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Halifax, May 9
6:18 a.m.
Allan wondered if a civilized society could ever exist.
In a job where he had seen the true detritus of man’s morality, he didn’t think it possible. There were simply too many disturbed people in the world living on the fringe of ethical judgment, poisoned by greed, hatred, and indifference.
Beyond the crime scene, the early sun spread across the harbor water. The location was a paved lot that served as a convenient parking facility for customers of many waterfront merchants. On this day it was the site of mindless carnage, of man’s unbridled brutality against another.
In the solitude of his car, Allan marked down his arrival time in his spiral notebook: 6:18 a.m. Twelve minutes earlier Sergeant Malone had paged him about this homicide.
Parked close enough to view the general outline of the scene, yet far enough away to not disturb it, Allan watched those already at work. He saw familiar faces of uniformed officers in the swirl of red and blue lights as they busied themselves stringing up barrier tape around the perimeter of the lot. Black on yellow repeated the words, Police Line. Do Not Cross.
The Special Identification Unit van sat across the street in front of Alexander Keith’s Brewery. Two figures, sheathed in full Tyvek coveralls, pulled equipment out of the back. Several yards from the body, Sergeant Malone talked to a uniformed officer. Close by, another man watched all the activity around him with intense interest. He was heavyset, with a pushed-in face. Allan noted the radio clipped to his belt, the shoulder patch on his black jacket with the word Security embroidered in silver. At that point, he realized the man wore the same type of clothing as the victim.
Witness or suspect?
Everything appeared to be in order. The integrity of the crime scene was being well protected. Only the body, facedown in its absolute stillness, looked out of place here. Everyone avoided it. Dr. Coulter, Allan saw, had yet to show up.
Tired, he rubbed his eyes. It felt like months since he’d had a peaceful night’s sleep. His face in the rearview mirror showed the strain of exhaustion.
Over time, he had developed a thick emotional hide that allowed him to distance himself from the tragedies he encountered. It was something investigators needed to do in order to survive. Lately, however, Allan felt that he’d lost his ability to block it all out. Things he saw on the job seemed to trouble him—the classic sign of burnout. He knew of other officers who had gone through the same crisis but seldom discussed it. Machismo was the hallmark in this profession.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, he considered the case before him, the evidence yet to be gathered, suspects and witnesses yet to be questioned, connections yet to be made. What would the victim profile reveal? Could a motive be established from it?
With most murder cases, he spent little time mulling over the rationale behind them. It was best, he knew, to stick with the essentials that would bring a conviction. Victims were not around to explain what happened, and suspects rarely told the truth. Physical evidence and credible witnesses helped convict the guilty. Motive, when discovered, only revealed how truly senseless the crime had been.
Allan shut the car door. The harbor breeze felt cool on his face. Above him the sky was a rich blue. Traces of clouds drifted along the horizon.
He circled to the trunk, popped the lid, and took out a 35mm camera. He proceeded to take several pictures of the crime scene from multiple points of view, both looking into and outward from the site.
Around him came the murmurs of a city waking up. Soon, it would be alive with urban bustle.
Across the street, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered at the corner of South and Lower Water Street. Mindful that a suspect could be among them, Allan surreptitiously took their pictures. As he looked around, he realized that no cameras or reporters were present.
He put the camera back in the trunk. From a black case, he removed two pairs of latex gloves and slipped them on his hands one after the other. He shut the trunk and then walked toward Sergeant Malone. The sergeant was a veteran of the Halifax Regional Police. He was tall and hawk faced, with alert blue eyes.
As Allan approached, Malone went to him, holding out a clipboard. Attached to it was a crime scene log in/out form. Below the last name in the column, Allan added his signature, the date, and the time.
“So what do we have?” he asked, handing the clipboard back.
The victim, Malone described, was twenty-seven-year-old Brad Hawkins. He had worked as a private guard for a contract security firm called Twin City Protection. A coworker, who went looking for him after he failed to answer his radio, discovered the body.
“Do we know who the next of kin is?” Allan asked.
“Taken care of.” Malone ripped a page from his notepad and gave it to him. “Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins.”
Briefly, Allan studied the address on the paper.
“We’re going to set up the mobile command post across the street,” Malone added.
Allan nodded, satisfied. “I think we should also put up some barricades. Close off Salter, Bishop, even all the way down to Morris. It’ll keep people out of the area. Maybe even contact the local radio stations so they can put out a travel advisory.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Malone walked off, keying his shoulder mike.
Allan headed toward the officer Malone had been talking to.
Reaching him, Allan asked, “You the first officer?”
The young man nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
Allan took out his spiral again. Below the time of his arrival at the scene, he wrote down the officer’s badge number and name, Craig Ellis.
“What time did you get here?”
Ellis consulted his own notepad. “Five fifty-one. The call came in to dispatch at five forty-five.”
“Did you touch anything?” he asked.
“No, sir. I only went close enough to the body to see if the victim required medical attention.”
“Did anyone else disturb the scene?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone in the area as you arrived?”
Ellis shook his head. “No one. Just Mr. O’Dell.” He gestured to the guard standing several feet away.
“Has Coulter been notified?”
“Yes. He’s en route.”
Allan felt the eyes of the guard, watching.
Voice hushed, he asked Ellis, “Has Mr. O’Dell given you a full statement?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Good. I’ll read your report when you pass it in.” Allan thanked the officer and walked toward the guard.
“I’m Detective Allan Stanton,” he said, reaching out.
“Greg O’Dell.”
Through their handshake, Allan could feel a tremor in the guard’s grip.
“Did you witness the crime?” he asked.
Greg glanced at the victim. “No. I found Brad this way.”
“Can I see some identification, please?”
He produced his wallet and fumbled out his driver’s license.
“What’s your relationship with the victim?” asked Allan, taking notes.
“Strictly work related.”
“Not friends outside of work?”
“I’m married with three kids. It’s hard for me to have time for buddies in my life.”
Briefly, Allan appraised him. “Did you work together as a pair?”
“More of a team. We always kept in touch by radio. If something went down, we were only a click away.”
“Was Brad married?”
“No. Long-term relationship. He always remarked about how his girlfriend referred to them as partners.”
“Were there problems between them?”
“He never mentioned any.”
“Prior to discovering his body, did you see anyone leaving the area?”
“No.”
Allan returned his driver’s license. “Did Brad radio you at any point to report trouble?”
Frowning, Greg looked down at his shoes. “Not exactly.” He ran his fingers through the stubble of his brown hair. “He was about to check on someone in a truck.”
Allan scribbled in his spiral. “I know your thoughts might be a bit cloudy right now, but try to be as detailed as you can. And please, try to leave nothing out...”
