One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  Audra shook her head, puzzled. She should talk to Daphne’s teachers to see if they knew or noticed anything. Daphne’s grades were still fine. But she seemed evasive and withdrawn.

  Then Audra realized Daphne’s best friend, Tabitha, hadn’t been around the house lately. They’d been friends since the fifth grade. Exchanged many sleepovers at one another’s houses. Talked nearly every night on the phone. Was that it? Did they have a fight?

  Daphne paused just outside the school entryway. Mounted to the building above her head, a Canadian flag waved with the breeze.

  She looked back over her shoulder. Her eyebrows were raised up in the middle and her eyes showed naked fear. The expression pierced Audra’s heart. It made her remember, as vivid as yesterday, leading a five-year-old Daphne by the hand into primary class for the first time. Her daughter was dressed in a new ruffle dress and ribbons. Her favorite toy—Polly Pocket—was tucked away in a knapsack nearly as big as her.

  Some kids in the classroom clung onto their parents, sobbing. Others seemed to take it all in stride, either chatting away or quietly studying their strange, new environment and the strange people in it.

  The teacher came over and introduced herself. When she held out her hand for Daphne to take it, the little girl moved back a step, afraid.

  “Mommy.” She looked up nervously from her mother to the teacher. Her grip squeezed Audra’s hand.

  Audra knelt before her and Daphne’s arms came tight around her neck.

  “It’ll be all right, honey.” Audra said. “We prepared for this at home. Remember?”

  Daphne nodded against her shoulder. Audra pulled herself back, holding Daphne to see her face.

  “Go with the nice teacher,” she said. “I’ll be back to pick you up. Then you can tell me all about your day.”

  Daphne gave a small nod. “Okay, Mommy.”

  With some hesitance, she took the teacher’s hand. As she was led away, she looked back at Audra, who fought tears from her eyes.

  Once more, Audra focused on her teenage daughter standing at the school’s entryway. Audra flashed her a smile and waved. Daphne’s own smile was slow to come and when it did, perfunctory. She stroked a wisp of brown hair away from the side of her face. Then she squared her shoulders and disappeared through the glass doors.

  Audra waited a few minutes, watching the exits. The entrance bell rang and students who were hanging around outside, started heading in.

  Audra started the car and edged onto South Street. She barely assimilated the crawling traffic or the mixed group of pedestrians gathered at the crosswalks as she drove two blocks away to recanvass Todd Dory’s neighborhood.

  10

  Halifax, June 9

  8:49 a.m.

  Self-conscious, Daphne maneuvered her way through a knot of students in the hallway, sneaking glances here and there, afraid to look at anyone directly. Some students headed to class with their books tucked under one arm or cradled in front of them; others were off to the sides, either rummaging through their lockers or talking to their friends. Muffled chatter and footwear squeaking on the waxed floor sounded like a cacophony.

  Daphne wondered how many people knew about the postings on Facebook last night. How many had taken part in the rude comments? She didn’t see those ninth-graders who had been picking on her.

  Hurriedly, she went to her locker, spun the combination on the lock. When she opened the door, a folded note on top of her books gave her pause. Someone had obviously pushed it through the vent in the door. Feeling sick, Daphne picked it up. She inhaled deeply and let it out. The note opened in her hands and the three words on it cut right through her: You smelly pig.

  Daphne could feel a burn in her face. Behind her came a snort of laughter. She spun around, eyes sweeping the crowd, and caught two girls from the other grade 8 class. They were walking past on the other side of the hallway, looking at her with big smiles on their faces.

  Daphne swallowed. For her own sake, she decided it was better not to respond or show a reaction. Still the dark fear of mockery, of exclusion, of being singled out, hounded her.

  She turned away, crumpled the note in her hand, and stuffed it into a pocket of her jeans. Then she slipped the book bag off her back and set it inside the locker.

  Second bell rang, loud and unexpected, and Daphne nearly jumped out of her skin. Five minutes to first period. Quickly, she gathered up the books she would need for the morning classes, locked up her stuff, and hurried off.

  11

  Halifax, June 9

  10:54 a.m.

  “This might be nothing, but I saw someone. A man.”

  Audra felt her hope take a spike. “Where?”

  “Out on Morris Street.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Had to be after two in the morning. Two-fifteen. ‘Round there.”

  Audra paused, studying the woman in the doorway. Her name was Janelle Gurnard. She lived on the second floor of a double three-decker that sat right around the corner from the apartment building Todd Dory had been murdered in.

  Dressed in a crimson nursing tee untucked over black jeggings, Janelle was pale and slender with dirty-blonde hair tied back off her neck. She looked barely out of her teens. Probably a single mom on government aid. Audra didn’t see any sign a male lived at the apartment.

  In the living room behind her, a toddler girl in a pink nightdress sat on the couch watching Sesame Street. Plastic toys and stuffed animals were scattered across the floor in front of her. Close by, an infant boy lay in a crib, kicking his legs while looking around and cooing.

  “Can you describe this man?” Audra asked, poising her pen over a fresh page in her notebook.

  “A little, but it was dark and pouring rain at the time. He was dressed all in black. Looked like he had on one of those rain suits. The jacket and pants matched.”

  “Did he have a hood over his head?”

  Janelle nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Audra winced, a bit deflated. “Did you see his face at all?”

  “No. He had his head down the whole time.”

  “Are you sure it was a man?”

  “Oh yeah. He had wide shoulders and didn’t have that woman’s roundness. Know what I mean?”

  “I know. How tall did he look to you?”

  “Average height.”

  “Five-eight to five-ten?”

  “Yeah. Closer to five-ten. I’d say.”

  “How about his build?”

  “Average. ‘Bout a hundred seventy-five pounds.”

  Audra wrote down the description. Not much to go on, that was for sure. “Was he carrying anything?”

  “Uh-huh. He had a bag over his shoulder.”

  Audra paused, looked her straight in the eyes. “What kind of bag?”

  “You know, like a gym bag. I thought it odd, ‘specially that time of night. I mean, what gym is open, right? Then I heard about the murder Monday night.”

  “When did you first learn of it?”

  “Last night.” Janelle jabbed a thumb toward next-door. “My neighbor said she heard a gang member got shot.”

  Audra considered how much information their spokesman had released to the media. Details were kept out to protect confidentiality. There was mention of a possible gang connection, but nothing about the mode of murder. With the rash of shootings throughout the city in recent weeks, Audra could see how residents jumped to that conclusion so quickly.

  “Is that all you know about the crime?” she asked.

  Janelle nodded again. “Yeah.”

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  “Took the kids over to my mom’s for the day. Came home last night.”

  “I see,” Audra said. “How long did that bag look to you?”

  Janelle stretched her arms to a length of around three feet. “‘Bout that long.”

  Audra chewed the inside of her cheek. Depending on the make and model of the shotgun, one could fit inside a bag that long. The axe would be no
problem at all.

  Audra wrote a few lines in her notebook. She remained cautiously optimistic. This could be a witness or a false lead.

  She asked, “Did it have any distinctive markings? Stripes, logos or writing?”

  “I don’t believe so. Think it was all black.”

  “Did the man’s clothing have any markings?”

  Janelle shook her head.

  “Did you notice his footwear?”

  Janelle squinted at her. “Uh.” She thought about it. “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”

  “Hey, no problem. What were you doing up at that time of night?”

  “Sitting in the living room window, feeding my son.”

  “Did you see where this man went?”

  “He crossed the street in front of my building and went down Birmingham.”

  “Did he resemble anyone you recall seeing in the neighborhood before?”

  “Nobody I saw before. I see a lot of my neighbors and he didn’t look like any of them.”

  Audra read over the last page in her notebook. Satisfied, she closed it up. It was good to catch so much cooperation for a change. People had a reluctance to volunteer information, and with word out the murder had suspected gang ties, Audra knew many possible witnesses wouldn’t speak up for fear of reprisals.

  She thanked Janelle and handed over her card.

  “If you think of anything else,” she said, “please call me.”

  Janelle gave her a clipped smile. “I will.”

  Audra left the building, walking outside into the bright morning. The sun cast gleaming prisms on the windshields and mirrors of cars parked at the curbs. Audra could feel its soothing warmth on her face. Even though less than two weeks remained until summer officially arrived, spring temperatures still gripped the air.

  Standing on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, Audra watched the random bustle of the city pass by: a couple in matching blue jackets entering a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Morris and Birmingham; a bicyclist in spandex and a streamlined helmet whirring past; a woman across the street bending into the back of a car, buckling a toddler into a safety seat. Traffic sounds from adjacent streets came in the forms of engines slowing and revving, horns honking. Disembodied voices of pedestrians talked and laughed.

  Audra crossed to the corner of Birmingham and peered down the street. Rows of older, wood-clad houses, many converted into apartments, lined both sides. Trucks and cars were parked at the curbs all the way down to Spring Garden Road where Birmingham ended. Did the mystery man whom Janelle Gurnard described live in this side-street neighborhood? The area was not part of the initial canvass.

  Audra knew she’d have to go to every door and hope to find a little civic help. Maybe she’d even meet this mystery man in the flesh, even rule him out as a person of interest. Coulter had estimated the time of death between 1 a.m. and 4 a.m. That gave a three-hour window of probability and it could be even wider. Estimation of time since death wasn’t an exact science like DNA or fingerprints. Too many variables were involved.

  Audra walked across Birmingham to the Chinese restaurant. It was a nondescript building that looked like it might’ve been a variety store at one time. The lower half was walled in brick and someone had sprayed graffiti on it. The upper half was covered in white siding. In the large window facing the street, four pieces of Chinese calligraphy, gold on a red background, were displayed below a neon open sign.

  Audra poked her head in the door, breathing in the savory blend of ginger and garlic and five spice. The restaurant was small, half full of diners. There were white table clothes and red chairs. Walls heavy in Chinese décor.

  Audra checked around for security cameras and winced when she saw only one over the counter area. She hoped there’d be one in the window looking out at Birmingham Street.

  Her cell phone rang. The number displayed on the screen belonged to Jim Lucas of the Ident Unit.

  “Better be good news,” Audra said.

  A light chuckle. “Sorry. Not today.”

  “What is it?”

  “No prints on the axe.”

  Audra dropped her head. “Not good.”

  “Yeah, I know. Bummer.”

  “It’s what we expected though. The suspect or suspects had gloves on.”

  Jim sighed. “There’s still hope for the other prints we collected.”

  “True. Maybe the gloves came off at some point and something was inadvertently touched.”

  Jim paused and Audra sensed they shared the same thought—sure, how likely was that?

  “If so,” Jim answered finally, “we’ll find out.”

  “Call me when you have good news,” Audra said.

  “You don’t want to hear the rest of the bad news?”

  A corner of Audra’s mouth twisted upwards. “What else?”

  “The maker of the axe was True Temper Kelly Works. Out of the U.S.”

  “Let me guess, they’re no longer in business.”

  “Long gone. This axe is old, and by old I mean, vintage.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. It probably sat around in someone’s basement or garage for years. Maybe even picked up at a yard sale. Only the suspect knows.”

  Audra sighed. “When it rains, it pours.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Thanks, Jim,” Audra said with a weak smile and hung up.

  She cut across Morris again, walking slowly toward the corner of Queen. Her gaze drifted over the building Janelle lived in and then settled on the small parking lot to the left of it. Three out of the five slots were filled. Audra looked toward the front of the cars where a small embankment rose to a picket fence. On the other side lay the parking area right behind Todd Dory’s apartment, now empty of yesterday’s beehive of activity. Barrier tape formed an X across the doorway, and a crime scene seal had been placed over the door itself, extending across the jamb.

  Audra checked her watch: 11:46. She turned to Atlantic News, the magazine shop next door. It backed right up to the parking lot and had a mansard roof with two dormers looking onto Morris. Like the Chinese restaurant, the lower part of the building that accommodated Atlantic News was built in the same red brick used in other old architecture in the city. The upper part, where several apartments were, was covered in white siding.

  Yesterday, Audra had interviewed the tenants there. No one had seen or heard anything the night of the murder. Only the hard rain pelting the roof and windows.

  Looking over the structure, her gaze froze on an object mounted to the corner of the building about eight feet above the sidewalk—a dome security camera discreetly watching the area.

  Something leapt inside her. She stood there, unable to move, staring at the tinted bubble cover of the camera, and feeling the mystery man in her blood.

  12

  Halifax, June 9

  11:54 a.m.

  Mrs. Zegray stood in front of the class, talking about the Acadian expulsion in 1755. Something about whole villages being emptied by the British. Land and livestock being seized. Families being torn apart, never to see each other again. An unforgivable number of Acadians dying of yellow fever, small pox, or typhoid while on the deportation ships.

  Daphne half listened. With growing anxiety, she looked up at the clock over the chalkboard. She watched the second hand ticking around the numbers, the minute hand creeping ever closer to noon. Six minutes until the bell rang for lunch.

  She knew she’d meet those ninth-graders in the cafeteria. Somehow she had avoided them in the hallways through two class changes, but felt their presence in other students. There came a few outbursts of laughter amidst the logjam of bodies, words tossed close enough to her ear made her believe they were directed at her, “Ewww, gross”, “Stinky skank”. She pretended not to hear, continued trudging along with her head down.

  Where could she go for lunch? The library seemed the best choice. Quiet with usually a handful of students there reading. A teacher would be present too.


  Daphne looked around the classroom. Most of the other nineteen kids ignored her now, like they’d contract leprosy if they went near her.

  The loneliness was suffocating.

  Tabitha Landes sat three rows over by the bookcase, her chin propped up on the heel of her palm. She was a slender girl with auburn hair pinned up into a neat chignon. She and Daphne had been inseparable for the past four years, but she no longer spoke. In those rare moments their eyes met, Tabitha’s expression held an odd mix of pity and embarrassment.

  For the first time in her life, Daphne understood the concept of having a broken heart and pain from losing a best friend.

  “Before we end today,” said Mrs. Zegray. “There might be a pop quiz on the material we covered.”

  The class let out a collective “aw”.

  She held up her hands in mock surrender, her glance bouncing off each face. “I know. I know. Some questions you might want to remember: who was the acting governor at the time?”

  Several students answered in unison, “Charles Lawrence.”

  “When did the Seven Years’ War end?”

  “Seventeen sixty-three.”

  Mrs. Zegray smiled. “Very good. I see some of you were paying attention.”

  The bell rang and a jolt shot through Daphne. As if on cue, the students began rustling their stuff.

  “Okay, everyone,” Mrs. Zegray said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you study.”

  Chairs scraped the floor. Books closed with a slap. All around, the building rumbled with the sound of 200 kids on the move.

  Daphne remained at her desk, watching as the hallway filled up. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave the refuge of the classroom.

  Slowly, she zipped up her binder and stacked it together with her textbooks. The last of her classmates left and melted into the crowd outside. There looked to be no wiggle room at all. The hallway had lockers and that made it a hotspot for traffic and congestion.