Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  “Morceau de merde,” he spat.

  As if by reflex, the boy’s arms came up around his head to protect himself.

  “No, Daddy,” he cried. “No.”

  The man raised his hand and the boy cringed.

  “Herbert.”

  The man paused at the voice and looked up. The boy twisted his head to see. In the doorway stood his mother, the man’s wife. She was a slender woman in her early forties. Her shoulder-length flip up hair was disheveled. Her green eyes looked wary, tired. Without makeup, her face was pale, older somehow. She wore a robe overtop a nightgown.

  “Laisse le garçon tranquille,” she said.

  The man lowered his hand. “You just never mind.”

  Slowly, almost tentatively, she stepped into the room. “He hasn’t done anything.”

  The man released his grip on his son and a tense silence fell upon the room. The boy backed away to his bed and felt time stop. He watched his father’s face.

  Standing between them, the man seemed mollified. Under the bedroom light his forehead glistened with sweat. His gaze shifted from his wife to his son to his wife again. Then the whiskey seemed to kick start him.

  “You baby him too much,” he said.

  “Il est un bébé.” The woman took another step forward, eyes never leaving her husband. “Il a seulement six ans.”

  The man fixed his son with an icy stare. Gazing back at him, the boy swallowed. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  With a soft voice, his mother said, “Come to bed, Herbert.” She reached out a hand to her husband now. “Come.”

  The man looked at her with a kind of wonder. He took her hand and allowed himself to be led from the room. The boy’s mother stopped in the doorway and turned back to her frightened son.

  “Go back to bed,” She flashed a quick smile of reassurance. “Everything will be all right.”

  Her hand moved to the wall and flicked off the light. When she closed the door, the boy expelled a long sigh. The silence that followed was a comfort.

  He crawled back under the covers. The ache in his back still throbbed, his heart still thumped wildly. After a time, both seemed to ease. He gazed up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head.

  Lower in the sky now, the moon lit up the room in starker detail.

  The boy yawned and rolled to his side. He was unable to sleep, despite being exhausted. Tomorrow was not a school day and for that he was thankful. Shutting his eyes, he tried to drive away the thoughts of his father’s drunken fit and realized that he couldn’t. At any moment, he imagined the man bursting into the room again.

  Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Maybe he was safe now.

  Then another sound pulled him back from the twilight between sleep and consciousness. Not a bang this time, but a sound like a cry. Faint. Somewhat distant.

  The boy sat up, listening. He wiped the scratchiness from his eyes with a knuckle.

  It came again.

  The cry was from his mother. He could hear his father’s voice now, saying something he couldn’t make out. Then came a loud slap and deep wail from the mother.

  At once, the boy pictured his father beating her, pictured her in the morning, the cuts and bruises, the swollen lip.

  The boy felt sick to his stomach.

  He didn’t know what he could do, only that he had to stop this. What his father would do to him didn’t matter; he must save his mother.

  He leapt off the bed, mindful of the scattered pieces of light bulb still on the floor. His hand closed over the doorknob, yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn it.

  His arm trembled; his mouth was dry.

  From his parent’s room came another slap from his father, another cry from his mother.

  By a sheer act of will, the boy opened the door slowly to minimize the grate of hinges.

  The hallway was dark. But the boy knew the house by touch. On tiptoes, he approached his parent’s bedroom, unsure of what he would find, unsure of what would happen. His heartbeat was fast and heavy.

  The door was ajar. Peeking inside, the boy saw them. There, silhouetted against the window, were their profiles. His mother was bent over the footboard, hands reaching towards the head of the bed. Her nightgown was raised above her waist. Wearing only a T-shirt now, his father was behind his wife, hips pumping wildly. With each thrust, the boy’s mother emitted a soft moan.

  The boy stood there, unable to turn away. He watched his father raise his open hand and bring it down on his wife’s backside. The smack of palm against skin made the boy flinch. He backed away from the door, unable to understand what was going on. He crept back down the hallway, footsteps soft so his parents wouldn’t hear. He climbed into his bed and pulled the covers to his chin before staring up at the ceiling in the dark.

  He wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

  At the breakfast table the next morning, it was like nothing had even happened. To the boy, the events of the night before seemed like a jumble of fragments, half real, half imagined.

  His mother set down plates of eggs, bacon and toast. His father sipped coffee, not looking at or speaking to anyone. He seemed engrossed in the newspaper he had folded on one corner of the table.

  Sitting at her place, the boy’s mother asked, “Herbie, will you say grace for us?”

  “Yes, Mama.” He folded his hands by his plate and bowed his head. “Bless us, O, Lord and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  As he finished, he heard only his mother repeat the “Amen.” His father was uncharacteristically quiet. The boy looked up and found the man glowering at him from the other side of the table.

  The boy put his head down once more. He wanted to leave. Despite having no appetite, he ate his breakfast quickly. When he finished, he quietly excused himself from the table and as he did so, he noticed his father do the same. On his heels, the man followed his son through the living room. Reaching the staircase, the boy felt a large hand grab hold of his arm with a vice-like grip. His father spun him around and pressed his face close to his.

  “I know you were there last night,” he spat.

  Eyes wide, the boy felt his heart beating faster. He winced at the pain sinking into the flesh of his arm. The man paused and glanced sharply over his shoulder. From the kitchen came the sounds of his wife putting dishes in the sink, of running water. The man turned back to his son, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” Venom dripped from his father’s voice. “Morceau de merde.”

  Herb Matteau awoke with a start. His muscles were flexed, his hair damp with sweat. It felt as though he had a hangover—headache, dry mouth, quiescent nausea in his stomach. The bed was a mess, the sheets and blankets kicked to the floor.

  The room around him was shadowed and quiet. Faint light from the hallway dimly illuminated his surroundings. Looking about, he made out vague shapes as a dresser, a night table, a wind-up clock whose hands read 2:30. Sunlight cut through around the edges of the drawn blinds.

  Slowly, the understanding of who and where he was came back to him—not a little boy, but a grown man of thirty-six years, alone in his bedroom. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn last night.

  What happened?

  Trying to sift through the wreckage of his memory, he encountered flashes of lucidity, blackouts of obscurity.

  Sudden images. A woman swathed in black water. Her desperate flail to keep from drowning. Her frantic cry for help. A shaken man bent over the side of a wharf, vomiting.

  Herb winced. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. On the floor by his feet lay an empty whiskey bottle.

  He stared at it.

  With his elbows on his knees, he lowered his forehead onto clasped hands and shut his eyes. The nightmare had come again, third night in a row.

  Why?

  More and more lately, his thoughts seemed to drift back into a past he wished to forget.

  He s
tood up and felt the shakiness in his legs, the queasiness in his stomach. He went to the window and yanked the cord to raise the blinds, squinting against the sudden rush of bright sun. Only a ridge of cotton-like clouds over the mountains threatened to pilfer the rich blue from the sky.

  Herb turned away and walked out to the hallway for the bathroom. His footsteps became leaden as he approached his parent’s bedroom. A chill worked through him like an electric current, the residue of the nightmare still fresh on his mind.

  The door was closed. Behind it he knew the room lay untouched since the death of his father over eighteen years ago. Not since then had Herb gone in there. Now, with fear and foreboding, he turned the knob and pushed on the door. It yawned open with a heavy protest.

  Herb stood on the threshold, looking inside. For the most part, the room was as he remembered it. Hardwood floor. Dated felt wallpaper. The only differences were the signs of dormancy—the stale air, the thick layers of dust covering everything, the festoons of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.

  In the far corner was a dressing table with a large oval mirror. Herb swallowed as he imagined his mother sitting there in her blue Sunday dress and faux pearls, applying makeup as she prepared for morning mass. Her perfume bottles, powder boxes and Victorian hand mirror were still there, remnants of what was once life.

  On the wall above the bed hung a framed print of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper. The bed itself was unmade, the covers thrown back by his father just hours before he died.

  At once, Herb felt a surge of uneasiness. Before painful memories began to attack him, he abruptly shut the door.

  He went into the bathroom and bent over the sink, splashing handfuls of cold water on his face. As he dried off, the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet caught his reflection. He looked drawn, pale and miserable somehow. His eyes were red-rimmed and a growth of stubble began to shroud his jaw.

  He hung the towel on the bar and gazed at the razor on the sink.

  Later. He would shave later.

  From the cabinet he removed a bottle of aspirin, popped two tablets into his mouth and chased them down with a glass of water.

  He headed downstairs to the kitchen and opened a cupboard door above the stove. Threading his hand through boxes of spare light bulbs and plastic wrap, he found the small Mason jar in the back.

  He brought it out and felt his skin tingle as he stared at the two eyes inside. Suspended in a watery solution of formalin, they were still well preserved, the irises still beautiful blue.

  Herb watched them a moment, almost mesmerized. The eyes bobbed back and forth in front of him, clumsily bumping into each other.

  He put down the jar and went outside. Even though the day was sunny, the air smelled of rain. A gust of wind slipped through his hair, lifted dust and sand from the driveway.

  Herb walked to the edge of the back yard to a fifty-five gallon drum he used as a burn barrel. The ashes inside were cool now, he saw.

  When he got home earlier from Halifax, he had thrown in Trixy’s clothing and purse, soaked everything with gasoline, struck a match and tossed it in. At once, the flames shot up with a whoosh. While the fire cracked and spat, Herb vacuumed the seats and carpets in the pickup, wiped down the dash and door panels with soapy water.

  A green composting bin was nearby. Herb wheeled it over and flipped open the lid. He picked up the burn barrel and dumped the ashes inside it.

  Tomorrow morning he would put the bin down by the road for the WRM sanitation truck to empty. At that point, the only evidence linking him to Trixy Ambré would be her eyes.

  In a couple of days even those would be gone.

  15

  Halifax, May 9

  2:45 p.m.

  When Allan returned to the crime scene, the barricades were still up. A uniformed officer waved him through.

  The press remained camped out at the corner of South and Lower Water Street. Through the side window Allan saw a reporter spot him and begin jockeying for position. To avoid him, Allan edged his car up behind the mobile command station and parked. He signed himself into the scene and briefly conferred with Sergeant Malone.

  The Underwater Recovery Team, he saw, had moved their search farther from shore. Jim and Harvey from the Ident section had walked every inch of the parking lot a second and third time. Soon, they decided, it would be released back for public use. Nothing of value had been found.

  The door-to-door canvass wasn’t going well at all. Nobody interviewed had seen or heard anything suspicions.

  The search of the alleys and dumpsters had generated few articles of interest—a butter knife, a jackknife, and a screwdriver, but none were close to the approximate length or thickness of the blade used in the murder.

  The missing notepad wasn’t found either. Allan believed the killer of Brad Hawkins had either disposed of the items into the unyielding depths of the Halifax Harbor or simply carried them off.

  He spent the remainder of the day assisting with the canvass and then he gathered up the reports from officers and returned to the station. He stopped at the coffee room for a fresh cup of brew, and then went to his office. Seated at his desk, he read over logs from the previous night to familiarize himself with the calls. Perhaps, he wished, his mystery truck had been involved in another incident.

  Motor Vehicle Collision – 9:16 p.m. A two-vehicle collision occurred at the intersection of Quinpool Road and Oxford Street. One driver was charged with operating a motor vehicle without a valid license. Neither party involved required medical treatment.

  Assault With A Weapon – 10:13 p.m. Gottingen Street. A lone male was approached by a group of four males asking for a cigarette. When he said no, the victim was beaten and struck in the face with a metal pipe. He was taken to QEII for treatment of facial lacerations. No description of the suspects could be made, only that they were all wearing bandanas over their faces. The matter is under investigation.

  Motor Vehicle Collision – 10:42 p.m. Kempt Road. One vehicle struck another from behind. Driver of struck vehicle was taken to QEII for non-life threatening injuries.

  Vandalism – 11:25 p.m. 7890 Waterloo Street. Homeowner called to report two people throwing beer bottles on his property. One vehicle was damaged. Two males matching the description of the suspects were detained on South Street. The pair will appear in court on Monday.

  Robbery – 12:05 a.m. Stan’s Variety. Robie Street. Owners, who live upstairs from establishment, called after hearing noises in their store. When officers arrived, a lone male fled on foot. After a short pursuit, he was caught. The suspect will appear in court on Monday to face several charges.

  Assault – 1:38 a.m. Lower Water Street. A red, older sedan approached a lone male, 21. Inside, 4 males and 1 female uttered verbal threats. They were described as being between 17 and 25. 2 blacks and 3 Caucasians. When the victim ignored them, the 5 suspects exited the vehicle and proceeded assaulting the man. They fled in the vehicle. The victim was taken to QEII for treatment. The incident is still under investigation.

  Assault With A Weapon – 2:06 a.m. Waterfront Bar & Grill. Hollis Street. An altercation ensued between two males who were ordered out of the bar. One male produced a knife and stabbed the other man in the abdomen. Additional officers were dispatched to disperse the crowd that had gathered around. The victim was taken to the QEII. He is in serious condition. The suspect will appear in court at a later date.

  Suspicious Death – 5:45 a.m. Lower Water Street. A man’s body was found in the Impark lot by a co-worker. Responding officers pronounced the victim dead at the scene. Major Crimes and the Forensic Identification Unit were notified. The incident is still under investigation.

  Allan leaned back in the chair and entwined his fingers behind his head.

  No such luck, he conceded.

  Time, he knew, had an unsettling way of mocking a murder investigation. Once the hours begin ticking away, the greater chance witnesses can forget what they saw and the greater chance suspects can
form alibis or simply escape. If the door-to-door canvass still in progress didn’t produce any witnesses, Allan knew he was in for a long haul. With the crime being committed when most people were in bed, witnesses would be minimal.

  If Brad had been someone else, then a lead might be easier to establish. The investigation would reveal who the victim was, whom he hung with, who his enemies were, how many bad relationships he’d been in. A meaningful chronology of what he did in the last hours of his life could be created.

  Allan knew that many victims of murder seem to set up their own finales. They ran with the wrong crowds or quarreled with the wrong people, but Brad Hawkins presented special problems for him. The young guard had a reason to be on the waterfront at such a questionable hour. About to walk into something that would cost him his life.

  What?

  Allan pored over the canvass reports and concluded the officers who handled the neighborhood Q&A had done a good job. From the reports, he made a list of who lived where. What addresses had no answer, so a follow-up could proceed in the morning. He began running the names of those interviewed through the computer for prior criminal histories.

  He worked into the early evening when the phone rang. He snatched at it.

  It was the serology department at the forensic lab. Preliminary results were in from the blood typing of Brad Hawkins and the mystery blood found on the wharf and it was already evident that there was no match. Brad Hawkins had type O blood, common in over forty percent of the population. The blood on the wharf was type B, much rarer.

  Allan straightened.

  Quietly, he said, “Thank you for the information. Do you have an ETA for the DNA profile?”

  The female voice on the other end paused a moment. “At least a month, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay. Please keep me apprised of any further developments.”

  “We will. Take care.”

  Allan hung up and closed his eyes. All at once, he felt drained, enervated by the activities of the day and lack of food.

  Who’s the mystery bleeder? Suspect or another victim?