shoved it aside. He noticed Audra had finished the two journals she had been reading. She had her arms folded and head lowered in a pose of thought.

  “What do you think?” she asked him.

  “Disturbing.”

  She raised her eyes. “Yeah. Hard to read some parts.”

  Allan asked, “Did he find anyone on Galloping Goose Trail?”

  “Huh?”

  He twitched his head toward the second journal. “Last entry, Stark was getting ready to leave for to Victoria. He must’ve continued the story into the third journal.”

  “Oh, right.” Audra rubbed her forehead. “Sorry, Al. My brain is mush right now.”

  “Mine too.”

  “No, he didn’t,” she said. “I remember reading about it now. Too many people on the trail.”

  “This guy’s a real Jekyll and Hyde,” Allan said. “On one hand, he’s this loving husband and father. On the other, he’s off killing people with a casualness that’s absolutely chilling.”

  Denis looked up from the journal he’d been reading. “You think he’s a loving husband? I’m reading some stuff here where he’s about to kill his wife.”

  Allan frowned. “Why?”

  “For ignoring him. She thought he was cheating on her.”

  Audra said, “Because he’d called her Kate, remember?”

  Denis nodded. “Listen to this. ‘I stand at the bedside, staring down at her. One swift loop of the rope around the back of her neck, and it’s all over. Eight years of marriage have come to this.’”

  “When’d this happen?” Audra asked.

  “Saturday,” Denis said. “Three days ago.”

  Allan asked, “What stopped him?”

  Denis read a bit more. “His youngest daughter. She came out of her room and interrupted him before he could go through with it.”

  Mouth pinched, Audra shook her head. “Wow. Just wow.”

  “How many victims?” Allan asked her.

  “Six,” she said. “You?”

  “Seven.”

  “That’s thirteen.”

  “Twenty-four,” Denis said, “when you add the eleven names I wrote down.”

  All at once, pinpricks erupted over Allan’s skin. He heard Audra blow out a slow breath.

  “Whoa,” she said. “Eleven victims.”

  “Three just last month.” Denis sat back in the chair, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “Roger Pratt. Kate Saint-Pierre. Guillaume Mills.”

  “So we were right,” Allan said. “Stark did murder Mr. Mills.”

  Audra said, “We’ll have to inform Corporal Scott.”

  “What about those other cases we picked out?” Allan said. “Were they mentioned?”

  “In great detail,” Denis said, picking up his list of names. “There were five of those people in these two journals.”

  “Two of them in mine,” Audra said. “Gilda Melanson and Lionel Selman.”

  “That makes the seven maybes,” Denis said.

  Allan looked at him. “Li Chen?”

  Denis made a grim face and nodded again. “Stark did do it.”

  “I already know the answer, but I have to ask. Was Mary Driscow in those pages?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hailey Pringle?”

  Pulling his hands off the table, Denis slumped his shoulders.

  “Stark was home on the day of her murder,” he said quietly. “You were right, Detective. The crime-scene characteristics didn’t add up.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I was just hoping I’d have something promising to tell Hailey’s mother.”

  Audra yawned into a fist. “So why do you guys think Stark never destroyed these journals? He knew we were closing in on him, yet he just left them there on the desk. It’s like he wanted us to find them.”

  “He’s a narcissist,” Denis said. “And a lunatic.”

  “He’s also proud of what he’s done,” Allan added. “And what do we do when we’re proud of something?”

  “We want to share it with others,” Audra said.

  Allan nodded. “Exactly.”

  A knock came at the door of the conference room. Sergeant Jeffrey Hansen poked his head in.

  “Am I interrupting, Detectives?”

  “We’re all finished,” Denis said. “C’mon in, Sergeant.”

  Hansen was short and wiry, with a deep tan and heavy creases around his eyes. A pencil-thin moustache ran along his upper lip.

  “Stark lawyered up,” he said.

  Denis snorted. “Of course he did.”

  “We took his DNA. Our lab will do the profile. Should take a few weeks.”

  “Good,” Allan said.

  “Shall we send the profile to you, Detective Stanton?”

  “Send it in care of both Detective Price and myself.”

  “Very well,” Hansen said. “What did you guys find out?”

  Denis said, “According to his own writings, Stark murdered twenty-four people during the last ten years.”

  It was as if someone had flipped a switch to shut Hansen off. He just stood there—mouth hanging open—for a good twenty seconds.

  He shook his head. “Twenty—”

  “Twenty-four, yes,” Denis said. “You take out our jurisdictions—Halifax, Huntsville, and Burlington—we’re left with twenty jurisdictions to notify.”

  Hansen licked his lips. “Holy shit.”

  Allan said, “We’re drawing up murder charges as soon as we get back to Halifax.”

  Hansen nodded. “We’re charging him today in Roger Pratt’s death. When are you all heading back to your hometowns?”

  “Soon,” Audra said. “Our department is pretty short staffed with the two of us gone.”

  “That’s understandable. We’ll all correspond with each other as this case progresses.” Hansen looked down the table at Denis. “Detective Gagnon, if you could stay with us for a few days, I would appreciate it.”

  “I can do that.”

  Hansen turned to Allan. “Detective Stanton. Stark’s lawyer made some serious allegations about you.”

  Folding his arms, Allan sagged back in the chair. “Like what?”

  “He claims you put your gun to his client’s forehead when you were all at the hotel. Stark said you wanted to kill him.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Denis said. “I was right there.”

  Audra said, “Stark’s telling his lawyer stories.”

  Hansen flipped his gaze around to each detective then fixed it on Allan.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “I asked Constables Beckett and Latour. They told me they never witnessed anything like that.” A little smile appeared on his face. “But you’re awful
quiet about it, Detective Stanton.”

  Allan gave him a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

  Hansen’s smile dropped away. “Doesn’t matter to me anyway. It’s his word against five.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Sergeant,” Allan said.

  Hansen stopped, looked back over his shoulder at him.

  “Can I see him?” Allan asked.

  “Stark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll have to talk to him through his lawyer.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t have any questions for him. I have something I want to tell him.”

  Hansen paused a moment. “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

  50

  Oakville, November 2

  11:00 a.m.

  Allan looked into the face of the man who had murdered Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre, who had probably murdered twenty-two others, and altered the lives of all the families involved. Hundreds of people forever affected by the actions of one man.

  “Detective Al,” Stark said. “Come back to finish the job?”

  Allan clenched his jaw, trying to control the slow, sick anger pushing through his body.

  Stark’s lawyer sat at the table beside him. His name was Donald Bright, a short, heavyset man with a soft face. A bushy thatch of black hair circled the glistening bald patch on the top of his head.

  Stark turned to him and said, “This is the cop I told you about.”

  Bright looked up at Allan. “Mr. Stark claims you—”

  “I know what he told you,” Allan interrupted. “I heard all about it.”

  “Your client is telling you lies,” Denis said, walking into the interview room behind Allan.

  Stark tipped his head back over the chair and snorted.

  “This is how you cops never get charged with your crimes,” he said. “You all lie and cover for one another.”

  “We read your journals,” Allan said. “Twenty-four people you murdered.”

  Stark brought his head off the chair, one side of his lips pulled up in a smug smile. He gave the impression that he was a man completely at ease with his surroundings.

  Bright said, “Nothing’s been proven, Detective. I might remind you of that.”

  Allan ignored him. He held Stark in his eyes.