by Alex MacLean
Denis looked up from the journal he’d been reading. “You think he’s a loving husband? I’m reading some stuff here where he’s about to kill his wife.”
Allan frowned. “Why?”
“For ignoring him. She thought he was cheating on her.”
Audra said, “Because he’d called her Kate, remember?”
Denis nodded. “Listen to this. ‘I stand at the bedside, staring down at her. One swift loop of the rope around the back of her neck, and it’s all over. Eight years of marriage have come to this.’”
“When’d this happen?” Audra asked.
“Saturday,” Denis said. “Three days ago.”
Allan asked, “What stopped him?”
Denis read a bit more. “His youngest daughter. She came out of her room and interrupted him before he could go through with it.”
Mouth pinched, Audra shook her head. “Wow. Just wow.”
“How many victims?” Allan asked her.
“Six,” she said. “You?”
“Seven.”
“That’s thirteen.”
“Twenty-four,” Denis said, “when you add the eleven names I wrote down.”
All at once, pinpricks erupted over Allan’s skin. He heard Audra blow out a slow breath.
“Whoa,” she said. “Eleven victims.”
“Three just last month.” Denis sat back in the chair, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “Roger Pratt. Kate Saint-Pierre. Guillaume Mills.”
“So we were right,” Allan said. “Stark did murder Mr. Mills.”
Audra said, “We’ll have to inform Corporal Scott.”
“What about those other cases we picked out?” Allan said. “Were they mentioned?”
“In great detail,” Denis said, picking up his list of names. “There were five of those people in these two journals.”
“Two of them in mine,” Audra said. “Gilda Melanson and Lionel Selman.”
“That makes the seven maybes,” Denis said.
Allan looked at him. “Li Chen?”
Denis made a grim face and nodded again. “Stark did do it.”
“I already know the answer, but I have to ask. Was Mary Driscow in those pages?”
“Yes.”
“Hailey Pringle?”
Pulling his hands off the table, Denis slumped his shoulders.
“Stark was home on the day of her murder,” he said quietly. “You were right, Detective. The crime-scene characteristics didn’t add up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was just hoping I’d have something promising to tell Hailey’s mother.”
Audra yawned into a fist. “So why do you guys think Stark never destroyed these journals? He knew we were closing in on him, yet he just left them there on the desk. It’s like he wanted us to find them.”
“He’s a narcissist,” Denis said. “And a lunatic.”
“He’s also proud of what he’s done,” Allan added. “And what do we do when we’re proud of something?”
“We want to share it with others,” Audra said.
Allan nodded. “Exactly.”
A knock came at the door of the conference room. Sergeant Jeffrey Hansen poked his head in.
“Am I interrupting, Detectives?”
“We’re all finished,” Denis said. “C’mon in, Sergeant.”
Hansen was short and wiry, with a deep tan and heavy creases around his eyes. A pencil-thin moustache ran along his upper lip.
“Stark lawyered up,” he said.
Denis snorted. “Of course he did.”
“We took his DNA. Our lab will do the profile. Should take a few weeks.”
“Good,” Allan said.
“Shall we send the profile to you, Detective Stanton?”
“Send it in care of both Detective Price and myself.”
“Very well,” Hansen said. “What did you guys find out?”
Denis said, “According to his own writings, Stark murdered twenty-four people during the last ten years.”
It was as if someone had flipped a switch to shut Hansen off. He just stood there—mouth hanging open—for a good twenty seconds.
He shook his head. “Twenty—”
“Twenty-four, yes,” Denis said. “You take out our jurisdictions—Halifax, Huntsville, and Burlington—we’re left with twenty jurisdictions to notify.”
Hansen licked his lips. “Holy shit.”
Allan said, “We’re drawing up murder charges as soon as we get back to Halifax.”
Hansen nodded. “We’re charging him today in Roger Pratt’s death. When are you all heading back to your hometowns?”
“Soon,” Audra said. “Our department is pretty short staffed with the two of us gone.”
“That’s understandable. We’ll all correspond with each other as this case progresses.” Hansen looked down the table at Denis. “Detective Gagnon, if you could stay with us for a few days, I would appreciate it.”
“I can do that.”
Hansen turned to Allan. “Detective Stanton. Stark’s lawyer made some serious allegations about you.”
Folding his arms, Allan sagged back in the chair. “Like what?”
“He claims you put your gun to his client’s forehead when you were all at the hotel. Stark said you wanted to kill him.”
“That’s bullshit,” Denis said. “I was right there.”
Audra said, “Stark’s telling his lawyer stories.”
Hansen flipped his gaze around to each detective then fixed it on Allan.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I asked Constables Beckett and Latour. They told me they never witnessed anything like that.” A little smile appeared on his face. “But you’re awful quiet about it, Detective Stanton.”
Allan gave him a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t know what to tell you.”
Hansen’s smile dropped away. “Doesn’t matter to me anyway. It’s his word against five.”
He turned to leave.
“Sergeant,” Allan said.
Hansen stopped, looked back over his shoulder at him.
“Can I see him?” Allan asked.
“Stark?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll have to talk to him through his lawyer.”
“I don’t care. I don’t have any questions for him. I have something I want to tell him.”
Hansen paused a moment. “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”
50
Oakville, November 2
11:00 a.m.
Allan looked into the face of the man who had murdered Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre, who had probably murdered twenty-two others, and altered the lives of all the families involved. Hundreds of people forever affected by the actions of one man.
“Detective Al,” Stark said. “Come back to finish the job?”
Allan clenched his jaw, trying to control the slow, sick anger pushing through his body.
Stark’s lawyer sat at the table beside him. His name was Donald Bright, a short, heavyset man with a soft face. A bushy thatch of black hair circled the glistening bald patch on the top of his head.
Stark turned to him and said, “This is the cop I told you about.”
Bright looked up at Allan. “Mr. Stark claims you—”
“I know what he told you,” Allan interrupted. “I heard all about it.”
“Your client is telling you lies,” Denis said, walking into the interview room behind Allan.
Stark tipped his head back over the chair and snorted.
“This is how you cops never get charged with your crimes,” he said. “You all lie and cover for one another.”
“We read your journals,” Allan said. “Twenty-four people you murdered.”
Stark brought his head off the chair, one side of his lips pulled up in a smug smile. He gave the impression that he was a man completely at ease with his surroundings.
Bright said, “Nothing’s been proven, Detective. I might remind you of that.”
“You’re probably wondering what led us to you. What mistake you made.”
Stark lifted his shackled hands, turning up the palms, as if he didn’t care.
“Kate Saint-Pierre,” Allan said. “You thought you were being smart by cutting off her fingertips. We wouldn’t find your DNA, right? But you couldn’t just leave it at that. You had to pose her like Mary Driscow. You had to let us know it was you. Your narcissism became your undoing.
“Cutting off Kate Saint-Pierre’s fingertips allowed us to link her murder to Li Chen’s. And that made us look into other unsolved murders out there.
“The rest, as they say, is history.
“If you’d left Saint-Pierre’s body be, yes, we would’ve had your DNA. We would’ve compared it to the DNA left on Mary Driscow and known it came from the same man. But you’re not in the DNA Data Bank. You weren’t on any police department’s radar.
“That one mistake cost you everything.
“Remember that while you’re sitting in your prison cell at nights. No more enjoying the great outdoors. No more hiking in nature. No more freedom for you.”
The smug smile melted away. “I have my memories,” he said. “That’s what I’ll be remembering most.”
Denis came around the end of the table. He placed his hands on the top, leaning in close to Stark.
“How do you murder twenty-four people?” he asked. “Don’t you feel any remorse at all?”
“Careful how you answer that,” Bright warned.
Stark cocked his head to the side, and Allan saw a change cross his eyes; they became colder, dead almost.
“We only matter to ourselves,” he said calmly. “And the few people who love us enough to remember us when we’re gone.”
“And who’s going to remember you?” Denis said. “Your wife who you nearly murdered? How about your daughters? When they get old enough to realize what you did to all those people, how will they feel about you? Will they love you then?”
Bright said, “Detectives—”
Denis flashed his palm at him. “Shush, Mr. Bright. I’m talking here.” He kept his eyes fastened to Stark. “I never believed a person could be born evil until I met you.”
A faint smile appeared on Stark’s face again. “Tell me something. Is the Kojak look intentional or did you happen upon it by accident? It must be intentional, right?”
Denis kept his composure. “Your own mother even hated you.”
Stark paused. “She used to call me the devil. A monster. She knew what I was long before I did.”
“She saw it in you, didn’t she? At seven years old, you stood outside her hope chest, smiling, while your twin brother thrashed around inside. Clawing to get out. He nearly suffocated because of you.”
“But good ol’ Mom saved him. Bless her heart.” Stark’s face went slack, and his eyes became distant. “Joshua died two years later. It should’ve been me who fell off the swing that day.”
“Yeah,” Allan said. “It should have.”
Stark shifted his gaze to him. “Such is fate.”
“I’m done here,” Allan said.
Denis nodded, pushing back from the table. “Me too. I’ll tell you something, Mr. Stark. I’m glad Canada doesn’t have the death penalty. It would be too good for you.”
They walked to the door.
“So long, gentlemen,” Stark said. “Oh, wait. Detective Al. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
Allan held the door open with one hand as he looked back.
“Did she matter to you?”
Allan frowned. “Who?”
“Mary Driscow.”
Allan stared at him and suddenly felt the same crazed fury he’d felt at the hotel. Turning away, he slammed the door behind him.
As he stomped down the hallway, he heard Stark laughing inside the interview room.
Black, mocking laughter.
51
Hamilton, November 3
12:55 p.m.
A pre-boarding announcement for flight 532 to Halifax came over the airport intercom, inviting passengers with small children and people requiring help to begin boarding.
“Regular boarding will begin in ten minutes’ time,” the voice said.
Allan checked his watch. “That’s our flight.”
“So I guess this is good-bye,” Denis said.
Audra gave him a big hug.
“Oh no,” he said, “you’re going to make me all teary eyed.”
“Not a good-bye,” Audra told him. “Just a see-you-later.”
Denis nodded. “Most definitely.” He turned to Allan and stuck out his hand. “Detective Stanton.”
Allan shook it. “Detective Gagnon. It was a pleasure working with you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. I made two friends out of this.” He wrapped his free arm around Allan’s shoulder, slapping him twice on the back. “Get that help. Please.”
As they pulled away from each other, Allan felt a sudden ache at the back of his throat. He dropped his gaze to his shoes then lifted it back up to Denis.
“I will,” he said softly.
“Think about bringing the family out for a visit next year,” Denis told him. “We can go to our cottage on Lake Muskoka. Enjoy a few cold beers. Have a barbecue. We can even take your son out on the boat. Great walleye fishing there in the summer.”
“I will definitely consider that,” Allan said.
“Don’t consider. Just do it. We’ll have fun.” Denis turned to Audra. “You too, Detective Price. Bring your husband and daughter up for a visit.”
“I’ll run it by them.”
“We got a nice spot on the lake. My wife makes amazing barbecue sauce. You mention cold beers, barbecue, and lake fishing to your husband, and he’ll come out. I bet on it.”
Audra smiled. “I’ll talk him into it. Just don’t ask him to cook anything.”
Denis chuckled. “He’s one of those guys, is he? Last time he cooked, he burned the salad.”
Audra laughed. “That’s him.”
Denis reached over and nudged her arm. “If he’s not good in the kitchen, he must be good somewhere else.”
Audra tossed her head back. “Oh, Jesus.”
Denis threw a wink at Allan.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he prodded jokingly. “Tell me I’m right.”
Smiling, Audra shook her head. “You really are a character.”
Another announcement came over the intercom, saying flight 532 was ready for boarding.
“We better go,” Allan said.
Denis lifted his hand in a wave. “You two have a safe flight. We’ll talk later.”
“You bet,” Audra said. “See ya.”
Allan nodded him a good-bye then rushed off.
When they boarded the plane, Audra took the aisle seat. Allan took the one by the window.
“I can’t wait to get home,” Audra said. “The first thing I’m doing is taking a hot bath. Then I’ll probably sleep for a week.”
Allan nodded. “You and me both.”
Within minutes, he could hear Audra’s deep, even breathing. He looked over and saw her fast asleep.
Allan leaned his head back, shutting his eyes. As tired as he was, sleep just would not come.
His brain ran rampant about the looming visit he had to make.
52
Halifax, November 3
5:23 p.m.
Allan shut his car off at the curb in front of Bill Driscow’s house.
There were two vehicles in the driveway. He didn’t recognize the white Chevy truck. Maybe Bill had visitors. Maybe VON or palliative care was inside, assisting him.
Allan decided to wait for a little while. He tipped his head back against the headrest, looking out over the trees. Deep furrows of clouds covered the sky, and they reflected the last red-and-orange rays of the dying sun.
Closing his eyes, he could feel the exhaustion creeping into his bones. He ya
wned and settled back into the seat.
He didn’t realize he’d been drifting off until his foot kicked something under the dash. It awoke him with a start, and he caught himself looking around, confused for a couple of seconds.
He wiped a hand over his face and sat up in the seat, arching his back. The Chevy truck, he saw, was still in the driveway. Someone had turned on the living room lights.
Allan checked his watch: 5:54. Might as well go see if Bill was available. If not, he could return later.
Stepping out of the car, Allan inhaled a lungful of cool November air. The temperature had to be dipping close to the freezing mark. His breath misted when he exhaled.
He walked to the front door and rang the bell. In moments, a light turned on in the foyer.
The door cracked open. A young woman stared at him, mouth parting. She could’ve been Mary Driscow’s older sister, and the sight of her caused Allan to flinch his head back slightly. She had lightly freckled skin and emerald eyes, with curly hair the color of paprika.
“Yes?” she said.
“Um...I’m Detective Stanton with the Halifax Police. Is Bill home?”
“Who is it, Jennie?” a frail voice called out from inside.
“Detective Stanton.”
“Let him in.”
Jennie directed him to the living room right off the foyer. Bill Driscow sat on a lush sofa surrounded by huge cushions.
“Detective Stanton,” he said, reaching a shaking hand across a coffee table covered with pill bottles. “I was hoping I’d see you one last time.”
As Allan shook his hand, he noticed the whites of Bill’s eyes had turned yellow. He’d also lost even more weight, considerably so. His gray sweatshirt hung off his shoulders.
“How’ve you been doing?” Allan asked him.
Leaning back into the cushions, Bill flicked his eyebrows. “Going downhill fast, I’m afraid.” He gestured to a chair by the fireplace. “Please, have a seat.”
Allan did.
“This is my living room and bedroom now,” Bill said. “I can’t go up and down the stairs anymore. Takes too much out of me.”
Allan felt a pang of sadness. “Sorry to hear that.”
