by Alex MacLean
“Where at this time?”
“Ontario.”
Audra jerked her head back. “Whoa. Three provinces away.”
“I know,” he said, skeptical himself.
They went outside, stopping by the car. Audra leaned against it, tilting her face to the sun, as Allan took out his cell phone. He dialed the number Cameron Page had given him.
The voice that answered was tinged with a French accent. Allan introduced himself.
“Detective Stanton,” Denis Gagnon said. “I was a bit surprised when ViCLAS contacted me. A bit excited too.”
“What are these possible links they made to one of your cases?”
“Two, actually.”
“Pardon?”
“Two cases. They don’t know about the second one.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Li Chen is the case ViCLAS found similarities in. He was a thirty-two-year-old Chinese immigrant. Worked here as a sales manager for Sandvik Mining.
“We found his body in Arrowhead Provincial Park sixteen months ago. He was strangled with a ligature. Had his fingertips cut off.”
Listening, Allan felt a weird frisson down his back. “Was his body posed?”
“Posed?”
“You know. Did the suspect position the body a certain way—”
“No, no,” Denis said. “Not any of that here.”
“Any sex involved?”
“None of that either. Chen was at the park to take pictures. According to his family, he was a budding photographer. We figured the killer ambushed him on Stubbs Falls Trail while he was taking pictures from the bridge. The killer then dragged or carried Chen’s body into the brush twenty-five yards away. We later found his camera downstream, caught up on some rocks.”
Allan said, “He hid the body to delay discovery.”
“Yes.”
Similar MO, Allan thought with cautious hope. Similar hunting areas. But different choices of victims. Coincidence or not?
“Was the camera salvageable?” he asked.
“It was damaged, but we managed to get pictures off the memory card. Nothing beneficial. No people from the park. His last photos were of the falls.”
“We need to meet,” Allan said. “Compare notes.”
“Definitely. I’ll come to you. Never been to Halifax. Maybe the salty air will help my sinuses.”
Allan noticed Audra looking at him now. He gave her a shrug, and she gave him a weak smile.
“I’ll pack up everything today,” Denis added. “Catch a flight out tomorrow. Sound like a plan?”
“Sure does.”
“See you then, Detective.”
“Wait,” Allan said. “This other case you mentioned. Tell me about it.”
“Her name was Hailey Pringle. Twenty-four years old. She worked as a housekeeper for Arowhon Pines.
“Four years ago, a park superintendent found her body in Arrowhead. Beaver Meadow Trail that time. The suspect bludgeoned her with a heavy object. Likely a rock. We think he threw it into the beaver pond. We never found it.”
“He left her body on the trail?”
“Yes.”
“What are the similarities?”
“Location,” Denis said.
Allan frowned. “That it?”
“My gut.” Denis paused a moment. “My gut tells me it’s the same guy.”
23
Cranbrook, October 24
7:49 a.m.
I remember the tragedy of July 29, 1984.
It was a tank-top-and-shorts kind of day. Dazzling sun. Soothing breeze. Wispy layers of clouds banked along the edge of the sky.
Joshua and I were taking turns swinging on the tree swing our father had built for us a month earlier. He’d climbed the massive oak tree in the backyard and tied a thick length of rope to a sturdy branch twenty-five feet above the ground. He made the seat from a block of cedar and engraved the words Up & Away on the front side.
We never sat on the seat. We tried, but the rope pressing into our balls was just too uncomfortable. Instead, we used the seat to stand on and swing like Tarzan.
On this particular day, we were trying to outdo one another by seeing who could get highest in the air. Our mother had already come out to warn us twice. Each time, we’d obey and wait for her to disappear back into the house before we’d start at it again.
Pushing hard, Joshua had an amazing swing going. He went back and forth like a pendulum, each sweep of the arc taking him higher. He was reaching that cloud-duster height where the rope was almost horizontal to the ground.
Then disaster struck.
To this day, I don’t know if his foot slipped off the seat or he lost his grip on the rope, but Joshua fell right at the peak of the swing.
I watched his body sail through the air. It made a chilling thud as it landed near the back fence thirty feet away.
I ran over. Joshua lay on his right side, arm bent at an awkward angle beneath his body. His eyes and mouth were open. I heard a wet gurgling sound coming from his throat.
“Joshua,” I said. “You okay?”
He rolled his eyes toward me, and I could see a harsh awareness, a certain dread. I waited for him to wink, or smile, or burst into laughter because he’d pulled a good one over on me. But it never happened like that.
“Joshua?” I repeated.
His eyes dropped away, staring off into the grass. I no longer heard the gurgling, only the sound of the swing as the rope rubbed the bark on the tree limb.
I crouched beside him and poked his shoulder. “Joshua.”
He never responded.
“Oh my God...”
I jerked my hand back.
“What did you do?”
I spun around.
Mom ran from the house, dropping to her knees next to Joshua. She saw his face and cried out.
“I’m here, baby,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
She shot me a venomous look. “What did you do, you little monster?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He fell.”
“I told you boys not to swing so high. Didn’t I?”
“Ruth—what is it?”
Mom blinked. Dressed in his work clothes, Dad called from the back porch.
“It’s Joshua. He’s hurt.”
Dad came running over. “What happened?”
“He fell off the swing. He’s not moving. I think his arm is broken.”
Dad bent to Joshua. “His eyes are open. Joshua. Joshua.”
Mom began keening, a thin cry of fear.
“Call a fucking ambulance,” Dad yelled.
As Mom ran to the house, Dad knelt beside Joshua and threw himself across his small frame. It was the first time I heard him cry. He let out a piercing scream like that of a wounded animal.
He knew what I didn’t—Joshua was dead.
My brother.
My twin.
Nine years old.
I remember an article I read a couple of years ago about womb twin survivors. The medical world presumed the fetal brain during the first trimester wasn’t developed enough to have any consciousness. Some researchers now believe that might not be the case at all. They claim when a twin dies in the womb, even during that first trimester, the other twin knows. Others believe it’s more body than brain. The body feels the loss, the abandonment.
Womb twin survivors carry the loss with them to the outside. They grow up feeling something is missing from their lives, something that used to be there but no longer is. I wonder if it’s like the phantom limb. You cut off a man’s arm or leg, and he can still feel it, even though it isn’t there.
In a weird way, that’s similar to how I felt when Joshua died. I could still feel him there, a part of me. Every time I looked into a mirror, I saw him again. He smiled when I smiled. Made silly faces back when I made them at him. And in my young imagination, Joshua lived on with me.
But then I didn’t fully grasp the concept of death. The finality of it. Only when I got older did
I realize what a truly heartbreaking tragedy it was.
In retrospect, Dad never considered the safety issue of having a swing that long. Ten, twelve feet would’ve sufficed. Not twenty-five. Not for two nine-year-old boys who didn’t comprehend the danger. The longer the swing, the higher it will go.
My relationship with my parents deteriorated over the years. I often wondered if they’d secretly wished I had fallen from the swing that day, especially Mom. The names she’d call me—evil, dangerous, the devil, a monster. She knew what I was long before I realized it.
When I went off to business college, I never returned home. I haven’t spoken to Mom and Dad in fifteen years. I imagine they’re still alive. Probably still living in Almonte, in that old brick house on Wesley Street.
I’ve been thinking about Joshua a lot lately. Where would he be in his life right now? Married? Kids? Have a decent career? What about us? Would we have a good relationship?
These are my last few hours in British Columbia. I don’t know when I’ll be back here again. Depends if another company out this way needs my help.
I get up and move to the window overlooking the bird sanctuary. I’m welcomed by a brilliant sunrise. A sliver of light traces the horizon and infuses the clouds overhead with beautiful red and orange hues. Elizabeth Lake is a mirror that reflects the colors, the mountains, and the reeds.
I watch a flock of ducks flying in perfect V-formation. They head south and eventually disappear from my sight.
I check the time: 8:08. My flight leaves for Calgary at 12:10. I’m not looking forward to the twin-engine jobbie I’ll be flying in. Even with a small amount of turbulence, it bobs around like a cork. Good thing the trip takes less than an hour. Any longer, and I’d have to fill up on Gravol.
From Calgary, I’ll connect with my main flight back to Hamilton. I estimate I’ll be home by eight tonight.
I wonder about Heidi, if her attitude has improved since I came out to Cranbrook. Every night I called home, she just put the girls on the phone. She never spoke to me.
I bought Jade and Jaleesa a pair of suede moccasins last night. They’re native-made, with beaded flower designs on the tops. I don’t know if the girls will like them.
I just won’t mention they’re trimmed with rabbit fur.
24
Halifax, October 24
2:20 p.m.
With Greek features and a head shaved so smooth it gleamed, Detective Denis Gagnon reminded Audra of Telly Savalas. Dressed in a purple blazer and gray trousers, he carried himself with an air of confidence, if she’d ever seen one.
They set to work in the boardroom because it allowed them more space. Case files from four murders covered the sixteen-foot conference table. Allan sat to Audra’s left, reading over autopsy reports. Denis Gagnon sat opposite them, reviewing the Driscow and Saint-Pierre crime-scene reports. Audra studied photographs from the two murders in Arrowhead Provincial Park.
She saw Hailey Pringle’s bludgeoned body first. She was a light-skinned girl with a slim build. The suspect had left her facedown on the park trail. Blood saturated her blond hair as well as the crushed gravel beneath her head.
“He struck her several times,” Audra said.
“It was a brutal attack,” Denis said. “The medical examiner said her skull was crushed.”
“The suspect would’ve gotten Hailey’s blood on him. Probably a lot, from what I see here.”
“I know. And nobody saw a man covered in blood that day.”
“That’s the way it usually goes,” Audra said.
She picked up another photo showing Hailey alive and well. She stood in the middle of a suspension bridge that hung over a lush forest canopy. She was squinting against the sun, a closed smile on a face softened with innocence.
Audra turned the photo over. Someone’s handwriting said: Monteverde Rainforest.
“Her husband gave me that,” Denis said. “Taken while they were vacationing in Costa Rica six months before.”
Audra felt a stab of sadness. “Did they have kids?”
Denis shook his head. “Hailey’s mother calls me every second Friday. Asks me if I got any updates. Four years now. She’s still looking for closure.”
“You ever hear from the husband?”
“I did for a few months after the murder. Then nothing. He remarried a year later.”
“Was he ever a suspect?” Allan asked him.
Denis nodded. “Only because he was a statistical probability. One-third of women are murdered by someone they know. But according to everyone I interviewed, he and Hailey were happy. No financial problems. No mention of abuse, infidelity, or jealousy.”
“How’d he take the news of Hailey’s death?” Allan asked.
“Bad.” Denis winced. “Bad and...genuine. You know?”
“Yeah,” Allan said in a quiet voice. “I know.”
Audra went back to the crime-scene photos of Hailey Pringle. She focused on the woman’s bare wrists below the cuffs of her scarlet jacket. No rings on her fingers, either.
“Were any of her personal effects missing?” she asked.
Denis said, “Her watch and wedding ring.”
“Were they valuable?”
“Ring was about four thousand. Had a point-forty-five-carat diamond in it. The watch, a hundred bucks. Nothing fancy. Pawnshops in Ontario are required to report any jewelry received by them. Nobody tried to cash in either item. For the longest time, I wondered if robbery precipitated the attack.”
“We had no robbery in our cases,” Audra said. “What about Li Chen? Anything missing from him?”
Denis lowered his eyes. “No,” he said. “The killer left behind his wallet, watch, and wedding ring. Sixty dollars in the wallet.”
From the corner of her eye, Audra saw Allan look up from the reports. She waited a brief moment until Denis began reading again before she turned her face to Allan. As he met her gaze, the grim twist to his mouth told her he shared her skepticism—the Pringle and Chen murders didn’t seem to be related.
When Audra picked up the first photo of Li Chen, a chill rippled over her skin. What she saw bore an uncanny resemblance to Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre.
Li Chen lay face up on the mossy ground, his face turned toward the camera. His eyes were bloodred, and a prominent ligature mark drew a purple line over his throat. The suspect had severed every fingertip at the DIP joint.
He fought back, Audra told herself. Just like Kate Saint-Pierre.
Li Chen looked to be a short man, dressed in a red-checkered shirt and cargo pants. He still had a black camera bag slung over his shoulder.
Pictures of the surrounding area showed the suspect had concealed Chen within a stand of trees. Audra dug through the autopsy photos, choosing a close-up of the ligature mark.
“Whoa.” She held up the photo for Allan. “Check this out.”
His eyes lit up. “Shit.”
“Similar, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
Denis asked, “What’s that?”
“The weave pattern in the ligature,” Allan said. “Looks like the one in our cases.”
“Lemme see.”
Audra gave Denis the photo. He compared it to close-ups of Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre.
Eventually, he said, “Yes, yes. I’m really starting to think the cases are connected.”
Audra shrugged. “I’m reserving judgment right now.”
“Yeah?” Denis looked at Allan. “You?”
Allan spread his hands. “I’m cautiously optimistic about one. Not so much the other.”
“Hailey Pringle. You don’t think she’s part of this vicious cycle?”
“The crime-scene characteristics don’t add up for me. Sorry.”
Denis frowned. “Like what?”
“He left her body as is. Why didn’t he hide it like the others?”
“Maybe he got spooked. Someone was coming.”
“Different cause of death too.”
Denis
tapped a finger on the tabletop. Then he loosened his tie so the knot hung by his sternum.
“I respect your opinion, Detective,” he said. “But I’m sticking to my gut on this.”
Allan thumbed his ear. “I know what it’s like to have a case like yours. You take it personally. It becomes a case you have to solve. Not only for the victims’ families, but for yourself. That emotional investment can cause you to lose focus.
“Last year, shortly after I submitted the Mary Driscow case to ViCLAS, they found a potential link to an unsolved rape and murder in a town not two hours from here. Same cause of death. Similar murder site. The suspect even left her posed.
“From all appearances, the cases seemed to be connected. But there were also differences—”
“Such as?” Denis asked.
“Weave pattern in the ligature. I had DNA evidence. They didn’t.”
“I’m assuming you’re telling me this because these cases ended up not being related?”
Allan nodded. “They caught the man involved in that case last spring. He’d abducted a young woman right from her home. Drove her to a wooded area and tried to rape her. Luckily, she escaped.
“Police tracked him down soon after. They found evidence at his place linking him to the other murder. When I looked into him, I discovered he had lived in Mary Driscow’s neighborhood at one time. That made me excited. It convinced me that I had my man.”
“Obviously, you didn’t,” Denis said.
A distant stare crossed Allan’s eyes. “DNA cleared him.”
Audra watched him for a moment.
“Well,” she said. “For the sake of arguing, let’s say these cases are related. What do we know about the victims?”
“There are no links between them,” Denis said. “One male. Three females.”
Audra nodded. “Their ages vary from twenty-two to thirty-four. They come from various backgrounds.”
“Why does he choose them?” Allan said. “They have no specific physical or personal characteristics.”
The room went quiet for a good minute.
Denis spoke first. “Maybe he initially starts off looking for someone specific. His dream victim, so to speak. But he finds they’re not easy to come by. So he settles for a substitute instead.”
