Grave Situation Page 6

  His assistant was named Lawrence Sodero, a trim, bright-eyed young man in his mid-twenties. He wore wire-rim glasses and an Ivy League haircut. To Allan, Sodero seemed bit of a preppy.

  Like the Ident techs, both men were dressed in protective coveralls. They opened the rear doors of the van and removed a gurney before walking into the scene after being given the ok to do so.

  As Coulter reached the body, he set down a black bag he’d been carrying. He would touch or move the body as little as possible. He knelt by the head, checking the jaw and eyelids for stiffness.

  “Body is still flaccid,” he noted, as if to himself. “Death was recent.”

  Allan walked over. “We have a statement that puts the time of death somewhere between four fifty-five and five thirty.”

  “I’ll try to narrow it down the best I can, Lieutenant.” From the black bag, Coulter removed a digital thermo hygrometer to record the environmental temperature and humidity.

  He took out a probe thermometer, not unlike one used to check meat in an oven. Straddling the body, he inserted it through the abdomen into the liver, waited a moment, and then pulled it out. He recorded the temperature in his notes.

  Meticulously, he examined the surface of the jacket where the blade had gone through.

  “There’s a single stab wound to the victim’s back. There could be more. At this point, I won’t know of additional injuries until the autopsy.” Eye narrowing, he picked up part of the jacket at the shoulder, looking hard at something in the fabric.

  Allan moved closer. “What is it?”

  “There’s a blood impression on the back of the left shoulder. Looks like a swipe mark as if the suspect had wiped off the murder weapon.” Coulter looked up, his lips a straight line. “A final dishonor to a dishonorable crime.”

  “Could you check the pockets? We’re looking for a black spiral bound notebook.” Allan held his own up. “Similar to this.”

  “Sure.”

  Coulter and Sodero gingerly rolled the body, turning the dead man onto his back. Cautious of needles, Coulter lightly patted each pocket before dipping his fingers inside. The jacket pockets were empty. From a pants pocket came a set of keys, some loose change. From another, a black wallet. Coulter opened it to reveal cash and credit cards.

  “I guess we can rule out robbery,” he said. “There’s no notebook on the body, Lieutenant. Only a pen in the breast pocket.”

  Great, thought Allan. Now where’d that go? With the killer?

  “Do you have a time set for the autopsy?” he asked.

  “Do you want to attend?”

  “If I may.”

  Coulter smiled. “Too impatient to wait for my report?”

  “You know me, Doctor. I like to be provided with as much info as early into the investigation as possible.”

  “Does eleven o’clock sound feasible?”

  Allan checked his watch. “Eleven should be fine.”

  “See you there.”

  Allan stood off to the side as Coulter tied paper bags over the dead man’s hands to protect any surface trace evidence, locks of hair or skin tags in the event he had struggled with his attacker. Before putting the body into a black bag, he and Sodero wrapped it in a clean sheet of polythene and secured it with tape.

  Allan watched them carry the gurney to the back of Coulter’s van and slide it inside. In quick succession, they slammed the doors shut.

  Coulter lifted his hand in a wave and shouted, “See you at eleven.”

  Just then, someone else called out, “Lieutenant.”

  Allan turned to his right and saw Jim kneeling over something at the edge of the parking lot.

  Jim waved him over.

  “What’d you find?” Allan asked as he approached him.

  “Blood.” Jim pointed down to a series of red drops. “A fresh trail of it.”

  Together, the two men followed them. Spaced roughly two feet apart, the blood moved across the remainder of the parking lot toward the tugboat wharf, then past the ECTUG building where it came to a halt at the end of the wharf. The bleeder had obviously stopped there for some time. The last drop was much larger than the rest, over an inch in diameter. That suggested blood dripping into blood.

  “The trail ends here,” remarked Allan, peering out at the Halifax harbor.

  The smell of sea salt was strong. Under the climbing sun, the water sparkled. Gulls circled the public boardwalk nearby. Beneath the sound of lapping water came their faint cries.

  Jim kneeled down and began measuring the drops. His camera dangled from a strap around his neck.

  “The coarse texture of the cement destroyed the shapes of these stains.” He shook his head, frustrated. “They’re too distorted to accurately determine the angle of impact. Measurements mean nothing. These are passive drops, however, acting on gravity alone. But they didn’t come from someone who was bleeding profusely.” He paused a moment, looking at the sky. “I’m going to have to collect samples. This blood isn’t going to last too long once that sun starts beating down on it.”

  Carefully, he placed a scale and a numbered marker beside the last drop. Focusing his camera, he snapped off several pictures. Then he took out an IntegriSwab from his field kit. Uncapping the top of the tube, he pushed the swab forward and dipped it into the blood, moistening the tip. He then pulled the swab down inside the tube and capped the top. Next, he slid the IntegriSwab into its own box and labeled the side of it. One by one, he repeated the procedure with the other drops, methodically working his way back.

  Allan remained where he was, taking in the scene, trying to envision the chain of events that resulted in the death. As he looked over the ECTUG building, he realized that it afforded him a sense of privacy. From the street, no one would be able to see him.

  What went on here? he wondered. Did Brad Hawkins happen upon something he shouldn’t have seen?

  For a moment, he glanced at Jim, who had stopped briefly to reload his camera.

  Who’s the phantom bleeder? And why is there no return blood trail?

  Slowly, Allan went over to the ECTUG building, tried the door. Locked. Around the building he examined the windows on both floors. All intact.

  Hands in his pockets, he made his way back to Jim.

  “How are you making out?”

  Jim lifted his head. Allan saw that he was back at the start of the trail.

  “This is the parent drop.” Jim pointed to it. “The drip pattern is different from the others. On this type of surface, drops will be more prone to have irregular edges and satellite spatter as you can see. But this first drop is rounder, typical of a person standing still. The others suggest movement. The directionality is toward the end of the wharf.”

  Allan’s gaze moved from the first drop to the body of Brad Hawkins. In his mind, he measured out the rough distance.

  “These bloodstains seem out of place,” he said at last.

  Jim nodded. “I don’t think they came from the victim. Possibly the suspect cut himself during the attack.”

  Allan considered this. “But why the void? There must be a twenty foot gap between this blood trail and the victim.”

  Eyes narrow, Jim rubbed his jaw. “We can assume from the placement of the body and the trail here that the blood never came from the victim.”

  “Serology will determine that,” Allan replied. “It might be possible that we’re standing in a second crime scene.”

  “Could be, Lieutenant.”

  They expanded the perimeter of the scene. Much ground could be covered with additional manpower, so uniformed officers were brought in to assist with the neighborhood canvass. Up and down stairs they went, banging on doors, hoping someone out there had heard or witnessed something.

  Other officers were assigned the undesirable task of searching the recesses of alleyways and picking through commercial and residential dumpsters around the waterfront. They were armed with a description of two viable pieces of evidence—a knife and the black notebook bel
onging to Brad Hawkins.

  In case the suspects had discarded the murder weapon on one of the tugs moored at the wharf, the Regional Director for ECTUG gave permission to board and search them.

  Nothing was found.

  Allan called in the Regional Police Underwater Recovery Team. Within thirty minutes, their Boston Whaler came jouncing down the harbor, its outboard motor whipping the water into foam. The team anchored near the tugboat wharf, then set to work sectioning off the water into grids using a floating marker system. Each section would be thoroughly searched, one at a time.

  Wearing Farmer John wetsuits and full SCUBA gear, two divers entered the water and disappeared beneath the waves. One back-up diver remained onboard as part of the surface team in case of an emergency.

  Watching them, Allan knew the odds of finding any evidence would be slim. The proverbial needle in the haystack. If someone had tossed a murder weapon off the wharf, the currents could have carried the item a great distance away before it reached bottom. To make matters worse, the harbor floor was already littered with shipwrecks and other debris.

  His watch read 10:23. There wasn’t much time. He had a death notification and then the autopsy at 11:00. He went to the mobile command post and signed himself out of the scene.

  As he walked to his car, he saw the press pool take notice of him. As one mass, they moved in his direction. Flashbulbs went off. Microphones were thrusting forward. Voices shouting questions.

  Allan ignored them. He jumped into his car and sped away.

  12

  Halifax, May 9

  10:33 a.m.

  The parents of Brad Hawkins lived in an early twentieth century Queen Anne style home in the south-end of Halifax. Blue with white trim, the house was two and a half stories high, gable-roofed and fronted by a large porch with tapered box columns.

  Standing at the front door, Allan’s stomach was in knots. He found himself hoping no one would answer. This was the toughest part of the job—telling families their loved one had been murdered. No matter how rehearsed, how heartfelt, Allan felt his words always sounded empty, meaningless.

  Slowly, the door opened. The old woman who peered out at him looked to be in her late fifties. She had graying hair, a round face and pale skin. The thick glasses she wore magnified her blue eyes.

  “Missus Hawkins?” Allan asked, reaching into his sport coat and taking out his leather badge case.

  She angled her head, regarding him cautiously. Allan sensed himself being appraised. For a brief instant he imagined the woman thinking he might be a canvasser for a fundraiser or a Mormon handing out pamphlets.

  “Yes.” Her voice was polite, but wary.

  “I’m Lieutenant Allan Stanton from the HRP Major Crimes Unit.” He held up his credentials. “Is your husband home with you?”

  “Who is it, Barb?” came a rough voice behind her. The door opened further to reveal an older man, slight of build, with thinning white hair and intense gray eyes. He came up behind his wife, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  He looked at the shield and ID, then to Allan. “Police.” His lips seemed to barely move. “What’s this about?”

  Allan inhaled a deep breath. “May I come inside?”

  “We can hear what you have to say from here,” said the man.

  “Very well.” Allan put away the badge case and folded his hands. “Your son is Bradley Hawkins, correct?”

  In unison, they answered, “Yes.”

  Allan’s mouth suddenly felt dry.

  “There was a stabbing down on Lower Water Street,” he said quietly. “Your son was involved.”

  The father’s face twisted, as if suddenly wounded. The mother put a hand to her mouth. Behind the thick lenses, her eyes grew huge.

  “Is he all right?” She spoke through her fingers. “Is he at the hospital?”

  “I’m sorry.” Allan hesitated, staring at the tremor that had started in the woman’s hand. “Your son didn’t survive his injuries.”

  Doubling over, the mother emitted an anguished wail that made Allan flinch.

  “No,” she repeated in a shrilling voice. “No, no.”

  The husband reached out for his wife, embracing her.

  “No, Frank.” She wrenched herself free. Face covered with her hands, she hurried out of the entryway and disappeared into another room.

  “Barb…” Frank called after her. He took a step forward, then stopped.

  Slowly, he turned to Allan. His expression showed a range of emotions—shock, disbelief, immeasurable sadness. Behind him came the heavy stomp of footsteps on wooden stairs and then the slam of a door. The sound made him wince.

  “Are you completely sure it’s him?” he asked.

  “He’s been positively identified by a co-worker with Twin City Protection.”

  Frank shut his eyes. “How’d it hap…?” His sentence was lost in a hard swallow.

  Allan exhaled. “We don’t know for certain. We think your son may have walked into the commission of another crime. We have officers canvassing the waterfront for witnesses.”

  In a tight voice, Frank asked. “Where’s my son’s body?”

  “With the medical examiner.”

  Frank’s eyes opened now, wide and brimming. “The medical examiner? They’re going to cut up my boy?”

  Allan swallowed. He realized the devastation the post-mortem would leave behind of Brad Hawkins—a dissected shell of what their son had once been.

  “I’m sorry,” Allan said softly. “But it’s a legal requirement.”

  Awkwardly, Frank braced himself against the doorjamb.

  “My God,” he mumbled. “My God.”

  Silent, Allan watched him.

  I hate this.

  He waited a respectful moment.

  “Is there anyone I can call?” he asked. “Another relative? A friend?”

  Looking dazed, Frank shook his head.

  “I can have a grief counselor come over if you wish. Help you through this.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “I hate to add this, but we’ll need you or another close relative to come down to the medical examiner’s office to make the identification official.”

  “Later. I can’t do it right now.”

  “I understand.” Allan took out his business card and gave it to him.

  Frank stared at the card with a somewhat vacant look. “If you would kindly excuse us.” His hand moved to the door in a gesture of dismissal. “We have a lot to deal with right now.”

  As the door gently closed on him, Allan turned away. With his head down he walked back to his car and climbed in behind the wheel. For a long moment he just sat there, numb, unable to move. When finally he reached for the ignition, he glanced over at the house. In one tragic moment, he knew, the lives of Brad’s parents had changed forever.

  Edging into the street, Allan steeled himself for the autopsy ahead.

  13

  Halifax, May 9

  10:57 a.m.

  The body of a still-clothed Brad Hawkins lay on a dissection table in front of Allan. The paper bags hadn’t yet been removed from the victim’s hands. The polythene wrap and body bag lay on a counter to be later sent to the forensic lab for analysis.

  The morgue was a windowless room with a tile floor and cement walls painted dull beige. To Allan, it always had the look and feel of one-part laboratory, another part slaughterhouse. The harsh surgical lamps. The hanging meat scales. The steel tables and cabinetry.

  The smell of disinfectant that filled the room seemed to be as strong as the sense of finality.

  Doctor Coulter and Lawrence Sodero were dressed in green surgical scrubs, plastic aprons and latex gloves. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Coulter said, “Right on time. You’re a punctual man, Lieutenant.”

  Allan tried to smile. “I try to be. Though I can think of better things to be doing with my time than hanging out here.”

  Coulter chuckled. “Yes. I bet you can. You’d sooner be
out pounding the pavement for a suspect than being down here in the dungeon with Doctor Frankenstein and his sidekick, Igor.”

  Allan laughed. “Truer words were never spoken, Doctor.”

  Behind him, Sodero pushed a steel tray across the tile floor. On it laid a small assortment of tools—scalpels, scissors, forceps, rib cutters, a bread knife, a chisel, a Stryker saw.

  The examination began with a thorough inspection of the clothing. With the overhead lamps dimmed, Coulter moved a blue light over the entire body, looking for the illumination of trace evidence. He was a cautious man. He worked slowly and meticulously. Lacking an overhead mic, he stopped periodically to take notes that he’d later transcribe to his report.

  With Sodero’s help, he turned the body over. Finding no trace on the backside, the lamps were turned up again. Coulter then carefully examined the back of the jacket where the blade had gone through, matching the hole with the correlative wound underneath. Sodero took photographs throughout.

  The two men rolled the body onto its back again. Coulter removed the paper bags from the hands and gave them to Sodero, who neatly folded them and sealed each one in a separate evidence bag. Then, without cutting or tearing, they began removing each article of clothing.

  Earlier, Allan thought, Brad had started his day like anyone else. Got up, showered and dressed. Now he was being stripped naked by other hands and laid on a metal slab to be photographed and washed by strangers.

  Life is so uncertain.

  Coulter measured the body and then weighed it on an overhead scale.

  “Height is one hundred sixty-nine centimeters,” he said. “Weight is eighty-two kilograms.”

  He started the examination of the body itself, inspecting the scalp for any injuries hidden by the hair. He checked the ear canals for signs of bleeding, the eyes for petechiae—broken blood vessels suggestive of strangulation or asphyxia. He moved systematically over the face looking for bruises or cyanosis, then into the mouth for foreign objects, damaged teeth or cut lips.

  “Rigor has now set in the jaw,” he said. “The neck is symmetrical. The trachea is in the midline. No signs of injury to either.”