by Alex MacLean
“The coarse texture of the concrete destroyed the shapes of these stains.” He shook his head, frustrated. “They’re too distorted to accurately determine the angle of impact. Measurements mean nothing. These are passive drops, however, acting on gravity alone. But they didn’t come from someone who was bleeding profusely.” He paused a moment, looking at the sky. “I’m going to have to collect samples. This blood isn’t going to last too long once that sun starts beating down on it.”
Carefully, he placed a scale and a numbered marker beside the last drop. Focusing his camera, he snapped off several pictures. Then he took out an IntegriSwab from his field kit. Uncapping the top of the tube, he pushed the swab forward and dipped it into the blood, moistening the tip. He then pulled the swab down inside the tube and capped the top. Next, he slid the IntegriSwab into its own box and labeled the side of it. One by one, he repeated the procedure with the other drops, methodically working his way back.
Allan remained where he was, taking in the scene. As he looked over the ECTUG building, he realized that it afforded him a sense of privacy. From the street, no one would be able to see him.
He tried the door of the building. Locked. All the windows on both floors were intact. Hands in his pockets, he walked toward Jim. The tech had worked his way back to the start of the trail.
“This is the parent drop.” Jim pointed it out. “The drip pattern is different from the others. On this type of surface, drops will be more prone to have irregular edges and satellite spatter, as you can see. But the first drop is rounder, typical of a person standing still. The others suggest movement. The directionality is toward the end of the wharf.”
Allan’s gaze moved from the start of the blood trail to where the body of Brad Hawkins had been. In his mind, he measured out the rough distance.
“These bloodstains are out of place,” he said. “There must be a twenty-foot gap between this trail and the victim.”
Jim nodded. “I don’t think they came from the victim. Maybe the suspect cut himself during the attack.”
Allan considered this. “But why the void?”
Eyes narrow, Jim rubbed his jaw. “You think we have a mystery bleeder?”
Allan raised his eyebrows. “Not sure. We might just be standing in a second crime scene.”
He and Jim shared a cautious look.
“Shit,” Jim said. “That very well could be the case.”
They expanded the perimeter of the scene. Much ground could be covered with additional manpower, so uniformed officers were brought in to assist with the neighborhood canvass. Up and down stairs they went, banging on doors, hoping someone out there had heard or witnessed something.
Other officers were assigned the undesirable task of searching the recesses of alleyways and picking through commercial and residential Dumpsters around the waterfront. They were armed with a description of two viable pieces of evidence—a knife and the black notebook.
In case the suspect had discarded the murder weapon on one of the tugs moored at the wharf, the Regional Director for ECTUG gave permission to board and search them.
Nothing was found.
Allan called in the Underwater Recovery Team. Within thirty minutes, their Boston Whaler came jouncing down the harbor, its outboard motor whipping the water into foam. The team anchored near the tugboat wharf then set to work sectioning off the water into grids using a floating marker system. Each section would be thoroughly searched, one at a time.
Wearing Farmer John wetsuits and full scuba gear, two divers entered the water and disappeared beneath the waves. One backup diver remained on board as part of the surface team in case of an emergency.
Watching them, Allan knew the odds of finding any evidence would be slim. If someone had tossed a murder weapon off the wharf, the currents could have carried the item off a great distance before it reached bottom. To make matters worse, the harbor floor was already littered with shipwrecks and other debris. It would be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.
His watch read 10:10 a.m. Four hours into the investigation already, and there was so much legwork ahead of him.
He winced at what he had to do next.
12
Halifax, May 9
10:33 a.m.
The parents of Brad Hawkins lived in an early-twentieth-century Queen Anne-style home in the south end of Halifax. Blue with white trim, the house was two and a half stories high, gable roofed, and fronted by a large porch with tapered box columns.
As Allan stood at the front door, his stomach was in knots. He found himself hoping no one would answer. This was the toughest part of the job—telling families their loved one had been murdered. No matter how rehearsed, how heartfelt, Allan felt his words always sounded empty, meaningless.
Slowly, the door opened. The old woman who peered out at him looked to be in her late fifties. She had graying hair, a round face, and pale skin. The thick glasses she wore magnified her blue eyes.
“Mrs. Hawkins?”
She angled her head, regarding him cautiously. Allan sensed himself being appraised. For a brief instant he imagined the woman thinking he might be a canvasser for a fundraiser or a Mormon handing out pamphlets.
“Yes.” Her voice was polite but wary.
“I’m Detective Allan Stanton from the HRP Major Crimes Unit.” He held up his credentials. “Is your husband home with you?”
“Who is it, Barb?”
The door opened further to reveal an older man, slight of build, with thinning white hair and intense gray eyes. He came up behind his wife, resting a hand on her shoulder.
He looked at Allan’s shield and ID. “Police.” His lips seemed to barely move. “What’s this about?”
Allan inhaled a deep breath. “May I come inside?”
Mr. Hawkins said, “We can hear what you have to say from here.”
“Very well.” Allan put the badge case away. “Your son is Bradley Hawkins, correct?”
In unison, they answered, “Yes.”
Allan suddenly felt parched. “There was a stabbing down on Lower Water Street this morning. Your son was involved.”
Mr. Hawkins’s face twisted, as if suddenly wounded. Barb Hawkins put a hand to her mouth. Behind the thick lenses, her eyes grew huge.
“Is he all right?” She spoke through her fingers. “Is he at the hospital?”
“I’m sorry.” Allan hesitated, staring at the tremor in the woman’s hand. “Your son didn’t survive his injuries.”
Doubling over, Barb emitted an anguished wail that made Allan flinch.
“No,” she repeated in a shrill voice. “No, no.”
Mr. Hawkins reached out for his wife, embracing her.
“No, Frank.” She wrenched herself free. Face covered with her hands, she hurried out of the entryway and disappeared into another room.
“Barb...” Frank called after her. He took a step forward then stopped.
Slowly, he turned to Allan. His expression showed a range of emotions—shock, disbelief, immeasurable sadness. Behind him came the heavy stomp of footsteps on wooden stairs, followed by the slam of a door. The sound made him wince.
“Are you sure it’s him?” he asked.
“He’s been positively identified by a coworker at Twin City Protection.”
Frank shut his eyes. “How’d it hap...?” His sentence was lost in a hard swallow.
Allan exhaled. “We don’t know for certain. We think your son may have walked into the commission of another crime.”
In a tight voice, Frank asked. “Where’s his body?”
“With the medical examiner.”
Frank’s eyes opened, wide and brimming. “The medical examiner? They’re going to cut up my boy?”
Allan realized the devastation the postmortem would leave behind of Brad Hawkins—a dissected shell of what their son had once been.
“I’m sorry,” Allan said softly. “But it’s a legal requirement.”
Awkwardly, Frank braced him
self against the doorjamb.
“My God,” he mumbled. “My God.”
Silent, Allan watched him. He hated this.
“Is there anyone I can call?” he asked. “Another relative? A friend?”
Looking dazed, Frank shook his head.
“I can have a grief counselor come over if you wish. Help you through this.”
“There’s no need for that,” he said. “If you would kindly excuse me.” His hand moved to the door in a gesture of dismissal. “I have a lot to deal with right now.”
As the door gently closed on him, Allan turned away. With his head down he walked back to his car and climbed in behind the wheel. For a long moment he just sat there, numb, unable to move. When finally he reached for the ignition, he glanced over at the house. In one tragic moment, he knew, the lives of Brad’s parents had changed forever.
13
Halifax, May 9
11:37 a.m.
Allan’s mouth dropped open when he walked into the morgue.
The body of a still-clothed Brad Hawkins lay on a dissection table. The paper bags hadn’t yet been removed from the victim’s hands. The polythene wrap and body bag lay on a counter to be later sent to the forensics lab for analysis.
Dr. Coulter and Lawrence Sodero were dressed in green surgical scrubs, plastic aprons, and latex gloves.
Glancing over, Coulter said, “Detective Stanton. We’re running behind schedule.”
Allan spread his hands. “What happened?”
“Got called to Sackville. Suspicious death. Looks like an OD.”
Allan checked his pager. “Who responded?”
“Detective Price. They probably thought your plate was full enough at the moment.”
“It is,” he said. “How long will the autopsy take?”
“Hour. Hour and a half.”
Sodero said, “Going to join us?”
Allan raised his eyebrows at him. The morgue was the last place he’d rather be. It always had the look and feel of one part laboratory, another part slaughterhouse. The harsh surgical lamps. The hanging meat scales. The steel tables and cabinetry. The smell of disinfectant looming in the air seemed to be as strong as the sense of finality.
Coulter said, “You can wait around if you want.”
Allan looked at the time. He had a shitload of work to do. Once he left here, he didn’t want to come back.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll wait around for a while. As long as I can stomach it.”
Coulter chuckled. “Shouldn’t be too bad. At least he’s fresh.”
Sodero pushed a steel tray across the tile floor. On it lay a small assortment of tools—scalpels, scissors, forceps, rib cutters, a bread knife, a chisel, a Stryker saw.
The examination began with a thorough inspection of the clothing. With the overhead lamps dimmed, Coulter moved a blue light over the entire body, looking for the illumination of trace evidence. He was a cautious man. He worked slowly and meticulously. Lacking an overhead mic, he stopped periodically to take notes that he’d later transcribe to his report.
With Sodero’s help, he turned the body over. Finding no trace on the back side, he turned up the lamps again. Coulter then carefully examined the back of the jacket where the blade had gone through, matching the hole with the correlative wound underneath. Sodero took photographs throughout.
The two men rolled the body onto its back again. Coulter removed the paper bags from the hands and gave them to Sodero, who neatly folded them and sealed each one in a separate evidence bag. Then, without cutting or tearing, they began removing each article of clothing.
Allan thought about how Brad had started his day like anyone else. Got up, showered, and dressed. Now he was being stripped naked by other hands and laid on a metal slab to be photographed and washed by strangers.
Life was so uncertain. It could change in an instant.
Coulter measured the body and then weighed it on an overhead scale.
“Height is one hundred sixty-nine centimeters,” he said. “Weight is eighty-two kilograms.”
He started the examination of the body itself, inspecting the scalp for any injuries hidden by the hair. He checked the ear canals for signs of bleeding, the eyes for petechiae—broken blood vessels suggestive of strangulation or asphyxia. He moved systematically over the face, looking for bruises or cyanosis, then into the mouth for foreign objects, damaged teeth, or cut lips.
“Rigor has now set in the jaw,” he said. “The neck is symmetrical. The trachea is in the midline. No signs of injury to either.”
He moved down the front of the torso to the legs. After finding nothing remarkable, Coulter studied the palms and fingers.
“Signs of rigor in the extremities as well,” he noted. “Nothing to indicate the victim put up much of a fight. No defensive wounds to the hands, the flexor surface, or the ulnar aspects of the forearms.
“There are impact abrasions to the palmar surface of both hands. I attribute this to the pavement after the victim had probably put out his hands to break his fall.”
With Sodero’s help, he turned the body over to examine the wound in the back.
“The blade entered the body vertically on the right side of the spinal column, just missing the medial border of the scapula. Both the top and bottom margins of the wound are squared off.” Coulter leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “There is also a guard mark at the top of the wound, but none at the bottom. The thrust of the weapon came at a downward angle.”
Carefully, he measured the margins of the wound and then the depth of the track. “I can approximate the length of the blade to be about six inches. Not so sure about the shape of the blade, however. The elasticity of the skin can actually distort the wound so that it doesn’t resemble the blade at all.”
Sodero placed a scale beside the wound and photographed it several times.
“The rest of the external investigation is unremarkable,” Coulter said. “There are no bruises, marks, or other trauma anywhere else on the body.”
He clipped the fingernails and packaged them. Then he took fingerprints. As he filled out the print cards, Sodero transferred the body to a metal gurney and covered it with a sheet. Coulter then wheeled the body into an adjacent room to be x-rayed.
Allan took out his notepad and jotted down the details about the knife. Sodero brought him over a plastic apron.
“You might want to wear this, Detective.”
“Thank you, Lawrence.”
“No problem.”
Allan put away his notepad and slipped the apron on. “You enjoy this work?”
“Very much.”
“It never bothers you? The sights, the smells?”
Sodero shook his head. “I find the human body very fascinating. I knew back in grade ten biology when I dissected a fetal pig that I would someday get into this type of work.”
“A fetal pig, huh? In my biology class we only dissected a starfish and a frog. And I found both to be rather disgusting.”
Sodero laughed. “We also used those for dissections. I must say the fetal pig was my favorite, though. Call me weird, but during my years in university I kept one preserved in a jar in my dorm room.”
“Did you give it a name?”
“I did.” Sodero smiled. “I called him Fred.”
Just then, Coulter came back with the body and the developed x-rays. He pinned the images to a view box mounted on the far wall. Allan walked over.
“No broken pieces of blade,” Coulter said. “But the fourth posterior rib is broken, and the fifth is completely severed. Both in the nonarticular portion of the tubercle.” He adjusted his glasses. “The ribs tend to deflect a blade, directing it into the intercostal spaces between them. It requires little pressure for a very sharp blade to enter the human body.” He paused and extended a forefinger, pressing it into Allan’s arm. “About that much pressure, Detective. Once the tip punctures the skin, the rest of the blade glides in with relative ease. But when the blade runs into bone, we have
a different story. This wound here required some force.”
Allan scratched his chin, looking past Coulter to the x-rays. “So we’re probably dealing with a male? Perhaps one with considerable strength?”
Coulter removed his glasses. “There’s really no way to quantitate the strength of the individual. You’re correct, the subject is probably a male. I feel the knife is of high quality. Sharp. Strong. Single edged. But you can rarely match a knife to a wound with any certainty. You’d be better off checking a suspect knife for blood, either around the guard or beneath the handle.”
Allan turned to him. “Can you tell the handedness of the suspect?”
“Right handed. I base that on the angle of the wound.” Still looking over the images, Coulter concluded, “There are no other signs of previous trauma here. No healed fractures. No prior operations. All the organs are present. Mr. Hawkins was in good shape.”
Sodero helped him transfer the body to the dissection table again. Coulter put a block under the victim’s back, allowing the chest to rise up, the head and arms to fall back.
That block could only mean one thing; Allan braced himself for what was to come. He watched Coulter take a scalpel from the steel tray. Starting at each shoulder, the medical examiner made an incision down across the chest to the sternum then proceeded down the abdomen, around the navel, and ended at the pubic bone.
With the forceps, he pulled back on the corners of skin. Keeping the tension throughout, he scraped away the underlying tissue. He peeled off the top flap of skin and brought it up over Brad’s chin to expose the vessels in front of the neck. Coulter then cut the pectoral muscles from their attachments to the sternum, intercostals, and clavicles, and reflected them outward. When he finished, the rib cage lay bare.
Standing close by, the faint smell that drifted to Allan was of fresh meat.
Quick, shallow breaths, he told himself. Quick, shallow breaths.
Pale, he watched a mound of coiled intestinal tract shift to one side and then spill onto the table.
The rib cutters Coulter took from the tray resembled gardening loppers. One at a time, he clipped the ribs from the lateral costal margins to the inner clavicles. Allan flinched at each sharp little snip.
