Grave Situation (26 page)

Potter simply stared back. He
neither moved nor spoke.

From a manila envelope, Allan
removed an 8x11 photograph. It was a blown-up headshot of Cathy
Ambré taken at her autopsy. Slowly, he slid it across the
table.

“Do you know this young lady?” he
asked.

Potter leaned forward, elbows
resting on the table. Mouth pursed, his face showed no emotion as
his gaze swept the picture once, then settled on the two
officers.

In his voice there was a tone of
arrogance. “Nope. Can’t say that I do.”

From across the table, Allan eyed
the man. It was hard, he found, to remain impassive.

“You
do
know her,” White
said. “Don’t lie to us.”

“I’m not lying.”

“She went to your house last
Monday night. Around one in the morning to be precise. She was
there to buy some heroin from you.”

Potter licked his lips, shifted in
his chair, uncomfortable. A first crack was appearing.

“No.”

“Your drug killed her.”

Potter’s head snapped up sharply.
“What’s that?”

“You heard me.”

“Bullshit. Never seen her
before.”

“You did.”

“No.”

Typical
, Allan thought. Some spark
of conscience or remorse influenced few confessions he had ever
heard. In their admissions, the suspects had always sought some
leniency, some lighter sentence, some way out.

“Stop playing games,” Allan
barked. “I have the taxi driver who drove her to your house on
Monday night. He waited there approximately five minutes for her to
return and then drove her back home. Or maybe Cathy went there to
see your girlfriend. Is that what she’ll tell us?”

“Dunno. I was in bed at that
time.”

Fucking
garbage
, Allan thought.
That’s all I deal with.

Fighting his temper, he put a
finger on one corner of the photograph and dragged it back to
himself. Then he reached into the envelope and brought out another
picture. This one was a crime scene photo showing the small empty
packet found near Cathy Ambré’s bed.

Potter’s gaze lingered on the
picture. Longer, Allan saw, than it had on Cathy’s.

“Forensics lifted your thumbprint
from that bag,” Allan explained. “That’s what lead us to you. And
these same bags were found at your home earlier. All of them filled
with your product.”

A furtive look snuck into Potter’s
eyes. “You looking for a confession?”

“We don’t need one. We’re looking
for the truth. Some reason why you were selling smack laced with
coke. Did you not take into account the jeopardy you were putting
people in?”

Potter gave a look of astonishment.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Allan rose to his feet, leaning
over the table. “The heroin you sold Cathy Ambré was contaminated
with cocaine. Did you intentionally put it in there, you fucking
trash? Perhaps to give your clientele an extra kick?”

Potter’s throat began working. His
face was paler than before. His fingers gripped the edge of the
table, chain of his cuffs dangling between his wrists. For the
first time he looked genuinely afraid.

Finally, he shook his head. “I
never touched it.”

“I don’t believe
you. Your drug caused her death. And we’re looking into the deaths
of four others in the city who’ve died under similar circumstances.
Criminal negligence causing death carries a stiff penalty in this
country. Even steeper than the drug charges we already have on you.
Up to life. You’re facing some
serious
time.”

“I never messed
with it. If the heroin was contaminated, it was like that when it
came in. It
wasn’t
me.”

Bingo
, thought
Allan.

His deadpan expression belied the
satisfaction he felt inside.

If only all criminals were this
stupid.

A heavy hush fell over the
room.

As if deflated, Potter slumped in
the chair. With his eyes downcast, he seemed to reflect. Perhaps on
the mistakes he had made or the prison cell that would soon become
a substantial part of his remaining life. But not on the lives his
actions had affected; of that, Allan was certain.

When at last Potter looked up
again, he had only one thing left to say. “I want to call my
lawyer.”

“Sure you do,” Allan said, and
walked out of the room.

29

Acresville, May 16

7:25 p.m.

The ranch house, nestled amidst a
lushly treed hillside, was clad in cedar bevel siding. Police Chief
David Brantford sank into a wicker settee on the back deck. He
struck a match and touched the flame to the end of a cigar clamped
between his teeth.

It was a pleasant evening. Behind
the thin stand of trees in the backyard, the westering sun backlit
the spindly branches and needle leaves. A gentle breeze carried the
scent of pine and spruce. The only sound was the undulation of
crickets chirping.

Crossing his legs, David inhaled on
the cigar and blew smoke at the sky. This was part ritual.
Depending on the weather, he came out here after supper to unwind,
to enjoy the peacefulness of nature. He’d never been the type to
sit in front of a television set until bedtime.

In his late fifties, he was a
paunchy man with liquid brown eyes, balding gray hair and a
pepper-and-salt beard.

From inside the house came the
muffled sound of the telephone. It rang twice and then stopped.
Moments later, the screen door opened and his wife, Margaret,
appeared. She was a short woman, bordering on plump, with sea-gray
eyes and light coifed hair. There was a kind, motherly look to her.
A cup towel hung from one hand.

“You’re wanted on the phone,” she
said.

“Who is it?”

“Sam, from the
station.”

David looked at his watch. 7:32
p.m.

“Did he say what it’s
about?”

“Only that it’s an
emergency.”

David’s eyebrows bushed together.
The cigar smoldered in his hand. Trails of white smoke wisped from
the tip. He took one last puff and then ground out the nub in an
ashtray on the arm of the settee. Because of her asthma, Margaret
forbade smoking in the house.

David walked into the kitchen and
picked up the phone on the counter.

“What is it, Sam?” he asked
without preface.

The voice he heard on the other end
of the line was taut. “Sorry to bother you at home, Chief. But a
body’s been found.”

David felt himself tense.
“Where?”

“Timbre Road. I’m here
now.”

“Who found it?”

“Two locals. Roland Grant and
Thomas Cussons.”

David considered the names but
couldn’t recognize either one.

“And how’d they come upon the
body?”

“Grant owns a camp up in the woods
nearby. He and Cussons went up there yesterday morning for a
weekend of fishing. His dog wandered off earlier this evening and
wouldn’t return after repeated calls out to it. When they went out
to look for it, they found it by the body. Must’ve picked up the
odor.”

David paused at this. “So the
body’s in bad shape?”

There came an intake of
breath.

“It’s not
in
good
shape. We
didn’t go that close so to jeopardize the scene. The body’s not
skeletonized. I have no idea how long it’s been there. Few days. A
week. Maybe longer. There’s insect activity and one more thing,
Chief.” Sam hesitated, finishing weakly, “The hands are
missing.”

David became quite
still.

“What?”

“Yup.”

“Perhaps they were taken by
animals,” David suggested. “It happens.”

“I don’t know. Everything’s
equivocal right now, Chief.”

At the corner of his vision, David
saw Margaret watching from the doorway. Instinctively, he turned
away.

“Male or female?” he asked in a
hushed tone.

“Caucasian male. Looks to be in
his sixties. We haven’t touched the body. We’re waiting for Doctor
Fitzgerald to get here. Willy says the victim looks like the park
hermit.”

David felt his heart lurch.
Briefly, he closed his eyes.

God, don’t let it be.

“Are Grant and Cussons still at
the scene?” he asked.

“Yes. Willy’s going to have them
come down to the station.”

“Keep them separated. And have
their statements taken one at a time.”

“Okay…” Sam’s words fell off. “I
can see Doctor Fitzgerald’s van coming now.”

“I’ll be there soon,” David said
promptly. 

He put down the phone. Palms on the
countertop, he stared absently at the sudsy water in the sink. His
thoughts were a mix of foreboding and duty. Behind him, he didn’t
hear Margaret move up.

“What is it?” she
asked.

The closeness of her voice startled
him. For a moment, David was quiet. When he spoke, his tone was
close to a murmur. “A man’s body was found.”

“Do they know who it
is?”

He turned to her, saw the concerned
look on her face. “Not sure yet.”

“I suppose they don’t know the
cause of death either?”

David exhaled. “The coroner will
give that ruling. I’m going out there.” He kissed her on the
forehead. “Don’t wait up for me.”

He prepared to leave, grabbing his
keys from the counter, his jacket from the closet in the living
room. Margaret followed him outside to the front porch. She leaned
a shoulder against the post and crossed her arms, watching
him.

Head down, eyes crinkled in
thought, David climbed into his car. As he drove off, he saw
Margaret in the rear-view mirror, still on the porch, her hand
lifted in a wave.

Twilight was settling over the
countryside. Soon, David realized, it would be too dark to launch a
beneficial search of the crime scene.

The road ahead wound through
farmland and foothills. Much of the scenery passed without
registering on his consciousness.

Murder number
three
, he reflected.

In his thirty-six years with the
Acresville Police Department, David had encountered only two
murders. The first occurred while still a lowly constable. On one
sweltering August evening in 1976, Gavin Rector, a
nineteen-year-old addict walked into Bailey’s Pharmacy near
closing. He had a loaded .32 revolver concealed in the waistband of
his pants. He loitered in the aisles until the last of the shoppers
had left and then went up to the pharmacist and ordered him to fill
a brown paper bag with amphetamines. Once the pharmacist had
finished, Rector shot the poor man three times. David and his
partner caught Rector fleeing the scene.

A nineteen-year lull passed before
the second murder occurred. It was in June of 1995. Forty-three
year old, Malcolm Friesen had a history of domestic violence. He
and his wife had just recently separated after eight years of
marriage. Ignoring the restraining order to stay away from her,
Friesen suddenly showed up at her door one night. Drunk and
infuriated, he fatally shot the woman when she answered. Neighbors
called the police after hearing six gunshots ring out. Five were
into Friesen’s wife; the final one ripped through his own brain.
The tragedy had left their two daughters, aged four and seven,
orphaned.

Two murders in thirty-six years of
service. David had always been proud of that. Violent crime took
place elsewhere—Halifax, Pictou, Sydney. But not here. Not in his
town.

David shot across a wooden bridge.
Seven kilometers further, a sign directed him to Timbre Road. As he
turned onto it, his mouth became dry.

Trees ran along both sides of the
road. In the rear-view mirror he could see only a cloud of dust,
curling in upon itself.

The time was 7:54.

For the next
minute he ascended a steep hill. At its top, red and blue strobe
glanced off the sky. David parked behind a black van and for a
moment stared at the white lettering across the read doors,
Coroner.

All good things
must come to an end,
he thought
glumly.

Yellow barrier
tape cordoned off the area;
Police Line Do
Not Cross
repeated in black. The Ident van
was parked on the other side of the road.

Constable Sam Patterson stood a few
feet from the van, looking down over the embankment with a somber
expression. He appeared younger than his age of twenty-eight. He
was dark-haired and slim with an athletic build.