Grave Situation Read online

  He walked to the edge of the road, looking at the bent vegetation and impact marks that drew the path of John Baker’s tumble down the embankment. At the bottom, Allan could just see the footprints in the bank of the creek, signifying the recent activity.

  David went over to where he stood. Quiet, he reached into a shirt pocket and produced a slim black case. He took out a cigar.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  Allan gave a light shrug. “Just wanted to get a sense of the crime scene. What appeal did it have to the killer?”

  David struck a match and lit the cigar. “It’s isolated.”

  “Yes,” Allan said. “Probably not traveled much on after dark, which would allow the killer all the time he needed without being interrupted.”

  David stared at the cigar burning in his hand. “It’s not going to be easy catching this guy, is it?”

  For a brief, depressing moment, Allan felt the truth of this. Experience had taught him one thing—dumb luck usually solved cases like these, not an investigator’s ingenuity or forensic evidence.

  “If I’m right, this man has killed three people already,” he said. “Two of whom he targeted for body parts and one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’ll screw up and when he does, we’ll catch him.”

  As David glanced at him, Allan saw the same conveyance of doubt that he felt inside.

  “But what if he doesn’t?” he asked. “We don’t even know where this guy is from. He could be already somewhere else looking for his next victim.”

  37

  Acresville, May 19

  7:45 p.m.

  Allan found a small restaurant downtown. As he entered, he took in the people and the ambience with one sweeping glance. It was half-filled, he saw, with families and older couples. The décor had a rustic feel with red-and-white checkered tablecloths, wood floors and walls.

  He chose a quiet booth in the corner. The waitress, a pleasant-faced brunette, appeared with a menu. After a quick look at it, Allan ordered turkey on rye with soup of the day and tea.

  While waiting, he sat back and reflected on the investigation ahead. He needed to enter the details of the Trixy Ambré and John Baker homicides into ViCLAS—a case linkage database that tracked serial offences Canada-wide—to see if there were any similar murders committed elsewhere in Canada. Perhaps this killer had struck before.

  Allan decided to call the ViCLAS center in Halifax first thing in the morning to have two questionnaire booklets sent up to him so he could get the procedure started. In preparation he took out his spiral and wrote down some keynotes about the murders, beginning with John Baker:

  1. Victim dismembered

  2. Hands sawed off

  3. Not recovered

  4. The scene demonstrated control

  5. Offender seemed familiar with it

  6. Offender possesses characteristics under both the organized and disorganized dichotomy.

  7. Murder was planned

  8. Attack was outdoors, involved surprise

  9. No restraints

  10. Con approach possibly used

  11. No theft

  12. Victim had multiple stab wounds, sufficient to cause death

  13. Knife was used, brought to the scene by the offender and removed after the crime

  14. No other trauma involved: beating, kicking, strangulation, burning or gunshot.

  15. Victim was awake.

  16. Victim’s body was left with no apparent concern as to whether or not it would be discovered. Not hidden by brush or buried.

  17. Not moved after death

  18. No sex involved

  19. Offender used precautions: chose a location where he’d have minimal risk of being seen, heard or interrupted.

  20. No DNA evidence available

  As Allan looked over his notes, he realized that he knew more about John Baker’s murder than Trixy’s. Where was the location of her initial crime scene? If it was the Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf, as he believed, then he had a starting point.

  Allan turned to the window next to him, marshaling his thoughts. Out past the town’s low-rise buildings, the sun was falling behind the jagged line where mountain met sky.

  The waitress arrived with his order.

  “Thank you,” Allan told her.

  He ate his meal quickly, surprised at how hungry he was. As he sipped his tea, he wrote down notes about Trixy’s murder:

  1. Victim dismembered

  2. Eyes removed – cut – unskilled?

  3. Not recovered

  4. Murder was planned

  5. Attack was outdoors, involved surprise. No defense wounds

  6. No restraints

  7. Con approach possibly used

  8. Victim drowned

  9. Single impact injury to the head by cylindrical object

  10. No other trauma involved: stabbing, beating, kicking, strangulation, burning or gunshot

  11. No DNA evidence available

  The waitress came over again, seeking assurance that the food was okay.

  Allan gave her a smile. “Everything was great.”

  “Would you like to look at the dessert menu?”

  “No, thanks. I’m full.”

  As she gathered up the plate and bowl, Allan stared at his last note again.

  No DNA yet.

  There was still the question as to the identity of the mystery bleeder on the tugboat wharf.

  Allan set down his pen and read over his notes. When he compared the victims, he could see no similarities between them. They differed in every aspect—sex, backgrounds and lifestyles, friends and relatives, employment, and last known activities. The only unifying pattern that tied the murders together was the missing body parts. If not for that, police could’ve easily believed two different killers had committed these crimes.

  Why the body parts?

  A psychological profile needed to be created of the killer to get a better idea as to the sort of man to look for and Allan knew just the person to ask. He took out his cell phone and punched away at numbers.

  On the fourth ring, a gruffly voice answered. “Doctor Terry Armstrong.”

  “Hello, Doctor,” Allan said. “This is Lieutenant Stanton with the Halifax Regional Police.”

  A moment’s silence. “Ah, yes. I thought I recognized your voice. From the Simpson murder in two thousand eight.”

  “Sampson.” Allan corrected.

  “Right. Right,” he repeated. “It’s been a while. What can I do for you?”

  “I called to see if and when we could get together? I need your help, your insight. We think we might have the emergence of a serial killer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Allan detected a new curiosity in the psychiatrist’s voice.

  “I’m pretty sure,” he answered. “I feel the murders that I’m investigating are definitely connected.”

  Another pause. “Here in Halifax?”

  “No. I’m in Acresville at the moment.”

  “That homeless man? I read about it in the Herald.”

  Allan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That’s the one. Can you help me?”

  “I’m tied up tomorrow, Lieutenant,” Armstrong said. “But I can meet with you on Friday.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Excellent. I’ll get there early so I can review everything first.”

  “I’ll have it all ready for you.”

  “See you then, Lieutenant,” Armstrong said, and hung up.

  Drinking the last of his tea, Allan slipped a tip under the saucer, paid his bill and left.

  The fresh-fallen night was dark, calm. Since dusk the sky had become low and an ugly gray. No rain, only a fine mist, not quite a fog.

  A block away Allan checked into the Greensway Hotel. His room was spacious and modestly furnished—a bed, set of drawers with a TV on top, a small table and chair. He tossed his suitcase on t
he bed and put the box containing the John Baker files on the table.

  He turned the TV on and flipped to CNN. On the screen an anchorman was talking about toxic tar balls being found in the Florida Keys. Allan watched for a moment and then lowered the volume.

  He unpacked his suitcase, stowing his clothes in the drawers and shelving his toiletries in the medicine cabinet. He hung his robe on a hook behind the bathroom door.

  As he went to the window to close the drapes, he stopped there for a time, gazing out. Under the gentle push of a breeze, the mist curled and coiled in the diffused glow of streetlights. A car appeared, heading north into downtown.

  When Allan noticed the tiny post office across the street, he stared at it.

  I should really write Brian a letter. Maybe tomorrow.

  A sudden unwanted image flared in his mind—a distraught man sitting alone in his living room with a gun to his head. Allan found it painful to realize just how close he’d come to pulling the trigger last night.

  That wasn’t me.

  Perhaps there was a reason to seek professional help. His sleepless nights, intrusive flashbacks and poor concentration of late seemed to point to a much bigger problem. That much, he knew; the man he’d once been was gone.

  He closed the drapes and went back to the case files. He read until the words began to blur, until his body began to ache for the bed behind him. Nothing, he realized, was going to leap from the pages and grab his attention.

  He checked the time, 11:34. Up since six-thirty, it had been a long day.

  One last look at the photos, he decided. Then bedtime.

  He yawned as he spread the crime scene pictures in front of him. Less than five minutes later, he fell asleep facedown on top of the desk.

  38

  Acresville, May 20

  11:25 p.m.

  Herb wanted to finish this job before the thundershowers arrived. Already black clouds roiled on the horizon, making him anxious.

  The road he traveled on wove through an undulant valley. On both sides of him, the sharp pitch of mountainside was covered in a lush mixed forest. There was a river on his right, looping in and out of the trees. Occasionally, he could see the surface sparkle when touched by his headlights.

  Herb wasn’t aware of how fast he traveled or the tightness of his grip on the wheel. His focus was on the world ahead, a reduced visible cone lit up by his headlights. The broken centerline on the pavement was a blur, racing backwards.

  Ahead the road took an abrupt climb. Within a minute the mountains gave way to gentle foothills. Herb found himself gazing out at a generous panorama of Acresville. From this elevation, the small town was a mere cluster of lights cupped in a bowl of low hills. Encasing them, the continuing mountain range was a black smudge against the backdrop of sky.

  At a T-intersection two miles from town, he turned left. A gravel road brought him to the clearing where the Rolling Hills Cemetery was located. As he passed the wrought iron gate that marked the only public entrance, he felt his chest tighten.

  He pulled over to the edge of the road and parked. When he cut the headlights, it became pitch black. The dash clock glowed 11:34.

  Herb looked out through the windshield at the darkness ahead of him, looked into the rear-view mirror at the darkness behind him. No sign of lights in either direction.

  He reached into his duffel bag and took out a flashlight. Then with the bag and flashlight in hand, he got out, inhaling the night air. He lifted out a shovel from the back of the pickup.

  For a moment he stood very still, listening, every sense alert. Close-by a chorus of spring peepers sounded and beyond that, the deep-toned rumble of a freight train cutting through the valley. Herb could feel the heavy thump of its wheels hitting gaps in the rails.

  He flicked on the flashlight with a thumb. Then, moving quickly, he started into a brisk walk. On the road he was a shadowy figure dressed in coveralls and rubber boots with a beam bobbing in front of him. His pickup now rested broken down and abandoned by the side of the road.

  He found the main gate secured by a chain and padlock. Cursing softly, he realized that he would have to go over the wall.

  Last summer, vandals had kicked over and damaged over twenty monuments. The cemetery’s caretaker started locking the grounds at night. Police believed the perpetrators were unruly teenagers. They were never caught.

  The senseless act had outraged the citizens of Acresville, including Herb himself. Remembering the story, he swallowed. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, feeling ashamed, pathetic. He wasn’t a mindless teenager lacking direction or ambition, acting out rebellion or impressing his peers, but a grown man here to do something much worse.

  The moist breeze chilled the sweat on his face. Quickly, he turned away. He lifted the shovel and duffel bag over his head with one hand and picked his way through a tangle of deciduous shrubs with the other. Branches tore at his coveralls. Under his feet the ground felt spongy, as if covered with moss.

  He reached the stone wall and dropped to a crouch. He looked out to the road and saw nothing. In the distance loomed a dark shape—his pickup.

  Herb stood up and heaved the shovel and duffel bag over the wall. Seconds later, he heard the muffled impacts as they landed on the other side.

  He stuffed the flashlight in his back pocket. Then, grabbing the top of the wall, he dug his foot into a notch and pulled himself up. He swung his other leg over and dropped to the other side, falling onto his hands and knees.

  He withdrew the flashlight again, turned it on. In a widening arc, he swept the surroundings with the beam. Eerie shadows moved among the gravestones, shifting from light to darkness again. Around him the cemetery felt vast, peaceful. Herb stood very still. Only his eyes moved back and forth. Out of the darkness materialized headstones, a marble dove, a statue of a kneeling lady. At the edge of his consciousness, he could hear the spring peepers, fainter now.

  Five feet in front of him, he saw the shovel and duffel bag. He wiped his forehead and picked them up. Then he headed off into a sprint up the first low hill. At the flashlight’s outer reaches, he saw the front of the caretaker’s shed. Moving quickly, he followed a path that circled the shed, down the other side of the slope and around the bottom. Here the night seemed even darker.

  In the distance came an angry roll of thunder. Herb lifted his gaze and saw a flash of lightning ignite the horizon in stark relief. The black clouds were getting closer.

  Have to get this over with.

  He moved through an area of newer graves, playing the light in every direction. Then he found it, the headstone with the angel holding a large heart.

  With hesitant steps he walked toward the gravesite. Stopping at the foot of it, he drew a breath, unnerved and troubled. Briefly, he shut his eyes.

  “It’s sick, man. Not to mention immoral.”

  “I know this seems shocking, but after a couple of jobs, it’ll be like clockwork.”

  Herb opened his eyes again and glanced up at the last clear section of sky. Amid the stars, he could see the flashing light of an airplane. As he looked back to the headstone, he winced.

  What’d I get myself into? I’m too deep to get out now.

  He put the duffel bag by his feet and removed two sheets of tarp from it. Carefully, he laid out one on either side of the grave. After he retrieved his gloves and slipped his hands into them, he positioned the flashlight on the bag so the conical beam spread across the ground in front of the headstone.

  He set to work by digging his fingers under the edges of the sod and pulling up on the corners. Freshly laid, the sod came up without any problems. Herb set each piece, grass down, on the tarp to the left of the grave. When he finished, he picked up the shovel and began digging.

  The loose soil came away with ease. Herb tossed a shovelful onto the tarp to the right of the grave and then went back at it again, working himself into a rhythm. Within minutes sweat beaded his forehead. Slowly, the mound of dirt beside him began to grow. The
hole he dug began to deepen.

  By the time he was thigh deep, the beam from the flashlight did little good. It lit up the top walls of the grave, but failed to reach the bottom. Herb moved the light to the edge of the hole in front of the headstone and angled the beam downwards.

  Wearily, he continued digging.

  Thirty minutes passed.

  Forty.

  Soaked with sweat, Herb became frustrated. Belly deep in the hole now, and still no sign of the casket. He fished a handkerchief from a pocket and mopped his face and neck.

  Dirt trickled from the walls of the grave, sputtering on his boots. All around him, he could feel the coldness leaching from the earth, the rich smell filling his nostrils.

  He should’ve come across something by now. He wondered if the grave was dug deeper than usual to allow for a second or third interment. Hoped that wasn’t the case.

  He picked up the flashlight and shone the light around his feet. Nothing but broken soil and rocks.

  He labored on.

  Minutes later, a thump. The tip of the shovel stuck in something. Working it free, he put the shovel aside. Then he got down on all fours and began clearing away the dirt by the handful. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose. After a few moments, he leaned back on his heels and lit up the area before him. Patches of glossy wood showed through the soil. As he brushed away more dirt, he realized the casket was double-lidded, opening at the top and bottom.

  Pulse racing, he dug around the edges of the casket until he’d removed the soil just below the top lid. He crawled out of the grave and retrieved a pry bar from the duffel bag.

  Carefully, he went down again, pushed the wedge of the bar under the lid and gave a powerful downward thrust on the lever end. With two loud snaps, the clips holding the lid tight gave way.

  A chill rippled Herb’s skin as he hoisted the lid and shone his light inside to reveal the body of an elderly man, dressed in a conservative taupe suit, white shirt and a tie striped tan and orange. There was a smear of makeup on his collar. Someone had tucked a leather bound bible into his hands.

  His stillness made the hairs prickle on the back of Herb’s neck. To him, the man looked more like a wax sculpture than real.