Grave Situation (12 page)

The room around him was shadowed
and quiet. Faint light from the hallway dimly illuminated his
surroundings. Looking about, he made out vague shapes as a dresser,
a night table, a wind-up clock whose hands read 2:30. Sunlight cut
through around the edges of the drawn blinds.

Slowly, the understanding of who
and where he was came back to him—not a little boy, but a grown man
of thirty-six years, alone in his bedroom. He was still dressed in
the clothes he had worn last night.

What happened?

Trying to sift through the wreckage
of his memory, he encountered flashes of lucidity, blackouts of
obscurity.

Sudden images. A woman swathed in
black water. Her desperate flail to keep from drowning. Her frantic
cry for help. A shaken man bent over the side of a wharf,
vomiting.

Herb winced. He swung his legs over
the edge of the bed. On the floor by his feet lay an empty whiskey
bottle.

He stared at it.

With his elbows on his knees, he
lowered his forehead onto clasped hands and shut his eyes. The
nightmare had come again, third night in a row.

Why?

More and more lately, his thoughts
seemed to drift back into a past he wished to forget.

He stood up and felt the shakiness
in his legs, the queasiness in his stomach. He went to the window
and yanked the cord to raise the blinds, squinting against the
sudden rush of bright sun. Only a ridge of cotton-like clouds over
the mountains threatened to pilfer the rich blue from the
sky.

Herb turned away and walked out to
the hallway for the bathroom. His footsteps became leaden as he
approached his parent’s bedroom. A chill worked through him like an
electric current, the residue of the nightmare still fresh on his
mind.

The door was closed. Behind it he
knew the room lay untouched since the death of his father over
eighteen years ago. Not since then had Herb gone in there. Now,
with fear and foreboding, he turned the knob and pushed on the
door. It yawned open with a heavy protest.

Herb stood on the threshold,
looking inside. For the most part, the room was as he remembered
it. Hardwood floor. Dated felt wallpaper. The only differences were
the signs of dormancy—the stale air, the thick layers of dust
covering everything, the festoons of cobwebs hanging from the
ceiling.

In the far corner was a dressing
table with a large oval mirror. Herb swallowed as he imagined his
mother sitting there in her blue Sunday dress and faux pearls,
applying makeup as she prepared for morning mass. Her perfume
bottles, powder boxes and Victorian hand mirror were still there,
remnants of what was once life.

On the wall above
the bed hung a framed print of Leonardo da Vinci’s
The Last Supper.
The bed
itself was unmade, the covers thrown back by his father just hours
before he died.

At once, Herb felt a surge of
uneasiness. Before painful memories began to attack him, he
abruptly shut the door.

He went into the bathroom and bent
over the sink, splashing handfuls of cold water on his face. As he
dried off, the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet caught his
reflection. He looked drawn, pale and miserable somehow. His eyes
were red-rimmed and a growth of stubble began to shroud his
jaw.

He hung the towel on the bar and
gazed at the razor on the sink.

Later. He would shave
later.

From the cabinet he removed a
bottle of aspirin, popped two tablets into his mouth and chased
them down with a glass of water.

He headed downstairs to the kitchen
and opened a cupboard door above the stove. Threading his hand
through boxes of spare light bulbs and plastic wrap, he found the
small Mason jar in the back.

He brought it out and felt his skin
tingle as he stared at the two eyes inside. Suspended in a watery
solution of formalin, they were still well preserved, the irises
still beautiful blue.

Herb watched them a moment, almost
mesmerized. The eyes bobbed back and forth in front of him,
clumsily bumping into each other.

He put down the jar and went
outside. Even though the day was sunny, the air smelled of rain. A
gust of wind slipped through his hair, lifted dust and sand from
the driveway.

Herb walked to the edge of the back
yard to a fifty-five gallon drum he used as a burn barrel. The
ashes inside were cool now, he saw.

When he got home earlier from
Halifax, he had thrown in Trixy’s clothing and purse, soaked
everything with gasoline, struck a match and tossed it in. At once,
the flames shot up with a whoosh. While the fire cracked and spat,
Herb vacuumed the seats and carpets in the pickup, wiped down the
dash and door panels with soapy water.

A green composting bin was nearby.
Herb wheeled it over and flipped open the lid. He picked up the
burn barrel and dumped the ashes inside it.

Tomorrow morning he would put the
bin down by the road for the WRM sanitation truck to empty. At that
point, the only evidence linking him to Trixy Ambré would be her
eyes.

In a couple of days even those
would be gone.

15

Halifax, May 9

2:45 p.m.

When Allan returned to the crime
scene, the barricades were still up. A uniformed officer waved him
through.

The press remained camped out at
the corner of South and Lower Water Street. Through the side window
Allan saw a reporter spot him and begin jockeying for position. To
avoid him, Allan edged his car up behind the mobile command station
and parked. He signed himself into the scene and briefly conferred
with Sergeant Malone.

The Underwater Recovery Team, he
saw, had moved their search farther from shore. Jim and Harvey from
the Ident section had walked every inch of the parking lot a second
and third time. Soon, they decided, it would be released back for
public use. Nothing of value had been found.

The door-to-door canvass wasn’t
going well at all. Nobody interviewed had seen or heard anything
suspicions.

The search of the alleys and
dumpsters had generated few articles of interest—a butter knife, a
jackknife, and a screwdriver, but none were close to the
approximate length or thickness of the blade used in the
murder.

The missing notepad wasn’t found
either. Allan believed the killer of Brad Hawkins had either
disposed of the items into the unyielding depths of the Halifax
Harbor or simply carried them off.

He spent the remainder of the day
assisting with the canvass and then he gathered up the reports from
officers and returned to the station. He stopped at the coffee room
for a fresh cup of brew, and then went to his office. Seated at his
desk, he read over logs from the previous night to familiarize
himself with the calls. Perhaps, he wished, his mystery truck had
been involved in another incident.

Motor Vehicle Collision – 9:16 p.m.
A two-vehicle collision occurred at the intersection of Quinpool
Road and Oxford Street. One driver was charged with operating a
motor vehicle without a valid license. Neither party involved
required medical treatment.

Assault With A Weapon – 10:13 p.m.
Gottingen Street. A lone male was approached by a group of four
males asking for a cigarette. When he said no, the victim was
beaten and struck in the face with a metal pipe. He was taken to
QEII for treatment of facial lacerations. No description of the
suspects could be made, only that they were all wearing bandanas
over their faces. The matter is under investigation.

Motor Vehicle Collision – 10:42
p.m. Kempt Road. One vehicle struck another from behind. Driver of
struck vehicle was taken to QEII for non-life threatening
injuries.

Vandalism – 11:25 p.m. 7890
Waterloo Street. Homeowner called to report two people throwing
beer bottles on his property. One vehicle was damaged. Two males
matching the description of the suspects were detained on South
Street. The pair will appear in court on Monday.

Robbery – 12:05 a.m. Stan’s
Variety. Robie Street. Owners, who live upstairs from
establishment, called after hearing noises in their store. When
officers arrived, a lone male fled on foot. After a short pursuit,
he was caught. The suspect will appear in court on Monday to face
several charges.

Assault – 1:38 a.m. Lower Water
Street. A red, older sedan approached a lone male, 21. Inside, 4
males and 1 female uttered verbal threats. They were described as
being between 17 and 25. 2 blacks and 3 Caucasians. When the victim
ignored them, the 5 suspects exited the vehicle and proceeded
assaulting the man. They fled in the vehicle. The victim was taken
to QEII for treatment. The incident is still under
investigation.

Assault With A Weapon – 2:06 a.m.
Waterfront Bar & Grill. Hollis Street. An altercation ensued
between two males who were ordered out of the bar. One male
produced a knife and stabbed the other man in the abdomen.
Additional officers were dispatched to disperse the crowd that had
gathered around. The victim was taken to the QEII. He is in serious
condition. The suspect will appear in court at a later
date.

Suspicious Death – 5:45 a.m. Lower
Water Street. A man’s body was found in the Impark lot by a
co-worker. Responding officers pronounced the victim dead at the
scene. Major Crimes and the Forensic Identification Unit were
notified. The incident is still under investigation.

Allan leaned back in the chair and
entwined his fingers behind his head.

No such
luck
, he conceded.

Time, he knew, had an unsettling
way of mocking a murder investigation. Once the hours begin ticking
away, the greater chance witnesses can forget what they saw and the
greater chance suspects can form alibis or simply escape. If the
door-to-door canvass still in progress didn’t produce any
witnesses, Allan knew he was in for a long haul. With the crime
being committed when most people were in bed, witnesses would be
minimal.

If Brad had been someone else, then
a lead might be easier to establish. The investigation would reveal
who the victim was, whom he hung with, who his enemies were, how
many bad relationships he’d been in. A meaningful chronology of
what he did in the last hours of his life could be
created.

Allan knew that many victims of
murder seem to set up their own finales. They ran with the wrong
crowds or quarreled with the wrong people, but Brad Hawkins
presented special problems for him. The young guard had a reason to
be on the waterfront at such a questionable hour. About to walk
into something that would cost him his life.

What?

Allan pored over the canvass
reports and concluded the officers who handled the neighborhood
Q&A had done a good job. From the reports, he made a list of
who lived where. What addresses had no answer, so a follow-up could
proceed in the morning. He began running the names of those
interviewed through the computer for prior criminal
histories.

He worked into the early evening
when the phone rang. He snatched at it.

It was the serology department at
the forensic lab. Preliminary results were in from the blood typing
of Brad Hawkins and the mystery blood found on the wharf and it was
already evident that there was no match. Brad Hawkins had type O
blood, common in over forty percent of the population. The blood on
the wharf was type B, much rarer.

Allan straightened.

Quietly, he said, “Thank you for
the information. Do you have an ETA for the DNA
profile?”

The female voice on the other end
paused a moment. “At least a month, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. Please keep me apprised of
any further developments.”

“We will. Take care.”

Allan hung up and closed his eyes.
All at once, he felt drained, enervated by the activities of the
day and lack of food.

Who’s the mystery bleeder? Suspect
or another victim?

He stared at the pile of paperwork
on his desk, lost in thought.

If another victim, then who? Is the
person alive or dead?

He picked up the telephone and
called around to the local hospitals to see if anyone had shown up
with stab or cut wounds throughout the early morning hours. No such
luck.

His last call was to the Vice Unit
to see if anyone had been reported missing from the night before.
Only one he was told—a local prostitute named Trixy Lynn Ambré. She
had failed to come home from work. Her younger sister filed the
report earlier in the day.

“If I could,” Allan said, “I’d
like to review the report.”

“Face it, Al. You just miss us
here in Vice. And you use any excuse to come back and see your old
friends.”

Allan smiled at the joke. The rich
baritone voice on the other end belonged to Marc Zwicker. He had
worked with Allan during his brief tenure in the Vice
Unit.

“Yes.” Allan chuckled. “You got
me.”

“Come on down. I’ll have it
waiting for you.”