by Alex MacLean
I spend a few minutes rearranging my books alphabetically by author and aligning the spines evenly with the shelf. Then I straighten up the mouse and keyboard on my desk. Obviously, Heidi tried to access my computer as well.
The thought of her trying to figure out my password amuses me. I wonder how many names she punched in before she got mad and gave up.
I use the name of my first, a pretty blonde I met ten years ago in the quartzite hills of Killarney Park.
I can still see her standing on the top of Silver Peak, gazing out at the breathtaking view, her hair blowing in the breeze.
She was the catalyst to this enjoyable adventure. Twenty-four now, including the mountain biker on Saturday.
I remember them all equally. Each location. Each face. Each confused, terrified look. Each little noise they made.
I’m missing just one name.
Taking a seat, I fire up my computer and search the web for any information on the mountain biker. Kimberley Daily Bulletin has a piece on him.
Kimberley RCMP are asking for the public’s help in locating a missing man from Marysville.
Twenty-seven-year-old Guillaume Mills is described as 5’ 10”, 165 pounds, with short brown hair and brown eyes. He has a tattoo on his left calf that reads, “Live To Ride, Ride to Live”.
At approximately 10:00 a.m. Saturday, Guillaume left his home on 307 Avenue. He was last seen wearing a blue jacket, black cycling tights, and white cycling shoes. Family members said he was riding his bike for Kimberley Nature Park.
RCMP are concerned for his safety.
Smiling, I sit back in my chair. Guillaume Mills. I put the name to the face already seared into my memory.
I wonder how long it’ll take them to find his body. Kimberley Nature Park has a lot of real estate, twice the size of Stanley Park. It could be days, weeks, even months.
It took five months to find Lionel Gunn in La Mauricie. By then, animals had scattered his bones to different areas of the park. Police couldn’t even determine the cause of death.
I search news out of Nova Scotia.
What I find gives me pause. I pinch the skin of my throat.
A police drawing of a man in a hood covers the front page of The Chronicle Herald. They call him a person of interest.
I can’t say it’s like looking into a mirror. The eyes are all wrong—too expressive and set too far apart. The upper lip is too full. The nose is too large. And the eyebrows don’t have those sharp arches. The jaw and chin are the only things in the ballpark.
The longer I stare at the drawing, the more it reminds me of a male model. Broad cheekbones. Not an ounce of fat on his face. I could call it a flattering recreation.
The details in the write-up worry me. Someone guessed my height, weight, and eye color correctly. Nailed the clothing I wore.
A roll of sweat trickles from my armpit. I sit back from the desk, wondering who saw me. How’d I attract attention to myself? Was I overly friendly? You know, that nice-guy curse. You smile a bit too much, and people think you’re weird or an imbecile.
I dress according to my activity and environment, so I never look like that proverbial fish out of water. I wear sweats and running shoes whenever I jog. When I hiked the trails in Kimberley Nature Park yesterday, I wore my Gore-Tex boots, cargo pants, and shell jacket. I never carry a backpack like some hikers, but I did take a small EDC sling bag to carry my water bottle and a GORP bar. And of course, I had the new trekking poles I bought Thursday.
Who’d I meet on the trails in Halifax? Three—no, four people come to mind.
Shortly after I entered the park, I happened on a guy in a pea coat who was walking a Great Dane. I don’t think he even looked at me. I remember more of his dog than him. The thing was the size of a horse.
Farther on, I met an elderly couple by the container terminal. They were busy talking to each other, but the old guy did give me a curt nod as we passed each other. I doubt he looked at me long enough to retain an accurate memory.
Then came that odd fellow.
He was jogging toward me with a big smile on his face and his eyes glued to mine. As we passed each other, his smile and stare never wavered. He greeted me with a boisterous hello. I flashed him a smile. Can’t remember if I spoke or not.
I come back to what I said about someone who smiles a bit too much. People think you’re weird or an imbecile. That was my first impression of this fellow.
He had to be the one who talked to the cops. But what made him think of me? Did he witness something? Was it my demeanor? Why am I being called a person of interest?
I wonder about Heidi. What are the odds she checks the news out of Nova Scotia? I’ve never known her to. But if she did. Shit. Shit.
I turn off the computer, get up from the desk, and pace the floor.
If Heidi sees this story, would she have a light-bulb moment? Would she consider the scratch I came home with? The fact that I inadvertently called her the name of the actual victim? Would she then see my face in the drawing? And the clothing? Fuck, what about that? If she goes looking through my closet, she’ll find the hoodie and sweatpants I took to Halifax.
My mouth is dry. My throat is constricted. My muscles are tense. I can’t remember the last time these weird sensations hit me all at once.
I hear the girls laughing and splashing around in the bathroom. Heidi will be in there watching them.
Quietly, I dart down the hall to our bedroom. Heidi and I have separate walk-in closets. I go to mine.
Finding the hoodie and sweatpants, I take them off the hangers.
I hear a noise and freeze. It’s the sound of feet thumping on the bathroom floor. The girls are getting out of the tub.
Hurrying from the bedroom, I go to the kitchen and stuff the clothes into an empty garbage bag.
Tomorrow is collection day. Does the garbage go or just the blue boxes and green carts? I shake my head, unable to remember.
Clenching my teeth, I fight through this chaos in my brain. I recall the piles of leaves raked to the curb all up the street. Every fall, the city comes around with a vacuum truck and cleans up the leaves for residents.
Heidi raked ours. But I can’t remember what bins she set out.
The bathroom door creaks open. The girls scamper into the hall.
I rush out to the garage. Through the window in the roll-up door, I see our trash can at the end of the driveway. Perfect. As long as Heidi doesn’t see me.
I take the bag outside and push it down inside the can. When I go back inside, I find Jade waiting for me in the kitchen. She’s wearing her Dora the Explorer pajamas.
She opens her arms. “Night, Daddy.”
I give her a big hug. “Good night, honey. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
I always thought that was a stupid nursery rhyme. Bedbugs. I mean, really?
Jade gives me a little laugh and runs off to her bedroom. Jaleesa never comes out to see me.
As I’m returning to my office, I run into Heidi coming out of our bedroom. She’s carrying folded bedclothes. She shoves them into my arms.
“Here,” she says. “I thought you’d want to sleep on the couch again.”
28
Halifax, October 27
11:55 a.m.
Ted Taylor’s face stared up from below the murky water, his features contorted by fear and disbelief, his eyes bulging from their sockets. White froth was still visible around his nose and mouth.
Audra pushed the photograph aside and picked up another. This one showed a long-range shot of the body lying face-up on the bank of a beaver pond, the head submerged in the water.
“Rare,” she said.
“Pardon?”
She tossed her gaze over to Denis. “Murder by drowning. You see it done to children, not adult males.”
“Oh, yes.” He nodded. “This guy isn’t afraid to get physical.”
Audra said, “Hmm, maybe that’s his turn-on.”
“Take a look at this,” All
an said, sliding an autopsy photo across the table to her.
The close-up revealed a light bruise straight across the underside of Taylor’s jaw.
“Ligature,” she said.
Allan shook his head. “The ME’s report says the suspect used an object to push Taylor’s head under the water. Most likely a hiking pole or walking stick.”
“Any other injuries?”
“Contusions to the back of the neck.” Allan found the autopsy photo and gave it to her. “Blunt-force injury.”
Audra studied the picture. More prominent than the other bruise, two linear contusions ran parallel to each other, with normal-looking skin in between.
“He struck him from behind first,” she said. “Probably to stun him.”
Allan said, “Seems like it.”
Audra asked Denis, “How far is Rushing River from Huntsville?”
His eyebrows shot up. “A good seventeen hundred klicks. It’s in Kenora. Northwestern Ontario.”
“Long drive.”
“Oh shit, yeah. Tack on an extra hundred fifty, two hundred klicks if he was coming from Toronto.”
Reading a report, Allan said, “Ident managed to cast some footwear impressions around the body. They identified the undersole as belonging to a Merrell hiking boot. Size ten.”
Audra asked, “Any suspects?”
“One,” Denis said. “A local goon named Gordon McLeod. Was known to frequent Rushing River. But OPP couldn’t find any evidence on him.”
“Wrong shoe size?”
“Not sure.”
“Did he have any priors?”
“Lots.”
“Violent crimes?”
Denis referred to a report in his hands. “Some were. He had a few charges for assault and battery. One at Rushing River.”
Audra chimed in. “Were his crimes limited to the Kenora area?”
“Yes,” Denis said.
With a weighted sigh, Allan sat back in the chair. Audra could see the frustration scrunching up his face, pumping the muscles at the sides of his jaw.
The investigation left little to cheer about. The passenger lists they had gathered from the different airlines turned out to be a waste of time. After cross-referencing hundreds of names, they couldn’t find a recurring one.
They had reviewed thirteen unsolved murder cases since yesterday. Five were added to the “maybe” pile—three from Ontario, two from Quebec.
They had rejected the other eight because all had been sexual murders, with DNA being found in three cases.
The victims, all females, had been either shot or stabbed. Their races varied from Caucasian, to African-Canadian, to Aboriginal. Four of them had been transported from other murder sites and dumped in parks, with no attempt to conceal the bodies. One victim had been eviscerated.
Audra wondered if looking into the unsolved murders had been a mistake. Were the cases they picked out even connected to the Chen and Pringle murders, let alone the two in Halifax? Maybe each case stood alone, unrelated to any of the others. Maybe the similarities they thought they saw were mere coincidences.
“What do you think, guys?” she asked. “Add it to the maybe pile?”
Denis rubbed his jaw. “Well...I don’t know.”
Grimacing, Allan gave a slight shake of his head.
“Me either,” he said. “Same as the other five.”
Audra paused. “Taylor’s murder takes place eight months after Hailey Pringle. Seventeen hundred kilometers away in Rushing River Provincial Park.
“Victim is a twenty-eight-year-old male. Body left as is. No theft. No sex. No defensive wounds. No DNA under the fingernails. And the suspect uses a different method of killing.”
Audra felt Allan nudge her foot under the table. When she looked at him, he mouthed, “Chen.”
She agreed. There were distinct similarities with that case. There were also distinct differences.
Denis said, “Maybe he changes up the way he kills to avoid detection.”
“Let’s consider it is one man,” Allan said. “Look at the real estate he’s been covering. How’s he do it? Is he employed in a job that allows him to travel from province to province?”
Audra had thought about that. “Maybe he’s a long-haul truck driver.”
“I can’t see it,” Denis said. “They’re under tight deadlines. If this guy is traveling to these areas, he’s spending a few days there anyway. Has to be.”
“Maybe he’s a sales rep,” Allan said.
Audra said, “Could be an auditor. Consultant. Photographer.”
“Or like you suggested the other day,” Allan said to her. “A transient.”
Audra shrugged. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
Denis said, “He travels to avoid detection and confuse law enforcement.”
Audra exhaled. “Then why return to Halifax?”
“To taunt us,” Allan said.
“You might be right, Al.”
“Let’s add the case to the maybe pile,” he said. “Who’s next?”
As Audra gathered up the contents of Ted Taylor’s file, Denis opened another folder.
“Marian Duffy,” he said. “Twenty-nine years old. Murdered in Pancake Bay Provincial Park on August seventeenth, two thousand nine. Six weeks after Li Chen’s murder.”
“Two months before Mary Driscow’s,” Allan said. “Two months to the date.”
Audra waited as he picked out the autopsy report before she took the crime-scene reports and photos.
She asked Denis, “Where’s Pancake Bay?”
“On Lake Superior. Seventy, eighty klicks north of Sault Sainte Marie. And before you ask, it’s about six hundred klicks from Huntsville.”
Audra smiled. “I gotcha.”
The first photos revealed the body of Marian Duffy lying face-up on mossy ground, surrounded by tall ferns. She was a pretty woman with a heart-shaped face and ringleted hair. She wore an orange tank top and blue running shorts with pink stripes on the sides.
Allan read details off the autopsy report. “Abrasions over the mouth. Contusions on the inner surface of the lips. Contusions over the ribcage. Petechia present. Cyanosis of the fingernail beds.
“The ME attributed death to smothering with traumatic asphyxia.” Allan looked up, incredulous. “The suspect sat on Duffy’s chest and put his hands over her nose and mouth.”
Audra chewed on the inside of her lip. “Burking,” she said.
Allan nodded. “How fucking rare is that?”
“About as rare as homicidal drowning.” Audra referred to the crime-scene report. “Says here there were signs of a scuffle in the dirt of Lookout Trail. No distinct footprints or patterns, though.”
Denis asked, “Any mention of theft?”
“No theft. Wedding ring was still on her finger. Car keys in the pocket of her shorts.”
“Body left as is?”
Audra shook her head. “Concealed. He dragged her into the ferns.”
Allan said, “The ME found no evidence of sexual interaction.”
The boardroom fell quiet. Audra found herself at a loss for words as her mind raced so hard, it felt ready to break into pieces. She saw the stony expression on Allan’s face as he stared downward, his right hand repeatedly clenching into a fist and loosening. Denis had his elbow on the tabletop, his hand curled under his chin. There was a thoughtful cast to his eyes.
Allan spoke first. “One man. That’s the question.”
Audra looked at him.
Denis said, “The more of these cases I look at, the more I believe it is one man.”
“Assumptions,” Audra said. “They can be dangerous.”
“What do you believe?” Denis asked.
“Hmm...I don’t know. I’m quite certain the same man killed Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre. But these other cases...if one man is responsible, Jesus Christ, what type of psychopath are we dealing with?”
Allan said, “When I look at the Duffy case, I see a suspect who exhibit
s control. He’s organized. He knows what he’s doing—”
“He’s lethal,” Denis cut in.
“How’d he get so lethal?” Allan asked him. “Practice? Special training?”
Denis spread his hands, said nothing.
“I’m not saying the same man is behind it all,” Allan continued. “We can’t say for sure. But when I look at the other five cases we picked out, I see the same type of organized behavior.”
“Six,” said Denis.
“What?”
“Six cases now that we added Taylor’s.”
“Right,” Allan said. “Six. Marian Duffy will make it seven.”
“What about case linkage?” Audra asked. “We have different victim selections. Different methods of killing. Different locations. Different use of weapons.”
Allan shrugged. “Then why are we here?”
Audra stared at him for a long moment. She flinched when her cell phone rang. The name on the display gave her pause.
“Captain,” she answered. “What can I do for you?”
“Can you come down to my office for a sec?” Thorne asked. “It’s important.”
“Be right down.”
When she hung up, Allan tipped his head to the side.
“Who was that?”
“Thorne. Wants to see me.”
“Uh-oh,” Denis said. “You in trouble now. Called to the principal’s office.”
Audra gave him a smile. “I can handle him.”
Thorne was seated behind his desk when Audra walked into his office.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“Just got wind of another case.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s a little out of your search parameters right now. But I thought you guys would want to see it.”
As Audra read over the details, she felt the strangest sensation. She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead.
“Jesus,” she said.
Thorne sat back in his chair. “That was my reaction too.”
She went back to the boardroom, trying to process the information.
“What’d Thorne want?” Allan asked her.
Audra drew a breath. “He just got word of another murder case. A body was found in a park a couple of hours ago. Autopsy hasn’t been done yet, so the information’s preliminary. Right now, it looks like the victim was strangled. And his body was dragged into a stand of trees.”
