Grave Situation (19 page)

“I can do it.
I
will
do
it.”

Slowly, Allan shook his
head.

Why?
he mourned.
Why did you
do this to yourself?

Emotions, he realized, were
jeopardizing his train of thought. He forced himself to step back,
observe things professionally. His eyes hunted details. Drawn
blinds veiled the outside world. The lights were on in the bedroom
and living room. Two nights ago when he had stopped by, the
apartment was in darkness.

When had she come home?

The bedroom itself, he saw, was
plainly furnished—a bed, a crucifix above it, a night table, a
dresser with mirror. The single window faced Brewer Street. The
overhead light cast a yellow tone on the floral papered
walls.

Harvey Doucette, Jim’s partner, was
busy measuring key distances.

“It’s safe to come in,
Lieutenant,” he said, glancing over. “It won’t take long to wrap up
things here.”

Allan stepped inside. He didn’t
move directly to the note on the dresser. He walked around the
perimeter of the bedroom instead, looking along the floor. He
opened the blinds to check the window. Locked.

After turning to a blank page in
his spiral, he stood off to one corner and began to rough out a
sketch of the room. When it came to draw the crude stick figure of
Cathy Ambré, he found it awkward.

He moved to the dresser and picked
up the note by one corner. The handwriting reflected the jagged
scrawl of grief.

How long will thou forget me, O
Lord? Forever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

How long shall I
take counsel in my soul
having
sorrow in my heart daily? How long shall mine
enemy be exalted over me?

Psalms 13:1-2

Forgive me, everyone. Forgive
me.

Will there be a place in heaven for
me? Or will they close the gates and turn me away?

I won’t write a lengthy explanation
for doing this. Just look at me. I have no one to blame for all of
these problems, but myself. This cross is too heavy for me to bear
any longer. Having said that, I never thought this day would come
so soon for me, or that it would all end this way. I would’ve
preferred for it to end peacefully, years from now, at a ripe old
age, surrounded by my family and friends. Anyway, but like this:
alone in an apartment, alone in life. It is easy to sit and judge
someone for choosing suicide—a coward’s way out, a permanent
solution to a temporary problem. But these people don’t understand
the darkness you can sink into. No hope can be a terrible
thing.

How can this be easy for me? There
is no coming back. Even at this moment, I’m afraid and torn apart.
There is no calm; there is no inner peace. Sad I had lived in life;
sad I will die.

For Mom and Dad, Grandpa and
Grandma, I love you with all my heart. I’m sorry I let you down.
For Trixy, ditto. I pray you’re safe.

I only ask one thing from all of
you: remember who I was, not what I became.

Good-bye,

Cathy

Once more, Allan read over the
note. Cathy’s anguished words burrowed right to his soul. The guilt
he felt was sudden and powerful. If he hadn’t procrastinated about
coming over when she had called two nights ago, he might’ve caught
her before she left. He might’ve saved her from this end. Biting
his lip, he put the note back on the dresser.

It was a moment
before he turned to face the room again. He mentally itemized the
evidence for Jim and Harvey to gather up—the suicide note, the
empty packet, the spoon, and the needle and syringe used for
injection. For good measure, he decided the pillows, pillowcases
and bedding should be packaged as well and sent to
Hair and Trace.
He knew
the totality of the evidence indicated suicide. Still, the finding
had to be made official.

From the hallway came the sound of
hard wheels rolling across the wooden floor and soon Doctor Coulter
appeared in the doorway, signing Malone’s clipboard. Lawrence
Sodero stood behind him with his hands on a gurney.

Allan looked down at his watch.
10:36 p.m. Coulter was later than usual.

Coulter acknowledged him with a
curt nod. For a couple of minutes, he remained in the doorway,
studying the scene.

“An accidental overdose,
Lieutenant?” he asked at last.

“Right now, it looks like suicide
by overdose.”

“No signs of a struggle or forced
entry?”

Allan shook his head. “No. The
front door was locked from the inside. All the windows are
secure.”

Coulter stepped into the room now,
carrying a black bag. He put it on the floor by the bed.

“Looking at what’s here,” he said,
“I’d guess her drug of choice was heroin.”

“That’s my guess,
Doctor.”

Coulter put a
hand to his chin.
“Strange.”

Openly curious, he searched around
the room, under the bed.

“Is something wrong?” Allan asked
him.

“I’m looking for what I don’t see,
Lieutenant. Empty alcohol or pill bottles. Products that can tax
the central nervous system prior to taking the heroin.”

“You don’t think she overdosed on
heroin alone?”

“I have doubts. But toxicology
will tell the tale.”

“What if she took an
extraordinarily high amount?”

“Street heroin is so diluted, the
user really has no idea what dosage they’re taking to begin with.
And it would take a large amount of heroin to kill someone. Even in
a non-user. More than what would’ve been in the bag found on the
floor here.

“Addicts develop a tolerance to
opiates. Increasing one’s normal amount does not produce
significant side effects and in some cases because of the dilution,
none at all. And it most certainly does not guarantee
death.”

Allan called over Jim.

“Can you check the apartment for
any empty alcoholic beverage containers, empty glasses in the sink
that smell of alcohol as well as medicine bottles?” he
asked.

Jim pulled back the hood of his
coveralls. “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” Allan said, watching
Coulter go to work.

With slow deliberation, Coulter
began his examination of Cathy Ambré. He flexed her arms, felt her
jaw and face for stiffness. He checked her hands, paying special
attention to the fingernails. Then he reached into the black bag
and removed a probe thermometer. He lifted the blouse of the young
woman to expose her abdomen.

“There are signs of early
decomposition in the lower right quadrant,” he noted.

Coulter positioned the thermometer
over the area of the liver. Before the probe was inserted, Allan
turned away.

Moments later, Coulter spoke again.
“Core temperature has lowered to the ambient temperature of the
room. Rigor has passed. There’s secondary flaccidity in the
joints.”

“About thirty-six hours?” Allan
asked.

“There are variables, Lieutenant.
Right now, that’s my guesstimate. Thirty-six hours
minimum.”

To Allan, the chronology seemed to
be about right. He left Coulter to do his work and walked over to
Harvey.

“Is it all right to look around?”
he asked.

“Sure,” Harvey said. “Go for
it.”

Allan started his own search of the
bedroom. First, he went to the dresser. He found a jumble of bras,
underpants and T-shirts in the drawers. Nothing more. The closet
came next. There were blouses and slacks on hangers, two rows of
shoes on the floor.

But what stopped him was a white
box neatly tucked away in a corner.

On top of it rested a black purse.
He knelt, put the purse aside, and took out the box. Inside was a
large amount of hypodermic needles. On the side of the box, the
quantity was listed at one hundred. From the amount remaining,
Allan guessed the needles had been purchased recently. The purse
had one five-dollar bill, loose change, and a wallet containing
Cathy’s driver’s license, birth certificate, bank and credit cards.
Lastly, he removed a card of emergency contacts, listing the names
and address of Cathy’s parents. Allan wrote down the information in
his spiral.

He stood up and looked around the
bedroom. Only one piece of furniture left to check. He slid open
the drawer of the night table to reveal the Old Testament and
another book with sunflowers on the cover. A pen lay next to that.
As he looked at the locking clasp on the second book, Allan
realized it to be a diary.

Slowly, it opened in his
hands.

Flipping through the pages, he saw
the entries were dated from December 25 to May 11. At random, he
began reading some of the more salient entries, skipping over the
less important ones.

Soon he found himself deep in the
private sanctuary of a young woman, whose life seemed to be an
uncertain journey through a minefield, never quite reaching the
safe clearing on the other side.

24

Halifax, May 12

10:58 p.m.

December 25. My first
entry.

Christmas time is family time. No
snow this year. Just cloudy.

My fondest memories are of
Christmas. As a little girl I loved going out with Dad and Trixy to
pick up a tree and bring it home to decorate. On Christmas Eve,
Trixy and I would stay up late, too excited to sleep. Mom and Dad
would allow us to open one present. It seemed only to add to our
excitement for the presents to come the next morning. At daybreak,
we would sneak downstairs before Mom and Dad were up. We would go
through our stockings first, then move onto our presents that Santa
had left.

Those special times seem so long
ago now. So much has changed. Mom still puts up a stocking for me.
Even at 22. God bless her. I got this diary in it this year. This
will be a new experience for me. I’ve never catalogued my thoughts
and activities before.

Everyone was over for turkey
dinner, sticking to tradition. Grandma and Grandpa brought pumpkin
and apple pies. Uncle Baxter and his family brought a gingerbread
house. Aunties Sable, Angela and Ann brought different sweets. The
house was full with their families.

Like last year and a few years
before that, something was amiss… Trixy. I thought about her during
dinner. No one even mentioned her. It was like she never existed. I
wonder if they knew about my problems, would I be snubbed the same
way?

Later, when everyone crowded into
the family room to reminisce about the past year, I made up a
turkey plate with all the fixings and snuck it over to Trixy’s. Mom
knew what I was doing, but didn’t stop me. Actually I think she
wanted me to do it. I really think she misses her other
daughter.

Trixy seemed sad to me, unusually
quiet. I noticed she gets like that this time of year. Well, since
she left home anyhow. She just picked at the plate, not really
eating anything. She didn’t have a tree up or any decorations at
all. I felt sorry for her. I think a lot of things that happened
bother her now. She just won’t open up to anyone. She’s like Dad in
a way.

If I had one wish, it would be for
the family to be back on speaking terms…

Allan jumped ahead into January
where the entries talked about the new job Cathy got as a
chambermaid. The tone grew in doubt and frustration about the
choices she made in her life. She hated her new job and regretted
her decision to leave university only to fall into a rut. Heroin
seemed to be her refuge from it all.

When Allan came to the 26th, he
paused a moment. Here the handwriting was different, lacking the
smooth penmanship of the other entries. It was replaced with a
loose scribble not unlike a child first learning to
write.

I’m so fucking high right now. And
I don’t care. The outside world doesn’t exist. I can deal with it
later. God, don’t let this feeling go away.

Allan shook his head, feeling a
deep pity.

Shame
, he thought.

Then he came to January
31st.

Sunny, but too cold to go outside.
–20.

Dad found the spoons I’d been using
as cookers. Thank God he never found my needles or better yet, the
stash I had in my purse.

He made me pull up my sleeves and
gasped when he saw my needle marks. Mom burst out crying. God, what
have I done? I never wanted this to happen. To upset them like
this. I hurt my parents and disgraced myself.

I told him that I will quit and not
to worry. He and Mom want me to rebuild my life, to go back to
university next fall. I promised I would. This has all gone too
far.