One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  34

  Halifax, June 13

  9:45 p.m.

  Allan pored over the crime scene photos. They were a mixture of pictures showing the entire location, inside and out; the entrance and escape route Audra believed the killer had used; onlookers crowded together by morbid curiosity. Allan examined each face, looking for someone he recognized. None.

  He shuffled through images of Todd Dory lying on the kitchen floor with his arms twisted under the back of a chair and his legs splayed out on each side of the seat. Allan felt a weird tingle in his stomach when he came to the severed ear on the floor.

  A blowup of the axe clearly showed corpse written on the handle in black marker. Other photos showed the linear patterns of blood on the wall and ceiling.

  By all accounts, the scene demonstrated control and rage. Allan agreed with Audra’s belief. The murder had been personal, done by someone driven by anger and hatred. The rage in the pictures reminded Allan of the rage he’d seen in lover’s triangles.

  Male sexual jealousy can be a strong motivator for homicide. Women usually killed their lovers, men killed their competition. But according to Audra, Wendy Drummond’s husband didn’t resemble the man in the video.

  That left revenge.

  Revenge killings involve extreme rage. Allan had read a study suggesting that meting out revenge actually stimulates pleasure centers in the brain, much like drugs or desserts. But who was the suspect? Who had Dory screwed over that badly? With his history, the list could be long.

  Allan took out his notebook and wrote:

  1. Suspect possesses characteristics under the organized dichotomy.

  2. Used precautions.

  3. Used con approach.

  4. Murder planned.

  5. Controlled scene.

  6. Restraints used.

  7. No theft.

  8. Axe was used, brought to the scene, and left there.

  9. Shotgun was brought to the scene, not fired, and removed after crime.

  10. Corpse.

  Allan looked at his watch: 11:43 p.m. Nearly seven hours gone and so much work left to do. He propped his elbows on top of the desk and lowered his face into his hands, rubbed at his temples with his fingertips.

  A clap of thunder brought his attention to the window and he saw a flash of lightning ignite the sky above the dark clouds. The rain continued to fall at a relentless pace. Streetlights glistened in the water drops running down the glass.

  Allan plopped the surveillance disc into the DVD drive of his computer and sat down to watch it. Through a curtain of rain, the mystery man came into view on the corner of Birmingham and Morris. When he got close to the camera, Allan hit pause. He leaned forward in his chair, looking over the still image.

  He felt confident this man was the suspect. The gloves. The duffel bag, long enough to carry an axe and a shotgun. The actions he made trying to conceal his identity.

  The lab hadn’t gotten around to analyzing the video yet, but Allan doubted they could work their magic enhancing it. The weather was just too bad and at no time, did the man reveal his face to the camera. Not even at a distance.

  Allan estimated he was about five-nine or five-ten. Maybe pushing one hundred seventy pounds. Around the weight and height of the average Canadian male. Nothing about him separated him from the flock.

  Allan hit the play button again, let the video run through. As he watched the man drifting from view, presumably after committing his murder, Allan heard a sharp squawk of police sirens outside. He looked up from the monitor and saw red and blue strobe glancing off the rain-streaked window. The time was 1:03 a.m.

  He got up and walked over, watched three police cars tear out of the parking lot and race down Gottingen Street.

  Then he heard it.

  That dreadful beeping of his pager, slicing the quiet of the office and rippling his skin with goose bumps.

  Someone was dead. Someone had been murdered or had overdosed or had decided life was too much effort and cashed in.

  Allan clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, shook his head. He never wanted to come back to this again. He returned to his desk and picked up his pager. Even before he pressed the button to light up the display, he sensed it—the strange foreboding pushing through his bloodstream, firing off a lightshow of impulses in his brain.

  The downpour outside.

  The dark cover of night.

  The man in the black rainwear with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  Allan stared at the pager, feeling the pulse in his throat starting to throb.

  “Kaufman,” he whispered.

  35

  Dartmouth, June 14

  1:08 a.m.

  Seth tightened his grip on the steering wheel when he saw the cop car barreling toward him in the opposing lane, almost lost in a mass of spray flying up from the wheels. The sirens wailed and the lights flashed with a frenetic energy.

  Heart pounding, Seth eased his foot off the gas and began steering the car to the shoulder of the road. All his fears assaulted him—caught before he got the chance to take down Lee Higgins; locked in a cage with men of the lowest moral fiber. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves.

  Of course he had killed Todd Dory and Blake Kaufman. And he would sure as hell kill Higgins too. Those three deserved street justice. Not some cushy prison life with flat screen TVs and video games and exercise equipment.

  The cop car hurtled past him and kept going. Seth wiped a hand over his forehead and let out a shuddering breath. He felt a small surge of triumph, watching the lights recede in the rearview mirror.

  No doubt the cops were racing for Kaufman’s place. They were certainly heading in that direction. Someone had probably heard the shotgun blast or the screams. How could they not have? Both had split the night air and rang off the brick wall of the apartment building with such volume they had even startled Seth.

  He wondered if anyone had looked out his or her windows. Given the rain and dark, how clear a view would they have had? The guy who had stopped right next to the dumpster to have his smoke, within arm’s reach of Seth, hadn’t seen him hiding behind there.

  Besides, Seth had been careful not to raise his face to any of the apartment windows. He’d finished his deed and hightailed out of there. The whole incident had taken mere seconds, even though it had felt like minutes.

  Seth jerked the car back into the lane. His palms were damp on the wheel, his forehead feverish. He was sweating under the rainwear. He lowered his window an inch for some fresh air and the sound of his tires slapping over the rain-soaked pavement hissed loudly through the open space.

  Up ahead, the road branched left and he took it down to the Bedford Highway. It was the long route into Halifax—skirting the western shore of the Bedford Basin—but going over either one of the bridges into the city was too risky. The tollbooths had cameras and attendants.

  There was little traffic this late at night. Occasionally, watery headlights struck his eyes and passed him by. He made his way over the Fairview Overpass and took a right at the lights for Windsor Street. The drive home became dreamlike, filled with images of how he had killed Blake Kaufman.

  He had arrived at Primrose Street shortly after nine and circled the block, trying to find a good location to watch from. Sobeys was closed and Seth knew a lone car sitting in the parking lot of a closed grocery store looked too suspicious, especially in this neighborhood.

  He found the perfect spot on Robert Burns Drive, parked up tight against the rear of someone’s pickup. It gave Seth a direct line of sight, across two backyards, right behind Kaufman’s apartment building. In the failing light, he saw the PT Cruiser sitting there.

  At nine-thirty, the back door of the building opened. A shadowy figure emerged. Seth straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing. Through the dark rain, he could just make out the bulky form of a man, the tight-muscled strut Seth had come to know in the past few days. Kaufman went to the PT Cruiser and climbed inside. The headlights turned on. />
  Seth could feel his heart race, his body tense. At any moment, he expected the woman to come out next. She didn’t. The car moved away, heading for the lane between the two buildings, and disappeared.

  Seth moved his hand to the ignition and gripped the key. He watched Primrose Street in the rearview mirror until he saw Kaufman drive past. Then he started the engine and spun the car around.

  He braked at the stop sign and saw Kaufman down the street at the lights, turning right onto Victoria Road. With cold determination, he followed him at a safe distance. The night was still young and plenty of cars traveled the streets.

  Kaufman drove two blocks and turned into Highfield Park Drive. The street wove through a hardscrabble neighborhood packed with apartment buildings. At the next set of lights, he went down an off-ramp for Highway 111 and shifted over to the middle lane.

  As Kaufman picked up speed, pulling away, Seth stamped on the gas. He gazed out past the sloshing wipers, his gaze fixed on the PT Cruiser. Like glowing red eyes, the taillights stared back at him through the thick veil of rain.

  The highway was glossy black, the white lines barely perceptible. Shimmering water pooled out on all sides.

  Seth watched Kaufman shift over another lane to the left. An overhead sign read Cole Harbor/Shearwater/Eastern Shore. A mile past it, Kaufman took Exit 7E and went up around the loop to Portland Street. He continued through two sets of lights and pulled into a strip mall. Only a few cars were in the parking lot.

  Seth stopped at the curb, watching Kaufman get out of his car and jog to the doors of a Dooly’s pool hall. As he disappeared inside, Seth checked the dash clock—9:42. He wondered when the place closed. Midnight? One o’clock? Would Kaufman even stay that late? It didn’t matter. He would have to come home at some point and Seth would be there waiting for him.

  Seth drove away, brooding over the scene to come. The rain weakened to a steady shower by the time he reached Kaufman’s neighborhood again. He circled the block a couple of times, looking around. Where, he wondered, would be a safe place to park?

  He found a spot on Jackson Road, in front of a vacant lot where, he guessed, a house once stood. Weeds infested the property. Here and there, Seth could see patches of an asphalt driveway slowly being consumed by grass.

  In many regards, the road mirrored Primrose Street—trees, smaller homes intermingled with apartment buildings. Across the street, a white house sat on the corner of Robert Burns Drive and Jackson Road. Two triple-deckers were on the other side of it. Seth focused on the second one up. It was set back from the road about ten yards with a short white fence edging the sidewalk in front.

  Seth shut the engine off and the windshield quickly filled with water. He convinced himself the car should be fine here. It was far enough away from the surrounding buildings that no one would be able to distinguish the make, let alone the license plate. His only fear was a cop driving by might stop to check out a seemingly abandoned vehicle left on the side of the road.

  He had to take the chance. If he used the parking lot of one of the apartment buildings, someone might see him drive in or out. They might remember it when the cops came around asking questions.

  Seth got out, looking up and down the road. He didn’t see anyone so he grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat and slung it over his shoulder. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his raincoat, he crossed the road to the sidewalk.

  The night air was steamy. Above him the low sky churned a soupy mix of black and gray. Thunder rumbled somewhere off in the distance. Heavier drops of rain began to fall.

  Seth reached the triple-decker with the white fence. On the west side of it, a long parking lot stretched back to a dark stand of trees. A light breeze swayed the branches and through them he spied the lighted windows of Kaufman’s building.

  Walking toward the back of the lot, he kept his head down. On the black asphalt, puddles sparkled and bubbled under the rain.

  Seth made his way past two dumpsters, across a short strip of grass, and into the cover of trees. It was dark in there, almost pitch-black. He waited a couple of minutes until his eyes adjusted. Branches became vague shapes. Leaves dripped and fluttered.

  Carefully, he worked through to the other side and stood in the shadows of the tree line. A shiny patch of grass stretched about twenty feet in front of him. Beyond it was the parking lot behind Kaufman’s apartment building. Every light was on, the tenants still up. The PT Cruiser wasn’t back yet.

  Seth stared at the dark garbage dumpster on the edge of the lot, and his eyes narrowed to slits. What a perfect hiding place. Crouched low, he jotted across the grass. He unslung the duffel bag from his shoulder, set it on the ground, and took out the Santoku knife. Putting it in the pocket of his raincoat, he hoped he wouldn’t cut himself when it came time to use it.

  He sat down on the lip of a cement pad and pressed his back against the dumpster. He waited and waited while the intensity of the rain changed several times around him—downpour to a shower to a fine mist to a downpour again. The wind sprang up and found its voice. Occasionally, lightning flashed in the black clouds and thunder growled, vibrating right through his body.

  Seth heard the thump of a door closing. The sound of wet footsteps grew clearer, closer. Seth tensed, a cold sensation creeping up the back of his neck. The hinges of the dumpster lid grated as someone lifted it and tossed in a garbage bag. The lid dropped back down with a loud bang.

  Heart pounding, Seth waited for the footsteps to leave. They didn’t. In the periphery of his vision, he saw movement at the corner of the dumpster, and his eyes rolled toward it.

  The shirtless man had skin so pale it almost glowed in the dark. His head was lowered to the light rain. He raised his hands and his face lit up briefly by the flare of a lighter.

  Muscles taut, Seth watched him smoking a cigarette. He dared not move or make a sound. Barely three feet separated them. If the man turned, he might see Seth hiding there.

  He dropped the butt and it fizzed on the wet pavement. Turning around, he walked away. Seth listened to the fading footsteps, then the thump of a door closing again. He tipped his head back against the dumpster and let out a long breath.

  It wasn’t long after that when he heard a car. Lights washed over the backyard, spilling to the left. Seth edged to the end of the dumpster and peeked around the corner. When he saw the PT Cruiser backing into a vacant spot, his mouth went dry.

  He groped for the zipper of the duffel bag, brought out the shotgun, and pushed off the safety. He touched the pocket of his raincoat to reassure himself the knife was still there.

  The sky let off a growl. The rain fell harder.

  Seth looked around the dumpster again. The car was fully parked. The headlights went out and the driver’s door swung open.

  Adrenaline coursed through Seth’s body. His heart began to pound with fast, heavy beats. This was it. The moment he had longed for. He held all the cards: surprise and a gun.

  Kaufman stepped out of the car, his body picking up the interior lights. He shut the door and he went dark, a shadow. As he began walking toward the apartment building, Seth rose to his feet and came out from behind the dumpster. He aimed the shotgun low and gave an abrupt whistle.

  Kaufman stopped. Slowly, he turned around and Seth pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was bright; the boom ripped through the air and echoed off the buildings. Nothing at the range had prepared him for how loud it would be—his ears had always been plugged—and it stunned him for a second or two.

  Kaufman dropped to the pavement in a heap, writhing and screaming. Seth set down the shotgun and pulled out the knife. He leapt on top of Kaufman, grabbing him by the back of his head and lifting his face up toward him. Kaufman gritted his teeth, moaning. He seemed paralyzed by the pain.

  “Look at me,” Seth said. “Look at me.”

  Kaufman blinked through the rain. “You.”

  “Me,” Seth said.

  And thrust the blade straight through Kaufman’s eye.<
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  36

  Dartmouth, June 14

  1:14 a.m.

  At their cores, the murders were similar. This time the suspect had used the shotgun. This time he had plunged a knife into his victim’s skull instead of an axe.

  The scene was a dark, unlit parking lot in back of two three-deckers on Primrose Street in Dartmouth. People stood at surrounding windows, brought out of their beds by the lights and sirens.

  Rain dripped off the hood of Allan’s jacket as he squatted down and directed his flashlight over the body. Blake Kaufman lay on his back in the middle of the lot with his hips torqued to the side and one leg bent over the other. His arms were splayed across the wet pavement and the fingers of his right hand looked as if they were reaching for the set of keys two feet away. His face, frozen in a painful grimace, stared straight up at the roiling sky. Rainwater had filled his open mouth and ran out in rivulets down the sides of his jaw.

  Allan directed the beam over the black handle sticking out of the left eye. The handle resembled that of the chef knife he had at home in the kitchen drawer, only a bit smaller. He paused a moment, considering it. The axe. The knife. The suspect had chosen weapons from his own home?

  On further inspection of the body, Allan saw a ragged tear in the right knee of the jeans caused by a single shotgun blast. He counted three fliers—single pellet holes—around the edge of the entrance hole, indicating the shot mass had started to spread. This told him the suspect had fired at a distance, possibly over ten feet.

  Beneath Kaufman’s mangled leg, Allan noticed the white plastic wad from the shotgun shell and he nodded to himself. At a closer range of five feet or less, the entrance hole in the jeans would appear squarer with no fliers and the wad itself would fly into the wound tract.

  Allan played the beam around the parking lot, under the vehicles, looking for the profile of an empty shotgun shell. But the light reflecting on the raindrops and slick asphalt made it hard to detect anything. Better to search at daybreak. Natural light always worked best.