Grave Situation (35 page)

David went over to where he stood.
Quiet, he reached into a shirt pocket and produced a slim black
case. He took out a cigar.

“What’s on your mind?” he
asked.

Allan gave a light shrug. “Just
wanted to get a sense of the crime scene. What appeal did it have
to the killer?”

David struck a match and lit the
cigar. “It’s isolated.”

“Yes,” Allan said. “Probably not
traveled much on after dark, which would allow the killer all the
time he needed without being interrupted.”

David stared at the cigar burning
in his hand. “It’s not going to be easy catching this guy, is
it?”

For a brief, depressing moment,
Allan felt the truth of this. Experience had taught him one
thing—dumb luck usually solved cases like these, not an
investigator’s ingenuity or forensic evidence.

“If I’m right, this man has killed
three people already,” he said. “Two of whom he targeted for body
parts and one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’ll
screw up and when he does, we’ll catch him.”

As David glanced at him, Allan saw
the same conveyance of doubt that he felt inside.

“But what if he doesn’t?” he
asked. “We don’t even know where this guy is from. He could be
already somewhere else looking for his next victim.”

37

Acresville, May 19

7:45 p.m.

Allan found a small restaurant
downtown. As he entered, he took in the people and the ambience
with one sweeping glance. It was half-filled, he saw, with families
and older couples. The décor had a rustic feel with red-and-white
checkered tablecloths, wood floors and walls.

He chose a quiet booth in the
corner. The waitress, a pleasant-faced brunette, appeared with a
menu. After a quick look at it, Allan ordered turkey on rye with
soup of the day and tea.

While waiting, he sat back and
reflected on the investigation ahead. He needed to enter the
details of the Trixy Ambré and John Baker homicides into ViCLAS—a
case linkage database that tracked serial offences Canada-wide—to
see if there were any similar murders committed elsewhere in
Canada. Perhaps this killer had struck before.

Allan decided to call the ViCLAS
center in Halifax first thing in the morning to have two
questionnaire booklets sent up to him so he could get the procedure
started. In preparation he took out his spiral and wrote down some
keynotes about the murders, beginning with John Baker:

1. Victim dismembered

2. Hands sawed off

3. Not recovered

4. The scene demonstrated
control

5. Offender seemed familiar with
it

6. Offender possesses
characteristics under both the organized and disorganized
dichotomy.

7. Murder was planned

8. Attack was outdoors, involved
surprise

9. No restraints

10. Con approach possibly
used

11. No theft

12. Victim had multiple stab
wounds, sufficient to cause death

13. Knife was used, brought to the
scene by the offender and removed after the crime

14. No other trauma involved:
beating, kicking, strangulation, burning or gunshot.

15. Victim was awake.

16. Victim’s body was left with no
apparent concern as to whether or not it would be discovered. Not
hidden by brush or buried.

17. Not moved after
death

18. No sex involved

19. Offender used precautions:
chose a location where he’d have minimal risk of being seen, heard
or interrupted.

20. No DNA evidence
available

As Allan looked over his notes, he
realized that he knew more about John Baker’s murder than Trixy’s.
Where was the location of her initial crime scene? If it was the
Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf, as he believed, then he had a
starting point.

Allan turned to the window next to
him, marshaling his thoughts. Out past the town’s low-rise
buildings, the sun was falling behind the jagged line where
mountain met sky.

The waitress arrived with his
order.

“Thank you,” Allan told
her.

He ate his meal quickly, surprised
at how hungry he was. As he sipped his tea, he wrote down notes
about Trixy’s murder:

1. Victim dismembered

2. Eyes removed – cut –
unskilled?

3. Not recovered

4. Murder was planned

5. Attack was outdoors, involved
surprise. No defense wounds

6. No restraints

7. Con approach possibly
used

8. Victim drowned

9. Single impact injury to the head
by cylindrical object

10. No other trauma involved:
stabbing, beating, kicking, strangulation, burning or
gunshot

11. No DNA evidence
available

The waitress came over again,
seeking assurance that the food was okay.

Allan gave her a smile. “Everything
was great.”

“Would you like to look at the
dessert menu?”

“No, thanks. I’m full.”

As she gathered up the plate and
bowl, Allan stared at his last note again.

No DNA yet.

There was still the question as to
the identity of the mystery bleeder on the tugboat
wharf.

Allan set down his pen and read
over his notes. When he compared the victims, he could see no
similarities between them. They differed in every aspect—sex,
backgrounds and lifestyles, friends and relatives, employment, and
last known activities. The only unifying pattern that tied the
murders together was the missing body parts. If not for that,
police could’ve easily believed two different killers had committed
these crimes.

Why the body parts?

A psychological profile needed to
be created of the killer to get a better idea as to the sort of man
to look for and Allan knew just the person to ask. He took out his
cell phone and punched away at numbers.

On the fourth ring, a gruffly voice
answered. “Doctor Terry Armstrong.”

“Hello, Doctor,” Allan said. “This
is Lieutenant Stanton with the Halifax Regional Police.”

A moment’s silence. “Ah, yes. I
thought I recognized your voice. From the Simpson murder in two
thousand eight.”

“Sampson.” Allan
corrected.

“Right. Right,” he repeated. “It’s
been a while. What can I do for you?”

“I called to see if and when we
could get together? I need your help, your insight. We think we
might have the emergence of a serial killer.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Allan detected a new curiosity in
the psychiatrist’s voice.

“I’m pretty sure,” he answered. “I
feel the murders that I’m investigating are definitely
connected.”

Another pause. “Here in
Halifax?”

“No. I’m in Acresville at the
moment.”

“That homeless
man? I read about it in the
Herald.
”

Allan leaned forward, elbows on the
table. “That’s the one. Can you help me?”

“I’m tied up tomorrow,
Lieutenant,” Armstrong said. “But I can meet with you on
Friday.”

“That would be great.”

“Excellent. I’ll get there early
so I can review everything first.”

“I’ll have it all ready for
you.”

“See you then, Lieutenant,”
Armstrong said, and hung up.

Drinking the last of his tea, Allan
slipped a tip under the saucer, paid his bill and left.

The fresh-fallen night was dark,
calm. Since dusk the sky had become low and an ugly gray. No rain,
only a fine mist, not quite a fog.

A block away Allan checked into the
Greensway Hotel. His room was spacious and modestly furnished—a
bed, set of drawers with a TV on top, a small table and chair. He
tossed his suitcase on the bed and put the box containing the John
Baker files on the table.

He turned the TV on and flipped to
CNN. On the screen an anchorman was talking about toxic tar balls
being found in the Florida Keys. Allan watched for a moment and
then lowered the volume.

He unpacked his suitcase, stowing
his clothes in the drawers and shelving his toiletries in the
medicine cabinet. He hung his robe on a hook behind the bathroom
door.

As he went to the window to close
the drapes, he stopped there for a time, gazing out. Under the
gentle push of a breeze, the mist curled and coiled in the diffused
glow of streetlights. A car appeared, heading north into
downtown.

When Allan noticed the tiny post
office across the street, he stared at it.

I should really write Brian a
letter. Maybe tomorrow.

A sudden unwanted image flared in
his mind—a distraught man sitting alone in his living room with a
gun to his head. Allan found it painful to realize just how close
he’d come to pulling the trigger last night.

That wasn’t me.

Perhaps there was a reason to seek
professional help. His sleepless nights, intrusive flashbacks and
poor concentration of late seemed to point to a much bigger
problem. That much, he knew; the man he’d once been was
gone.

He closed the
drapes and went back to the case files. He read until the words
began to blur, until his body began to ache for the bed behind him.
Nothing, he realized, was
going to leap
from the pages and grab his attention.

He checked the time, 11:34. Up
since six-thirty, it had been a long day.

One last look at
the photos
, he decided.
Then bedtime.

He yawned as he spread the crime
scene pictures in front of him. Less than five minutes later, he
fell asleep facedown on top of the desk.

38

Acresville, May 20

11:25 p.m.

Herb wanted to finish this job
before the thundershowers arrived. Already black clouds roiled on
the horizon, making him anxious.

The road he traveled on wove
through an undulant valley. On both sides of him, the sharp pitch
of mountainside was covered in a lush mixed forest. There was a
river on his right, looping in and out of the trees. Occasionally,
he could see the surface sparkle when touched by his
headlights.

Herb wasn’t aware of how fast he
traveled or the tightness of his grip on the wheel. His focus was
on the world ahead, a reduced visible cone lit up by his
headlights. The broken centerline on the pavement was a blur,
racing backwards.

Ahead the road took an abrupt
climb. Within a minute the mountains gave way to gentle foothills.
Herb found himself gazing out at a generous panorama of Acresville.
From this elevation, the small town was a mere cluster of lights
cupped in a bowl of low hills. Encasing them, the continuing
mountain range was a black smudge against the backdrop of
sky.

At a T-intersection two miles from
town, he turned left. A gravel road brought him to the clearing
where the Rolling Hills Cemetery was located. As he passed the
wrought iron gate that marked the only public entrance, he felt his
chest tighten.

He pulled over to the edge of the
road and parked. When he cut the headlights, it became pitch black.
The dash clock glowed 11:34.

Herb looked out through the
windshield at the darkness ahead of him, looked into the rear-view
mirror at the darkness behind him. No sign of lights in either
direction.

He reached into his duffel bag and
took out a flashlight. Then with the bag and flashlight in hand, he
got out, inhaling the night air. He lifted out a shovel from the
back of the pickup.

For a moment he stood very still,
listening, every sense alert. Close-by a chorus of spring peepers
sounded and beyond that, the deep-toned rumble of a freight train
cutting through the valley. Herb could feel the heavy thump of its
wheels hitting gaps in the rails.

He flicked on the flashlight with a
thumb. Then, moving quickly, he started into a brisk walk. On the
road he was a shadowy figure dressed in coveralls and rubber boots
with a beam bobbing in front of him. His pickup now rested broken
down and abandoned by the side of the road.

He found the main gate secured by a
chain and padlock. Cursing softly, he realized that he would have
to go over the wall.

Last summer, vandals had kicked
over and damaged over twenty monuments. The cemetery’s caretaker
started locking the grounds at night. Police believed the
perpetrators were unruly teenagers. They were never
caught.

The senseless act had outraged the
citizens of Acresville, including Herb himself. Remembering the
story, he swallowed. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, feeling
ashamed, pathetic. He wasn’t a mindless teenager lacking direction
or ambition, acting out rebellion or impressing his peers, but a
grown man here to do something much worse.