Grave Situation (38 page)

Allan pressed the record button on
the tape recorder. “Can you give us your thoughts on the man we’re
looking for, Doctor?”

Eyes focused on the desk,
Armstrong’s face became a mask of deep reflection. Then, looking up
at last, he started, “First, he’s a white male. Rarely do serial
killers cross ethnic lines. He possibly hates one or both parents.
I’d put him in the thirties to early forties age bracket. I base
this on the fact that he took time with his victims. Younger
killers tend to murder quickly. An in and out sort of thing. They
don’t spend much time with their victims.

“This man is settled in
Acresville. He either owns a home or rents. He knows the area too
well to have just moved here recently.

“Have you checked to see if
there’s been any similar murders committed throughout the Maritimes
or Canada?”

“I’m waiting to hear back,” Allan
said. “I just submitted the info yesterday.”

“Then you’ll know if he’s a
roamer. Personally, I don’t think he is. Sure he struck in Halifax,
but the city isn’t too far away.

“This man probably lives alone.
He’s either single, separated or divorced. Most serial killers are
solitary people. Loners. But it’s here that I want to stress some
caution. It’s quite possible that he is married. Remember what I
said about John Wayne Gacy. He was married with
children.

“It’s also possible this man could
be living with someone who doesn’t take much notice of his comings
or goings. Perhaps an elderly parent or grandparent.

“He will undoubtedly have the
behavioral traits of a psychopath. He will seem charming, yet it’s
only superficial. Underneath that facade, he will be callous and
cold.

“Like I mentioned at the first of
the session, he will have no conscience, no feelings of guilt or
remorse. He will lie excessively. Even if you discover some
evidence linking him to one of the crime scenes, he’ll have an
excuse for it. However preposterous his excuse will sound to you, I
guarantee he’ll have one.

“He’ll be emotionally shallow.
He’s possibly a manipulator with good verbal skills. Intelligent,
but only educated through high school. No post-secondary education.
Though despite his intelligence, his grades in school would’ve been
only mediocre.

“He is physically strong and is
either currently employed in an occupation that requires this or
has been.

“Undoubtedly, he is sly and
cunning. Well organized. Self-centered. A braggart. Feels superior
to you. He’s probably following your every move through news
broadcasts and the papers. At his home, you could find a scrapbook
of newspaper clippings about his murders as well as books dealing
with atrocities.

“In the course of your
investigation, you might actually pick up this man as a suspect.
But there could be some difficulty in nailing him as the killer,
especially if you have no concrete evidence that would incriminate
him.” Hesitating, Armstrong inhaled a breath. “I think he’ll be a
hard nut to crack. Pardon my pun, gentlemen.”

As he listened, Allan tried to form
a mental picture of this man. “Do you think he’ll stop?”

Armstrong spread his hands. “It’s
possible. What scares me is the fact that he’s killed three people
in the span of a few days. As I mentioned before, a lot of these
men are driven by murderous fantasies. Some believe that if these
men are caught before they start murdering, then rehabilitation is
possible. Personally, I think that is naïve. Even
dangerous.

“Once they start acting out these
fantasies by carrying out acts of murder, these fantasies tend to
become so indelible, so embedded in the killer’s mind and his
murders become so routine, that rehabilitation is next to
impossible.

“Dahmer stated that while serving
time in prison he still had compulsive thoughts of murder. And if
ever released, he was afraid he’d kill again.

“Another reason I don’t believe in
rehabilitation is because these killers make up the upper echelon
of psychopathic behavior, some of the most violent of them. You
can’t treat someone with psychopathic behavior. How do you teach
these people to love, to have a conscience, to develop an emotional
landscape where there was nothing but barren terrain
before?”

Stopping a moment, Armstrong looked
at both men.

“Picture this, gentlemen,” he
continued. “I am the killer. For the first time in my life I’m
getting attention. I’m in the limelight. I hold Acresville
trembling in the grips of my hands. I have power. I have dominance.
I relish this. Why should I stop now?”

David let out an audible sigh. “You
know, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

“I apologize if I’ve disheartened
you. I really pray this man does stop. Sometimes they do on their
own accord.”

“But you don’t think he will?”
inquired Allan.

In a different tone, one that was
low and tinged with regret, Armstrong said, “I honestly don’t
believe he will.”

In the periphery of his vision,
Allan saw David frown with worry.

“What steps can we take
next?”

“I think you should contact
Services Canada for a list of men who had applied for unemployment
insurance recently. Check the backgrounds of these men for possible
suspects. Remember what I said about the stressor. It’s possible
something happened to this man that provoked this sudden violence
in him.

“As well, contact the welfare
office for men who recently applied for financial aid. Look through
your files of past offences, specifically repeat offenders who had
an escalation toward more violent crimes. Not your garden-variety
petty thief. Remember what I said about a serial killer’s
proclivity toward criminal acts throughout their lives.

“These murders might also be his
first ones. Andrei Chikatilo was forty-two before he killed for the
first time. And I firmly believe this man is in an age bracket
close to that—thirties to early forties.”

Another silence fell over the
office. There was nothing more to cover, Allan realized, no more
questions he could think of to ask. He shut off the
recorder.

A sudden gust of wind slapped the
building, tossing a spatter of raindrops against the office window.
As the three men looked, Allan saw a flash of lightning in the
belly of the clouds. Soon everything across the street was lost
behind a gray downpour.

“Driving in that’s going to be a
royal pain in the ass,” Armstrong said.

“Stay a while, Doctor,” Allan told
him. “There’s no sense rushing back.”

“I have some appointments this
afternoon, Lieutenant.”

A knock came at the door. David got
up to answer it.

“Excuse me,” he said.

It was Sam, Allan saw, and he had a
concerned look on his face. He drew David into the hallway,
speaking to him in hushed tones. David winced and seemed to expel a
short breath.

“Well, I’m on my way,” Armstrong
was on his feet now, shrugging on his overcoat.

Rising from his chair, Allan
extended his hand across the desk. “I appreciate your help,
Doctor.”

“Anytime. I just hope I was some
help.”

The two men shook hands.

Armstrong nodded briskly. “Good
day, Lieutenant,” he said. With that, he was gone.

When David came back into the
office, he walked toward the desk and rested his hands on the back
of a chair. There was a grim expression etched in his
face.

“What is it?” Allan
asked.

David drew a breath. “We have a
problem at Rolling Hills Cemetery.”

40

Acresville, May 21

11:13 a.m.

Herb parked his truck two miles up
Mountain Point Road, a fire access route that joined a network of
others on the mountainside. Visited only by hunters during season
or nature lovers, out here buried in the forest made it the perfect
meeting spot.

He cracked the window, breathing in
air that carried a clean, wet smell. The treetops around him swayed
under a stiff wind and above them, a crinkled blanket of dark
clouds swathed the sky.

The dash clock read: 11:15. If
Slick arrived on time, he’d be there soon.

Herb switched off the ignition and
sat there with his hands on the wheel. Waiting.
Thinking.

Beads of rain gathered on the
windshield, combining with others to stream downwards in wandering
rivulets.

Herb retrieved an envelope stuffed
with $20 bills from his shirt pocket and set it on the seat next to
him. He let out a troubled sigh and leaned back in the seat. As he
shut his eyes, he remembered the day Slick showed up at his
home.

* * *

Herb felt an instinctive flash of
surprise and caution when he answered the front door to see his
childhood friend. His first thought was to wonder what brought this
man here, especially after everything that had happened in recent
weeks.

“Hello, Slick,” he said. “What’s
it been, two years since I last saw you?”

In profile, Slick appeared fidgety.
He started, hesitated, and then came forward with his hand
extended. “Hello, Herbie. Something like that.” He leaned back,
dark eyes appraising him. “You look the same. Still big as a
house.”

Herb paused a moment. To him, his
friend too looked much the same—pale skin, thin face, the long,
unkempt hair he’d had since a teenager.

“You must’ve come into town to
visit your parents.”

Slick nodded. “I just came from
there. They told me you were fined for some environmental
mishap.”

Remembering, Herb winced. The pain
and outrage, he realized, was as fresh as if it had happened
yesterday. “Front page news in this one-horse town. I was accused
of dirty dairying. Fucking court took everything away from
me.”

“What happened?”

Herb ran a hand
over his jaw. “The effluent pond at the back of my property
overflowed and ran into the Elm River that runs adjacent to my
property line. Out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t even notice it.
Two agency officers from Environment Canada showed up here one day
last month after someone reported seeing a bunch of dead fish in
the river. They traced the problem
back to
the effluent pond.”

“So they fined you?”

Herb nodded. “Yeah. Nearly one
hundred thousand dollars, Slick. I never had that kind of money
just kicking around. They fined me for violating water quality, for
discharging effluent into the water without a permit and for not
notifying Environment Canada of the spill.

“The judge said he was going to
make an example out of me. I guess he accomplished that—crippled me
financially. My insurance didn’t include an environmental liability
package, and the banks were leery about lending money to a farm
they deemed environmentally unsound.

“I couldn’t bring myself to sell
this property. So instead, I sold what equipment I could to pay my
creditors and the back wages owed to my farmhands. A local
competitor bought my entire herd of Holsteins.”

For a moment, Slick stood there on
the porch, quiet. Behind his head, a streak of contrail split the
sky in half.

At last, he scowled and said,
“Dirty dairying. More like dirty fucking government. What about the
big industries who’s been polluting the lakes and oceans for
decades? You never see them fined, do you?”

Herb felt an envelope being pushed
into his hand. He opened it and saw a small wad of cash.

He gave Slick a quizzical look.
“What’s this?”

“A down payment. I have a job
offer for you, but I’m not sure how you’ll respond. All I ask is
that you listen to it with an open mind. I’m risking a lot by even
telling you.”

Curious, Herb stepped aside,
allowing Slick to enter the living room. With a wave of a hand, he
gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

He closed the door behind them.
Then he took a seat on the chair across from Slick.

“So tell me,” he said.

In detail, Slick
outlined his proposal. At first Herb couldn’t believe what he was
hearing. Astonishment came, then disgust. Just listening made him
feel dirty, involved in some sick way. All at once, he remembered
his friend’s gradual advance into crime. It began as a boy barely
in his teenage years when a change came over him. Something seemed
to short-circuit. He became defiant, uncooperative in school. His
grades suffered a steady drop. He would miss classes or show up
under the influence of alcohol. At home, his parents were having
marital problems,
teetering on divorce.
Weeks of counseling eventually brought about reconciliation.
Despite this, Slick’s delinquent behavior worsened. He would steal
cigarettes from his parents and secretly sell them to kids at
school. Shoplifting, robberies and drug dealing marked his teenage
life. At age 23, he was arrested for pushing narcotics to an
undercover cop in Halifax.