A Dream of Death

by Harrison Drake

  My body arches through the air, careening off of the trees in its path until it hits the ground. Yet, I am no longer a part of my body. I watch from above as the calamity unfolds.

  My body bounces and rolls to a stop. I hover around my lifeless body inspecting the damage: a gash on the head, too many scrapes and cuts to count, the right forearm bent at an unnatural angle.

  Hours pass, my ethereal self beside the corporeal one. I watch as bruises form and scabs cover the wounds and for a moment, a brief second, I see the body as it was many years ago. A young boy lying battered and broken on the forest floor. I look at my hands and see the tired and thickened skin, the light covering of hair, and the dry and cracking knuckles and know that I, this I, remain the same.

  The body flashes young again, injuries healing and a cast on the arm. Electricity runs through my form, sparks dance on my skin and my hair stands on end. I touch my right arm lightly with the index finger of my left and watch a trail of sparks fill the path as I pull my finger away.

  And then I begin to fade. But I see my body stirring, coming back to life. Its eyelids twitch and just as the eyes are about to open I snap back into the body looking at the canopy of trees above me.

  And for the first time I feel pain. It tears through me and tempts me with death, an end to the pain and peace at last. The pain is everywhere, constant and unyielding. Even the uninjured areas burn hotter than stoked coals.

  I try to get up, my arms under my chest in an attempt to raise myself to my knees. My broken right arm gives out under me and I crumble back to the ground. An unnatural sound is the prelude to a scream that brings the birds out of the trees and into the sun-drenched sky. I roll to my back and use my good arm to raise myself to a seated position. A small tree acts as a crutch and helps me to my feet.

  At first all my eyes do is wander, my purpose forgotten. My mind has been washed clean and I no longer recall where I am or how I got here. My eyes scan the world and try to find something that will jog my memory. There is nothing. A glade of trees with no end in sight and nothing out of the ordinary save for a glimmering light in the distance. I begin to walk, the light through the trees drawing me in.

  The light flashes in a pattern, a repeating series of flashes varying in intensity—dim then bright, bright followed by four more dim flashes, then bright and dim, bright, dim and dim again. Within moments I am upon the light, it shines so bright in the midday sun that I must squint to see the outline of an object hanging from the tree. I reach out for the source of the light and grab it with all I have before I reel back in fresh pain and a resurgence of memories.

  A river of blood pours from my hand and bathes the ground below me in crimson. The blood spreads across the forest floor then drifts over exposed roots and around rocks and leaves until not a speck of dirt remains. The flashing light has disappeared now and my focus turns to the object that hangs from a low branch of a large tree as if suspended by an invisible thread.

  It is a hunting knife with a wooden handle. Fresh blood drips from the tip of the already blood-stained silver blade. The blood drips off one slow drop after another causing a hollow sound from the ground beneath the knife. I follow the path of the drops to the forest floor below and know that what lies at my feet was what I had come to find: a human skull half buried in the crimson dirt, drops of blood landing on the center of its forehead.

  Thunder crashes above me and heavy rain breaks through the trees. The blood is washed from the skull and the dirt returns to its original hue. The sky is all but black now, thick clouds blot out the sun.

  A phone rings and my hand reaches for my belt by instinct but comes up empty. I check my pockets with no better luck before noticing my bedside table sitting at the base of the tree. The skull looks up at me then looks at the table where my phone now sits.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  —3—

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” my wife said as she nudged me in the ribs.

  It took me a moment to shake loose the remnants of images that still haunted me. I reached out and grabbed the phone from the table beside my bed.

  “Detective Munroe,” I tried to say, although it didn’t come out quite clear.

  “Detective Munroe?”

  Must not have been clear at all. “Yes.”

  “This is Constable James Petersen. I’m in Belmont, we’ve had another.”

  “It’s 3:30am,” I said, red numbers staring me down from across the room.

  “I know, the husband came home from work early. Everything matches though, at least with what I know. You should get here soon though—victim’s husband is a cop, St. Thomas Police. He’s not taking it well. I’ve got a Sergeant with me and they’re sending one of theirs but, Detective, I think you need to be here. ASAP.”

  “Give me the address.”

  I scribbled the address, directions and Constable’s cell phone number on a pad of paper I kept at the bedside for this very reason. I debated going in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt but I knew this would be an all-day affair culminating in a stint in front of the press cameras. Yesterday’s suit was hanging on the closet door, and although the shirt was in need of pressing it would be covered as long as I left the jacket on.

  Dressed, gun unlocked, loaded and strapped on, teeth brushed, wife kissed, note left and out the door within five minutes of hanging up the phone. Not bad, Lincoln, not bad. I reset the security alarm, locked the doors and hopped into my ‘official police vehicle’—a family-owned Honda Odyssey complete with booster seats, juice stains and a Disney Princess CD turned up far too loud. I rocked out for a moment, singing with Pocahontas and her colourful winds, a lame attempt at waking myself up before hitting the open roads. Once I was satisfied that my tone-deaf singing had done the trick I turned off the stereo and dialed Detective Inspector Jane McCaffrey, the woman in charge of this entire investigation. I filled her in on the news and was told to bring Kara along, something I intended to do regardless. My next call was to a zombified Kara. I understood enough of her near-incoherent mumbling to know she got the address and would see me there.

  After that it was simple—drive as fast as possible without breaking the province’s “fifty kilometres an hour over the limit and we seize your car and licence” law. Even police weren’t exempt from that one, despite a clause allowing speeding by a police officer in lawful execution of his or her duties. The speedometer sat at a decent forty over as I drove down streets devoid of all traffic but the occasional cab. Luckily London Police weren’t showing the flag at all tonight, dealing with too much call volume to focus on monitoring what little traffic existed.

  I took a swig from a half full can of Coke that had been sitting in the van for an indeterminate amount of time and marveled at both its urine-like temperature and water-like lack of carbonation. At least it was still caffeinated.

  I planned my route as I drove and did my best to minimize the number of traffic lights that could slow me down. If I had an actual police vehicle, equipped with lights flashing three-hundred and sixty degrees and a siren then I could come to a stop and proceed if safe. Oh well. Being pulled over was too much of a risk to take, too much of a delay when hell was breaking loose.

  Forty minutes from my driveway to the crime scene—decent time. Four white and black OPP cruisers and a matching SUV were parked out front, lights flashing in all directions. Two white and blue St. Thomas cruisers sat just down the street. I parked behind the St. Thomas cruiser bearing “Supervisor” and walked up to the scene, badge in hand.

  “Detective Munroe,” I said to the officer guarding the front of the residence. He was of Middle Eastern descent, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and looked younger thanks to a clean-shaven face. He looked as though he had gotten lost on his way to a college costume party.

  He nodded his head and noted my name on the crime scene registry with the time of my arrival. 4:17 a.m.

  A faint accent as he spoke, “They’re inside, sir”.r />
  I gave a light knock on the door, a warning to anyone standing behind it, and opened it inward. Not a sound. A bit of oil and not a soul would hear the door open. If it was the killer who oiled it, he didn’t miss a detail.

  “Munroe. Glad you’re here.” The deep yet upbeat voice was unmistakable, Sergeant Marcus O’Connell.

  “Big Red, been a while.” At just over six-foot-three and two-hundred and fifty pounds of imposing, red-headed Irishman, O’Connell’s nickname was inevitable. Then he solidified the moniker with his fondness for the cinnamon flavoured gum of the same name, gum he was chewing as he spoke.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Victim is a Jocelyn Dupuis, age twenty-six. Husband is a St. Thomas PD Constable, Derek Franchini, twenty-seven.”

  I watched the motion of his jaw as he worked his gum, the angular lines moving up and down like a metronome. The red gum was visible between his teeth and a faint snapping sound emanated from his always open mouth.

  “Red?”

  He looked in my direction, his jaw still. “Yeah?”

  “Lose the gum, swallow it or something. You know how much DNA you’re spreading around, chewing like that?”

  Red laughed. “Too much I guess.” He swallowed hard. “By the way, Lincoln, you’re an ass.”

  “Something we’ll always agree on.” I clapped him on the back. The sound of my hand on his body armour reverberated through the room. “Let me take a look around and then you can tell me what you know and show me to the victim.”

  Red stood by as I made my way through the modern home, an open concept main floor adorned with rich hardwood and faux-marble tile. Bright and clean stainless steel appliances stood in stark contrast to the nearly pure white countertops. The furniture was eclectic, a mix of the new, the old and the borrowed that was often seen in a couple’s first house: a mismatched couch and chair, his and hers from before they met; a coffee table that looked like the protégé of my desk, ring-shaped stains beginning to multiply on its surface (likely his); and vases and artwork and other décor items (likely hers) that provided that lived in feel. They were planning on staying.

  The sod outside was bright green and still showed its seams, a mosaic of grass that had yet to grow together. A single layer of asphalt formed the driveway. They couldn’t have been in the home for more than a couple of months, but the house was loved, decorated and adorned with photos of the young and happy couple together. Those passing through do little to the home, fearful of putting holes in the wall that they may have to repair later, fearful of becoming too comfortable in a temporary space. Those who intend to stay make their house a home.

  There were no wedding pictures on display—a couple living the sinner’s life as my wife and I had done. Religion would not play a key part in their lives, at least not to an extent of following every rule. I saw no religious artifacts or artwork on display as I wandered through the main floor past the living area and into the kitchen and dining area. Everything was clean and well-ordered—not white glove clean but real life clean. Both would be wage earners, too little time to devote to a spotless life. They had not been together long—pictures together were on prominent display, fresh roses sat in a vase on the counter, a “just because” card nestled gently between the flowers.

  A black wooden knife block sat on the countertop beside the black and stainless microwave. Numerous handles sprouted from the block—bread knives and cleavers, a santoku, a sharpener and various other large knives as well as a set of eight steak knives. One empty spot in the block glared at me.

  I opened the fridge and was greeted by the usual items: low fat yogurt, skim milk, bottles of water, fresh fruit and vegetables, diet Coke; everything a young and health conscious couple could want. That and a dozen beers lined up neatly against the left side of the fridge, labels all turned out. I looked back at everything else and saw it all to be the same way, labels facing out, vegetables and fruit separated and laid out in the crispers to maximize space and keep the food from being crushed by other items.

  He was a police officer, that I knew. A trained observer, forced to be meticulous in his reports or face the ire of a savvy defense lawyer or judge. But this behaviour was uncommon, at least for any police officers I knew. So she suffered from a degree of OCD—it couldn’t be him with his stained coffee table—and worked somewhere where she had to be perfect, where things had to be neat and ordered or at least could be without anyone believing it to be anything more than a good work ethic. Accounting, secretarial work, finances, or even retail would be the most likely options.

  Finished with the main floor I made my way upstairs and entered the first door on my left, as I always did. Maybe I had a degree of OCD myself (an odd form that didn’t extend to my desk), although following a set pattern in every residence I searched made my notes more clear, showed consistency and led to much easier testimony in court. The third bedroom, I assumed, had been turned into an office. A single bookshelf sat beside a glass desk surmounted by an old computer. The books varied from bestselling fiction to old university and college texts, a mix of police-related books and accountancy and business texts. Hunting magazines, women’s magazines, and a Bible were tucked in between the fiction. One was religious, one was not, and the religious one felt the need to hide their beliefs. I thought of my wife again. I assumed the Bible belonged to him. She had an analytical mind and would consider herself too rational to believe in a higher power.

  The computer was off and a thin layer of dust sat on the keyboard. Now that everyone had cellphones capable of receiving e-mail, surfing the internet, receiving news updates, Tweeting, Facebooking, blogging, whatever, computers were falling by the wayside.

  I was beginning to leave the room when I noticed the closet door slightly open, the crack filled by a dark green massive object just behind the door: a gun locker. It had been opened since he got home, a single bloody fingerprint sat on the dial.

  “Red, call in and get a CFRO check done,” I said shocking him as I broke my contemplative silence. “I need to know what he has. He’s a hunter so there’ll be a few long guns in there. Find out if he has a pistol.”

  Red nodded and went downstairs to use his phone where he wouldn’t disturb my search.

  Next was the spare bedroom, decorated in a Spartan, anonymous manner and not disturbed. Nothing here to pique my interest.

  The bathroom yielded little information—his and hers hair products, razors and toothbrushes confirmed that two people lived here. Colour-safe shampoo and conditioner did tell me that the young blonde haired girl in the photos throughout the house was lying to the world. A bottle of contact solution sat on the counter, an expiration date far in the future. I assumed it to be hers. A minimum of twenty-forty vision uncorrected is required to be a police officer in Ontario. Did she wear glasses? Would she have been able to see her attacker in the dark?

  I went back into the hall and into the master bedroom. The gruesome sight greeted me, the body moved from its macabre tableau on the bed and down to the floor in a failed attempt at resuscitation. The signs of death were obvious, but regardless, he had to try.

  The body looked like all the others, stripped nude, lividity in the legs and buttocks, the telltale strip of flesh removed from the neck. A bloody knife, a visual match to those in the block in the kitchen, sat on the bedside table. Above the knife I saw something I could not believe I had missed, my tunnel vision upon entering the room had kept me locked on the body. Red would have told me about it if I hadn’t silenced him before surveying the house, then sent him to make the call to our records department.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know” was written on the wall above the bedside table. In red. At first, I took to be blood, but it was far too thick and far too smooth. Cautious steps brought me around the body and to the message the killer had left behind.

  Lipstick. Red lipstick. The writing was sloppy, but the thickness o
f the lipstick was nearly uniform. It was not scrawled in haste but done with an effort to be sloppy, using the weak hand. The killer was calm under fire. Whatever the reason he saw fit to leave the note, he thought it out, using his weak hand to avoid a potential match via handwriting analysis. I knew there was little to be gained from the scene aside from this message. The body and its environs would yield no clues, no evidence. A Forensics team would pick through everything in due time, searching for traces of blood or fibres that could be used to identify the killer. They would find nothing.

  I was more interested in the note.

  Something had changed the game, something had made the killer think twice about what he had done. Remorse. It was the first glimpse into the killer’s fragile psyche that we had been given since all this began.

  I looked around, past the crime to the room itself. It was as expected, neat and tidy with only a couple of articles of men’s clothing on the floor. The tops of the dressers bore more pictures, small souvenirs from various foreign locales and a small LCD television. Each bedside table had a lamp and a book on it, the newest Harry Potter on hers and an old Robert Ludlum on his. Her side had the alarm clock and a pair of glasses. I checked my watch and found the clock to be only a minute slow.

  Something had triggered him. We had no evidence that he searched the residences so it must have been in plain sight. He had either hidden it or taken it with him.

  Unless it was something she had said.

  But would he still have killed her then?

  To protect himself, perhaps.

  There was no sign of a struggle. It must have been something he realized after she was dead. Something on the nightstand where he put the knife.