by Alex MacLean
“He was Caucasian?”
“Yes.”
Audra said, “How about age?”
“Thirty. Thirty-five, maybe. I always find it hard guessing someone’s age.”
“What was he wearing?” Allan asked him.
“Blue hoodie. Black Adidas pants. Three white stripes down the legs. They stuck in my head because I own a couple pairs.”
“Any logos, designs on the hoodie?”
Liam squeezed his brows together. “A white logo on the left chest. Not sure what it was. Definitely not Nike or Adidas. I know those.”
“Did he have the hood up or down?”
“Up. But I did see part of his hair.” Liam pointed to his forehead. “Bangs.”
“What color?”
“Brown.”
Allan listed the details in his notebook. “Do you remember any jewelry on him?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How about his face? Get a good look at it?”
“Pretty much, yeah. I remember him having a strong jawline. Cleft chin.”
“Facial hair?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Eye color.”
A slow smile wriggled across Liam’s face. “Brown. Like a rich espresso.”
Allan paused. “How would you judge his general appearance?”
“Neat. Yeah, he didn’t look dirty. Clothes were clean.”
Audra asked, “Have you seen him at the park before?”
“Uh-uh. Never.”
“And you go there often?”
“Every morning. Seven to eight. I clock fifty miles a week.”
Allan thought about the Mary Driscow case. “And you’re sure you never saw this guy before?”
Liam nodded. “Positive.”
“How long you been going there?”
“Ten years.”
“Every single day?”
“Well, barring a hurricane or major snow storm. Or when I go away.”
“Do you go away frequently?”
“A weekend every month. I drive up to see my parents in Miramichi. My sister in Bouctouche.”
Allan tapped his pen on the notebook. He didn’t want to bring Mary Driscow or last October into the discussion. It could prompt Liam into connecting the dots. Maybe even create a false memory in which he believed he’d seen something.
Allan asked him, “When you’re at the park, do you usually run into the same people?”
“The regulars. That’s what I call them. I know most by name. Some of the irregulars, I know by face.”
Audra asked, “Did you know Mrs. Saint-Pierre?”
“Not by name. Her face. She was an irregular.”
“Ever see her there with anyone?”
“A man. I assumed he was the boyfriend or husband. She was always with him. Not Sunday, though.”
“Did you know his name?”
“Uh-uh. Face.”
“Were there many people at the park Sunday morning?”
Liam twisted his face. “A few. Not a lot.”
“Any regulars you know by name?”
Liam flicked his gaze to the ceiling, back down again. “Two. Steve Foster. And Dustin Marks. He walks Apollo there.”
“What’s that, his dog?”
“Yeah, his Great Dane.”
Allan wrote down the names. “This guy in the hoodie. Why did you remember him so vividly?”
Liam’s eyes brightened. “Uh, because he was a new face. I remember thinking, I never saw this guy here before. Plus...he was a darling.”
Audra said, “A darling?”
Liam snorted. “He was attractive.”
“Okay, I gotcha,” she said. “Whereabouts in the park did you see him?”
“Cambridge Drive. We passed each other.”
Allan leaned into the table, a kernel of hope growing inside him. “What direction was he going?”
“North. I was heading south. Toward the water.”
“What time?”
“Probably seven-fifteen. Thereabouts. It was shortly before I saw Mrs. Saint-Pierre.”
“Where exactly did you see her?”
“Arm Road. Down by the battery. I’d just come off Cambridge.”
“Did you see her go up Cambridge?”
Liam nodded again. “She would’ve been a few minutes behind him. Heading in the same direction.”
Allan felt his breath bottle up in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he saw Audra turn to him then back to Liam.
“Did you have any kind of exchange with this man?” she asked.
“Just pleasantries. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. Most new faces you meet never even make eye contact. He did, though.”
“Would you recognize him in a photo?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Audra left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a mug book in her hands. With any luck, the man Liam saw at the park had been booked for another crime in the past. Allan hoped but had an unsettling feeling the odds were against them.
Audra set the book down in front of Liam. “In here is a collection of photographs. Take as much time as you need with each face before moving to the next one. He may or may not be in here. And he may not appear as he did the day you saw him.”
Liam picked up the book. He gave it one quick leaf through, his eyes growing large, incredulous.
“Holy moly!” he said. “There’s a lot of pictures in here.”
“This could take a while,” Allan said. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Please.”
“What do you take?”
“Black. Three sugars.”
Allan turned to Audra. “Would you like one?”
“I’m fine.”
Allan grabbed two coffees from the lunchroom. When he returned, Liam was hunched over the table, absorbed in the faces before him. Allan set the coffee beside him.
“Thank you,” Liam said without looking up.
Allan took his seat and glanced at his watch: 9:51. He sipped at his coffee, watching Liam flipping the pages. Liam would skim over some faces; others he would stop and study with narrowed eyes.
With each page turned over, Allan felt what little hope he had begin to sputter out. It died when Liam reached the final page.
“Nope,” he said, closing the book. “He’s not in here.”
Allan saw Audra slump her shoulders and lower her head.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Audra stood up. “Detective, could I speak to you outside, please?”
“Sure.” Allan looked at Liam. “We’ll be right back.”
Audra led him down the hallway a bit.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“The guy he saw is definitely a person of interest.”
“Oh, for sure.”
Allan drew a breath. “I’m always skeptical when listening to someone describing other people. They overestimate their ability to remember things. Memory isn’t like a video recorder.”
“Well, he did take a shine to Mr. Darling.”
“When you consider the length of their encounter—a few seconds. That’s not enough time for his brain to create a detailed memory.”
“Yeah, but if his memory is even somewhat accurate and he can recognize the guy’s face again, then he just cleared everyone we were looking at.”
Allan felt the truth of that in the pit of his stomach. “You’re right.”
“The time frame works, Al.”
“Location too. Cambridge Drive. That offshoot path connects to it. The man could’ve taken it, circled around, and met Kate Saint-Pierre on his way through.”
“Let’s have Mr. Clattenburg see Erin,” Audra said. “We can take the composite and issue a media appeal to the public. Call the guy a person of interest.”
Allan hesitated. “Hmm, recognizing this man in a mug book is one thing; describing his face to Erin is a whole different animal. Loo
k at how involved that process is. The minutiae he has to remember. When’s the last time a sketch worked for us?”
Audra chewed on her lip. “They have...once or twice.”
“Over how many years? Look at all the time wasted chasing false leads.”
Audra grimaced, shook her head. “Jesus, Al. Why the negative Nelly?”
Allan released a weighted sigh. “Sorry. I’m frustrated. I just want to catch this fucking guy.”
“So do I. And this is the best lead we have right now.”
“I know.”
“Look at it this way—if they can sketch a likeness of the guy, it might be enough for someone out there to recognize him or even remember his clothing.”
Allan nodded. “Let’s roll the dice.”
Audra took out her cell. Allan waited as she called Erin Watson, the department’s sketch artist.
When Audra hung up, she said. “She told us to bring him down.”
“Right now?”
“Yep.”
Allan went back to the interview room. “Mr. Clattenburg, you have anything on the go for the next little while?”
Liam froze, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “What’s up?”
“We’d like to have you meet with our sketch artist. Describe this man to her.”
“How long will it take?”
“Two hours. Three, tops. She doesn’t like to go beyond that. People’s memories can get confused if it drags on too long.”
Liam perked up in the chair. “I’ll do it. When do we start?”
Allan gave him a reluctant smile. “Right now.”
17
Halifax, October 21
3:07 p.m.
It could be the last face Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre had seen before they died. Or it could be the face of any number of people out there. That was the problem with composite sketches; they almost never resembled the suspect.
The man in the hood had an angular bone structure—broad forehead and jawline, dimpled chin. Thick brows arched over deep-set eyes. A distinct philtrum formed a trench between the broad nose and oval lips.
Add a spit curl to the forehead, Allan thought, and you had a man who looked a little like Clark Kent.
He set the composite down, his mind anchored with pessimism. He couldn’t help it; he’d been down that road before. Once it was released to the public, he was sure the sketch would trigger dozens of calls from well-intentioned people. Allan foresaw a lot of valuable time and resources wasted chasing false leads.
If nothing else, the sketch might raise public interest in the case.
Allan opened his notebook and wrote down keynotes about the Kate Saint-Pierre case:
1. Victim strangled.
2. Ligature used. Brought to the scene by the offender. Removed after the crime
3. Fingertips severed. Not recovered. DNA of suspect?
4. No other trauma involved
5. No sexual contact
6. No restraints
7. No theft
8. Attack was outdoors. Public area
9. Murder was planned
10. Possible surprise approach with blitz attack
11. Possible con approach with blitz attack
12. Scene demonstrated control
13. Suspect possesses characteristics under the organized dichotomy
14. Process-focused, thrill killer?
15. Used precautions—concealed body in the trees
16. Left body displayed. Taunt?
Suspect’s behavior linking the Driscow/Saint-Pierre cases:
1. Same M.O.
2. Similar approaches to victims
3. Same weapon used
4. Same method of murder
5. Same geographic location
6. Murders occurred exactly one year apart—Oct. 17
Allan’s chair creaked as he leaned back from his desk. He shut his eyes, thinking.
The same questions he had with the Driscow case nagged his brain about this one. The answers, he knew, lay in front of him, somewhere beyond his vision.
The suspect could very well be into health and fitness. Just because Liam Clattenburg hadn’t seen him before didn’t mean the man never frequented the park at other times of day. These types of killers usually committed their murders within familiar territory. Maybe other park “regulars” knew who he was or at least remembered seeing him before. The physical description, and maybe even the composite, might be enough to jog their memories.
Allan logged into his computer. He proceeded to download the ViCLAS booklet. It consisted of over two hundred sixty questions covering all parts of the crime. Once he finished entering the details from the Kate Saint-Pierre case, he’d email the booklet back to the ViCLAS center, where it would all be put into the database of solved and unsolved cases. An analyst there would begin searching for potential links to other crimes.
As Allan worked his way into the victim information, his cell phone chirped. It was a text message from Melissa.
“Penningtons called. I got the job.”
Allan smiled, texted back. “Awesome!!”
“I know, right.”
“I’m happy for you. When you start?”
“Monday.”
“Congrats, sweetheart. I knew you could do it.”
“Thanks. I feel like celebrating. Are you going to be late?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Supper out?”
“Sure.”
“The Urban Grill? I always wanted to try it out.”
Allan checked his watch: 4:02. He had about an hour left of work to do in the ViCLAS booklet.
He texted, “5:30 OK?”
“Yes. Should I reserve us a table?”
“Might be a good idea.”
“OK.”
“See you soon.”
“OK. Bye. xoxo”
“Bye.”
Allan set the phone down and gave a fist pump. He smiled as he imagined Melissa’s face lighting up when she got the news. Good for her, he thought. Good for her.
He went back to work on the ViCLAS questions, moving on to the offender information. He was halfway through when Audra came into his office. She had a thin pile of composites in her hand.
“The presser’s scheduled for five fifteen,” she said.
Allan looked over. “Who’s doing it?”
“Thorne.”
“Okay.”
She indicated the composites in her hand. “I passed a copy along to all the officers involved in the initial canvass of Point Pleasant Park. Some aren’t on shift today.”
“Anyone recognize him?”
Audra shook her head. “Some of the guys said it looked like Brad Pitt. Smartasses.”
Allan smirked. “I was kinda thinking Clark Kent. Minus the spit curl.”
Audra’s mouth went slack. “What else do we have, Al?”
“Nothing. That’s just it.”
“We gotta try.”
“I think we should take the composite to Point Pleasant Park. Show it around. See what happens. Maybe even take it to the different gyms around in the off chance it does resemble this guy. Maybe he’s a fitness nut.”
“Good idea. What’re you doing?” She took a glance at the computer monitor. “Ah, ViCLAS.”
“Just a thousand questions to go.”
Audra laughed. “Jesus, you are in a mood today.”
“Was,” he said. “Melissa texted me half an hour ago. She landed a job.”
“No way.” Audra smiled. “Hey, that’s great. Where at?”
“Penningtons. Over in Dartmouth.”
“Right on. Bet she’s happy.”
“She is,” Allan said. “We’re going out for supper to celebrate.”
“Good.” Audra looked at her watch. “I have Steve Foster coming in. Hopefully, he remembers seeing this guy.”
“Any luck on the other fella?”
“Dustin Marks? I left a message for him to call me. Nothing yet.”
/> “Maybe he’s working.”
“Probably.” Audra turned for the doorway. “Have fun tonight. See ya in the morning.”
Allan checked the time: 4:46. By the time he finished completing the ViCLAS questions, the time was 5:20.
He promptly emailed the booklet off. Then he shrugged on his coat and headed out to have supper with his family.
18
Cranbrook, October 21
3:56 p.m.
George always shows me to my room, always gives me a piece of German chocolate as a complimentary gift.
This is my third visit to Cranbrook, and each time, I’ve stayed here at the Elizabeth Lake Lodge. My window faces a bird sanctuary and lake that are backdropped by the majestic Kootenay Rockies. I find the sight beautiful and inspiring.
A bluish-white hue tinges the mountain range. Jagged, snow-capped peaks thrust so high up they seem to pierce the cloud streaks.
I hear it’s quite empowering to climb a mountain and stand there at the top, looking down at the world. The few mountaineers I know have told me it can be a life-changing experience. One day I’d like to give it a try just to see if I feel the same way.
I turn from the window and set my watch to reflect the two-hour time difference. Back home, it’s closing on six o’clock. Heidi will have the girls fed and is probably cleaning up.
I haven’t decided whether I’ll call tonight. Maybe I should wait. Give Heidi a time-out. She might calm down and collect her thoughts. Come to understand she’s overreacting.
Still, I wonder if I’ll go back to an empty house.
I imagine she’s rifled through my office by now, possibly even my dresser drawers and coat pockets. My computer is password-protected. Even if she could access it, I’m careful to delete my browsing history. It’s a good thing I keep these journals in a safe place, one Heidi would never think of.
I always bring them on my business trips. Some evenings, alone in my room, I’ll add entries. Other times I’ll just sit, reminiscing over ones already written, reliving the experiences captured in them. They help flood my mind with euphoria, send soul-deep waves rippling through my body. It’s the next best thing to being there again.
I unpack my bags and put everything in their proper order. This is a ritual I go through after I arrive at a hotel room. I’m not one to live out of a suitcase. The very idea of it seems so chaotic.
I hang my wrinkle-prone clothes in the closet. Line up my toiletries in the bathroom. I leave my underwear sealed in Ziploc bags. I have this weird aversion to using dresser drawers in hotel rooms, no matter how clean the place is.
