Deep as the Dead

by Kylie Brant

  “Nyle, why don’t you get some pictures?” Ethan gestured toward the tent and tried not to notice the way Alexa’s wet black slacks clung to her thighs. “I’m sure their proud parents would be interested to know what their kids were up to last night.” The other man stepped away from the kid they’d chased and dug his cell out of his pocket.

  “Uh…” The tall kid’s head bobbed as he looked at his friend and then at Ethan. “Listen, I know it was a dumbass move. We just did it on a dare.”

  “Shut up, Sean.”

  Ignoring his friend, the boy plowed on. “But my dad will ground me for like the whole rest of the summer if he finds out. We didn’t mess things up. Anything still here had to be washed away by the rains. It’s not like we spoiled any evidence.”

  “But you could have.” The forensic ident investigators had returned in daylight after the body had been removed, but according to the call Ethan had gotten yesterday, their efforts had been in vain. Like the kid said, the rain had been an accomplice in destroying any physical evidence the offender might have left behind. Ethan had intended to remove the tape when they stopped here this morning. That didn’t mean, however, that he was willing to cut these punks any slack. At the very least, he’d put a scare into them that might serve as a warning the next time they decided to insert themselves in a crime scene.

  “Naw, those forensic ident guys are pretty thorough. And it’s been raining for like four

  days. Even footprints would’ve been wiped out.”

  Ethan cocked his head and studied the boy more closely. “You police now?” With the explosion of crime shows on TV, everyone was an expert these days.

  Sean ducked his head. “No. My dad’s a constable, though. That’s why he’d rip me a new one if he heard about this. I know we shouldn’t have done it. I’m just saying…there was no harm done. We come here a lot to fish during the day and sometimes camp out. It’s the most isolated part of the river around here, so we don’t have to worry about anyone bothering us.”

  Isolated came in handy if they’d come to engage in illegal activities. On the heels of the thought came another. Isolation might also have been what drew the offender to this spot. “Ever see anyone in the area?”

  Sean shook his head. “The easiest way to this place is by water.”

  True enough, Ethan conceded silently. But the forensic ident unit had searched the shoreline for nearly a mile downriver to no avail. The weather had destroyed any trace of the UNSUB.

  “There was a van parked up there a few days ago, though,” Sean continued. “Saw it when we were coming across in the canoe. Figured it was a couple fu—…uh…screwing or something.”

  Interest flaring, Ethan asked, “A van. Anyone in it?”

  Shrugging, the boy said, “I don’t know. Didn’t really pay attention. I guess there was, because it was gone by the time we pulled the canoe to shore.”

  “What day was that?”

  “Uh…” He screwed up his forehead. “Saturday?”

  “Friday,” the shorter kid put in with an air of resignation. “It was a white Ford Econoline with lettering on the side. Or maybe one of those magnetic signs that companies use. 2014 or older.”

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. “You got a better look at it than Sean?”

  The sneer was back, in the kid’s voice and his expression. “No, I just know the vehicle. My stepdad’s got a plumbing business and had a van like that, except it was navy. He waited until 2015 to replace it because that’s when Ford changed to the Transit.”

  To Nyle he said, “Take off Sean’s cuffs.” He reached in his pocket for his cell and snapped a couple of pictures of both boys. “Tell me your names.”

  “Rick Anthony,” the shorter kid said resignedly. Ethan observed Sean’s gaze darting to his friend and knew the kid had given him a false name. Being a smartass was going to get the kid in trouble, probably sooner rather than later.

  “Sean Blanchett.”

  “Detective Samuels will take your addresses and phone numbers in case we need to contact you again. Should we discover you gave us false information, we’ll show your pictures at the local police station.” Rick’s expression stilled. “We’ll be a lot less patient in that case.”

  “Uh…it’s Rick Anthony…Sibbits.” The kid turned to shade his eyes as he tracked the canoe’s progress downriver. Then groaned. “Man, I gotta go. It’s half a mile away already. How am I supposed to get to it?”

  “You know how to swim, don’t you? Give your information to Detective Samuels and you can go.” The kid didn’t wait another second. He reeled off his address and phone number before beelining for the river bank and descended it, his gaze trained on the canoe.

  Nyle finished writing down the information then flipped his notebook shut. “You can join your friend,” he told Sean. “But you need to start making better choices if you want to enjoy your freedom this summer.”

  Relief flashed over the boy’s face. “I do. I mean, I will.” He nearly tripped over his feet as he headed down the slope.

  “I don’t have a teenager yet,” Nyle muttered, “but if either of my kids turn out like those two you might have to get me out of lock-up.”

  Alexa smiled. “Especially Rick. That attitude would be tough to live with.”

  Nyle eyed her with interest. “Do you have any children?”

  She shook her head. “I was widowed before we could start a family.”

  Her words hit Ethan like a well-placed punch. Whatever he’d felt toward her after she’d left him, he would never have wished her more suffering. Surely there was a limit to how much loss one person should have to live through.

  Switching his regard to Ethan, Nyle asked, “Think this will lead to anything?”

  Ethan opened his mouth to respond, then lost his train of thought as Alexa peeled away from them. She retrieved her shoes, taking her cell out of one them, and balanced on one leg to slip one on, then the other. “It’s a long shot,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her. “Any number of people might park in a scenic area for a bit, take in the view.” Or, he added silently, to find privacy for other types of activities. “And the UNSUB was just as likely to access the site by water as land. But let’s take another look at the embankment. See if there are any indentations the rain didn’t wipe away.”

  “Forensic ident guys would have found them if they were there,” Nyle muttered, but he and Alexa fanned out from Ethan to examine the rocky slope.

  A half hour later Ethan admitted failure. They headed back toward the vehicle.

  “If the offender did drive into the province,” Nyle said, “the only passenger list he’d show up on would be the ferry. But without a name, we have no way of identifying him.”

  “Right. We have the airline, bus and train manifests for entry into New Brunswick shortly before the victims there were killed. We can compare them to the ones for Nova Scotia and see if the same name pops on any of them.”

  “It has to be done,” Nyle said resignedly as he rounded the hood of the car. “But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.”

  Neither was Ethan. It was a mind-numbingly tedious task. Which pretty much summed up the nature of police work. Sporadic bouts of action punctuating days of dead-end interviews, or poring over documents and grainy video. Nine times out of ten the trail to the killer surfaced from one of the deadly dull chores. Maybe they’d catch a break this time around. They were certainly due one.

  They stopped at a gas station so Alexa could change, and an hour later Ethan nosed the vehicle into the parking lot of RCMP’s H Division Headquarters in Halifax’s Burnside Industrial Park. The building was multi-leveled red brick, fronted by an arc of mirrored windows. It was minutes away from the forensic suites where they’d attended the autopsy. He pulled into a parking space in the crowded lot. “Captain Sedgewick is our contact here. He has the manifests and he’ll allot us some workspace.” His cell vibrated as he got out of the car and he answered it as he waited for Nyle and Alex
a.

  “Manning.”

  “Sergeant Manning, this is Officer Baxter of the Halifax Police Department. I’m in charge of the tip line handling the recent homicide victim’s ID.”

  Adrenaline did a fast sprint up Ethan’s spine. “Hello, Officer Baxter.” He thumbed on the speakerphone as Alexa and Nyle joined him.

  “I know we’ve been running down lots of false reports,” the officer said, “and maybe this is just another one. A woman working as a maid at the Claremont Towers on Broadway called it in. No match on Simard’s name or aliases, but she recognized the picture. Said he’d propositioned her when she went in to clean room seven-fifteen.”

  Ethan reminded himself how faulty eyewitness accounts could be. The reminder didn’t temper his response. “When was this?”

  “The call came in about ten minutes ago.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

  After getting the address of the hotel, Ethan disconnected, and looked the address up on his phone. GPS claimed it was twenty minutes away. He mentally tacked on another ten, fifteen minutes based on the traffic they’d experienced on the drive to headquarters.

  “Even a dead end would be more exciting than poring over manifests,” Nyle said hopefully.

  “We can do both. You and Alexa go in and meet with Captain Sedgewick. I’ll check this out. Probably be back in an hour to help out.”

  “Okay,” Nyle agreed, “but Alexa and I are going to save the pages with the smallest print for you.” She nodded in agreement.

  The corner of his mouth pulling up, Ethan turned back toward the vehicle. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “Obviously, I can’t offer to open the room, Sergeant.” The hotel manager, Lon Haskell, was politely apologetic. “We can’t be certain Louise identified room seven-fifteen’s occupant correctly, and an error like that could cost us a guest.”

  “I understand that. But perhaps I can verify the maid’s ID. Do you have security cameras on that floor?”

  “Yes, of course.” The hotel manager smoothed the garish pink paisley tie he’d paired with a sober black suit. “They’re mounted at each end of the floor with another outside the elevators.”

  “I want to see the footage from the cameras for that floor beginning with the date Simmons checked in.”

  Relief flashed across the man’s expression. “That I can arrange. If you’ll follow me to security?” As they strode toward the bank of elevators in the lobby, Haskell pulled a radio from his pocket and spoke quietly into it.

  Security turned out to be two cramped adjoining rooms on the far end of the fifth floor. Stepping through the doorway after Haskell, Ethan took in the rows of cameras that lined one wall. “Do you have the playback for seventh floor ready, Phil?” The manager addressed the young balding man who’d bounced up nervously at their entrance from his chair facing the screens.

  “I’ve got the film from all seventh-floor cameras starting at four-twenty last Saturday, when you said Simmons had checked in.”

  “Concentrate on the camera near the elevator,” Ethan said. Room seven-fifteen was likely in the middle of the floor, too far away for clear images on the cameras mounted at either end of the hall.

  The younger man bent over a screen, punching some buttons to fast forward the digital footage on one screen. After a couple of minutes, he pressed another key to halt it. Backed it up for a moment and then stopped it again. “Here’s four-twenty.”

  The three of them stood staring at the screen for long minutes. Every time the elevator doors opened, Ethan leaned forward to scan the faces of the disembarking passengers. It was exactly thirty-two minutes after four according to the time-stamp on the screen when the elevator doors slid open and three people stepped out, one a dark-haired man.

  Identification was difficult from the man’s profile alone. Ethan stared at the film. Turn toward the camera, dammit. A young blond woman took the elbow of the elderly woman at her side and led her slowly down the hall. The man turned his head to watch their progress, his gaze focused on the blonde. “There. Right there.” Ethan stabbed his finger at the screen. “Halt it. Can you freeze it where his face is turned directly toward the camera?”

  “Sergeant, I can do about anything with these cameras,” Phil said happily, his fingers dancing over the keys. “State-of-the-art system, you know?” A moment later he had an image frozen, and then, focusing on the face, enlarged it, distorting the image a bit with each magnification.

  But that didn’t matter. Because it was still easy to tell that the man on the camera was Felix Simard.

  Haskell stood behind Ethan, wringing his hands. “I’d feel so much better if you had a warrant.”

  They stood outside room seven-fifteen, the manager making no move to open the door.

  Ethan reached for professionalism. “Sir, I’m an officer of the law and I’ve made a positive ID on an image taken on your hotel camera that matches a homicide victim discovered yesterday. I can assure you, Mr. Simmons isn’t his name and he’s not able to complain about our accessing his room. He’s deceased. Please open the door.”

  After a moment, Haskell handed the card to Ethan. Clearly he wanted to shield himself as much as possible from any repercussions. So much so, that when Ethan waved the card over the magic eye near the door handle and opened the door, Haskell merely held it open to watch Ethan’s progress, but didn’t step inside.

  Forgetting the man, Ethan glanced inside the bathroom, noting the toiletry bag on the counter. He moved toward the closet wardrobe next to the TV, opened the doors, and found a navy suit hanging next to a lightweight dark, hooded jacket. Pulling a pair of plastic gloves from his suit pocket, he checked the pockets. The jacket yielded nothing save for a folded metal object. Withdrawing it, Ethan flicked the button in its center. A wicked-looking blade unfolded. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle and refolded the knife. Replaced it. It’d be easy enough to lift prints from the weapon that would verify his ID of Simard’s image on the security footage.

  A moment later he realized that wouldn’t be necessary. The wallet in the suit pocket bore a driver’s license in the name of John Simmons. But the image on it was Felix Simard.

  Muscles tightening in anticipation, he moved to the black suitcase sitting on one of the beds. He rifled through it, tossing clothes aside until he came to a black zippered laptop case.

  Satisfaction speared through him. It was likely password protected, but they’d see what the IT analysts could do with it. There was nothing else of note in the bag or the secreted zippered pockets. Ethan straightened and scanned the room consideringly. There were no overt signs that the room had been the primary crime scene. Hotels were public places, filled with people and security. The killer would have taken a risk, killing Simard here.

  To be thorough, he headed in the direction of the bathroom. “Are you about done, Sergeant?” The manager’s voice barely registered. “I don’t mind saying, I continue to be uncomfortable with this entire process. I’d hate to have guests aware that we…” The words continued. Ethan wasn’t listening. He lifted an arm toward the opaque shower curtain. His brain registered the slight movement behind it even as the curtain and rod plunged toward him, a figure behind it leaping out of the tub to shove Ethan hard against the counter.

  The quarters were tight, and he was off-balance. He reached for his attacker, grappling with the plastic to find the opening of the curtain. A fist shot out, clipping Ethan on the jaw, before he grabbed for the curtain rod and drove it forward, hoping to knock his assailant off his feet as the back of his knees hit the tub.

  He got a glimpse of the man as the curtain slid away in their struggle. Shaven head. Bearded. Heavily muscled. Swarthy. The stranger grabbed the rod to keep Ethan from pressing it against his windpipe. With a mighty shove, he wrenched it to the side and aimed a kick at Ethan’s groin. When Ethan dodged to avoid it, the man used that moment to break free and charge for the door, Ethan a step behind him.

  “What in the world…are
you Mr. Simmons? My apologies for this…” The stranger grabbed Haskell and pushed him violently into Ethan, taking advantage of the few moments it took the men to disentangle to sprint toward the exit at the end of the hall.

  “Sergeant, what in heaven’s name…”

  “Your radio!” Ethan snapped, already reaching for the instrument clipped to Haskell’s belt. “What channel for Phil in security?”

  The hotel manager was white-faced and shaking. “This is highly unusual. Highly…”

  “The channel!” Radio in hand Ethan was already in pursuit.

  “Three-one-nine. But you can’t just take that…”

  Ethan reached the door that the attacker had gone through and began descending the stairs three at a time. He pressed the code that Haskell had given him. “Phil. I need Phil on the cameras. Now!”

  There was a scuffling noise, and the man he’d talked to earlier came on, his voice surprised. “Mr. Haskell?”

  “RCMP Sergeant Manning. We’ve got a person of interest who just went through the east stairs on floor seven. Caucasian. Five-nine. Two hundred pounds. Dark complected. Shaven head. Black beard. Jeans and dark windbreaker.” Ethan passed floor five. Started toward four. “I assume he descended, but he may have gone up first instead. I need camera angles that would catch the exits on each floor. Any door to the outside from the lobby. Find him.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ethan ran by a woman in pink spandex who was power-walking the stairs, and she jumped to the side to avoid being bowled over, then shot him a filthy look.

  “No cameras in the stairwells, I assume?” He rounded the third-floor steps and headed toward the second.

  “No, sir, but once he leaves it we’ll…wait, I think I’ve spotted him! Navy jacket. Looks like he could bench-press a Volkswagen?”

  Remembering the punch he’d taken from a ham-sized fist, Ethan said, “Sounds about right.” He took the stairs to the main floor at a rapid pace.

  “He’s speed-walking across the lobby, as we speak. Heading toward the west exit, which leads to Salem Boulevard.”