Grave Situation

  Grave Situation

  By Alex MacLean

  Halifax cop Allan Stanton is a troubled homicide detective who has lost everything, including his family and his sense of justice. When he finally decides to leave the force and start over, he's assigned a string of murders that all bear the signs of a serial killer collecting trophies.

  As Stanton unravels each grisly crime scene, the mounting evidence points uncomfortably close to him, forcing him to confront a past he'd rather forget--and a dangerous future when the killer targets Stanton himself.

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Alex MacLean

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Edited by Bethany Beard

  Cover Art by Kip Ayers

  e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

  For my grandmother,

  Elizabeth Mary Gould

  1910 – 2003

  My uncle,

  Ralph Joseph Gould

  1940 – 1996

  You will be forever in my heart.

  And for my mother, Frances Mary Lynds, for everything

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 Chapter 31

  Chapter 2 Chapter 32

  Chapter 3 Chapter 33

  Chapter 4 Chapter 34

  Chapter 5 Chapter 35

  Chapter 6 Chapter 36

  Chapter 7 Chapter 37

  Chapter 8 Chapter 38

  Chapter 9 Chapter 39

  Chapter 10 Chapter 40

  Chapter 11 Chapter 41

  Chapter 12 Chapter 42

  Chapter 13 Chapter 43

  Chapter 14 Chapter 44

  Chapter 15 Chapter 45

  Chapter 16 Chapter 46

  Chapter 17 Chapter 47

  Chapter 18 Chapter 48

  Chapter 19 Chapter 49

  Chapter 20 Chapter 50

  Chapter 21 Chapter 51

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  1

  The only way to escape the abyss is to look at it, gauge it, sound it out, and descend into it.

  Cesare Pavese

  Halifax, May 7

  12:23 p.m.

  All hope of solving the case seemed gone.

  Alone in his office, Lieutenant Allan Stanton slapped the report down on the desk in front of him.

  “Goddamn it,” he cursed, shaking his head.

  With a slow exhalation, Allan loosened his tie and sat back in his chair. Self-doubt and frustration warred inside him.

  So where does this leave me?

  He stared at the manila envelope sticking out from under a heap of folders on the corner of the desk. The Ident photos were in there, he knew, one glossy indecency after another.

  He leaned forward, pulled it out, and reached inside. The photos felt slick beneath his fingertips as he spread them over his desk. He picked one up and scrutinized the photo of the ravaged body for clues.

  “What have I overlooked, Mary?” he whispered.

  Captured in the gruesome image, Mary Driscow lay supine on the forest floor, arms spread out from her sides. Tight curls of strawberry-blonde hair surrounded her swollen face. Her emerald eyes were dilated and fixed wide in a look of terror; the whites were reddened by scleral hemorrhages. Her lips were parted, drooping at the corners into a slight frown. A ligature mark encircled her neck with the two ends crisscrossing just below the chin.

  A female jogger found the body near Shore Road in Point Pleasant Park on a crisp October morning seven months ago.

  Mary had been raped and murdered.

  Allan set the picture down. He felt caught in a crosscurrent of emotions—sadness when he visualized Mary in her final moments, hatred for the murderer who had subjected her to such a horrible death, sorrow for her parent’s irreplaceable loss, and shame at his own inability to close the case.

  He pushed back from the desk and walked to the window. The city buzzed with energy—traffic streaming down Gottingen Street and an ethnic mix of pedestrians clumped together at a crosswalk waiting for a walk light. Through the pane of glass came the honk of an impatient driver.

  Off to the left a green hill gently rose to the Halifax Citadel, a star-shaped fort that had once been built to fend off invaders.

  A knock came at his door and Captain Thorne entered the room. At fifty-one, he was thick-framed and mild-mannered. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, his high forehead split in the middle by a widow’s peak.

  Without preface, he said, “Henderson told me the lab sent over Gary Strickland’s DNA results this morning.”

  Allan went to the desk and lifted a sheaf of papers. “Just got them myself. Strickland isn’t our man.”

  Thorne read and an expression of disappointment crossed his face as he reached the end.

  “It’s a damn shame,” he said. “You know, the Driscow case isn’t looking very promising.”

  Allan knew that all too well. Seven months of work filled his office—stacks of boxes filled with diagrams, supplementary reports, canvass reports, witness statements, suspect files, handwritten notes, lab and autopsy results, as well as aerial photos of Point Pleasant Park. Allan had done all he could as lead investigator. Now there remained only one option—wait and hope a new suspect surfaced.

  Thorne put down the DNA results. His eyes narrowed and he gave Allan a long cool appraisal. “You okay?”

  Allan gazed into his face. “Not really, Captain. I’m pissed off and disappointed. I keep feeling I’ve overlooked something. And I wasted these past two months hoping Gary Strickland was my man.”

  Thorne sat on the corner of the desk, as if settling in for a long conversation. “We all go through this.”

  Allan folded his arms. “Yeah, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Don’t start beating yourself up, Al. You have a homicide with no witnesses. And the suspect and victim don’t appear to have known each other. You were fucked right from the start. On the other hand, you have a wealth of DNA evidence to send the suspect to prison for many years once he goes to trial. He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.” Thorne walked for the door and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest. You look tired.”

  Allan watched the door close and then he stared at the phone on his desk. Slowly, he picked it up and stabbed at numbers. He swallowed once, clearing his throat. The dial tone became ringing. One. Two. Three. Allan braced himself for the answering
voice.

  “Hello,” Joyce Driscow said.

  Allan sat down. “Mrs. Driscow. This is Lieutenant Allan Stanton.”

  “Oh yes,” she said promptly, “the detective. It’s been a while since we last spoke.”

  “Nearly two months.”

  “Have you made an arrest?”

  Allan winced at the sudden spark of hope in her voice. “Not yet. But I haven’t given up.”

  He heard the pain in Joyce’s sigh. He pictured her as he had last seen her nearly a month after the murder—eyes bruised with sleeplessness, face gaunt and drawn, a woman nearly inarticulate with grief. He wondered how much worse she looked now.

  “I thought you might’ve been calling with some information.”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  There was silence. “Then why did you call?” she asked in a dull tone.

  “To see how you and Bill were making out. I often think about you.”

  “It’s been tough, Lieutenant. Nothing in life prepares you for the death of your child.” She paused and her voice became swollen with sadness. “Mary’s birthday was last month. She would’ve been twenty-three.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Allan stared at the photos of Mary on his desk. “Has that counselor been a help at all?”

  “Very much so. Thanks for the recommendation. Friends and family have helped a great deal too. But some days are better than others. It’s hard knowing you’ll never see, hold or speak to your child again. In the natural order of life, it’s me who’s supposed to go first.”

  The words left a hole in Allan’s heart. He wanted to promise Joyce he’d do everything in his power to find this man, to help bring some small measure of closure to her, but realistically he knew he couldn’t do that. Soon enough there would be a new victim, a new group of survivors. He would be forced to move on from Mary Driscow, but her parents would be with her until the end.

  “If there are any new developments, you’ll be the first to hear,” he told her. “If, for any reason, you need someone just to talk to, please feel free to call me anytime.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Take care, Mrs. Driscow.”

  “Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

  Allan put down the phone. For a long time, he just sat there, slumped in his chair. He knew with quiet chagrin that unless some promising tip came in soon, the Mary Driscow case would be filed away with the rest of the cold case files.

  He looked at the pile of photos on his desk again. They weren’t going to reveal something he failed to notice before. No matter how many times he studied them, the same young woman with the same forlorn look gazed back.

  One by one, he put the photos back inside the manila envelope. Then he picked a pen and, after a few corrections, began to draft his report.

  2

  Acresville, May 8

  7:25 p.m.

  God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

  After he opened his eyes, he gazed down at the hunting knife in his calloused hand and struggled to imagine the role it would play in the job ahead. Once completed, he would leave behind all that defined who he had been.

  He found it eerie to hold the instrument responsible for changing the course of his life—a specter from his darkest past that now shadowed him with foreboding. Eighteen years ago, some other person—desperate, trapped by circumstance—had used this knife. Once more, he felt, that same person would use it again.

  Shirtless in overalls, he sat on the top step of his veranda, forearms resting on his knees. Through the screen door behind him came the sounds of a radio—music, news of a world in turmoil, a promise of more hot weather.

  The lower part of the sun seemed to touch the top of the mountain range. Here and there, wisps of cirrus clouds streaked the sky, white brush strokes on blue.

  Earlier, the day burned bright and hot, the air so heavy with humidity it wrung sweat from pores. Shimmering waves had risen off pavement, off rooftops. Though many fine residents of the province reveled in the unseasonable heat wave, he preferred the wind and the rain. The kind of weather that made people hurry along with their necks sunk between their upturned collars, the kind of weather when no one would bother to stop to take notice of what other people were doing—the kind of weather that would make his job tonight a lot easier.

  Beside him lay a large rectangular block of novaculite mounted to a cedar base. Already wet with mineral oil, the stone’s surface glistened in the waning light. With slow deliberation, he moved the knife’s cutting edge across the stone in a sweeping arc, following the curve of the blade. After ten passes, he flipped the knife over and repeated the procedure on the other side. When he finished, he carefully ran his thumb across the blade, testing its sharpness. A smile of satisfaction formed on his lips.

  Perfect.

  He fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and cleaned the grit off the blade and stone before putting everything aside.

  He rose to his feet and stepped down off the porch onto the grass. The front lawn was deep, not very wide with a stone walk and a pair of large maple trees. The sprawling farmhouse had fallen into neglect. It cried for a fresh coat of paint, repairs to the roof.

  He stared out at Acresville in the distance. From here, the entire town could be seen—a postcard village tucked amidst the Cobequid Mountains. It was a rural community that bred wholesome values, where religion and a person’s name meant something.

  His gaze traced a line to where his driveway climbed a slight grade to the open end of a barn next to the house. There were some pigeons inside, feeding on the grain strewn across the cement floor. In the silence he could hear others cooing from the overhead loft.

  He took slow steps to the backyard and stopped at a heavy iron gate hinged on one side to a thick wooden post. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smells of manure, silage and wood. Beyond the gate lay rolling pastures of green, divided into three sections by barbed wire fences. The hills cast lengthening shadows and a steady silent wind rode over the slopes, gently pushing the grass in currents.

  Off to his left, another gate opened to a feedlot next to the barn. A metal trough sat in the middle. Cattle tracks rutted the soil around it.

  Staring at them, he swallowed over a lump in his throat. He turned back to the pastures and gazed across the open expanse. For the first time in his memory, the farm seemed depressingly empty.

  Dairying hadn’t been his first choice in life. Growing up, his ambitions were simple—leave Acresville and put the place behind him forever. Then one fateful autumn day had changed all that. Consequences, in turn, would keep him from leaving.

  He placed both hands on the gate and lowered his head. For a moment, his eyes grew distant with the relived tragedy. The sense of loss was still palpable as he recalled the livestock transporter pulling away with the last of his cattle.

  The headline “Local Farmer Fined For Dirty Dairying” still haunted him. In his paranoia, he imagined the local townspeople laughing at him, a target of ridicule, much like he had been as a child.

  A slow, sick anger welled up inside him and his grip tightened on the gate. He raised his chin in defiance. He mustn’t dwell on what had happened. To do so would only drive him crazy. It was time for a new beginning—the end of one life, the start of another.

  He returned to the front of the house and gathered up his things from the step. Then he went inside, the screen door bouncing off the jamb behind him. He crossed the living room to the kitchen. On the table lay a black leather sheath. After picking it up, he slid the knife into it.

  A black duffel bag rested on the floor. He had it already packed with everything he needed to complete tonight’s job: cuticle scissors, a spoon, a small mason jar filled with a watery preservative, rags for cleanup, and a flashlight. He put the knife inside the bag and zipped it.

  He began to pace the floor in tight circles, nervous, unsure of how everything would
turn out. To calm himself, he poured a glassful of whiskey and walked to the kitchen counter. Peering out the window that overlooked the backyard, he saw the last edge of sun had nearly retreated behind the mountains, leaving the horizon tinged red and indigo.

  Soon the sky would dim to gray.

  Soon it would be time for someone to die.

  3

  Halifax, May 8

  17:15 p.m.

  Allan felt tired, discouraged even, as he drove home. Earlier that afternoon, departmental brass decided to put the Mary Driscow case on the back burner. Allan would continue to review any new information as it materialized.

  A sense of failure lingered—a murderer still walked the streets. Allan saw a long road ahead before he would be able to live with the frustrations and ambiguities of the investigation. He’d never put so much effort into solving a case. Yet it seemed the greater the effort, the greater the frustration.

  Traffic was bumper to bumper. Inching his way west along Cogswell Street, Allan looked at the pedestrians on the sidewalks. Men and women in T-shirts, tank tops and shorts. Businessmen in suits. Off to the right on the North Common, oiled bodies tanned on blankets. Kids tossed a Frisbee back and forth. Everyone seemed to be out enjoying the nice weather. Everyone but him.

  After edging into the outer lane, Allan cut south onto Robie Street. In moments, he reached Garden Street—a neighborhood of mature trees and well-tended lawns.

  Home sweet home, he thought moodily.

  He turned into the paved drive of his two-story home and cut the engine. He stepped out and squinted into the late afternoon sun. The smell of someone’s barbecue wafted in the air. Children’s shrill laughter came from next door.