by Alex MacLean
April 7. +8. Foggy with a light drizzle. In this city, you learn to like the fog or at least tolerate it.
I finally did it. I cut myself in the tub today. For a long time I just laid there, staring at the razor in my hands. On one shoulder, there seemed to be the angel of conscience. On the other, the devil of temptation. One was telling me not to do it; the other was urging me on.
I caved in to the devil.
I cut my right thigh three times. They weren’t very deep, but they bled enough to turn the water red. It was funny; I actually enjoyed it. Pain on the outside seems to alleviate pain on the inside.
Writing this entry, I realize now that I should’ve listened to the angel of conscience. Yes, I am having regrets. God, why am I doing stuff like this? Am I developing a split personality? With each passing day, I am feeling more and more worthless. My life is so screwed up. There are times now, when I’m alone, that all I do is cry.
Is heroin really the savior I always considered it? Or is it the cause of all this? How can something that makes you feel so good be so bad for you? And it seems to be the only thing that makes these miserable feelings go away.
April 12. Sunny in the morning. Cloudy now. +11.
The manager called me in to his office after my shift this morning. I was so nervous. I was wondering if Rosa told him about that night she found me asleep. I thought I was going to be fired. But it was nothing like that. I didn’t realize that I had been at Harbor View for 3 months. My probationary period was over. Hooray. The manager told me that I was doing a good job and gave me a 25-cent raise. Wow. I guess I should be happy, if that is possible for me. There was a time I thought I knew what happiness was. Not anymore. I even feel that I’m losing my ability to focus.
God, I seem so self-absorbed lately.
April 17. Snow showers today.
I need a higher-paying job. Either that, or a second one. God, I can’t believe how the price of everything is going up. Especially my score.
I just got back, and I’m a bit pissed off. I set up a meet with my dealer this afternoon. Every time I call, I’m supposed to do it from a pay phone. We were to meet down by the old bridge. He changes our meeting spot every time we get together. Sometimes it’s in different nightclubs, if I have that particular night off. Other times it could be at one of the parks or a quiet alleyway. Our swaps only take seconds. I hand him the money, he hands me my score, and we walk away without another word. Whenever I have to meet him in a secluded area, I get nervous. Who’s to say he won’t just shoot me in the back and take his stuff back?
Only today was different. He doesn’t walk away. He stands there and counts my money first, and as I’m walking off, he says, “You’ll need another twenty-five.”
“For what?” I ask.
“The price has gone up.”
I have two junior dealers. If I can’t buy from one, I call the other. It’s seldom both are out of stock at the same time. They each work under the same head dealer, or Boss, as they refer to him. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I don’t like him. In fact, I don’t like any of them. And I surely don’t trust them.
I was so mad with this news I called the other junior dealer. I shouldn’t have. He told me the cost went up because of the higher purity of the product and because of limited availability. The police had seized a big shipment, though he didn’t say where. I never heard anything on the news about it happening here, so it must’ve been elsewhere. If the story is even true to begin with.
I have my doubts.
Reluctantly, I forked over the extra twenty-five dollars. I don’t know how much longer I will be able to keep this up. I hope the price will go down again. It’s costing me nearly every cent that I make now. What I’ve come to realize is that over the time I’d been using, I’ve had to consistently increase my dosages to get the same high as the time before. In the beginning, I only needed small amounts, now they’re much larger and more often.
April 25. Cloudy. +10. The weather is like a yo-yo.
This is my first entry since coming home from the hospital. My doctor says my heart is weak. I should allow it to heal, to limit my physical activity. He wants me to begin walking soon, however. Exercise strengthens the heart. But I feel so frail, and I’m afraid to strain myself.
My heart attack happened on the 18th. My doctor says my heroin was mixed with cocaine. I never knew it. But I knew the moment I injected that something was wrong. I just didn’t feel right. My body felt like it was being pulled in two different directions. I began sweating. Then came a crushing pain in my chest. That’s all I remember. Everything went black after that.
Next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes in a hospital room. Trixy was there at my bedside. She didn’t call Mom and Dad. And I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t want them to see me that way or to worry.
The doctor saw the cuts on my legs. I didn’t realize there were so many. He counted fifteen in all. He said self-injurious behavior is a mental health issue. He thinks I’m dysphoric and cut myself when painful feelings become overwhelming or unbearable. He referred me to a female therapist. Not only for that, but for my drug addiction as well.
I have yet to see her.
I’m too embarrassed by all of this. Where would I even begin my story?
While in the hospital, the doctor had me on a methadone maintenance treatment program. He said it would help me with the withdrawals. It seemed to help. But I stopped it when I left the hospital. Isn’t methadone just an artificial substitute to heroin? What if I became dependent on that as well? I’m seriously afraid. I chose to do this my way. Complete abstinence of any drug seems to be my best option. Am I doing the right thing? I hope so.
At this point I am unable to work. My benefits should keep me afloat for a while. By the grace of God, I will get through this.
I think a lot about the night I bought that last bindle. Had that sleazy dealer known what he was selling me? Did that really explain the sharp increase in cost? He told me it was because of the higher purity, that it cost more than the lower grade I used to buy. And because of limited availability. I fell for it. But now I wonder.
Allan stopped reading. He looked over at Coulter and Sodero. They were wrapping Cathy’s body in a sheet of polythene.
“Doctor,” he said. “How many deaths have been attributed to speed-balling this past month?”
“Three confirmed. Two are pending tox results. Why?”
Allan glanced at the diary. “We might have a dealer selling heroin laced with cocaine.”
“Who said?”
“In here.” Allan lifted the diary. “Miss Ambré suffered a heart attack because of it.”
Coulter said, “Users are never sure of what they’re taking, Detective. Do you think there’s a connection?”
Allan gave a measured shrug. “Maybe.”
Coulter regarded the diary in Allan’s hands, and an unspoken question appeared in his eyes.
At last he made a wry face and said, “Those cases will all have to be reexamined.”
Allan maintained an outward equanimity. He knew the dealer had to be found and taken off the streets.
He took out his cell phone and called the Drug Unit to convey the information. Their undercover officers, he was told, would keep an ear to the ground. Perhaps an informant knew something. One dealer was already under surveillance. For now, a public safety alert would be released to warn potential buyers of the danger.
When he hung up, Allan went back to the diary and skipped ahead to the date Trixy went missing, and Cathy’s final days.
May 8. Beautiful day.
Mom called this morning to thank me for the card and flowers I had sent her for Mother’s Day, only they arrived a day early. Actually, Trixy and I split on them. But I didn’t tell Mom because Trixy didn’t want her name on either. God, I don’t know why she is so stubborn. Let bygones be bygones.
I went outside for a walk this afternoon. Went as far as George Street this time, but that was enough.
I wanted to go down to the boardwalk and stroll along the water, but I thought climbing those hills on the way back would simply be too taxing for me at this point. The doctor wants me to walk every day. My opinion is better safe than sorry. I’ll take it slow. Baby steps for now.
Technically it’s the 9th. Quarter to one in the morning. Another sleepless night. I’m doing my best to get through this. So many things on my mind right now. The Devil seems to be still knocking on my door, and he’s relentless. I know that’s my problem. So many times I just sit and stare at the phone. So many times I fight with myself not to pick it up and make that call. Trixy, I must remind myself, it’s all for her. One day I may look back at this period in my life and be proud of myself.
May 9. I don’t know what the weather is. I could care less.
Where’s Trixy? God, I’m so afraid right now. She’s never been this late coming home. Did something happen to her? I can’t even get through on her cell phone.
Just after lunch, I went down to the police station and told them. They made me fill out a missing persons report. I thought their questions were never going to end. I gave them the most recent photograph of Trixy that I had.
I didn’t want to involve the police. Trixy would be so mad. She doesn’t like them. She thinks a lot of them only serve and protect themselves.
After supper, another cop stopped by. At first I thought it was bad news when I saw him. But it wasn’t. Thank God.
This cop seemed like a nice man. He kept referring to Vice, saying that they will check this and check that. My question is, if he’s not the one investigating Trixy’s disappearance, then why was he here? Does he know something that he’s not telling me?
I won’t be able to sleep tonight. God, grant me the strength to help me through this. I’m on pins and needles right now. And the cravings are hitting me hard.
May 10. Overcast. No rain, however. Yet.
I never slept all night. When I got up, I felt queasy. Probably because I haven’t eaten since yesterday and my bad nerves. I doubt if I’ll be able to hold anything down. My stomach doesn’t feel that bad when I lie down, only when I’m standing up. So I’ll just lie here some more.
I keep praying Trixy will walk through the door. God, where is she?
My second entry under this date. It is now dinnertime. I still haven’t eaten. I can’t. Mom called me a while ago. The police published Trixy’s photo in the Chronicle Herald. They’re asking people with any information regarding her disappearance to call them or Crime Stoppers. I never even knew that they did it. I had to go down to the store and get the paper to see for myself. The picture, the one I had given the cops, was on the second page with only a short write-up underneath.
Mom sounded genuinely worried. And so did Dad. He came on the phone after Mom. It was the first time I’d spoken to him since leaving home. I told him what happened, that Trixy just didn’t come home yesterday morning, and that I can’t reach her. He asked me how I was holding up. I told him that I was finding it hard but will get through it. Was he going to tell me that I could go back home? Part of me was wishing he would. Dad always had a hard time revealing his feelings. The fact that he spoke to me after what happened at home reflects to me his genuine worry. That was enough.
It’s going to be hard to get through this day. God, I want a fix so bad.
May 11. Raining outside.
This will be my final entry. God, I can’t believe the direction my life has taken. I’ve tried to be strong, to beat this. But I can’t fight anymore. I have nothing left. I’ve given in to the worst of temptations. A dark cloak of depression has wrapped itself around me.
Trixy was the pillar of support I needed. Now I fear something horrible happened to her. I can’t live with the thought that my sister is dead. Nor can I live with not knowing. The stress of this has been killing me. And worse yet are my cravings. All this has cranked them into high gear. The heroin is calling me back with open arms to its comforting embrace. It’s using my own misery against me. That’s how it draws you back. Only I know this time how it will all end. If it wants me that badly, it can have me this last time.
Looking back over the past few months, I realize now just how often I had thought about suicide. Sometimes I would go to bed praying I would never wake up. Everything would’ve been so much better. At least for me. I’d finally be at peace. I’ve hurt so many important people in my life.
Where is the person I used to be? Before the heroin, I was so much different. I had friends, a bright future, dreams, desires, and last but not least, a good relationship with my family. Now, it’s all gone. I don’t even know who the hell I am anymore.
And how will I be remembered? The ugly person I became or the decent person I used to be? I know I could’ve chosen a different way but couldn’t think of any that would be this befitting.
God, it breaks my heart when I think of my parents. They are what truly make this so hard to do. I’ll never see them again. I can only hope they don’t feel guilty about this. None of it was their fault. I’m just glad they have each other to lean on for support. I pray they won’t hate me.
I have everything laid out on the bed, ready. So I must get this over with. At last, I will break free of these shackles. This stuff nearly killed me in April. Odds are it will this time. If not, I have a backup plan.
My dearest diary, I will now bid my final farewell to you, my friend.
25
Halifax, May 12
11:15 p.m.
With a heavy heart, Allan closed the diary. He stared at the sunflowers on the cover and winced. If only he could’ve helped her.
Behind him, Coulter and Sodero finished putting Cathy’s wrapped body inside a black bag. As Allan watched the zipper being pulled shut, the finality of the tragedy gripped him.
Coulter pushed the gurney outside, and then he and Sodero were gone.
Jim and Harvey began gathering up the drug items and packaging them separately. They put a cork over the tip of the syringe before boxing it. When they lifted the blankets and sheets from the bed, they carefully folded them so no trace evidence would be lost.
Allan gave them the diary and then headed for the second bedroom. It was much like the first one, only absent the night table. The blind was drawn, the bed neatly made.
Jewelry, cosmetics, and perfume covered the top of the dresser. One thing among the items caught Allan’s eye. Moving closer, he looked down at a glass ashtray. Inside it lay four crumpled cigarette butts.
Allan called out, “Jim. Come here, please.”
Jim poked his head in the doorway. “Yes, Detective?”
“Can you gather up these butts and forward them to Serology?”
“Purpose?”
“I believe these belong to Trixy Ambré. The lady who went missing a few days ago. We don’t have a blood type listed for her. If the lab can extract DNA material from these filters, we’ll not only have her blood type, but also a genetic profile of her in case we ever need one to identify remains found. God forbid.”
“We’ll need verification that it’s her DNA.”
Allan thought a moment. “There will be blood drawn from Cathy Ambré. Have Serology compare hers with Trixy’s. They’re full siblings. So they’ll share fifty percent of their DNA.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Within moments Jim came into the room with his field kit. He used a pair of tweezers to pick out the butts from the ashtray and place them in separate containers.
While he did that, Allan continued his search of the bedroom. He found nothing of value in the dresser drawers. Under the bed he duly noted an empty suitcase. Near the headboard, he found two photo albums. Quickly, he looked through them. Faces of someone’s life with no names stared out at him. Grade-school portraits of both Trixy and Cathy. Vacation photos. Christmas photos. Two little girls in Halloween costumes: one as a witch, the other as Cinderella. Ten people spanning three generations captured inside a single frame.
The closet
turned up no clues. Hands on his hips, Allan looked around the room one last time. There was nothing more to search.
He went out to the hallway and walked up to Malone.
“I’m heading out now,” he said.
“Okay, Detective.” Malone gave him the clipboard. “Jim and Harvey are just about finished here.”
Allan timed out. “Enjoy your time off.”
Malone smiled. “I will, thanks.”
The corridor was empty of tenants. When Allan went outside the air seemed cooler. At some point, it had rained again. Around him came the sounds of water beating a steady cadence in gutters.
Allan climbed behind the wheel of his car and started the engine. Before pulling away, he checked his notebook to verify the address of Cathy Ambré’s parents.
26
Halifax, May 13
12:23 a.m.
Before ringing the doorbell, Allan took a moment to prepare. When at last he did, he drew a deep breath.
There was silence. In moments a light came on in an upper-floor window. Through the frosted glass of the front door, another light turned on. The distorted image of a person appeared.
Allan’s stomach clenched at the rattle of the latch. The man who opened the door was tall and raw boned, perhaps fifty. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and green pajama bottoms. He had a thin, clean-shaven face, perceptive blue eyes and short salt-and-pepper hair, shaved close on the sides.
“Mr. Philip Ambré?” Allan asked.
“Yes.” The man’s voice sounded tired, husky.
“I’m Detective Allan Stanton with the Major Crimes Unit.” He held up his open badge case. “May I come in, please?”
Blank-faced, Philip paused a moment. Then he motioned him inside.
