Grave Situation Page 5

  The job? Or everything else?

  Over time, Allan had developed a thick emotional hide that allowed him to distance himself from the tragedies he encountered. It was something investigators needed to do in order to survive. Lately, however, Allan felt that he lost his ability to block it all out. Things he saw on the job seemed to trouble him—the classic sign of burnout. He knew of other officers who had gone through the same crisis, but seldom discussed it. Machismo was the hallmark in this profession.

  In Allan’s situation, perhaps these feelings of late could be blamed on a mix of factors: the wreckage of his personal life, the separation from Melissa, his absence in Brian’s childhood. Then there were the unacceptable injustices he had to somehow move on from.

  Like Mary Driscow.

  Unbuckling his seatbelt, he considered the case before him now, the evidence yet to be gathered, suspects and witnesses yet to be questioned, connections yet to be made. What would the victim profile reveal? Could a motive be established from it?

  With most murder cases, he spent little time mulling over the rationale behind them. It was best, he knew, to stick with the essentials that would bring a conviction. Victims were not around to explain what happened and suspects rarely told the truth. Physical evidence and credible witnesses helped convict the guilty. Motive, when discovered, only revealed how truly senseless the crime had been.

  How will this case go?

  Allan shut the car door and felt the harbor breeze on his face. Above him the sky was a rich blue. Traces of clouds drifted along the horizon.

  He circled to the trunk, popped the lid, and took out a 35mm camera. He proceeded to take several pictures of the crime scene from multiple points of view, both looking into and outward from the site.

  Around him came the murmurs of a city waking up. Soon, it would be alive with urban bustle.

  Across the street, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered at the corner of South and Lower Water Street. Mindful that a suspect could be among the group, Allan surreptitiously snapped photos of them. As he looked around, he realized that no cameras or reporters were present.

  He put the camera back in the trunk. From a black case, he removed two pairs of latex gloves and slipped them on his hands one over the other. He shut the trunk and then walked toward Sergeant Malone. The sergeant was a veteran of the Halifax Regional Police. He was tall and hawk-faced with alert blue eyes.

  As Allan approached, Malone went to him, holding out the clipboard. Attached to it was a crime scene log in/out form. Below the last name in the column, Allan added his signature, the date and time.

  “So what do we have?” he asked, handing the clipboard back.

  The victim, Malone described, was twenty-seven-year-old Brad Hawkins. He had worked as a private guard for a contract security firm called Twin City Protection. A co-worker, who went looking for him after he failed to answer his radio, discovered the body.

  “Do we know who the next-of-kin is?” Allan asked.

  “Taken care of.” Malone ripped a page from his notepad and gave it to him. “Mister and Missus Hawkins.”

  Briefly, Allan studied the address on the paper.

  “I’m going to have the mobile command post set up across the street,” Malone added. “Behind SIU’s van.”

  Allan nodded, satisfied. “I think we need to get barricades put up down here as well. Close off Salter, Bishop, even all the way down to Morris. We need to keep people out of this area. We should also contact the local radio stations so they can put out a travel advisory.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Malone walked off, keying his shoulder mike.

  Allan headed toward the officer Malone had been talking to.

  Reaching him, Allan asked, “Are you the first officer?”

  The young man nodded once. “Yes.”

  Allan took out his spiral again. Below the time of his arrival at the scene, he wrote down the officer’s badge number and name, Craig Ellis.

  “What time did you get here?”

  Ellis consulted his own notepad. “Five-fifty-one. The call came into dispatch at five-forty-five.”

  “Did you touch anything?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I only went close enough to the body to see if the victim required medical attention.”

  “Did anyone else disturb the scene?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone in the area as you arrived?”

  Ellis shook his head. “No one. Just Mister O’Dell.” He gestured to the guard standing several feet away.

  “Has Coulter been notified?”

  “Yes. He should be arriving soon.”

  Allan felt the eyes of the guard, watching.

  Voice hushed, he asked Ellis, “Has the gentleman over there given you a full statement?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “Good. I’ll read your report when you pass it in.” Allan thanked the officer and walked toward the guard.

  “I’m Lieutenant Allan Stanton,” he said, reaching out.

  “Greg O’Dell.”

  Through their handshake, Allan could feel a tremor in the guard’s grip.

  “Did you witness the crime?” he asked.

  Greg glanced at the victim. “No. I found Brad this way.”

  “Can I see some identification, please?”

  A curt nod. “Sure.” He produced his wallet and fumbled out his driver’s license from it.

  “What’s your relationship with the victim?” asked Allan, taking notes. “Are you friends outside of work?”

  “I’m married with three kids. It’s hard for me to have time for buddies in my life.” He paused, adding quietly, “My relationship with Brad was mostly work related.”

  Briefly, Allan appraised him. “Do you work together as a team?”

  “At times through the night we did. At other times we didn’t. We always kept in touch by radio. If something went down, we were only a click away.”

  “Was Brad married?”

  “No. Long-term relationship.”

  “Did he ever mention having problems there?”

  “No. I assumed everything was all right. He never really talked about it much.”

  “Prior to discovering the body, did you see anyone leaving the area?”

  “No.”

  Allan gave him back the driver’s license. “Did Brad radio you at any point to report trouble?”

  Frowning, Greg looked down at his shoes. “Not exactly.” He ran his fingers through the stubble of his brown hair. “He was about to check on someone in a truck.”

  Allan scribbled in his spiral. “I know your thoughts might be a bit cloudy right now, but try to be as detailed as you can. And please, try to leave nothing out…”

  10

  Halifax, May 9

  3:46 a.m.

  Stars speckled the night sky. Low on the horizon, the large moon was a dim smudge. The cool breath drifting in from the harbor was a welcome reprieve from the bizarre heat wave the province had languished through the last week.

  Is there something to this global warming hoopla? Greg O’Dell wondered.

  He raised his wrist to his face, checking the time. 3:46 am. Just over two hours and his shift would be finished. The security firm he worked for was contracted out to provide after-hour protection against break-ins and vandalism to many waterfront businesses.

  Greg stood in Sackville Landing, near a sculpture of a huge rolling wave. Constructed of ferro-cement, the wave was twelve feet high and painted bluish green. Ahead of him, beyond the docks, the black water coruscated with light.

  It was quiet here, serene with the murmur of the harbor. The atmosphere of the waterfront was much different in the daytime—a beehive of locals and visitors. There was a rich history to see—a reflection of old, the promise of new. Eighteenth and nineteenth-century architecture blended with modern buildings encased with glass.

  Greg carried a flashlight in his right hand. After flicking it on, he played the beam around. Lamppost
s lent the dock a touch of light, but their pale glow seemed only to deepen the shadows.

  Slowly, Greg crossed the landing, making his rounds again. As he stopped close to the water, his two-way radio suddenly crackled to life.

  “Copy, Greg.”

  He recognized the voice as belonging to his co-worker, Brad Hawkins. Greg pulled out the radio from his belt and pressed the talk button. “Go ahead. Over.”

  “Better watch your back,” Brad said. “There’s a suspicious person coming up behind you.”

  Greg turned his head without moving his body. In the periphery of his vision, he saw a shadowy figure approaching. He swung around, lifting the beam.

  It was Brad himself. He came into the light with a broad grin on his face. Both hands rose in feigned surrender.

  “Don’t shoot. I come in peace.”

  Greg managed a smile. “You’re lucky we don’t wear guns.”

  “If we did, I wouldn’t be so bold.”

  Greg chuckled. “Pretty quiet night, eh?”

  Brad nodded, putting away his radio. “Surprising, really. Not too many Saturday nights like this. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good thing.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Come on,” Brad said. “We should finish up.”

  Together, they made their way through the waterfront, checking doors and windows. To cover more ground, the two men split up. Brad went back the way they had come. Greg made his way to Historic Properties on Upper Water Street where many waterfront warehouses built by the city’s earliest settlers still stood. Today, they were renovated into boutiques, cafés and pubs.

  The streets were empty. A car or two passed by. There was no one on the sidewalks.

  Halfway through his rounds, Brad’s voice came over Greg’s radio again.

  “Copy, Greg.”

  “Go ahead. Over.”

  “I’m going to check out a truck sitting here on the waterfront.”

  Greg looked at the time. 5:01 am. “What’s your location?”

  “I’m coming up to the Impark lot by ECTUG.”

  “Anyone around?”

  “No one outside that I can see. The dome light is on in the truck. Only see one person inside that I can tell. Could be someone beside him.”

  “Is the person male or female?”

  “Male. Guy is probably drunk and came down here to sleep it off.”

  “Do you want backup?”

  “No. I can handle it.”

  “Copy that. If you have any problems, radio me.”

  “I will. Over.”

  Greg continued his rounds. When he finished at Historic Properties, he walked toward Lower Water Street. He tried the doors and examined the windows at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. All secure.

  The time was 5:28 am. Brad still hadn’t radioed back.

  Curious, Greg decided to check on him. He took out his two-way.

  “Copy, Brad.”

  Waiting for a reply, Greg breathed in. Slowly, he began counting to himself. When he reached fifteen, he got on the radio again.

  “Brad. Are you there?”

  Still no reply. Something was wrong. Brad always answered his radio.

  Dead battery? Greg wondered.

  He knew the Impark lot was close. Radio in one hand, flashlight in the other, he started walking.

  Dawn was breaking quietly over the horizon. Through the fading dark, vague shapes began to take on distinctive qualities.

  Greg reached Sackville Landing once more. A short distance away, he could make out the profile of the ECTUG building outlined against the sky, the peculiar silhouettes of two tugboats moored at the dock.

  “Copy, Brad.”

  Silence.

  Greg came to the tugboats first. The Impark lot was straight ahead.

  “Brad. Are you all right?”

  Abruptly, Greg became very still. There was a sound. Holding his breath, he clicked the talk button on his radio, once.

  Again.

  A third time.

  It was there all right. Even over the creaking tugs and the pounding pulse in his ears, it was there. Somewhere close-by came the faint crackle of static from a two-way radio.

  “Copy, Brad.” Another sound made Greg shiver. Out of nowhere, his own disembodied voice carried back to him.

  Brad or at least his radio was nearby. For a moment Greg stood there, peering about. In the open expanse, it was hard to pinpoint the location.

  Is he playing a practical joke? Greg asked himself. Like earlier.

  His watch displayed 5:38 am. So close to quitting time.

  He approached the Impark lot. Only when he reached it did he see the dark mass lying in the middle of the pavement.

  From this distance, he couldn’t make out any features. Then the beam of his flashlight found it. Greg froze. The mass, illuminated now, became a human body. Immediately, Greg knew the uniform as well as he knew his own.

  “Brad.”

  Fear rising, Greg ran to the body.

  Head west, feet east, Brad Hawkins lay face down in complete stillness. There was a pool of blood beneath his mouth that looked sticky to the touch. His eyes were fixed open. Greg moved the light across them. The pupils showed no response.

  The back of Brad’s jacket looked wet. There was a small slice in it between the shoulder blades. The radio he had never gotten to use was still in its case on his belt.

  Some vestige of discipline told Greg not to touch the body. He stood and took a step back, struggling to comprehend. He threw the beam across the parking lot. Several feet away, shards of glass sparkled across on the pavement. A broken flashlight lay nearby.

  Greg reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone. He swallowed and clumsily stabbed at numbers on the keypad. The ringing became a male voice on the other end.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  Greg looked at his partner once more. His mind felt numb.

  “I’d…” He stammered, unable to get the words out.

  “Sir?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’d…I’d like to report a murder.”

  11

  Halifax, May 9

  6:55 a.m.

  Allan reflected on Greg’s story.

  “Did Brad describe this truck to you?” he asked at length. “A make? Color?”

  “No, just that it was a truck. Really narrows it down, eh?”

  “It doesn’t help much. And you don’t recall seeing a truck leaving the scene or passing by when you went searching for Brad?”

  Greg looked thoughtful. “No. It would be something I’d notice at that time of night. We get people loitering down here all the time. Young couples making out. Hookers and their johns. Drunks fresh out of the bars, unable to drive home. Teenagers smoking up.” He paused, a finger to his lips. “Check Brad’s pad. Maybe he wrote down a description of the truck.” He reached inside his jacket and brought out a notebook with a black cover. “It’s like this one.”

  Allan took the notebook. As he examined it, he realized that it was very similar to the one he carried himself. The notebook was spiral bound with a flip-up cover.

  “Your company supplies these?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure Brad had his when he started his shift?”

  Greg nodded. “Oh, yes. I saw it.”

  “Was there anyone in particular you had trouble with in the past? Anyone who had put up a fuss when asked to leave? Someone who stands out in your memory?”

  “No. The men we found with the hookers were more embarrassed than anything. Some of the drunks and teenagers had mouthed off to us from time to time. But all left without incident after we threatened to call you guys.”

  “Had either of you checked the parking lot earlier in the night?”

  “Yes. A few times.”

  “You, personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t remember seeing the truck at that time.”

  “No. Earlier the lot was fu
ll of cars. People out at the bars. After they closed, the lot was empty. No stragglers.”

  “Thank you.” Allan returned the notebook. “You’re free to go. Once your thoughts have had time to settle down and you think of something you may have overlooked, please give us a call.”

  For a moment, Greg looked over at the body of Brad Hawkins. When he turned back, Allan saw that his eyes had suddenly become wet.

  “I hope you catch whoever did this,” Greg said weakly, and then walked away.

  He didn’t look back.

  Allan watched him briefly and then focused on the Ident crew as they walked toward the scene. It consisted of two men—Jim Lucas, an African-Canadian who had a baldhead and sported a shadow of a goatee. Topping six-four, he had the muscular contours of a linebacker. Then there was Harvey Doucette, born and raised in Montreal. He was tall and rangy with a crew cut and a projected air of calm.

  Until they forensically cleared the scene, no one else would be allowed inside. The path used by the first officer would serve as their entry point. After reaching the body, the two men set up a privacy screen to hide the body from prying eyes. Then, fanning out from the body, they began to search the lot for evidence. They moved with slow deliberation, inches at a time, examining pieces of debris that could serve as useful pieces of evidence.

  Each man had a job to do—Harvey placed evidence markers next to objects for retrieval, while Jim took long and close-range photographs. Neither man spoke much. Their movements were without sound, ghost-like figures in a dreamscape.

  Standing several feet away, Allan could see the victim’s eyes were locked open. On the pavement below his mouth was a small puddle of blood he had regurgitated at the moment of death.

  Spiral in hand, Allan turned to a fresh page and began a rough sketch of the crime scene, using a stick figure as the victim. At the bottom he included a legend to identify each object of evidence by number. The body. Fragments of glass. A broken flashlight.

  Doctor Coulter’s black van arrived at 7:15. The medical examiner was a short man, clean-shaven with salt-and-pepper hair and keen blue eyes. There was an air of composure about him; seldom did his deadpan expression ever change.