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Halifax, May 12
10:01 p.m.
The bleakest of nights.
Allan knew it was going to be a bad one when he read the address on his pager. Returning here felt like déjà vu, though the circumstances were different this time. Sitting in his car, he didn’t want to go inside.
Around him, the night was deep and still. Rain had fallen all day, ending only a short time ago, and beneath the wash of streetlights everything had a glassy sheen. There was a hiss of tires as a truck rolled by. In the rearview mirror, Allan watched the taillights recede into the urban maze. He looked through the passenger-side window at the apartment building with foreboding, uncomfortable about what he might find inside.
He sighed.
He left his car and crossed the street, flashing his badge at two officers standing guard outside the building.
Time.
Why was it important? He looked at his wristwatch. 10:06 p.m. As he climbed the front steps of the apartment building, he felt a coat pocket for the shape of his notebook. He realized he hadn’t recorded his arrival time. How could he have forgotten such a detail?
The glass of the entrance door caught his reflection in the red-and-blue strobe of nearby police cars. It stopped him for a moment.
Funny, he thought, how tired he looked. Nearly as exhausted as he felt.
Slowly, he gripped the metal handle. Before going inside, he steeled himself.
He went up to the second floor and maneuvered his way through a crowd of curious tenants. Many were in nightclothes. Their eyes seemed transfixed on an open doorway down the hall. Outside it, an officer was standing guard. He was young, leanly muscled. His body was erect, his eyes keen. Beside him stood another man, squat and pear shaped. A fringe of gray hair circled his bald crown.
Haltingly, Allan approached the two men and took the officer out of the earshot of others.
“Give me the details,” he said softly.
“The subject is a young woman,” the officer said. “Early to midtwenties. We haven’t established identification yet. Looks like your classic overdose, Detective. There is drug paraphernalia on site.”
“Drugs? Who called it in?”
The officer gestured toward the pear-shaped man. “Mr. Carlson. The landlord. He got a call earlier from the elderly neighbor across the hall. She became worried about the tenant living here after she noticed the apartment lights on for the past couple of nights. She came over several times and knocked, but there was no answer.
“She called Mr. Carlson, and he arrived at nine twenty. And after receiving no answer, he let himself in.
“The call came over my radio at nine thirty-five. I arrived at nine forty. EHS came on the scene three minutes after me.”
“Who called EHS?”
“Mr. Carlson.”
“Did you check for vitals before their arrival?”
The officer gave a grim expression. “I never touched the body. There was no need.”
For a moment, Allan hesitated. He found himself wishing to get away from all this.
He asked, “Did the ambulance crew touch or move the body?”
“No, sir. I told them they weren’t needed, so they left.”
“Where’s the subject?”
“The first bedroom on the left.”
“Has the medical examiner been notified?”
“Yes. Should be en route.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
After turning to a blank page in his notebook, Allan walked over to the landlord and introduced himself. The man accepted his extended hand with a lifeless grip.
“Gerald Carlson,” he replied.
“You found the subject?”
“Yes.”
“Can you show me some identification?”
The landlord gave a slight nod toward the first officer. “I already went through this with him.”
“Sorry, but now you need to go through it with me.”
A red flush appeared on Gerald’s face. He reached into a back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet. From that he produced his driver’s license and handed it to Allan.
He wrote down the details.
“Tell me everything.”
Gerald cleared his throat. “Well, earlier this evening, I got a call from Mrs. Layton from across the hall...”
“What time did Mrs. Layton call you?” Allan interjected.
“About ten to nine.”
“And what did she tell you exactly?”
Gerald folded his arms. “She told me she became nervous after realizing the lights had been on for the last two nights.”
“You have a key to the premises?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“About nine twenty.”
“Was the door chained when you unlocked it?”
“Yes.” Gerald pointed to the carpeted floor just inside the open doorway, where pieces of a broken chain and a splinter of wood lay. “I called in three times. Waited probably a couple of minutes. Then I shouldered the door in.”
Allan’s gaze wandered into the apartment. Down the hallway he saw Sergeant Malone standing in front of an open doorway. Flashes of a photographer’s camera reflected on the jamb.
Allan swallowed and said, “You should’ve called us first.”
Fleetingly, the man touched his forehead. “I wasn’t thinking at the time.”
“You placed the call to 9-1-1?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use the phone on the premises?”
A brusque nod. “I did.”
Allan winced. “What time was this?”
“Nine thirty, nine thirty-five.”
“What lights were on when you got here?”
Gerald watched Allan’s pen moving across the page. “The living room, the kitchen, and the one bedroom.”
“The bedroom where the subject was located?”
“Yes.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“I checked for a pulse. She was stone cold.”
Allan handed back the license. “Okay, Mr. Carlson. Thank you. That will be all for now.”
“Do you want to talk to Mrs. Layton?”
Briefly, Allan paused to take in the elderly woman standing outside her open doorway across the hallway. She was perhaps in her late sixties, had a nimbus of white hair, and was so thin that he found it painful to look at her.
“No need,” he said and walked into the apartment.
With faltering steps, he approached Malone, who passed him a clipboard. Allan timed into the scene.
“After these past four days,” Malone remarked, “I’m looking forward to the next four off.”
“In need of a little R and R?” Allan gave back the clipboard. “A few beers and barbeques on the back deck will help.”
A faint smile started at the corners of the sergeant’s mouth. “Damn straight.”
“So what do we have?”
“Straight-up suicide, Detective.”
The words, Allan found, jolted him. Although it was something he had feared when the call had come across his pager, it still took him by surprise.
In a tight voice, he asked, “How’d we come to that conclusion so soon?”
Malone moved out of the doorway, looking to his right. “She left a note.”
Allan followed the sergeant’s gaze. There, on top of the dresser, was a neatly folded sheaf of paper. Jim Lucas shot photos of it. When he noticed Allan, he lowered his camera and picked up an unsealed envelope beside the note.
“This is addressed to you, Detective.” Jim held it up, pausing.
Before taking it, Allan checked his pockets for latex gloves and realized he had forgotten them in the trunk of his car.
Goddammit, man, he thought, wincing at his own carelessness.
Jim got him a pair, and Allan put them on.
The face of the envelope had Allan’s name scribbled across it. He stared at it for a long moment.
Malone asked, “You knew the subject?”
Allan didn’t look up.
“Only briefly,” he answered quietly.
He turned up the flap on the envelope and saw inside the note he had left Cathy Ambré only two nights before. For a moment, he didn’t take it out. When at last he did, his fingers felt clumsy. Beneath his words, the young woman had written:
Thank you, Detective Stanton. I was surprised to find your note when I got home. We must’ve just missed each other. Honestly, I thought about calling you. I really did. But I’m afraid that I’m beyond anyone’s friendship or kind words right now. I’ve tried to pick up the pieces of my life and move on, but I’ve found it to be harder than I could have ever imagined. I know that might be difficult for you to understand. There are so many things about me that you just don’t know. You were right when you said a doctor never treats his own illness. I simply couldn’t treat mine either.
I wish you all the best. The world needs more people like you.
God bless,
Cathy
P.S. Please find my sister.
For a moment, Allan didn’t move. Then he handed the note and envelope back to Jim for processing.
“We found the bathtub full of water,” Sergeant Malone was saying. “There is a razor blade on the rim.”
Allan half listened. He began to move toward the bedroom, numb.
“We can only surmise what her intentions were,” Malone added. “Had she decided to shoot up before ending her life in the bathroom?”
Only when Allan stood in the open doorway did he see Cathy Ambré. She lay supine atop the bed, arms flung out across the sheets. Her face was turned to one side. Her mouth was partly open. Her eyes were closed, as if asleep. Beside her was a drug user’s paraphernalia—a short length of rope used as a tourniquet, a box of alcohol swabs, cotton balls, a lighter, a spoon with a tinged underside, a needle and syringe. On the floor next to the bed lay a tiny clear bag, its inside marred with a talcose residue.
“Are you receiving treatment?”
“I went cold turkey...”
“It’s still hard to do without professional help...”
“I can do it. I will do it.”
Slowly, Allan shook his head.
Why? he mourned. Why did you do this to yourself?
Emotions, he realized, were jeopardizing his train of thought. He forced himself to step back, observe things professionally. His eyes hunted details. Drawn blinds veiled the outside world. The lights were on in the bedroom and living room. Two nights ago when he had stopped by, the apartment was in darkness.
When had Cathy come home?
The bedroom itself was plainly furnished—a bed, a crucifix above it, a night table, a dresser with mirror. The single window faced Brewer Street. The overhead light cast a yellow tone on the floral wallpaper.
Harvey Doucette was busy measuring key distances.
“It’s safe to come in, Detective,” he said, glancing over. “It won’t take long to wrap up things here.”
Allan stepped inside. He didn’t move directly to the note on the dresser. He walked around the perimeter of the bedroom instead, looking along the floor. He opened the blinds to check the window. Locked.
After turning to a blank page in his notebook, he stood off to one corner and began to rough out a sketch of the room. When it came to drawing the crude stick figure of Cathy Ambré, he found it awkward.
He moved to the dresser and picked up the note by one corner. The handwriting reflected the jagged scrawl of grief.
How long will thou forget me, O Lord? Forever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
How long shall I take counsel in my soul having sorrow in my heart daily? How long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
Psalms 13:1-2
Forgive me, everyone. Forgive me.
Will there be a place in heaven for me? Or will they close the gates and turn me away?
I won’t write a lengthy explanation for doing this. Just look at me. I have no one to blame for all of these problems but myself. This cross is too heavy for me to bear any longer. Having said that, I never thought this day would come so soon for me, or that it would all end this way. I would’ve preferred for it to end peacefully, years from now, at a ripe old age, surrounded by my family and friends. Any way but like this: alone in an apartment, alone in life. It is easy to sit and judge someone for choosing suicide—a coward’s way out, a permanent solution to a temporary problem. But these people don’t understand the darkness you can sink into. No hope can be a terrible thing.
How can this be easy for me? There is no coming back. Even at this moment, I’m afraid and torn apart. There is no calm; there is no inner peace. Sad I had lived in life; sad I will die.
For Mom and Dad, Grandpa and Grandma, I love you with all my heart. I’m sorry I let you down. For Trixy, ditto. I pray you’re safe.
I only ask one thing from all of you: remember who I was, not what I became.
Good-bye,
Cathy
Once more, Allan read over the note. The rush of guilt he felt was sudden and powerful. If he hadn’t procrastinated about coming over when she had called two nights ago, he might’ve caught her before she left. He might’ve saved her from this end. Biting his lip, he put the note back on the dresser.
It was a moment before he turned to face the room again. He mentally itemized the evidence for Jim and Harvey to gather up—the suicide note, the empty packet, the spoon, and the needle and syringe used for injection. For good measure, he decided the pillows, pillowcases, and bedding should be packaged as well and sent to Hair and Trace. He knew the totality of the evidence indicated suicide. But that finding had to be made official.
From the hallway came the sound of hard wheels rolling across the wooden floor, and soon Dr. Coulter appeared in the doorway, signing Malone’s clipboard. Lawrence Sodero stood behind him with his hands on a gurney.
Allan looked down at his watch. 10:36 p.m.
Coulter acknowledged him with a curt nod. For a couple of minutes he remained in the doorway, studying the scene.
“An accidental overdose, Detective?” he asked at last.
“Suicide.”
“No signs of a struggle or forced entry?”
Allan shook his head. “No. The front door was locked from the inside. All the windows are secure.”
Coulter stepped into the room now, carrying a black bag. He put it on the floor by the bed.
“Looking at what’s here,” he said, “I’d guess her drug of choice was heroin.”
“That’s my guess, Doctor.”
Coulter put a hand to his chin. “Strange.”
Openly curious, he searched around the room, under the bed.
“Is something wrong?” Allan asked him.
“I’m looking for what I don’t see, Detective. Empty alcohol or pill bottles. Products that can tax the central nervous system prior to taking the heroin.”
“You don’t think she overdosed on heroin alone?”
“I have doubts,” he said. “But toxicology will tell the tale.”
“What if she took an extraordinarily high amount?”
Coulter said, “Street heroin is so diluted, the user really has no idea what dosage they’re taking to begin with. It would take a large amount of heroin to kill someone. Even in a non-user. More than what would’ve been in that bag on the floor.
“Addicts develop a tolerance to opiates. Increasing one’s normal amount doesn’t produce significant side effects, and in some cases because of the dilution, none at all. And it most certainly doesn’t guarantee death.”
Allan called over Jim.
“Can you check the apartment for any empty liquor containers?” he asked. “Even empty glasses in the sink that smell of alcohol. Also check for medicine bottles?”
Jim pulled back the hood of his coveralls. “Sure thing, Detective.”
“Thanks,” Allan said, watching Coulter go to work.
With slow deliberation, Coulter began his examination of Cathy Ambré. He flexed her arms, felt her jaw and face for stiffness. He checked her hands, paying special attention to the fingernails. Then he reached into the black bag and removed a probe thermometer. He lifted the blouse of the young woman to expose her abdomen.
“There are signs of early decomposition in the lower right quadrant,” he noted.
Coulter positioned the thermometer over the area of the liver. Before the probe was inserted, Allan turned away.
Moments later, Coulter spoke again. “Core temperature has lowered to the ambient temperature of the room. Rigor has passed. There’s secondary flaccidity in the joints.”
“About thirty-six hours?” Allan asked.
“There are variables, Detective. Right now, that’s my guesstimate. Thirty-six hours minimum.”
To Allan, the chronology seemed to be about right. He left Coulter to do his work and walked over to Harvey.
“Is it all right to look around?” he asked.
“Sure,” Harvey said. “Go for it.”
Allan started his own search of the bedroom. First, he went to the dresser. He found a jumble of bras, underpants, and T-shirts in the drawers. Nothing more. The closet came next. There were blouses and slacks on hangers, two rows of shoes on the floor.
But what stopped him was a white box neatly tucked away in a corner.
On top of it rested a black purse. He knelt, put the purse aside, and took out the box. Inside was a large number of hypodermic needles. On the side of the box, the quantity was listed at one hundred. From the amount remaining, Allan guessed the needles had been purchased recently. The purse had one five-dollar bill, loose change, and a wallet containing Cathy’s driver’s license, birth certificate, bank and credit cards. Lastly, he removed a card of emergency contacts, listing the names and address of Cathy’s parents. Allan wrote down the information.
He stood up and looked around the bedroom. Only one piece of furniture left to check. He slid open the drawer of the night table to reveal the Old Testament and another book with sunflowers on the cover. A pen lay next to that. As he looked at the locking clasp on the second book, Allan realized it had to be a diary.
Slowly, it opened in his hands.
Flipping through the pages, he saw the entries were dated from December 25 to May 11. At random, he began reading some of the more salient entries, skipping over the less important ones.
Soon he found himself deep in the private sanctuary of a young woman whose life seemed to be an uncertain journey through a minefield, never quite reaching the safe clearing on the other side.
