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Acresville, May 19
7:45 p.m.
Allan found a small restaurant downtown. As he entered, he took in the people and the ambience with one sweeping glance. It was half-filled, he saw, with families and older couples. The décor had a rustic feel with red-and-white checkered tablecloths, wood floors and walls.
He chose a quiet booth in the corner. The waitress, a pleasant-faced brunette, appeared with a menu. After a quick look at it, Allan ordered turkey on rye with soup of the day and tea.
While waiting, he sat back and reflected on the investigation ahead. He needed to enter the details of the Ambré and Baker murders into ViCLAS—a case-linkage database that tracked serial offences Canada-wide—to see if there were any similar murders committed elsewhere in Canada. Perhaps this killer had struck before.
Allan decided to call the ViCLAS center in Halifax first thing in the morning to have two questionnaire booklets sent up to him and get the procedure started. In preparation he took out his notebook and wrote down some keynotes about the murders, beginning with John Baker:
1. Victim dismembered
2. Arms sawed off at elbows
3. Not recovered
4. The scene demonstrated control
5. Offender seemed familiar with it
6. Offender possesses characteristics under both the organized and disorganized dichotomy.
7. Murder was planned
8. Attack was outdoors, involved surprise
9. No restraints
10. Con approach possibly used
11. No theft
12. Victim had multiple stab wounds, sufficient to cause death
13. Knife was used, brought to the scene by the offender and removed after the crime
14. No other trauma involved: beating, kicking, strangulation, burning, or gunshot.
15. Victim was awake.
16. Victim’s body was left with no apparent concern as to whether or not it would be discovered. Not hidden by brush or buried.
17. Not moved after death
18. No sex involved
19. Offender used precautions: chose a location where he’d have minimal risk of being seen, heard, or interrupted.
20. No DNA evidence available
As Allan looked over his notes, he realized he knew more about John Baker’s murder than Trixy’s. Where was the location of her initial crime scene? If it was the Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf, as he believed, then he had a starting point. But he wasn’t sure.
Allan turned to the window next to him, marshaling his thoughts. Out past the town’s low-rise buildings, the sun was falling behind the jagged line where mountain met sky.
The waitress arrived with his order.
“Thank you,” Allan told her.
He ate his meal quickly, surprised at how hungry he was. As he sipped his tea, he wrote down notes about Trixy’s murder:
1. Victim dismembered
2. Eyes removed – cut – unskilled?
3. Not recovered
4. Murder was planned
5. Attack was outdoors, involved surprise. No defense wounds
6. No restraints
7. Con approach possibly used
8. Victim drowned
9. Single impact injury to the head by cylindrical object
10. No other trauma involved: stabbing, beating, kicking, strangulation, burning, or gunshot
11. No DNA evidence available
The waitress came over again, seeking assurance that the food was okay.
Allan gave her a smile. “Everything was great.”
“Would you like to look at the dessert menu?”
“No, thanks. I’m full.”
As she gathered up the plate and bowl, Allan stared at his last note again—no DNA evidence available. There was still the question as to the identity of the mystery bleeder on the tugboat wharf. Did it belong to Trixy?
Allan set down his pen and read over his notes. When he compared the victims, he could see no similarities between them. They differed in every aspect—sex, backgrounds and lifestyles, friends and relatives, employment, and last known activities. The only unifying pattern that tied the murders together was the missing body parts. If not for that, everyone could’ve easily believed two different suspects had committed these crimes.
Allan wondered what the suspect wanted with the body parts. Mementos? Something else?
He realized he needed a psychological profile done up so he could get a better idea as to the type of man to focus on. Allan knew just the person to ask. He took out his cell phone and punched away at numbers.
On the fourth ring, a gruff voice answered, “Dr. Terry Armstrong.”
“Hello, Doctor,” Allan said. “This is Detective Stanton with the Halifax Regional Police.”
A moment’s silence. “Ah, yes. I thought I recognized your voice. From the Simpson murder.”
“Sampson,” Allan corrected.
“Right. Right,” Armstrong repeated. “It’s been a while. What can I do for you?”
“I need your help, your insight. I think we might have the emergence of a serial killer.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Allan detected a new curiosity in the psychiatrist’s voice.
“I’m pretty sure,” he said.
Another pause. “Here in Halifax?”
“No. I’m in Acresville at the moment.”
“That homeless man?”
“That’s the one.”
“I read about it in the Herald.”
Allan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Can you help me?”
“I’m tied up tomorrow,” Armstrong said. “But I can meet with you on Friday.”
“That would be great.”
“Excellent. I’ll get there early so I can review everything first.”
“I’ll have it all ready for you.”
“See you then, Detective,” Armstrong said and hung up.
Drinking the last of his tea, Allan slipped a tip under the saucer, paid his bill, and left.
The fresh-fallen night was dark, calm. Since dusk the sky had become low and an ugly gray. No rain, only a fine mist, not quite a fog.
A block away Allan checked into the Greensway Hotel. His room was spacious and modestly furnished—a bed, set of drawers with a TV on top, a small table and chair. He tossed his suitcase on the bed and put the box containing the John Baker files on the table.
He turned the TV on and flipped to CNN. On the screen an anchorman was talking about toxic tar balls being found in the Florida Keys. Allan watched for a moment and then lowered the volume.
He unpacked his suitcase, stowing his clothes in the drawers and shelving his toiletries in the medicine cabinet. He hung his robe on a hook behind the bathroom door.
As he went to the window to close the drapes, he stopped there for a time, gazing out. Under the gentle push of a breeze, the mist curled and coiled in the diffused glow of streetlights. A car appeared, heading north into downtown.
When Allan noticed the tiny post office across the street, it made him think of Brian. He should really write his son a letter. Maybe tomorrow when he got a few minutes.
Allan closed the drapes and went back to the case files. He read until the words began to blur, until his body began to ache for the bed behind him. Nothing, he realized, was going to leap from the pages and grab his attention.
He checked the time, 11:34. He decided to take one last look at the photos then call it a night.
He yawned as he spread the pictures in front of him. Less than five minutes later he was asleep facedown on top of the desk.
