Grave Situation Page 35

  “Are you all right, son?” David asked him.

  “I’m fine,” he answered, despite feeling otherwise.

  He looked up at David and regarded the redness in his face, the beads of sweat on his forehead. David still clenched his pistol with a white-knuckled grip.

  Concerned, Allan asked, “How are you feeling, Chief?”

  David puffed his cheeks, exhaling softly. In a feeble mimicry of his everyday manner, he said, “A bit shaken. But I’ll be all right.”

  Allan stared at him. “Have you ever experienced an incident like this?”

  “Never.” David finally put away his weapon. “Never in thirty-six years.”

  “And you, Sam?”

  The constable gave a little shrug. “Same as the Chief. I’ll be okay. Never thought this was going to happen.”

  “I’ll call in a stress counselor for us to speak to,” said David.

  Allan nodded his assent. He knelt down and picked up the revolver. Even without opening the cylinder, he could see that the gun was empty. Once more, he looked at Herb and shook his head. All of this was hard for him to process.

  “There were no bullets in his gun,” he told David and Sam. “Explains why I didn’t see a muzzle flash.”

  For a moment, they were all quiet.

  “Suicide by cop,” Sam murmured. “Never thought I’d see it myself.”

  David wiped a hand over his brow. “We didn’t know the gun wasn’t loaded. He made a threat to shoot and we had to respond.”

  “He had no intention of being taken alive.” Allan set down the revolver. “He probably had a desire to end his own life, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.” Suddenly, he saw an image of himself at home, sitting on the sofa with a gun to his own head. Troubled by this memory, he paused before speaking again. “Perhaps it was easier for us to do the job for him.”

  He rose and walked to the edge of the lawn and sat down, weary, detached from his surroundings. At the edge of his awareness he heard distant sirens. He closed his eyes and opened them again, settling his gaze on the graveled drive before him.

  He brooded about Cathy Ambré, her sister, Trixy, and Brad Hawkins. Finally, he thought of their parents and the lives, forever changed, that each of them would have to face.

  Allan breathed in. He knew he could do nothing to relieve their ineradicable sorrow. Perhaps he could give them some sense of closure now that the killer had been found.

  Murder was the ultimate sin; catching the person responsible was the ultimate redemption. Allan had always believed that. Any other time this would have made him proud.

  But not now.

  Tomorrow he would be back in Halifax. Before him awaited more tragedies, more sleepless nights, more heartbreaking notifications of death to loved ones.

  Do I really want to continue like this? Can I actually endure much more?

  In his heart he knew what must be done.

  51

  Halifax, May 25

  3:16 p.m.

  Dr. Judy Galloway looked directly into Allan’s eyes. “When you think back to the shooting yesterday, what aspect of the incident affected you most?”

  “That I was forced to take the life of another human being,” Allan answered.

  “Would you say that was the worst part?”

  “Yes, most definitely.”

  They sat in David’s office, just the two of them. It was part of the critical incident interview that had been arranged after the shooting of Herb Matteau.

  Galloway appeared to be around Allan’s age, with perceptive blue eyes, blonde hair and subtle makeup. She wore a tailored, red business suit, and she spoke in a quiet, level voice tinged with a distinct Newfoundland accent.

  “Was this the first time you had to use lethal force?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you were to watch a videotape of the incident, only your twin brother was involved, how would you rate his actions?”

  Allan paused for a long moment. “Ten out of ten.”

  Galloway studied his expression with a cool curiosity. “That’s a high mark.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the best part of the incident?”

  “Best part?”

  “Yes.”

  Allan spread his hands. “That neither me or my partners were seriously hurt.”

  “Were you functioning normally before the incident?”

  Allan stared at the desk between them. “I’ll admit I was angry.”

  “With whom?”

  “The suspect.”

  “Why?”

  Allan looked up. “Because he had murdered four people and shattered the lives of three families.”

  Galloway wrote something down. “As the shooting took place, did you experience any perceptual distortions?”

  “Everything seemed to slow down.”

  “Did you experience tunnel vision?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about amplified or diminished sounds?”

  “My shots sounded like a cap gun. Not as loud as they should’ve been.”

  “When you saw the suspect bringing his gun up toward you, what went through your mind?”

  “That I was going to be shot.” Allan breathed in. “I heard of officers, when being shot at, suddenly wonder if they had unplugged the toaster before leaving home in the morning. But nothing weird like that happened to me. I really didn’t have time to think, only react.”

  “How did you feel right after the shooting?”

  “Shaken.”

  Galloway tilted her head. Looking into her face, Allan felt himself being appraised.

  “How did you feel when you found out the gun wasn’t loaded?”

  Allan crossed his arms. “Guilty. Regretful.”

  “Did you second guess your decision to shoot?”

  “No. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if the gun was loaded or not.”

  “So you don’t blame yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Were you still angry with the suspect at that point?”

  “Yes, a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the man had used us to take the easy way out.”

  “So you don’t feel justice was served?”

  “No.”

  Galloway sat back. Finger to her lips she seemed to consider his answer.

  “It’s been twenty-four hours since the shooting,” she said. “In that time, what physical responses have you experienced?”

  “I feel tired.” Allan moved his shoulders a fraction. “That’s all.”

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Galloway continued to write. “Were you preoccupied with what happened at the shooting?”

  Allan shook his head. “Not really. I thought about it, but not obsessively.”

  But then I thought about a lot of things, he wanted to add.

  “How do you feel about yourself, Lieutenant?”

  That gave Allan pause. “Myself?”

  “Yes. Do you feel good about yourself? Are you happy in your life?”

  Allan winced inside, suddenly uncomfortable. He contemplated his answer in pained silence.

  No, he wanted to tell her. I’m not happy. I feel alone. I feel troubled. I cling to a forlorn hope that my life will improve in some way even when I don’t believe it will.

  “I feel quite good about myself,” he lied and then found himself unable to look at Galloway.

  “If, in the coming days,” she told him, “you begin to experience vivid flashbacks or nightmares; if you experience any increased feelings of anxiety, anger or irritability; or if you find yourself becoming estranged from your family and friends, be sure to call me at once.”

  She gave him her business card.

  Allan stared at it.

  “I will,” he said at last.

  “I would like to see you again in a week, Lieutenant.”

  Allan looked at her. “To see if I’m showing s
ymptoms of something?”

  Galloway nodded. “To see how you’ve been coping. You need to realize that you’re human. It’s normal to feel things.”

  Now, three hours after the interview, as Allan slowed his car for the lineup of traffic at the tollbooths for the MacDonald Bridge, he glanced at Galloway’s card on the dash. Much of the trip from Acresville had taken place without his awareness; preoccupied with his interview with her, he had driven mainly on instinct.

  Perhaps he should call Galloway again to discuss the other problems that he’d been having—the difficult time he had since Melissa left with Brian; the loneliness of being single again; the job that was taking its toll on him.

  Before he could do that however, there remained a more pressing issue at hand.

  The car ahead of him drove off as the gate lifted and Allan pulled up to the coin bucket, tossing in three quarters. He crossed the MacDonald Bridge into Halifax, bothered by something he couldn’t put his finger on, filled with a sense of uncertainty and premonition.

  The day was dark, overcast. A light but steady rain fell. In the clouds were flashes of lightning, faint rumblings of thunder, the weather strangely mimicking the dreary mood he was in.

  The traffic moved at a snail’s pace. It took Allan fifteen minutes to reach the home of Frank and Barbara Hawkins. When they didn’t answer their door, he phoned them, and left a voice message, asking them to call him as soon as possible. He had important information regarding the case of their son, Brad.

  Allan then drove to an affluent neighborhood in the south-end of Halifax to confront the melancholy task of visiting Philip and Carol Ambré once more.

  Philip answered the door. He looked weary and haggard, even more so than he had at Cathy’s funeral. His clothes hung loosely off his frame, as if he were withering away from the inside out. When he saw Allan, a brief glint of surprise appeared in his eyes.

  “Lieutenant Stanton. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Allan looked into Philip’s ravaged face. “Hello, Mister Ambré. I have some news to tell you.”

  Philip’s expression changed but slightly, a narrowing of his eyes. He drew aside, stepping back into the house. “Please, come in.”

  Allan entered the foyer. “Is Carol home?”

  Philip frowned and shook his head. “She’s sleeping.” He closed the door behind them. “The doctor has her on a sedative.”

  For Allan, the words carried a sense of hopelessness, an inability to fully comprehend what had happened to them.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Philip asked.

  “We caught up with the man responsible for murdering Cynthia.”

  Philip stood straighter. “Who is he?”

  “His name was Herbert Matteau. A dairy farmer from Acresville.”

  “You speak of him in the past tense.”

  “Yes.” Allan nodded. “He was killed in a shootout with us yesterday.”

  “I heard about a shooting on the news last night, but they didn’t say what it was about.”

  “That’s because we’re not releasing much information right now. The investigation is still ongoing.”

  Philip’s mouth formed a small “o.”

  Allan watched him take this in. Beneath Philip’s grim expression, he saw a certain brightness and satisfaction appear.

  “What was this man’s connection with my daughter?” Philip asked him. “Was he a customer of hers?”

  “There was no prior connection, Mister Ambré,” Allan said. “He came to Halifax one night looking for a victim. Unfortunately, he found Cynthia.”

  Philip winced and briefly shut his eyes. “It might sound harsh, but I’m glad the fucker is dead. At least my tax dollar won’t pay to keep him in one of our cushy prisons.”

  “I understand.” Allan held out his hand. “I have to head back to my department now. You take care of yourself, Mister Ambré.”

  Philip accepted the hand with a firm, but shaky grip. “Thank you, Lieutenant. For everything you did. You’re a good cop.”

  Allan suddenly felt sad. He gave him an appreciative nod, and then stepped outside into the rain. As he walked back to his car, he realized Herb Matteau’s death had spared the Ambré’s from being dragged through years of an upside-down court process that often treated criminals better than their victims. At least now they could somehow begin that long road of pain and recovery.

  Allan reached his department at 4:30. He shut off his car in the parking lot and just sat there for a while, not moving. The rain beat an even rhythm on the roof.

  Through the streaked windshield, he stared at the blurred shape of the brick building where he had worked for the past twelve years.

  He inhaled a deep breath; let it out in one long exhalation. His life was about to change and he didn’t know if for better or for worse.

  He got out of the car and walked across the wet pavement with slow steps. The last ten or so feet to the department seemed like a great distance. Once inside he went straight to Captain Thorne’s office.

  Outside the door, Allan paused a moment to ensure that he was set. Then he knocked.

  “Come in,” a voice said.

  Allan found Thorne studiously hunched over his desk, his gaze jumping over a heap of paperwork. His office was spacious, ornate, with a mass of windows overlooking Gottingen Street.

  “Al.” Rising from his desk, Thorne held out his hand. “Great job.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” Allan gave him a weak handshake. “It got scary yesterday.”

  Thorne sat down and his voice became soft. “I can imagine. It’s not easy shooting someone. Self-defense or not. I just want to let you know the department’s behind you.”

  Allan swallowed over a hard lump growing in his throat. “I appreciate that.”

  “How are you making out?”

  “Doing okay.”

  “Chief Brantford called me earlier and commended you. I must say it was the weirdest case in our department’s history.” Thorne sat back with a look of astonishment on his face. “Who would’ve ever thought Lawrence Sodero was behind the whole thing. I bet Coulter is still in shock over it.”

  “Goes to show that you really don’t know anyone these days,” Allan said. “I think Coulter will be a little more cautious about who he hires in the future.”

  “I bet.”

  For a moment, Allan looked down at his shoes. There was so much he’d come here to say, but now faced with the task, he found it difficult. He walked to the windows, gazing out at the steady flow of traffic on Gottingen.

  Finally, he said, “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Captain.”

  “What is it?”

  Allan turned to him. “I’ve been thinking of leaving the force.”

  Thorne blinked. “What? Why?”

  Allan exhaled, feeling sick inside. “I can’t do this job anymore.”

  “What do you mean? When did this all start?”

  “A few months ago. Maybe longer.”

  Thorne seemed to consider him. “How bad is it getting to you?”

  “So bad that I feel like the job is killing me,” Allan said. “My wife left me. My son might have nothing to do with me again. I can’t sleep. I can’t concentrate.”

  Thorne gave him a quiet look of understanding. “Have you been seeing someone about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Allan spread his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “We have counselors for this sort of thing.”

  “I know. I spoke to one this morning.”

  “Did you mention any of this?”

  Allan shook his head. “No. The interview dealt mainly with the shooting yesterday.”

  “I think you need to see someone, Al.”

  “I think I just need to get away from the job, Captain.”

  Thorne lowered his head, thinking. Allan’s mouth felt dry, his palms damp. The office was silent now; neither man spoke.

  At last, Thorne
raised his eyes. “Before you do anything rash, how about taking some time off? A few weeks. I’ll put you on leave. After the shooting yesterday, it’s to be expected. Don’t throw away your career, Al.”

  Torn, Allan paused a moment to consider the offer. “Okay, Captain,” he said. “I’ll wrap up the Matteau investigation first.”