Grave Situation (48 page)

“A fetal pig, huh?” Allan raised
his eyebrows. “In my biology class we only dissected a starfish and
a frog. And I found both to be rather disgusting.”

Sodero chuckled. “We used those for
dissections too. I must say the fetal pig was my favorite though.
Call me weird, but during my years in university I kept one
preserved in a jar in my dorm room.”

“And I bet you had a name for him
too?”

“I did.” Sodero smiled. “I called
him Fred.”

Allan looked at Coulter. “Did you
tell Sodero about the grave desecration in Acresville, about the
possible connection to the murders there and here in the
city?”

Coulter shrugged. “I’m not sure.
Maybe in passing.”

“He was at the office when I
called you on Saturday. He answered the phone.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did he work
yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“All day?”

“Until five.”

“Did he know we were exhuming
Cecil Drake this morning?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“Before or after he told you he
was sick?”

“Before.” Coulter touched the
bridge of his nose. “He called me last night and told me that he
couldn’t make the exhumation. He felt fluey.”

Allan’s face grew intent. “Do you
know where he lives?”

49

Halifax, May 24

12:14 p.m.

Lawrence Sodero lived in a
contemporary cedar with a low-pitched roof and huge windows. His
Audi was parked in the driveway.

As Allan drove up to the curb in
front of the house and shut off the engine, he felt leaden with
fatigue and uncertainty. Questions troubled him about this
case—what possible reason could Sodero have for wanting human
parts? If he was at work yesterday, then who murdered Stephen
Eagles? Could someone else be responsible for the grave robberies
and murders? Were other people at play here?

Allan shook his head. Nothing made
sense. Against Sodero there was suspicion and probability, but no
hard proof, no smoking gun. Even so, he was the main suspect in a
bizarre case.

What if I’m wrong?

Allan glanced at the house. If the
search didn’t turn up body parts, or some other piece of evidence,
he would be at a dead end.

The clock in the dash read 12:20.
He picked up the search warrant from the passenger seat and made
sure everything was right. Satisfied, he folded it in half and
slipped it into a shirt pocket. Before coming here, he had checked
the gun registry to see if Sodero owned any firearms; he
didn’t.

There was still the question of
whether or not he owned any illegal ones.

In the rear-view mirror Allan saw
the Ident van pull into the driveway, blocking the Audi; Jim sat
behind the wheel, Harvey beside him. Like Allan, they were still
dressed in their coveralls.

His cell phone rang. It was
Coulter.

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

“I went through
my files and checked those names you showed me. I
did
perform autopsies on
all of them.”

“The first name in the book was
the earliest one?”

“Yes, it was,” Coulter said. “Do
you remember Sonny Benson?”

Allan straightened.

Benson?

“Sounds familiar.”

“Accidental overdose. You handled
the investigation, Lieutenant.”

Allan closed his eyes with a
sigh.

That’s
right,
he realized.
Sonny Benson from Chebucto Road. Smoked too much crystal meth
one night and was found dead on his sofa by his
girlfriend.

“Happened last fall, didn’t it?”
he asked.

“October thirty-first,” Coulter
told him.

Allan watched the ERT van pull to
the curb in front of him. “Lawrence was at the autopsy. I remember
now.”

“Yes, he was.”

Allan inhaled a deep breath.
Suddenly, the enormity of this information weighed down on him. He
foresaw each and every person in that notebook being
exhumed.

He prayed Cathy hadn’t been
touched, but at this point how could he be sure?

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “I
apologize for my behavior earlier.”

“No worries, Lieutenant. You just
get to the bottom of this.”

Allan hung up, watched as Sam
Keating and four members of his team spilled out of the van. All of
the men were dressed in SWAT uniforms with Heckler & Koch MP5s
slung over their shoulders.

Allan gathered up his mask from the
passenger seat and stepped outside.

“How do you want to handle this,
Lieutenant?” asked Keating, walking over.

Allan looked over at the house
again. “We’ll spare a breach,” he said. “I know the man inside. Let
me talk to him.”

Keating put on his ballistics
helmet and secured the chinstrap. “As you wish.”

He turned to his men, directing two
of them to each side of the front door, the remainder to oversee
the backyard.

Allan began walking toward the
house, Keating a few feet behind. Jim and Harvey got out of the van
and waited in the driveway.

As Allan reached the front door and
rang the bell, he felt his pulse climbing. From inside the home
came a faint Westminster chime. Moments later he heard a stirring,
the rattle of a latch. Instinctively, he reached inside his
coveralls to his armpit and put a hand on the butt of the
pistol.

Sodero opened the door, wearing a
striped polo, golf shorts, and sandals.

For an instant his eyes froze on
Allan. He looked startled.

“Lieutenant Stanton.”

“Hello, Lawrence.” Allan gave him
a mock once-over. “You don’t seem fluey at all.”

Sodero’s lips parted slightly. “Say
what?”

Allan watched him for a moment. He
found it hard to imagine this man as a murderer.

At last, he said, “I was wondering
why you didn’t show up at Cecil Drake’s exhumation. Coulter told me
you called in sick.”

“I’m feeling under the weather.”
Sodero threw a nervous glance at Keating, then at the two other men
on either side of the doorway. “Why are you all here?”

“To search your home,” Allan
said.

Sodero gave him a guarded look. A
flush stained his face a light shade of red.

“For what? Do you have a
warrant?”

Allan noted the tremor in Sodero’s
words. “I do.”

“Can I see it?”

Allan handed the paper to him.
While waiting for Sodero to read it over, Allan’s gaze brushed past
him, examining the inside of the home. It was modern and bright
with an open concept. Leather furniture filled the living room; oil
paintings decorated the walls.

He wondered how someone twenty-six
years old had acquired so much.

Then his eyes caught sight of two
pieces of luggage at the foot of a winding staircase.

Allan became very still.

He was going to make a run for
it.

Sodero’s
astonished tone cut into his thoughts
“This says you’re looking for human body
parts?”

Allan fixed him with a gelid stare.
“That’s right. Where are they?”

Sodero blinked. “I don’t
know.”

Allan drew him close. “Like fuck
you don’t. Why not save us the work of tearing apart your nice
home. If they’re here, we’re going to find them. What’s it going to
be?”

Sodero’s
expression became sheepish. He stepped back a little and raised his
hands, as if in a silent appeal.
“Please.
It’s not what you think,
Lieutenant.”

“You don’t want to know what I
think.” Allan’s voice became low and caustic. “Are you a murderer?
Or are you just some weirdo who goes around in the middle of the
night digging up graves?”

“I’m neither.”

“Oh, I’m certain that you’re one.
It’s the other I’m wondering about.”

Sodero opened his mouth and then
closed it again, speechless.

“Where are they?” Allan prodded.
“Do you have them pickled in a jar like little Freddy?”

“No.”

Fed up, Allan fought his own
temper. He waved to Jim and Harvey to come over. Then he stepped
inside the foyer.

“Why do you
suspect
me?
”
Sodero asked.

Allan turned to him. “Stephen
Eagles.”

Sodero’s eyes widened. “What? Is he
in custody?”

Allan ignored him. Jim and Harvey
appeared in the doorway now. Allan lifted a hand, gesturing for
them to stay there a moment.

“What’d he tell you?” Sodero
asked.

“He didn’t tell me anything. But
you just did.”

Sodero shook his head, confused. “I
don’t understand. Where is he?”

“In Acresville,” Allan said
simply. “At the morgue.”

“What?” The monosyllable came out
tight and high-pitched.

Allan nodded. “That’s right. He was
shot in Acresville yesterday.”

Sodero stared at the floor and
adjusted his glasses with a shaky hand. He looked
stunned.

“How does a man like you know a
petty criminal like him?” Allan asked.

Sodero swallowed.

“Stephen…” He stopped and then
continued, “Stephen was my dealer.”

Allan frowned, remembering the hash
and crack he found at Eagles’ apartment the night before, the
lengthy history the man had selling drugs.

“For how long?” he
asked.

“Since last fall.”

“Do you know who shot
him?”

Sodero lifted his head. “I think
his friend did.”

Allan paused,
reflecting.

Herb Matteau?

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,
Lieutenant. Stephen never called him by name. But
he’s
the one behind the
murders.”

Allan reigned in his impatience.
“You tell me what the hell is going on, Lawrence. Right
now.”

Sodero looked him in the face and
his words came out in a hurried undertone. “I hired Stephen to get
some body parts for me. I told him where the people were going to
be buried. I decided new graves would be the easiest to dig up
because the soil wouldn’t have settled yet.

“Lay down a tarp on each side of
the grave. Remove the sod before it had a chance to root. Pile it
on one tarp, the soil from the grave on another.

“Stephen seemed like the perfect
guy for it. And it wasn’t like he’d run to you if he
refused.

“When business picked up in April,
he wanted to enlist the help of a friend of his from Acresville. I
was skeptical at having someone else in the fold, but Stephen said
he trusted this guy. He was to handle the work in the Acresville
area, Stephen here in Halifax.

“When you called Doctor Coulter
and told him that someone dug up Hector Walsh’s grave and that it
was connected with the murders of that homeless man in Acresville
and Trixy Ambré, I realized that Stephen’s friend was the one
behind it all.

“I told Stephen everything and he
said that he’d take care of him.”

Lost for words, Allan stared at
Sodero with narrowed eyes. His thoughts were a chaotic jumble of
anger, disbelief, and revulsion.

Keep calm. Keep it
professional.

It took a moment before he was able
to speak.

“Take care of him, how?” he asked.
“Kill him?”

Sodero nodded. “I think
so.”

Allan remembered the Glock by
Eagles’ feet. He ran a hand over his face, through his
hair.

“What was Hector Walsh targeted
for?”

Sodero’s throat moved in one
convulsive swallow. “His head.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you,”
Allan barked. “Have you no morals at all?”

“Please, Lieutenant.” A plaintive
note entered Sodero’s voice. “You must believe me, nobody was ever
supposed to get hurt.”

It was all too much, Allan
realized. The disrespect for the dead. Sodero’s complete lack of
conscience.

“I can’t put into words how much
you sicken me,” he said. “Did you ever consider the people you dug
up? They were husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, brothers and
sisters to living, breathing people like you and me.”

Sodero flinched, but said
nothing.

“Tell me Eagles never touched
Cathy Ambré’s grave.”

“He didn’t.”

“You better not be lying to
me.”

“I’m not.”

“But she was next on the list,
wasn’t she?”

A barely audible, “Yes.”