by Alex MacLean
The hooker never came back up.
Suddenly, he felt sick, weak. He just made it to the side of the wharf before he started vomiting. Propped up on his hands and knees, he retched until the dry heaves racked his body. Shivering, he stood up and wiped his mouth. He couldn’t bring himself to face the water again. He gathered up his things and hurried back to his pickup.
The key was still in the ignition. He put the duffel bag on the passenger seat and got inside. Locking the doors, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He was soaked. His clothes stuck to his skin. Breathing heavily, he sorted through his emotions—fear, confusion, regret. This night seemed surreal, a bad dream.
Hoss leaned back in the seat. He looked at the red jacket on the dash, the tank top and thong on the seat, the red purse on the floor. Back home, he would have to destroy these items. Clean the seats and wipe down the dash and door. No trace of the hooker could exist. For now, he piled the items into a heap on the floor.
Snapping on the dome light, he picked up the hooker’s purse. Inside were a hairbrush, lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, nail file, a small mirror, Clorets, condoms, a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, and a canister of pepper spray. The pepper spray he decided to keep. The cell phone he shut off and removed the battery pack.
He dug out some loose change and the one hundred twenty dollars he’d given her earlier. From a black wallet, he pulled out an additional two hundred dollars. He crammed the money into his pants pocket.
As he rifled through a compartment inside the wallet, he found the hooker’s birth certificate and driver’s license. Her name had been Trixy Lynn Ambré, twenty-six years old.
Trixy. What a name for a prostitute. He wouldn’t have believed it unless he saw it right there in front of him. It couldn’t be her given name. What sick parents would do that? Hey, thanks, Mom and Dad, you just doomed me to a future of sucking cocks.
From another compartment, Hoss pulled out a color photograph. The woman captured within it looked much older than her age. She was gaunt and sickly. Her curly black hair was cut short. Her eyes appeared bruised from lack of sleep. She had a thumb held up for the camera.
She sat on a sagging gray sofa with worn arms. In the foreground, on a glass-top coffee table, was a birthday cake. Several lit candles were stuck in it.
He flipped the picture over. On the back scrawled someone’s handwriting, Cathy, February 12, 2010. Age 23.
A sudden movement caught his eye. Turning, Hoss saw a beam of flashlight crossing the sidewalk across the street. Behind it, a faceless form. He could tell by the shape that it was a man. He hoped it wasn’t a cop.
Automatically, he shut off the dome light, put the photograph back in the wallet, and then the wallet back in the purse.
The shaft of light swept over the truck, spilling through the windows. Nervous, he reached into the duffel bag.
As his fingers found the handle of the knife, a tap came at his window.
8
Halifax, May 9
5:02 a.m.
“Security,” a voice said from outside his window.
Security. Not the police. For that Hoss was grateful.
Fumbling, he wound down the glass separating them. With his other hand, he slowly removed the knife from the bag, concealing it by his side.
Because of the light in his face, he couldn’t get a good look at the guard. But he sounded young. Maybe early- to midtwenties.
“What’re you doing down here at this hour?” the guard asked.
Hoss said, “Sorry, man. Just stopped here to catch a nap.”
“A nap. Here?”
“Yeah.”
“You been drinking?”
“No.”
The light left his face, and Hoss could now see the guard better. He’d been right—the guard looked to be about twenty-five, with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He wore a black jacket, white shirt, and navy-blue trousers. A two-way radio was clipped to his duty belt.
The guard gave him a long, level stare. “How long have you been here?”
Hoss winced at the time. 5:04.
“An hour, maybe.”
“Can I see some identification?”
With some hesitance, Hoss reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He took out his driver’s license, handing it to the guard.
“Acresville,” the guard said. “You’re a long way from home, Mister.”
“A few miles, yeah.”
“What’s your business in Halifax?”
“I was at the casino.”
“They have rooms, you know.”
Hoss gave a light twitch of his shoulders. “Couldn’t afford one. I lost all my money on the craps table.”
The corner of the guard’s mouth lifted a bit. He jabbed the flashlight into the pickup, moving the beam around. Muscles tight, Hoss watched the light glide over the heap of clothes, the purse, and the duffel bag. He felt the weight of the knife in his hand, the moisture of his palms against the handle.
The flashlight came to Hoss, making him squint.
“Whose clothes are those?” the guard prodded.
Snapshot images. A hand jutting out of black water. Clutched fingers.
Hoss wondered how long it would take for the body to surface. Days? Weeks? Would the hooker be forever lost to the Atlantic?
“Sir?”
“My...” Hoss cleared his throat. “My girlfriend’s.”
The guard fell quiet for a moment. “Well, you can’t be hanging around down here. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Hoss gave him a nod. “Sure thing.”
The guard walked away without another word. In the side mirror, Hoss watched the dark figure round the back of the pickup, light bobbing over the pavement in front of him. His movements were slow, hesitant. Hoss turned toward the rearview mirror. The guard lingered near the tailgate, aiming the beam down at the license plate. Chest pounding, Hoss saw him reach into his jacket and produce a notebook. The guard was going to record his plate number.
Hoss saw his life, with his future hanging in the balance, concentrating itself on this guard and that notebook in his hand. If the body of Trixy Ambré washed ashore somewhere, Hoss could become a suspect. They would know he wasn’t from Halifax, a stranger with no connections here.
He imagined the police, guns drawn, storming his farmhouse, clapping handcuffs on his wrists, grilling him with their questions. He would remain steadfast in his innocence. Deny everything to the bitter end.
But the cops could uncover the rest—a case beyond their imaginations.
Suddenly, he saw the avalanche of consequence—the loss of his property, his name and face plastered all over the news, scorned by a society of hypocrites, locked away behind bars like an animal. Trapped. Afraid. Alone. Much as he had felt as a child.
Hoss looked back at the rearview mirror. The guard was stuffing the notebook into his jacket. Hoss forced his mind to go cold. Knife in hand, he stepped outside.
When he came around the back of the truck, the guard shot the beam at him, backing up a bit.
Hoss asked, “What’s the problem?”
“What’d you mean?”
Hoss concealed the blade behind his leg. “Why are you recording my plate number?”
The guard lowered the flashlight. The two men stood facing each other. Six feet of grainy darkness separated them. Through it, Hoss saw the guard’s face was tight with fear and strategy.
“Just precautions.” A tremor carried his words. “If you don’t leave, I’m getting the police down here.”
Slowly, Hoss took a step forward, then another. “No, that’s not going to happen.”
The guard put up a hand. “Stand down, Mister. Don’t make me get on the radio.”
Hoss ignored him. He moved closer still.
Four feet.
Three.
He could see the guard’s throat working, the flitting movements of his eyes, the stiff shrinking away of his body, as if he were
ready to run. To Hoss, he looked pathetic, a coward.
“Sir...”
Hoss brought the knife out from behind his leg. The steel blade flashed.
A frightful understanding registered in the guard’s eyes. His mouth formed words with no sound. Scrabbling at his side for the radio, he turned to run. With lightning quickness, Hoss was upon him, driving the knife between the guard’s shoulder blades.
The guard’s scream shot through the air.
The next few moments passed in slow motion. Back tensed, the guard toppled forward, arms flailing. Hitting the pavement face first. Another sound, one of glass shattering as the flashlight tumbled across the parking lot.
Hoss stood over the guard, watching the pedaling movements his legs made. Gurgling sounds came from the guard’s throat.
The knife was lodged in his back.
Hoss squatted beside him. He gave a quick glance around the lot, along with the empty streets. He knew he had no time to dispose of the body. At any moment, the headlights of a passing car could expose him.
After patting the guard down with the backs of his hands, Hoss found the shape of the notebook hidden in his jacket. Carefully, he slipped it out. In the semidarkness, the notebook shook in his hands as he began turning pages. It was a journal containing a chronological list of dates, times, and observations the guard had made during his shifts. At the last entry, Hoss stopped abruptly. The handwriting was scribble, that of a man hurrying to record facts.
Date: Sunday, May 9, 2010
Time: 5:08 am
Location: Impark lot, Lower Water St.
Man is 6 feet, possibly a little taller. Was sitting down. Hard to tell. Heavyset build, muscular. Short wavy brown hair. Brown eyes. Pale complexion. Clean-shaven. No distinctive features. Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A gold-framed watch with Roman numerals.
Hoss felt himself swallow as he read the next few sentences.
Man acted very suspiciously. Sitting alone in his truck with a poor excuse to be there. A navy-blue sport-like bag and female clothing he claimed belonged to his girlfriend were inside.
The entry went on to give his name, describe the make and model of Hoss’s truck. Below that, his license plate number.
Hoss scowled. He closed the notebook with a snap and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he drew his face close to the guard’s ear. Only then did he see and hear the blood bubbling on the man’s parted lips.
“You should’ve left it alone,” Hoss whispered. “Now look at ya.”
He saw the guard’s stricken gaze turn toward the sound of his voice. His legs no longer pedaled. Instead, they just made slight spastic movements.
Hoss placed one fist on the guard’s shoulder for support and reached for the knife. Through the handle, he could feel the blade throb, as if with its own life. With one powerful tug, he wrenched it free.
The guard let out a moan so low it was barely audible. A gush of blood flowed from his mouth, and then he lay still. Hoss watched as the guard died in front of him. He felt no pity, no regret. The guard had only meant to destroy him and to possibly reap the accolades for doing so.
Hoss wiped the blade off on the guard’s jacket and stood up. Without looking back, he walked to his truck, got inside. The engine started. Headlights off, he turned around. When he reached the corner of Lower Water Street, he took a left and turned the lights on.
The guard had changed his escape route. Hoss realized someone would soon discover the body. He imagined police vehicles swarming the waterfront, the shrill cry of sirens splitting the air, the incessant blue-and-red strobe reflecting off the buildings. He knew he couldn’t go back over the MacDonald Bridge. The guards at the tollbooths might remember him—a lone man who perhaps looked out of place, in a hurry to get somewhere at such an early-morning hour. There could be no witnesses.
Hoss was unsure of how to get out of Halifax. The streets and lights seemed to close in on him. A maze that both trapped and confused him. Signs had no meaning. The refuge of his farmhouse in Acresville felt a thousand miles away.
Near panic, he stopped at the curb past Historic Properties on Upper Water Street to check his map. He found a route leading into Bedford and then to the 102 Highway. By memory, he drove toward it. Blocks passed without notice. His thoughts were filled with images of the hooker drowning in the harbor and the guard twitching on the pavement.
Up ahead, signs directed where he should go. Within minutes he skirted the Bedford Basin and left Halifax behind.
On the horizon the first light of dawn touched the sky.
9
Halifax, May 9
6:18 a.m.
Allan wondered if a civilized society could ever exist.
In a job where he had seen the true detritus of man’s morality, he didn’t think it possible. There were simply too many disturbed people in the world living on the fringe of ethical judgment, poisoned by greed, hatred, and indifference.
Beyond the crime scene, the early sun spread across the harbor water. The location was a paved lot that served as a convenient parking facility for customers of many waterfront merchants. On this day it was the site of mindless carnage, of man’s unbridled brutality against another.
In the solitude of his car, Allan marked down his arrival time in his spiral notebook: 6:18 a.m. Twelve minutes earlier Sergeant Malone had paged him about this homicide.
Parked close enough to view the general outline of the scene, yet far enough away to not disturb it, Allan watched those already at work. He saw familiar faces of uniformed officers in the swirl of red and blue lights as they busied themselves stringing up barrier tape around the perimeter of the lot. Black on yellow repeated the words, Police Line. Do Not Cross.
The Special Identification Unit van sat across the street in front of Alexander Keith’s Brewery. Two figures, sheathed in full Tyvek coveralls, pulled equipment out of the back. Several yards from the body, Sergeant Malone talked to a uniformed officer. Close by, another man watched all the activity around him with intense interest. He was heavyset, with a pushed-in face. Allan noted the radio clipped to his belt, the shoulder patch on his black jacket with the word Security embroidered in silver. At that point, he realized the man wore the same type of clothing as the victim.
Witness or suspect?
Everything appeared to be in order. The integrity of the crime scene was being well protected. Only the body, facedown in its absolute stillness, looked out of place here. Everyone avoided it. Dr. Coulter, Allan saw, had yet to show up.
Tired, he rubbed his eyes. It felt like months since he’d had a peaceful night’s sleep. His face in the rearview mirror showed the strain of exhaustion.
Over time, he had developed a thick emotional hide that allowed him to distance himself from the tragedies he encountered. It was something investigators needed to do in order to survive. Lately, however, Allan felt that he’d lost his ability to block it all out. Things he saw on the job seemed to trouble him—the classic sign of burnout. He knew of other officers who had gone through the same crisis but seldom discussed it. Machismo was the hallmark in this profession.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, he considered the case before him, the evidence yet to be gathered, suspects and witnesses yet to be questioned, connections yet to be made. What would the victim profile reveal? Could a motive be established from it?
With most murder cases, he spent little time mulling over the rationale behind them. It was best, he knew, to stick with the essentials that would bring a conviction. Victims were not around to explain what happened, and suspects rarely told the truth. Physical evidence and credible witnesses helped convict the guilty. Motive, when discovered, only revealed how truly senseless the crime had been.
Allan shut the car door. The harbor breeze felt cool on his face. Above him the sky was a rich blue. Traces of clouds drifted along the horizon.
He circled to the trunk, popped the lid, and took out a 35mm camera. He proceeded to take several pictures of the crime scene from
multiple points of view, both looking into and outward from the site.
Around him came the murmurs of a city waking up. Soon, it would be alive with urban bustle.
Across the street, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered at the corner of South and Lower Water Street. Mindful that a suspect could be among them, Allan surreptitiously took their pictures. As he looked around, he realized that no cameras or reporters were present.
He put the camera back in the trunk. From a black case, he removed two pairs of latex gloves and slipped them on his hands one after the other. He shut the trunk and then walked toward Sergeant Malone. The sergeant was a veteran of the Halifax Regional Police. He was tall and hawk faced, with alert blue eyes.
As Allan approached, Malone went to him, holding out a clipboard. Attached to it was a crime scene log in/out form. Below the last name in the column, Allan added his signature, the date, and the time.
“So what do we have?” he asked, handing the clipboard back.
The victim, Malone described, was twenty-seven-year-old Brad Hawkins. He had worked as a private guard for a contract security firm called Twin City Protection. A coworker, who went looking for him after he failed to answer his radio, discovered the body.
“Do we know who the next of kin is?” Allan asked.
“Taken care of.” Malone ripped a page from his notepad and gave it to him. “Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins.”
Briefly, Allan studied the address on the paper.
“We’re going to set up the mobile command post across the street,” Malone added.
Allan nodded, satisfied. “I think we should also put up some barricades. Close off Salter, Bishop, even all the way down to Morris. It’ll keep people out of the area. Maybe even contact the local radio stations so they can put out a travel advisory.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Malone walked off, keying his shoulder mike.
Allan headed toward the officer Malone had been talking to.
Reaching him, Allan asked, “You the first officer?”
The young man nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
