by Alex MacLean
Beckett and Latour brought Stark out of the room. Allan watched them lead him down the corridor to the elevator. As they disappeared inside, Allan felt the tremors that had been rippling through his hands begin to subside.
After a few minutes, Audra appeared in the corridor, walking toward him.
“Hey,” she said. “What the hell was that in there?”
Allan shrugged, not quite trusting his voice to speak.
“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were going to shoot him.”
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to.”
“Jesus, Al,” she said, searching his face. “What’s going on with you? And don’t tell me you’re fine. You’re not fine at all.”
Allan saw the concern in her blue eyes. “I’m not cut out for this work anymore.”
Audra touched his arm. “Talk to me. You know I’m worried about you.”
He opened his mouth and just about said, “Don’t be.” Instead, he lowered his head and let out a sigh.
“I haven’t been right for a while,” he said. “Months, actually.”
“Ever since that shootout in the alley?”
He shook his head. “Long before that.”
“Tell me.”
Allan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Tell me,” Audra repeated. “Please.”
So he did. He told her everything. Only because she was one of the few people in the department he trusted. Anything he said to her would remain between them.
He told her about how lost and alone he felt after Melissa had left with Brian. About how he began to become emotionally invested with victims’ families—even more so than he had in the past—and it bothered him because he didn’t know if he’d just used them to fill the void Melissa’s leaving had given him.
He told her about the night he got drunk and put his Beretta to his head after he told Brian he’d have to cancel his visit because Allan was leaving Halifax to chase a lead in a case.
He told her about the recurring nightmare after the shooting in Acresville. About how Herb Matteau’s revolver was really loaded and when he brought it up in front of him to shoot Allan, Allan couldn’t shoot back because his own gun had no trigger. The nightmare would always end with Matteau glaring down at him through ribbons of smoke curling up from the end of his revolver as Allan died at his feet.
He told her about the problems he had after the shootout in the alley. About how any sudden bang would send him ducking for cover. Even the slightest sound in the house would send him checking every room, every door, and every window.
He told her about how his mind would race out of control at times, filling him with overwhelming fear and anxiety. About how he kept seeing the faces of the dead. About the intrusive flashbacks that would pop up at any moment.
“Remember when I went out for supper with Melissa and Brian to celebrate her new job?”
Quiet, Audra nodded.
“While I was sitting there at the table with them,” Allan said, “my attention was drawn to the parking lot across the street. I saw Brad Hawkins lying there, dead. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. I ended up changing seats with Melissa so I wouldn’t have to face the window.”
“Who was he again?”
“The security guard Herb Matteau murdered.”
Audra tipped her head back. “Right.”
“That’s how fast the flashbacks can hit me,” Allan said. “Completely without warning.”
“Why didn’t you tell Dr. Galloway all of this?”
“I don’t know. Wanted to hang on to my job, I guess.”
“This sounds like PTSD.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m convinced it is.”
“You can’t fool around with this any longer, Al. Remember what happened to Henderson?”
Allan remembered him, all right. He was a twenty-one-year veteran who waited until his wife and two sons went out shopping one night, then he walked into the garage and gassed himself in his car.
Henderson had left no note explaining why. It wasn’t until detectives interviewed Henderson’s wife that they learned of his deteriorating mental health. He’d have outbursts of anger over the least little thing. He’d become emotionally detached from his family. He’d hit the bottle the moment he came from work and was drunk more than he was sober. Before his suicide, his wife had considered leaving him. Life with him, she’d said, had become a living hell.
Audra put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want to see something happen to you, Al. When we get back to Halifax, you go see Galloway. Tell her everything you just told me. Get the help you need.”
Allan felt an ache in his heart. He looked at her and noticed Denis standing down the corridor just outside the room. He had his arms crossed and shoulder leaned against the jamb. When their eyes met, Denis lowered his gaze to the floor.
Audra turned to him. “Detective, did you call Montoya?”
Denis pushed off the jamb. “She’s on her way,” he said. “Heidi Stark did call her husband.”
“How do you know that?” Allan asked.
“Stark has personal journals in there. Six of them. That’s what he was writing in. I read the entry before his final one. In it, he admitted to his wife that he killed Kate Saint-Pierre.”
Allan lifted his chin. “What’d he say exactly?”
“Said he strangled her with a piece of that rope we took from the garage.”
Audra said, “We get his DNA, and I’m confident we’ll have him for the murder of Mary Driscow as well.”
“Not only her,” Denis said. “I skimmed over the October entries. It seems he has been a busy man. He mentioned a guy named Roger Pratt. He was a hiker from Toronto who went missing in Mount Nemo over in Burlington. When searchers found his body, Halton Police believed his death was an accident.”
Allan felt a weird tingle in his stomach. “Only it wasn’t, I’m guessing.”
Denis made a sad face. “Stark pushed him off a cliff. Or so he wrote.”
Audra’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa. He murdered someone right in his own backyard.”
“I heard Mount Nemo has some dangerous areas,” Denis said. “There have been accidents there over the years. A few people have even died, falling off the cliffs.”
Allan said, “So Pratt’s death wouldn’t spark any suspicions.”
Denis shook his head.
The elevators doors chimed open, and Detective Montoya emerged, carrying her field kit.
“You guys have some evidence for me to collect?” she asked.
“Six journals,” Denis said. “They’re in the room on the desk.”
Allan asked him, “How many pages in these journals?”
Denis frowned. “Two hundred fifty. Three hundred pages apiece.”
“That would be my guess,” Audra said. “Writing on both sides of the page.”
“There’s a lot of literature to go through.” Denis glanced at his watch. “How do you feel about pulling an all-nighter?”
49
Oakville, November 2
6:39 A.M.
Jacob Stark’s first victim had been Alannah Wallace, a twenty-six-year-old medical secretary from Sudbury, Ontario.
On August 3, 2000, he’d come across her while hiking Killarney Provincial Park.
I see her the moment I reach the top of Silver Peak, he wrote. It’s just her and me up there. We could be the only two people in the world.
She takes a sip from her water bottle as she looks out at the lush hills and valleys. Beyond them, the water of Georgian Bay sparkles under the bright sun. It’s really a gorgeous view.
My boot scuffs the white quartzite cliff top, and she snaps her head around at the sound. I give her a wave and smile to let her know I’m harmless. She ignores me and turns back to the scenery. Squirts some water into her mouth.
She’s pretty—lean and fit. Her long golden hair twirls in the wind. She’s wearing one of those wicking T-shirts, khaki
shorts, and low-top boots. She has a small pack on her back.
As I stare at her, dark fantasies begin dancing in my brain. I feel a warm rush of excitement push through my body. My pulse speeds up. My senses heighten.
Coming to the park, the thought of killing someone hadn’t even entered my mind. But this woman, alone up here, triggers a deep compulsion that has sat dormant inside me for years.
There are a few quartzite rocks scattered around the clifftop. More mind than body, I’m drawn to one the size of a brick. Carefully picking it up, I look over at the woman. She continues to stare out at the view.
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 goes 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.”