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The only way to escape the abyss is to look at it, gauge it, sound it out, and descend into it.
Cesare Pavese
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HALIFAX, MAY 7
12:23 p.m.
All hope of solving the case seemed gone.
Alone in his office, Detective Allan Stanton slapped the report down on the desk in front of him.
“Goddamn it,” he cursed, shaking his head.
With a slow exhalation, Allan loosened his tie and sat back in his chair. Self-doubt and frustration warred inside him.
So where does this leave me?
He stared at the manila envelope sticking out from under a heap of folders on the corner of the desk. The scene photos were in there, he knew, one glossy indecency after another.
He leaned forward, pulled it out, and reached inside. The photos felt slick beneath his fingertips as he spread them over his desk. He picked one up and scrutinized the photo of the ravaged body for clues.
“What have I overlooked, Mary?” he whispered.
Captured in the gruesome image, Mary Driscow lay supine on the forest floor, arms spread out from her sides. Tight curls of strawberry-blond hair surrounded her swollen face. Her emerald eyes were dilated and fixed wide in a look of terror; the whites were reddened by scleral hemorrhages. Her lips were parted, drooping at the corners into a slight frown. A ligature mark encircled her neck, with the two ends crisscrossing just below the chin.
A female jogger found the body near Shore Road in Point Pleasant Park on a crisp October morning seven months ago.
Mary had been raped and murdered.
Allan set the picture down. He felt caught in a crosscurrent of emotions—sadness when he visualized Mary in her final moments, hatred for the murderer who had subjected her to such a horrible death, sorrow for her parents’ irreplaceable loss, and shame at his own inability to close the case.
He pushed back from the desk and walked to the window. The city buzzed with energy—traffic streaming down Gottingen Street and an ethnic mix of pedestrians clumped together at a crosswalk waiting for a walk light. Through the pane of glass came the honk of an impatient driver.
Off to the left a green hill gently rose to the Halifax Citadel, a star-shaped fort that had once been built to fend off invaders.
A knock came at his door.
“Come in.”
Captain Thorne entered. At fifty-one, he was thick framed and mild mannered. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, his high forehead split in the middle by a widow’s peak.
Without preface, he said, “Audra told me the lab sent over Gary Strickland’s DNA results.”
Allan went to the desk and lifted the report. “Just got them. Strickland’s not our man.”
Thorne read over the results. As he reached the end, the corners of his mouth pulled down.
“It’s a damn shame,” he said. “You know, the Driscow case isn’t looking very promising.”
Allan knew that all too well. Seven months of work filled his office—stacks of boxes filled with diagrams, supplementary reports, canvass reports, witness statements, suspect files, handwritten notes, lab and autopsy results, as well as aerial photos of Point Pleasant Park. Allan had done all he could as lead investigator. Now there remained only one option—wait and hope a new suspect surfaced.
Thorne set the report on the desk. Then he gave Allan a long, cool appraisal. “How’re you taking this? You okay?”
Allan raised his eyebrows. “I’m pissed off, Captain. Disappointed.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Al. Not every case can be a dunker.”
Allan folded his arms. “I know. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“You had a homicide with no witnesses. You’ll catch this guy sooner or later.” He gave Allan a light slap to the shoulder. “I have faith in you.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am.” Thorne walked for the door and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest. You look tired.”
After the door closed, Allan picked up his phone and slowly stabbed at numbers. He swallowed once, clearing his throat. The dial tone began ringing. One. Two. Three. Allan braced himself for the answering voice.
“Hello,” Joyce Driscow said.
Allan took a seat. “Mrs. Driscow. This is Detective Stanton.”
“Oh yes,” she said promptly, “the detective. It’s been a while since we last spoke. Have you made an arrest?”
Allan winced at the sudden spark of hope in her voice. “Not yet. But I haven’t given up.”
He heard the pain in Joyce’s sigh. He pictured her as he had last seen her, nearly a month after the murder—eyes bruised with sleeplessness, face gaunt and drawn, a woman nearly inarticulate with grief. He wondered how much worse she looked now.
“I thought you might’ve been calling with some information.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
There was silence. “Then why did you call?”
That was a good question. Why had he? Guilt, he supposed. Maybe even a bit of self-recrimination drove him to do it.
He said, “To see how you and Bill were. I think about you often.”
“It’s been tough. Nothing in life prepares you for the death of your child.” Her voice became raspy. “Mary’s birthday was last month. She would’ve been twenty-three.”
“I’m so sorry.” Allan stared at the photos of Mary on his desk. “Has that counselor been a help at all?”
“He has. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Some days are better than others,” she added. “It’s hard knowing you’ll never see your child again. In the natural order of life, it’s me who’s supposed to go first.”
The words left a hole in Allan’s heart. He wanted to promise Joyce he’d do everything in his power to find this man, to help bring some small measure of closure to her, but realistically he knew he couldn’t do that. Soon enough a new victim would dominate his priority list. He would be forced to move on from Mary Driscow. Her parents would be with her until the end.
“If there are any new developments, you’ll be the first to know,” he told her. “If, for any reason, you need someone to talk to, please call me anytime. My phone’s always on.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Take care, Mrs. Driscow.”
“Good-bye, Detective.”
Allan put the phone down. For a long time, he just sat there, slumped in his chair. He knew with quiet chagrin there were no further leads to investigate. The case had hit a dead end. Mary Driscow would be relegated to a shelf in the evidence room downstairs, where she would join the other lonely cold cases.
Allan looked at the pile of photos on his desk again. They weren’t going to reveal something he had failed to notice before. No matter how many times he studied them, the same young woman with the same forlorn look gazed back.
One by one, he put the photos back inside the manila envelope. Then he picked up a pen and, after a few corrections, began to draft his report.
