Death's Shadow

by Jon Wells

  Terri-Lynn Collings, a spokesperson for Hamilton Police, said officers would not comment on the case because the investigation was ongoing. She did say that “no one has been ruled out as a suspect.”

  Not long after the charges were dropped, a new case manager, Staff Sergeant Ian Matthews, was named to replace Steve Hrab. That move was “based on some competing caseloads and some court commitments,” according to police spokesperson Catherine Martin.

  For the renewed investigation, police went back to interviewing neighbours and friends of Audrey. Fresh eyes looked at the crime scene. Was everything as it had seemed? Might the killer have staged the scene, including the “sexual component” to throw off detectives? A behavioural profile of the killer was now requested from the OPP’s profiling section. Investigators had already contacted the OPP to see if the case was linked to any others in the province. They believed it was not.

  Police still did not interview Audrey’s ex-husband, Allan Gleave, or her former brother-in-law, David Gleave, who had been in touch with her in recent years — although he said that he had phoned police himself offering assistance.

  David Scott, who continued to rent a room in downtown Brantford, was off the hook as a suspect, but police knew that his name would never stop being associated with the case, and that it would be a factor in any future prosecution. He would always be held up in court by defence lawyers in future prosecutions as an alternative suspect, since police had clearly believed at one time he was the killer. If the case ever made it to court, they would need to prove that David Scott had not killed Audrey.

  The house on Indian Trail, meanwhile, was cleared of Audrey’s belongings, and purchased by a couple. In the spring Allan Gleave was in Hamilton with his wife, visiting his mother. He drove up to see the house he had designed. He couldn’t believe the size of the trees they had planted long ago. It was a bit disturbing to see the house, he said. He was the one who had wanted her to stay, to never sell the place. And it upset him that someone else was soon going to be living there.

  As for Phil Kinsman, he enrolled in the Ph.D. engineering program at McMaster, presented a paper at a conference in San Diego in June, and put the final touches on his master’s thesis. (The subject matter: computational acceleration for medical imaging — speeding up testing for a CT scan, for example.)

  He had already been interviewed by police, and ruled out as a suspect by Steve Hrab early in the investigation. But in mid-August, police asked him to take a polygraph test — a lie detector — and he agreed. A detective told him flat out that he was a person of interest. Phil understood why police were spending time with him.

  “To some extent I can understand it, because I had opportunity. I gather that’s all you need for them to declare you a person of interest.”

  For most questions, police request one-word answers during a polygraph.

  “Did you kill Audrey Gleave?” he was asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you cause her physical harm?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who killed Audrey?”

  “No.”

  “Were you present when she died?”

  “No.”

  Phil asked the detectives some questions of his own. Were they talking to other persons of interest? “That’s one question they would not answer for me,” he said. “It’s frustrating, because they share so little information but they expect so much.”

  In September 2011 he met with police again for more questions, to address what they called “discrepancies” in his polygraph.

  Audrey, always the smartest one in the room, a woman with a dark sense of humour, who liked to channel the irascible comic character Maxine, might well have offered a wry joke about the whole thing, the fumbled investigation and all. If only she were still around to help solve the puzzle.

  On the morning of December 27, not long before the end of her life, the snow-covered ground shimmered in the winter sun. Audrey was fed up with feeling under the weather. But that morning, instead of a Maxine joke or some techie article, she emailed a music video to a friend. And that evening she sent it again to another. It was, for her, an unusual selection. The video was a live performance by the André Rieu Orchestra. Rieu is an acclaimed Dutch conductor and performer. The performance was described as a Celtic version of the timeless spiritual hymn “Amazing Grace.”

  The rendition begins with a single musician playing a pennywhistle. It grows larger, Rieu on his violin, then other sections, including a bagpiper, joining in wave upon wave, until the stirring climax — the soul-shaking lament of 300 pipers and a choir singing. It brings audience members to tears.

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost, but now am found,

  Was blind, but now I see.

  In the past couple of years, Audrey had talked more about the end of her life. And she had had that premonition, long ago, that it would end suddenly and violently. Being moved by that video, sending it to friends, was it a sign? Did the beautiful mind sense something — mortality, perhaps — approaching that bright morning, two days after Christmas? How many times did she replay the song, which is about redemption, about having the soul delivered from despair through the mercy of God?

  Audrey Gleave wasn’t religious, at least not by appearances. But she asked questions about faith, and was curious about all things. But then no one knew what existed behind the face she presented to the world. The rest of her life numbered mere hours after absorbing the vibrations of that song. Perhaps, when the final darkness descended, she heard its heavenly echoes, and that music, not the killer, was her final companion.

  Through many dangers, toils and snares

  I have already come;

  ’Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

  And Grace will lead me home.

  As with all homicide cases where there has been no conviction, the Audrey Gleave homicide case remains an open one. Ian Matthews remains the case manager. When asked at the time that Death’s Shadow went to print if the police were at all close to making an arrest, a spokeswoman with the Hamilton Police Service would only say that “the investigation is ongoing.”

  Part III

  Eternal Pain

  — I —

  She took her first breath on a Saturday in June and her last on a cold Wednesday in March. This is the story on the gravestone. Just 26 years passed in between — her life all prologue. An old man shuffled up the row in the cemetery, sun shining off his silver hair, moving well considering the hip and knee replacements. He remarked on how many graves had joined his daughter’s over the years. His name is on the stone, too, the date of death left vacant.

  A woman visited a while back, left flowers and a letter. She knew the victim not at all in life, but in death feels a connection that mystifies and haunts her. She researches the case, sits in the house where the homicide happened, and thinks of her.

  A man and his two sons come to the cemetery to visit the graves where family members lie, but each time the man wanders off on his own. He does not tell his boys why it is he pauses wordlessly in Section 15, Row 25; does not reveal that he’s thinking of the woman with the silky blonde hair.

  The old detective does not visit. He lives up north on two acres, by cool water and tall pines. He speaks in a gravelly baritone, his face softened by a grey beard, hands still rugged and hard, the eyes deep green. He says he closed the drawer on the past when he retired. Still, on occasion, it floats into his mind’s eye, the scene in that basement a long time ago. No, he does not dwell on the past. But he also does not forget that when all was said and done, he still had a case left out there.

  March 29, 1978

  2:30 a.m.

  Hamilton, Ontario

  The man held the hostage at knife-point. It was his own son. He demanded a flight out of Canada for both of them. The Hamilton detective, who was tall, with dark hair and green eyes, dressed in a jacket and tie, stoo
d on the other side of the apartment door, speaking calmly in the deep baritone, stalling.

  “It’s going to take a little longer,” said Don Crath. “We just need a little more time. Got to finish arrangements for the flights.”

  To lessen the man’s tension, stall for time, Crath tried to make a connection with the man. “Do you have a picture of your son? You show me a picture of your son and I’ll show you a picture of my two boys.”

  The man slid a photo under the door.

  “Nice looking boy. You don’t want to harm your boy, do you, Bill? I know you don’t want to hurt anybody. I sure don’t want to get any of my policemen hurt. Just hang on.”

  He kept the man with the knife talking for more than two hours. Then he and officers Bill McCulloch and Vern Cummins burst through the door, rescued the boy, made the arrest. The story would make headlines in the Spectator the next day; reporter Darryl Gibson had been listening to the whole thing.

  Crath drove back to the weathered old detectives’ office on King William Street, where he worked in the Criminal Investigations Division. The place was old school; cops there sat in beat-up wooden chairs and smoked, the interrogation room had flecks of blood on the wall. Known for wearing natty suits, Crath usually stood out. However, he felt rather beat-up himself that morning. He loosened his tie, rubbed his tired eyes, and typed his report as morning broke.

  Crath was 41 and had started as a cop in his early twenties. That had been soon after his wife Darlene gave birth, to twin boys. He figured that policing was a solid family job, better than getting stuck on the road in sales. Turned out he liked being a cop and was good at it. Solid police work, he knew, was about trusting your gut. Keep it simple, use common sense. It usually worked.

  Don Crath was an old-school cop known for wearing natty suits while on the police force.

  Hamilton Spectator.

  One year after the hostage case, Don Crath was blindsided. He lost his wife, the two boys their mother. Darlene died.

  Mauro Iacoboni entered a bar with his cousin near Barton and Strathearn. It was November 1981. Mauro was 27, from an Italian family, his first name pronounced Mah-ro, with a rolling r. Guys at the factory where he worked didn’t roll their r’s all that well, though. He got called Moe.

  He saw her for the first time in the bar and was instantly attracted. She was petite, with long blonde hair — very pretty, he thought. And just his luck, she was with a woman he knew. He left his cousin, walked over, said hi, chatted with both of them, his eyes mostly on the blonde. She said her name was Trisha Roach. Moments later Mauro turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Trisha asked. The blunt tone caught him off guard.

  “I … I have to work in the morning.”

  Trisha continued talking with him. By the end of the night they had exchanged phone numbers and he had learned more about her.

  Trisha was 26 and lived alone in a house on Montclair Avenue, just east of Gage Park. Until recently she had shared it with her husband, Terry Paraszczuk (Paraz-chuck). Trisha had dated Terry at Bishop Ryan high school. where they were in the same grade. She had been crazy about him. He was handsome, a charmer, the life of the party. He was more outgoing than Trisha, who usually came across as more reserved.

  Trisha’s parents were Ray and Floria Roach, who had both grown up in the city’s north end. Ray’s father cut ice off the bay in winter and sold it year-round. Ray carried on the family business, running a delivery service called Roach Ice. Terry’s parents, Michael and Maria, had Ukrainian roots; Michael worked at a hardware store, Maria in a hospital.

  Trisha married Terry on August 26, 1978, at Blessed Sacrament Roman Catholic Church on a perfect summer day. She was 23. Trisha’s sister, Cathy, her only sibling, was maid of honour. The sisters were close, born just 11 months apart; both were nurses. Now that his daughter was a Paraszczuk, Ray Roach carried a slip of paper in his wallet with the new name on it so he wouldn’t forget the spelling.

  The crime scene in Trisha’s house was a disaster from the fire and the water used to douse it.

  Hamilton Spectator.

  Trisha and Terry bought the old red brick two-and-a-half storey house at 944 Montclair. Terry had recently started a job as a customs officer, while Trisha had worked for three years as a nurse in the neurology department at Hamilton General Hospital. She put up $10,000 of her savings toward the down payment. Terry’s father, Michael, who lived just around the corner, did some work on the unfinished basement.

  The couple’s dating life had been stormy on occasion; marriage did not smooth the waters. Trisha, who was a small woman, less than 100 pounds, came across as quiet, but she stood up for herself. In 1981 they separated. Trisha returned to using her maiden name, Roach, but legally still carried Terry’s. The house was put up for sale. Michael Paraszczuk told Trisha that he wanted to be repaid for his expenses fixing up some of the basement, which upset her. Ray Roach said Michael further served Trisha a lawsuit to recoup the money.

  Toward the end of 1981, Trisha started dating Mauro Iacoboni. He played drums in a band with three of his cousins, and on their first date he picked her up in his van with the kit in the back. To Mauro, who lived with his parents, Trisha seemed mature, independent. She kept the house on Montclair immaculate. Although she was a smoker, the house usually smelled of cookies rather than cigarette smoke because she was always baking. She also knitted. She made a blanket for her mother, Floria, for Christmas in Floria’s favourite powder blue. She sewed on her back porch in the sun.

  Being with Trisha was just so easy, Mauro felt. She was sweet and pretty, and it just worked. He loved her long hair; on the job at the hospital she had to wear it up, but with him it was always down. They used to just relax in her house; ordered in Chinese food a lot, her favourite. Mauro got to know her parents, too. He’ d kick back with Ray and watch hockey games at Trisha’s house. He felt his relationship with Trisha deepen.

  On New Year’s Eve, 1981, his band played an all-night show at Queen’s Banquet Centre on Barton Street, and she went to see him play. She fitted right in with Mauro’s friends. At midnight the band paused, Trisha joined Mauro on stage and kissed him as the year turned to 1982.

  Things were looking up for Trisha. She continued working at the hospital, where her co-workers and bosses loved her. She regularly attended St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic Church, and now met privately with her priest, Father Ron Cote. He asked if she had considered having her marriage to Terry annulled. She was interested and took home some reading on the topic, showed it to a friend. Trisha said she wanted to start over, get married again, and start a family. She decided that she needed to sell the house, so she started to look for an apartment. She had a dog, a large unruly Dalmatian named Jakes; she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep him in an apartment, so she gave him away, returned him to the breeder. The house sold and she met with Terry on Thursday, February 25, to sign papers approving the sale.

  A week later, Wednesday, March 3, Trisha looked at apartments with Floria and Cathy. She also had plans to meet her friend Sandra for coffee, but Sandra was under the weather and had to cancel. Floria planned to come to Trisha’s house that night to join her for dinner. But Floria felt ill, stayed in bed instead.

  Mauro worked the evening shift at American Can on the stamping production line. At his 7:30 p.m. break, he phoned Trisha. They chatted for almost a half-hour. She told him she had moved some boxes to the basement, getting ready for the move.

  “I’ll see you later,” Mauro said, signing off.

  “Okay, bye, pumpkin,” she replied, and they hung up.

  Pumpkin. Mauro smiled. It was a pet name he had heard Trisha call her nephew. She had never called him that. It felt good.

  — II —

  Late that night stars were out and it was very cold. Detective Don Crath drove around the lower city in an unmarked cruiser. Working CID meant taking on a bit of everything. Crath, his hair greying from 46 years of living and 20 on the force, was paired
with Dave Matteson when the call came in after midnight. Firefighters had put out a house fire at 944 Montclair Avenue. A body was inside. At the scene, Crath, in suit and overcoat, spoke to a deputy fire chief.

  “We have a dead body in the basement,” the firefighter said.

  The house still smoldered as the detectives moved down through the heat and charred stench to the unfinished basement. The floor was covered in water. Crath saw a woman’s body, fully clothed, soaked. Her face was a bit dirty from the smoke, but she had suffered no damage from the fire. He saw a thin chord, like twine: a ligature. She likely had strangled. The ligature had also somehow ridden up from her neck to her face. Suicide? Possible, except Crath had been trained to treat every sudden death as a homicide. He grimaced. If it was a crime scene, it was a lousy one, he thought: evidence destroyed by either fire, smoke, water, or firefighters trampling through the place. He didn’t blame the fire guys; they had to soak it. Montclair was a street of old homes. They could not risk fire spreading.

  A couple of senior police officers arrived. Had to be suicide, one of them offered. Crath knew most hangings are suicides, but women usually don’t use that method. Most use pills. The scene was odd. The fire had started in the basement, spread up to the first and second floors. Some boxes and debris in the basement had caught fire. Crath figured an accelerant of some kind had been used. If she had committed suicide, how would she have set the fire?

  Then there was the hanging. If she had hanged herself, it was an odd way to do it. She had not tried to do it from a rafter, kick a bucket. No, the ligature had broken, and one severed end was still tied to a wooden post on a wall — a joist, or fire stop, part of an unfinished wall where insulation and drywall had not been added. The joist was only about three feet off the floor. Crath knew some inmates in prison used a “low hang,” tied on to bars for leverage, to kill themselves. But a woman in her own basement?