Grave Situation Page 19

  The morning sun, brightening, hit his face through the kitchen window. As Herb squinted out at the rolling pastures, he found himself remembering with terrible clarity a little boy and his dog plunging through the cornfield that used to be there.

  “C’mon, Jessie,” the boy called out, maneuvering his way through the stalks of young corn.

  The family dog, a black and white cocker spaniel, was close behind him, bounding and frolicking tirelessly.

  The day was clear and sun-washed with a modest wind.

  Suddenly, the boy became aware the dog was no longer following him.

  “Jessie?”

  He staggered around in an erratic circle, searching. Every direction looked the same—row upon row of stalks.

  He whistled sharply and waited, expecting the dog to come leaping out of nowhere.

  Seconds passed.

  A minute.

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, the boy called out, “Jessie. Here, boy.”

  Still the spaniel didn’t come.

  Often the dog would wander off with its nose to the ground, chasing the scent of some animal that had passed through the cornfield. The little boy thought this to be one of those times.

  “Jessie.”

  A moment later, the boy began to search for the dog.

  Retracing his route, he eventually saw the spaniel through gaps in the stalks.

  “There you are.”

  The dog turned and looked at the approaching boy. Gave a wag of its tail and then turned back, its floppy ears alert.

  “What is it?”

  The boy lapsed into silence, listening. He could hear something faint, but distinct. Interspersed with the wind hissing through the maize, it sounded like a voice.

  The cornstalks were just over the boy’s head. On tiptoes he craned his neck, looking out and over the tops. Nearly gasped when he saw a figure high above the golden sea of gently moving tassels—the scarecrow his father had put up to keep away the crows.

  So far, it hadn’t done a good job.

  The scarecrow was tied to a wooden crucifix. Beneath a tattered hat that slouched over a burlap face, a few straws were poking out where the boy’s mother had stitched a sad mouth. Bird droppings pocked the checkered shirt and gray coveralls that clothed its hay-filled body.

  When the boy’s gaze trailed past the scarecrow, he saw his father standing at the edge of the field. The words coming from his mouth were lost in the wind, but his gestures alone told the boy that he was furious about something.

  The boy’s heart began thrashing. He wondered if his father was drunk again because that meant only bad things were going to happen.

  The boy spun around, searching wildly for an escape. At the far end of the cornfield lay a tightly choked stand of trees. To the right were rolling pastures and grazing cows; to the left, the west pasture and its timothy that had yet to be hayed.

  There was nowhere to run. His father would only find him. And then he would be in deeper trouble.

  Slowly, the boy started back through the corn with fear growing inside him. His legs were like lead. In his paranoia he imagined the terrible beating awaiting him and felt sick to his stomach.

  Within minutes he emerged from the cornfield. His father stood just inside the fence, meaty hands balled at his sides. He wore a thick beard and moustache, and a red and black flannel shirt that reminded the boy of Paul Bunyan.

  With panic gripping his heart, the boy walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. His mouth felt dry.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  For a long moment, the man didn’t move or speak. Just bored his eyes into his son with a fiery intensity. Unable to control his nervousness, the boy began to fidget.

  All at once, the man spat, “You little shit.”

  He came forward in a rush and grabbed hold of his son’s shirt. The boy could feel the seam tear under one arm as his father yanked him forward and thrust his contorted face close to his. A prominent vein stood out in the center of his forehead.

  “Didn’t I tell you to clean out the parlor when I went to town?” The smell of whiskey wafted on his breath. “Morceau de merde.”

  Stupefied, he watched his father’s face, reddened by drink and anger. The man had said no such thing before leaving for town.

  The boy choked in a small voice, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  His breathing labored, the man gave his son a heavy-lidded stare.

  At the edge of the cornfield the spaniel watched the pair with its head lowered and tail tucked between its hind legs. The man shifted his gaze to the dog, then back to the boy.

  “Oh, you’re going to be sorry all right,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  He slung the boy against his hip and carried him back to the house in the crook of his arm. Once inside, he hurled his son across the kitchen floor as if he were weightless. With a short cry the boy struck a chair, knocking it over.

  For a long moment, the man stood near the back door. His eyes bored into his son with intensity akin to fury. The boy sat in a huddle, too afraid to move or speak. In the silence, disembodied voices drifted from the living room. His mother, he knew, was watching her soaps. She wouldn’t come to his rescue.

  The boy had learned why over time. No one messed with his father, especially when he’d been drinking. One day some drunk at Gary’s Tavern had and the boy’s father sent him to the hospital. Broken nose. Two missing teeth. Fractured cheekbone.

  The man walked to the refrigerator now, jerked open the door, and brought out a beer. He twisted off the cap and tossed it into the sink. Then he tipped the bottle to his lips, guzzling down the beer until it was gone. He wiped his lips, set the empty bottle on the counter, and then leered at his son again. His nostrils flared and his jaw muscles jumped repeatedly.

  As the boy watched him, his throat moved in convulsive swallows.

  “I’m gonna teach you to never disobey me again,” the man said at last.

  The boy stared at him, not understanding.

  “But I didn’t, Dad.”

  “Shut up,” his father barked.

  A vacant look came across the man’s face. He looked at the doorway leading into the living room, then back to the boy.

  “I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

  The boy froze at something in his father’s voice—a sinister calmness he hadn’t heard before. Still too afraid to move, he watched the man disappear into the living room.

  A moment later, he heard his mother say, “Now where are you going with that?”

  “You just never mind,” his father shot back.

  When the man came back into the kitchen carrying his 30.06 Remington, the boy felt his heart lurch. Without a word, the man reached down and tugged his shaken son off the floor. Together, they went outside to the backyard.

  Herb turned away from the window and shut his eyes.

  Why, he wondered, is this all coming back to me now?

  He wanted another drink, but needed to be able to drive soon. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. 8:43.

  In two minutes the phone rang. With a great reluctance, Herb picked it up.

  “Do you have them?” a voice asked.

  Herb’s gaze moved to the cooler on the table. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Meet me at the same spot in half an hour.”

  31

  Halifax, May 17

  11:36 a.m.

  The patchy breeze and flawless sky made it a perfect day to be out on the water. Nick and Heather Baldwin had spent over two hours sailing their boat off the shores of McNabs Island when they heard something thump along the hull. At first they thought they had struck a piece of driftwood, until Heather went to the starboard side and gasped at what she saw in the murky water. There was a dead body just visible below the surface, floating face down with the limbs hanging beneath. It was a woman, nude and bloated.

  Now, thirty minutes after the discovery, the Underwater Recovery Team anchored their Boston Whaler near the body. As the
boat rocked gently in the waves, Monika Chase braced herself on the gunwale and peered over the side. She was a thirty-four year old police diver who was fit and lean with blonde-haired good looks.

  “I wonder how long she’s been out here?” she asked.

  Her dive partner, Robert Worsley, joined her. He was forty-two, compact with a cordial face, graying hair and a moustache. He had over twenty years of experience as a police diver.

  “Definitely for a while,” he said. “I doubt this is where she entered the water?”

  Chase nodded. “I agree. Things don’t remain stationary out here. Currents are too strong.”

  She assessed the surface conditions of the water—two to three foot waves with little chop. Should be a routine recovery. As Worsley began taking pictures, Chase recorded the position and location of the body in a notebook.

  When she finished, she paused a moment to watch an osprey hovering above the waves halfway between them and the lighthouse on a tiny islet connected to McNabs Island. The bird suddenly plunged into the water feet first and remained there for several seconds before lifting into the air again with a fish gripped within its talons. It flew off toward the island.

  Nice catch.

  Chase got a mesh body bag ready to take with her, unzipping it, folding it in half and then rolling it up tight so most of the air could escape. Worsley retrieved his underwater camera with attached strobe. Then he and Chase went to the port side where they put on their facemasks and fins. Before entering the water, the backup diver made a final check of their equipment and then popped off the dive door for them.

  When he gave the hand signal for ok, Worsley stepped out into the water first, immediately followed by Chase. In unison they disappeared below.

  The water was cold and turbid. The sun’s rays reaching beneath the surface highlighted the curtain of sediment.

  As Chase swam closer to the body, she observed the pair of shoes on the feet, the stockings gathered around the ankles, the dark miniskirt draped around the waist.

  Trixy Ambré?

  Chase couldn’t be sure. She adjusted her buoyancy so she could suspend vertically and then she circled the body, taking in the scavenger activity over different areas. Around her came flashes of Worsley’s camera.

  She dipped under the corpse; the face was bloated and discolored. As her gaze moved to the abrasions around the eye sockets, she became very still. A steady plume of bubbles shot out from the side of her regulator.

  Her eyes are missing.

  She motioned Worsley over to document the injuries with his camera. After he finished, Chase unfolded the mesh bag and carefully began to cover the body with it. Careful not to touch the hands, she tucked the limbs inside, noting the absence of rigor as she did.

  She zipped up the bag around the body, gripped one of the carrying straps, and with Worsley’s help, ascended to the top. As they broke the surface of the water, they made themselves buoyant. They swam toward the boat and the backup diver onboard lowered a Stokes basket over the side to them. Chase and Worsley carefully strapped the body bag inside it and then helped the diver haul the basket in slowly, so the water could drain through the mesh.

  Onboard again, Chase retrieved her cell phone and made two calls.

  The first was to Doctor Coulter, the second to Allan Stanton.

  32

  Halifax, May 17

  2:15 p.m.

  The autopsy viewing room was cool and quiet. Though its purpose was to minimize the shock and smells, in Allan’s experience, it did little good in moments like this.

  He stood beside Philip Ambré in front of a curtained window, waiting for Doctor Coulter to reveal the body of the woman pulled from the Halifax Harbor. Allan was quite certain that the body belonged to Trixy Ambré. He wished that it could be someone else. In two days, he knew, Cathy would be laid to rest. Now here was her father, waiting to learn the fate of his only other daughter.

  In the five days since Cathy’s death, Philip’s appearance had changed dramatically. He looked haggard, diminished and weary. His eyes held a haunted quality and were bruised by dark crescents. Allan couldn’t imagine how hard this had to be for him.

  “I’m sorry to have to put you through this again,” he said.

  Philip lowered his head and then looked up at him with a stoic resolve that Allan knew must be feigned.

  “I know you are,” Philip answered softly.

  A knock came at the door and Doctor Coulter poked his head in. “Are we ready, Lieutenant?”

  Allan gave a slight nod. “All set.”

  As the door closed, Philip inhaled a deep breath and turned to the window with a stiff, grim composure.

  Coulter drew the curtain aside. A body lay on a metal gurney just on the other side of the glass, covered by a white sheet. Coulter walked over to it and then pulled the sheet down to the woman’s upper chest. With merciless clarity, the overhead lights captured the puffy face and the waxen skin that was blotched with dark, irregular patches. Allan noted that Coulter had closed the eyelids to conceal the missing eyes.

  For several minutes, Philip didn’t move, only stared at the woman with his mouth agape.

  I hate this, Allan thought.

  “How…” Philip tried to speak, but his parched voice was lost in a hard swallow. “How does a father not know his own daughter?”

  “You can’t ID her?”

  Philip shook his head. “It’s her face. What’s wrong with it? It looks bloated. And Cynthia never had those huge blemishes before.”

  “It’s from the time she spent in the water,” Allan explained.

  Quiet, Philip’s mouth formed a small “o”.

  “The hair is similar, Lieutenant,” he said after a time. “How many other women do you have missing in the city?”

  Only one this recent, Allan wanted to say.

  “She was found wearing clothes that Cathy had described in the missing persons report,” he told Philip. “But there are other ways of confirming identity. Dental records. Blood tests.”

  Arms folded, Philip turned away, staring at the floor. Moments passed before he looked at Allan again.

  In a tone laced with melancholy, he said, “Cynthia had a diamond-shaped birthmark on the nape of her neck. You should be able to see it under her hairline. If it’s her.”

  Allan left to convey the information to Doctor Coulter. When Allan returned to the viewing room, he stood at the window with Philip and watched Lawrence Sodero turn over the body. Coulter adjusted his glasses and examined the back of the neck. He glanced at the two men in the window and then said something to Sodero. Allan sensed Coulter was hesitating for some reason. At last, he removed his glasses and gave Allan and Philip a solemn nod.

  For what seemed a long time, Philip visibly strived to keep from breaking. Then he lowered his head and emitted a shaky breath. Watching him, Allan could feel the depth of his loss.

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Ambré.”

  Philip’s eyes were moist. “Cynthia and I haven’t spoken to one another in three years,” he murmured. “But I still loved her.”

  Allan looked into his ravaged face. “I know you did.”

  Philip placed a hand on Allan’s arm and squeezed. “Please find the one responsible for this. Bring the fucker to justice.”

  It was a simple plea from an anguished father, Allan realized, yet it filled him with a mix of dread and duty.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” he said.

  Tears ran down Philip’s face now. “I know you will.” He walked toward the door and then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Carol and I would love to see you at Cathy’s service on Wednesday. Can you make it?”

  “I already set time aside for it.”

  Philip nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “If I may,” Allan interrupted, “could I ask you one question?”

  “Anything.”

  “Was Cynthia able to swim?”

  Philip wiped his eyes and sniffled. “No.”
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  “Thank you.”

  Without saying more, Philip left.

  Heartsick, Allan watched the door close behind him. He knew that it would be a tough road ahead for Philip—both daughters gone in the span of a week. How could any father bear the guilt of not having protected either of them?

  With a heavy exhalation, he went to the morgue. Doctor Coulter and Sodero were preparing for the autopsy. Allan stared at the swollen, blanched wreck lying uncovered on the gurney.

  “Are you attending, Lieutenant?” Coulter asked him.

  “No, but I do have some questions before you get started.”

  Coulter finished slipping on a pair of latex gloves. “Okay, shoot.”

  Allan took out his spiral, referring to his notes.

  “Miss Ambré was found missing certain articles of clothing—her jacket, tank top and panties, assuming she had been wearing any. Do you think the currents in the harbor buffeting the body around could’ve somehow removed those articles of clothing?”

  Coulter puffed his cheeks. “I doubt it.”

  “How long was she in the harbor?”

  “A week. Maybe more.” Coulter moved to the body. “If you look at the victim’s hands and feet, you’ll see the maceration is well established. There are signs of early skin separation in the big toes. It takes roughly a week to reach that stage.”

  Reflexively, Allan’s eyes shifted to the opaque, wrinkled skin in those areas. The time frame seemed right to him—Trixy had gone missing eight days ago.

  “Any idea as to the cause of death?”

  “Nothing until the autopsy, Lieutenant,” Coulter said. “But if she drowned, it’ll be tough to determine.”

  “What about the missing eyes?”

  “They could’ve been removed by marine life,” Sodero cut in as he laid out an assortment of surgical instruments on a metal cart. “Crustaceans, especially crabs, are known to attack the soft parts of the face—the eyes, nose and mouth.”

  Allan considered this. “Both eyes though?” He threw a question to Coulter. “Could that be possible, Doctor?”