by Alex MacLean
As Allan studied the scene, he came up with three key points. Dark parking lot. Ambush. Quick getaway.
The suspect had probably hidden behind the cars or the garbage bin at the south edge of the lot, and waited for Kaufman to come home. He kneecapped him first with the shotgun—a ruthless and excruciating tactic meant to hamper mobility—then finished him off with the knife. Unlike Dory’s murder, the suspect spent little time fooling around. The murder was quick and strategic.
Allan stared at the knife again. He wondered why the suspect hadn’t finished the job with the shotgun. He’d already used it once and alerted tenants in the building. Had it malfunctioned in some way? Had he short-stroked the pump, causing the gun to jam?
Allan frowned, shook his head. Maybe the use of the knife had been deliberate, like the axe in the first murder. It brought him closer to his victim, made the crime personal.
Allan heard a voice shout over the rain pelting his hood. “That’s two.”
He looked up to see Staff Sergeant Rehnquist peering down at him. He was a twenty-five year veteran, balding and bantam with a cleft chin and close-set eyes.
“One left,” Allan said.
“You think Higgins is next too, huh?”
“It’s a safe bet.” Allan stood up. “We better put a car on his residence. Keep an eye on things.”
“Ten-four.” Rehnquist reached inside his rain jacket and keyed his mike, placing the call to dispatch.
Allan took out his camera and began photographing the scene and body from all angles. Around him, uniformed officers finished cordoning off the area with barrier tape. The first officer found shelter under an awning atop the back door of Kaufman’s apartment building and he scribbled down particulars for his report.
Allan walked around the parking lot, shining his light over the asphalt. The bad weather brought any item found into question. It could be potential evidence or useless debris washed or blown there from somewhere else.
He came up behind the vehicles parked on the right side. He examined the vegetation piled against a chain-link fence for signs of damage—flattened grass or broken limbs on the shrubs. Something that told him the suspect had been around there. Nothing.
Allan went to the south end of the lot, guiding the beam over the dumpster sitting on a concrete slab. When he looked behind it, he saw a glistening path of trampled grass leading straight across a green lawn to a stand of trees several yards away. Allan looked over the trees to the rooftop silhouette of an apartment building fronting Jackson Road.
He turned the flashlight to the backside of the dumpster again. The concrete underneath extended out a good foot or more, providing a wide enough lip for a person to rest his ass on. Did the suspect hide there? Seemed likely. Seemed very likely, in fact.
Allan took out his cell phone and made a call to the K-9 Unit. Wet grass can hold a scent better than dry, but a heavy downpour like the one coming down could scatter the scent on pavement. Drive it into ditches or the graveled shoulder of a road, possibly confusing the dogs.
Allan drafted a rough mental picture of what had taken place. The suspect had parked somewhere on Jackson Road, probably so his car wouldn’t be noticed in the immediate area. Much like he’d done with the first murder by parking on Birmingham Street, then walking to Todd Dory’s apartment.
He came down through the property in back and entered the fenced backyard of two occupied apartment buildings—28 and 30 Primrose. He crouched behind the dumpster where he waited for Kaufman. When Kaufman came home and walked toward his apartment building, the suspect came out, grabbed Kaufman’s attention somehow, then shot him in the knee as he turned around. Whether or not he tried a second shot was uncertain. In any case, he stabbed Kaufman through the eye after he dropped to the pavement.
Allan heard a sudden commotion, several people yelling at once, their voices bouncing off the two buildings on either side of the lane. Cops ordering someone to stay back or be arrested. A male dropping an f-bomb on every third word.
Allan turned around and saw Rehnquist head over to the mouth of the lane for a look.
He glanced back over his shoulder at Allan. “Speak of the Devil.”
“Higgins?”
“He got wind of this fast.”
Allan squared himself and walked to the lane. He saw Lee Higgins on the sidewalk, his face picking up the light from the street. Animated. Pacing. Ready to rip through his own skin and kill someone. He was a brawny guy, six-two, and probably tipped 230 lbs. He had a burr cut and a close-shaven chinstrap and mustache. Water beaded his black, leather jacket.
Two officers had converged on him, holding up their hands. “Stay back,” they said. “Stay back.”
Allan came out of the lane and Higgins became still, seeing him.
“That you, Stanton?” he called in a hoarse voice. “Huh? That you?”
Allan met his smoldering glare through the veil of rain, dipped his head once.
“Is that my boy down there?” Higgins pointed toward the lane. “Is it? You tell me, Stanton.”
“Calm down,” an officer said.
“Fuck you. Tell me to calm down.”
Color flushed into the officer’s face and he reached around to his taser holster and thumbed off the retention strap. Allan could feel the tension becoming electric. Lee Higgins was dangerous and unstable, a man who would probably kill a cop without giving it a second thought.
“Yeah, it’s him,” Allan said, approaching the barrier tape. “It’s Blake.”
Higgins breathed in heavily through his nostrils, both fists clenching and flexing at his sides. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, revealing Άρης tattooed across the front of his throat.
“I find who did this,” he snarled. “I’m gonna cut his fucking heart out.”
Allan stared at him. He never believed in karma, the whole what goes around comes around idiom. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. Life was strange like that, unfair and pretty much determined by luck. But after all the gang-related crimes Higgins and his crew were responsible for—thefts, drug trafficking, murder—they seemed to be getting what they deserved.
Higgins opened his eyes, looked straight at Allan. “You got any leads yet?”
Allan shook his head. “I’m wondering if you know who this might be?”
“If I knew he’d be dead already.”
“Yeah? I think you better start watching your back.”
Higgins rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. If you catch this fucker before me, I’ll get to him in prison. I guarantee you that. He won’t be safe nowhere.”
Allan decided to let him vent.
“I wanna see him,” Higgins said. “I wanna see Blake.”
“You know I can’t allow that.”
Higgins leaned his face into Allan’s and fury poured out of his eyes. “Fuck you, Stanton. You and these two gimps with ya.”
Allan looked at him, wondered if he was going to take a swing. In his peripheral vision, he saw the man’s fingers grazing the hem of his jacket. He knew Higgins probably had a gun tucked under there in his pants. And he was crazy enough to use it too.
Without another word, Higgins spread his arms wide and spun around, crossed the street to a black Honda Accord tricked out with Razzi ground effects, big rims, and spoiler. He stomped on the gas, spinning the tires on the wet pavement, and sped off down Primrose.
“That’s a scary fella,” an officer said.
“Yeah,” his partner agreed.
Allan watched the red taillights turn left onto Victoria Road. “He’s scary all right. Scary and batshit crazy.”
37
Dartmouth, June 14
1:49 a.m.
“Mr. Eric Clark?” Allan said.
A deep, raspy voice spoke from the other side of the door. “Yeah?”
“Police. Can I speak with you a second?”
“Poh-leece?” The door opened the length of a safety chain and an eye peered out
the crack. “What can I do for you?”
Allan flipped his badge case open, held it up. “You called nine-one-one about the incident out back, right?”
“Yes. I already gave a statement to your officers outside.”
“I know you did, but I have some additional questions.”
“Like?”
“Constable Dale told me you had witnessed part of the incident.”
“I did.”
“Good. That’s what I want to talk about.”
Eric paused, then he closed the door and Allan heard the chain drag across the metal track. The door opened again to reveal a skinny man in his forties, dressed in jeans and a white tank top with a blue towel draped over his shoulders. He had a shaved head, a white goatee, and faded stick ‘n’ poke tattoos all over his arms, like the ones you’d have done at a friend’s house after an evening of drinking.
Allan noted the smoldering cigarette shaking in Eric’s hand, the way he kept looking at the floor and randomly touching his face. He wondered if the man might be too rattled to effectively remember details.
“Everything all right, Mr. Clark?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He sucked wetly on the cigarette and the long curl of ash looked ready to fall off. “It’s not everyday you see something like that.”
Allan took out a pen and notebook, flipped to a fresh page. “I’d like to start from the beginning. Slowly.”
“Okay,” he said. “Just a sec.”
He stepped into an open living room off to the left, bent over the coffee table, and ground out the cigarette in an overstuffed ashtray.
“I was in bed,” he said, coming back. “Not quite asleep. Just drifting off when I heard this loud boom. I thought someone had slammed the dumpster lid out back. They do that here all the time. Only this boom sounded four times louder. Then almost immediately came gut-wrenching screams.”
Allan scratched his pen across the page. “So what’d you do?”
“I jumped out of bed and went to the window. That’s when I saw them. This guy was on top of Blake, holding him by the back of the head, and he stabbed him in the face with a knife. Then he got off him and ran. He picked up a gun off the ground…”
Allan held up his hand. “Slow it down, please.”
“Sure,” he agreed.
“First. How many shots did your hear?”
“Just one.”
“What time was it?”
“Twelve fifty-seven. I remember looking over at the alarm clock when it happened.”
Allan wrote 00:57 on the page. The time was about right. The 911 call had come in at 1:01 a.m.
“Did you get a look at the guy on top of Mr. Kaufman?” Allan asked.
Eric puffed his cheeks. “Not really. It was dark, man. I mean there is some light out there from the back entryway, but not enough. Plus I was looking down on them and he never looked up.”
“That dark, but you could see a knife in his hand?”
Eric looked at him, his mouth half open. “Well, yeah.” He frowned. “I’m pretty sure I saw it. I mean, it’s there, right?”
That bothered Allan. He wondered if seeing the knife when Eric had gone outside distorted his real memory of the incident.
“What type of clothing did he have on?”
“Black jacket. Black pants.”
“Did the jacket have a hood?”
“Yes.”
“Like a rain jacket?”
“Yeah. Now that you mention it.”
“Did you see if he had gloves on?”
“No.” Eric paused. “I mean it happened so fast. Like maybe ten seconds. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“What about his height? His weight?”
“He…ah.” Eric rolled his gaze up and down Allan. “He looked to be about your height.”
“Five-ten?”
“About that.”
“Weight?”
Eric twisted his face. “One-seventy or so. Little smaller than you. Definitely smaller than Blake.”
Allan pictured the faceless man on the security video. He became more convinced this was not the work of rival gang members or drug dealers. One man, alone, in the dark and rain, undertook these murders. One man with bloodlust dripping from his pores. And he was smart too. Smart enough to carefully plan each murder, to use the element of surprise. Smart enough to pick weather conditions people wouldn’t be out in.
The only dumb thing Allan saw was using the shotgun. Neighbors had heard the blast. They had seen him. They had called police, which increased his risk of being caught leaving the scene.
“How well did you know Mr. Kaufman?” Allan asked.
“Not very.” Eric jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. “He lives with his girlfriend in the apartment above us.”
Allan paused, trying to remember the name he’d read in Audra’s notes. Natalie? Nikki? Nicole?
“Do you know her name?” he asked.
Eric shook his head. “Only know her to see her. She moved in last month.”
“Nikki,” a woman called out from the back bedroom. “Her name is Nikki.”
Eric rolled his eyes and tilted his head back in the direction of the voice. “Thanks, hon.” He looked at Allan. “My wife. The eavesdropper.”
Allan cracked a smile. He heard clopping footsteps in the hallway, then a woman emerged, wearing a red bathrobe and clog slippers. Her dark hair was curled up in rollers. She gave Allan a limp wave.
Allan acknowledged her with a nod. “Ma’am. What’s your name?”
“Rachel.”
“Did you see what happened?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see anything. I was fast asleep when Eric started shaking me. ‘Wake up. Wake up. Holy shit. Someone got shot.’”
Allan glanced at Eric, who crossed his arms and began tapping his foot on the floor.
Rachel asked, “How long are you guys going to be here?”
“The rest of the night and probably most of the day.”
“Wow.”
Allan nodded. “Yeah.”
Rachel went into the kitchen and lifted a steel kettle off the stove, ran it under the faucet. Then she placed it on the front burner.
“Someone got shot?” Allan raised his eyebrows at Eric. “You didn’t know at the time who it was, did you?”
Eric hesitated. “No. I thought it was Blake.”
“But you didn’t establish his identity until you went outside, right?”
“Right.”
“Was anyone out there with you?”
“No. A couple guys from over in building thirty came out their back door. But nobody from this building.”
“Do you know their names?”
Eric said, “No, I don’t. Sorry. I think they might be brothers. I’m not sure. One drives that black Sierra out there.”
“Did they go over to the body?”
“They never left the steps, man. And they went inside once your cops got here.”
“Did they say if they saw what happened?”
“Just told me they thought they heard a gunshot and came down to see what was going on.”
“Did you tell them what you saw?”
Eric uncrossed his arms and his Adam’s apple bobbed once. “I did. Yeah.”
Inwardly, Allan cringed. If either of these other men had witnessed anything, their memories risked being tainted by Eric’s story.
The kettle began to make loud steamy, popping sounds and Rachel took a mug down from the cupboard, dropped a teabag inside it.
Allan asked, “Did you touch the body?”
“I checked for a pulse,” Eric said. “You know, the two finger thing to the neck.”
“When you saw the suspect stab Mr. Kaufman, what hand did he use?”
“Right, I think.”
“After he got up from Mr. Kaufman, you said he picked up a gun?”
“Yes.”
“You could see it?”
“I could barely see him at that point. I saw the shape
of a rifle or shotgun barrel. Well, part of it anyway. The guy had his back to me. The gun was in front of him.”
“Where did he pick it up?”
“From the edge of the parking lot.”
“By the dumpster?”
A nod. “Right beside it actually.”
In his mind, Allan calculated the approximate distance from the dumpster to the body. A good twelve to fourteen feet anyway. Seemed about right.
“Tell me what happened next,” he said.
“He pulled a long bag out from behind the dumpster and put the gun in it. Then he took off up back.”
“Up back through the trees?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have a flashlight with him?”
“Didn’t see one.”
Allan paused a moment to read over his notes. Everything Eric had told him correlated with the information he had gathered from the first officer and the crime scene itself.
Satisfied, Allan dug out his business card, gave it to Eric. “Thank you, Mr. Clark. If you think of anything else, please call me. I might stop by in a day or two.”
“Sure.” Eric nodded. “Anytime.”
Allan stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. In his notebook, he wrote:
1. Same man.
2. Relationship?
3. Bridge cameras.
Allan closed his notebook and tucked it inside a jacket pocket. He headed down the stairs to the first floor, pulled the hood over his head, and went outside again.
38
Dartmouth, June 14
2:10 a.m.
Constable Young led Taz across the parking lot and in behind the dumpster. Speaking in encouraging tones, he introduced the German shepherd to the trail in the grass and gave the command to track.
“Such! Such!” he coaxed in German so the words sounded like “zook, zook.”
Allan stood off to the side, watching them. He could feel the remarkable power in Taz’s black snout as he dug it into the grass and began sniffing around in short, rapid bouts. His lean, muscular body seemed to vibrate with energy.
Whenever someone walks over the ground, they not only leave traces of themselves, they alter soil chemistry and injure plant life, resulting in a release of odors different than the surrounding area. Even if the heavy rain had washed out the smell of human contact, a dog can still form a scent picture from the physical disturbance.