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Halifax, May 23
9:13 p.m.
Allan didn’t know what carnage lay inside the apartment Stephen Eagles had rented, but the thought of encountering a macabre collection of human parts rippled his skin with a strange frisson.
At the rear of the van, Allan, Jim Lucas, and Harvey Doucette prepared for a potential biological hazard. They put on Tyvek coveralls with attached hoods and booties over their street clothes. They slipped their hands into latex gloves. Jim handed out anti-putrefaction masks, but no one put them on just yet.
The evening was cool and breezy; under a crescent moon the sky glimmered with a light spattering of stars.
Allan inhaled a deep breath as he looked over the three-story brick building they were about to enter. Most tenants, he saw, were still up. There were only a few darkened windows.
“Since we don’t know what’s in there,” he said, “we’ll treat this like any other crime scene. We have only one chance to do it right.”
Jim checked his high-resolution digital camera. “Understood, Detective.”
Harvey gave a nod and picked up two cases containing different field kits.
“Are we ready?” Allan asked.
In unison, Jim and Harvey said, “Yes.”
“Then let’s do it.”
The three ghostlike figures crossed the parking lot toward the apartment building, their coveralls rustling with each movement. Jim stopped briefly to photograph the front entrance, and then he followed Allan and Harvey into a small foyer. Mailboxes covered the right wall; political flyers littered the floor beneath them. Beyond a locked glass door, one set of stairs went down, another went up.
The landlord who let them in was a chubby man with a round face, close-set eyes, and a smooth chin. After a brief exchange of handshakes and introductions, the man led them to the right apartment. Their footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell as they climbed to the second floor.
Allan instructed the landlord to stand off to the side, while Jim and Harvey took up positions on either side of the door. He knocked, three hard raps that were loud in the quiet corridor. By reflex he unzipped the front of his coveralls and gripped his service pistol.
“Police,” he yelled. “Open up.”
He waited. No response.
He knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear no movement inside the apartment.
“Okay, open it,” he told the landlord.
The man produced a key and unlocked the door.
“Thanks for your help,” Allan said. “We’ll handle it from here.”
When the landlord left, the three men put on their masks. Jim hit the light switch on the inside wall, and then he and Harvey entered first. Allan stayed in the doorway a moment, looking around. The apartment was an epitome of bachelor living—empty beer bottles and an open jar of peanut butter on the kitchen table; dishes piled in the sink with food crusted on them; clothes tossed over the backs of chairs.
The layout was simple—a kitchen with a living room to one side, and next to that, a door that must be the bedroom.
Jim began taking pictures to document how everything appeared upon arrival. Allan stepped in and closed the door behind him. He felt himself becoming warm, though he didn’t know if it was the coveralls or the flare-up of nerves.
He walked toward the refrigerator, as it seemed the most promising place to start the search. Anticipation quickened his pulse, and his skin crawled at the thought of what might lie inside. He reached for the handle with a cautious hand and paused, lowering his head. A bead of sweat rolled down his face. Grisly images burst in his mind—a set of arms, a pair of eyes, a severed head.
He braced himself and opened the door.
There were bottles of pop and beer. Chinese food boxes. An unwrapped plate of spaghetti. Packages of deli meat and cheese.
Allan frowned.
Beside him, Jim snapped pictures of the contents. Harvey removed a plastic trash can from under the sink. Piece by piece, he set a mixture of soda bottles, crumpled paper towels, and the skeletal remains of a rotisserie chicken onto a sheet of polythene he had laid out on the floor.
“Nothing here,” he observed, poking through the items.
Allan moved to the stove. On a burner sat a cast-iron frying pan with hardened bacon fat inside it. Allan opened the oven door.
Nothing.
Harvey carefully took out pots and pans from beneath the counter, while Jim checked the cupboards. Allan noted the cell phone charger on the counter by the toaster and an empty phone jack in the wall by the table but otherwise couldn’t find anything else of importance.
The men moved the search to the living room. There was a futon with socks on the floor in front of it. A big-screen TV that seemed too large for the room. A multimedia cabinet filled with action movies and porn.
Allan picked up a Halifax phone directory from the coffee table and thumbed through the pages, looking for names or numbers that Eagles might have written in the margins.
Again, nothing.
No phone either. Perhaps the bedroom.
The men headed there next.
Clothes were strewn on the floor, sheets kicked off the bed. Jim hefted the mattress, checking between it and the box spring. He then looked under the bed itself. Harvey went into the adjacent bathroom.
Allan checked a black camera on top of the dresser and found a half-used film in it. He had Jim photograph it and then bag it for processing. From the top one down, Allan began to look through the dresser drawers. When he became satisfied that each one held no evidence, he’d pull it out to check the underneath and the back.
As he reached the bottom drawer, he found two pistols hidden under a pile of T-shirts. Jim shot pictures of the guns in situ—a .45 Glock, the other a .40 Beretta. When he finished, Allan brought them out and inspected the chambers and magazines. Both guns were fully loaded.
After he rendered the pistols safe for transport, Allan gave them to Jim, who strapped each one into an individual firearm evidence box. He packaged the bullets separately.
Harvey came out of the bathroom.
“It’s all clear in there,” he said. “I found some pants and shirts in the hamper, but the pockets were clean.”
Allan sighed. He felt uncomfortable in the coveralls. His clothes under them were damp and stuck to his skin. Breathing through the mask was becoming increasingly difficult.
He made a final look around the room. No phone in here either, he realized. No laptop or desktop computer. He wondered how Eagles had kept in touch with people.
Allan stared at the closed bi-fold door of the closet, the only place left to search. Moving toward it, he hoped he’d find something of importance.
The closet was small in size. Pants, shirts, and jackets hung on hangers. Compact discs and a boom box were stowed on an overhead shelf. Boots and shoes lined the floor.
And in the corner, a large corrugated box.
He knelt down, shoving footwear out of the way. He pulled the box out. Jim and Harvey gathered around.
Allan opened the flaps and peered inside the box. He shook his head and pulled off the mask in frustration. That was when the spicy aroma of one of the boxed contents hit him.
He looked up at the two men behind him.
“Not quite what we’re looking for,” he said. “Better call in the drug unit.”
One by one, Allan began pulling out the items from the box—a grinder, a scale, a block of hashish wrapped in tinfoil, numerous vials of hash oil, and fifteen small rocks of crack packaged in corner ties.
Allan wondered if Eagles even had the body parts in the first place. Doubt, fatigue, and frustration seeped through him like poison. He pulled the hood back from his head and ran a hand through his wet hair.
“I need to get out of these coveralls,” he told Jim and Harvey. “Process everything we found. Maybe dust some items in the sink and anywhere else you might think of.”
“What are you going to do, Detective?” Jim asked.
Allan sighed. “I’m going to canvass the building. See what I can come up with.”
He walked outside to the corridor, where he peeled off the gloves and coveralls. He piled them by the doorway.
For the next hour, he went up- and downstairs, banging on doors, hoping for a little civil cooperation. From those who answered, he learned that Eagles had frequent visits by people of varying ages. Allan chalked it up to the drugs. No one knew Eagles personally or the names of anyone who had visited him.
Allan returned to the second floor and gathered up the stuff he had left by the doorway. Jim and Harvey were finishing up.
“I’m heading out,” Allan told them. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He returned to his car. Behind the wheel, he sank back in the seat and shut his eyes. He was tired, he realized, his concentration wandering. He needed sleep, but the thought of going back to his empty home only renewed his grief and foreboding.
He glanced at his watch and saw it was 11:23. He took out his cell and called David.
“How are you managing?” he asked.
David sounded tired. “We got a lot done,” he said. “I just got home about half an hour ago. It’s been a long day.”
“What’d you find out about Stephen Eagles?”
“He was the guy I remembered,” David said. “Grew up here in Acresville. Moved away in his twenties. His list of priors is quite extensive.” There was the rustle of paper. “Goes back fifteen years. Mostly drug related in the last ten—trafficking, possession, laundering proceeds. He was released from Springhill in August of last year. Served half of a two-year sentence.”
“What for?”
“Possession.”
Allan sighed. “Old habits die hard. We found drugs and drug paraphernalia at his residence.”
A note of surprise entered David’s voice. “Shit. The man’s been on probation since he was let out.”
“Unreal.” Allan felt a surge of disgust. “Seems someone wasn’t doing their job.”
“Did you find anything else?” David asked.
“Nothing related to our cases.” Allan leaned his head back and thought a moment. “Were there any violent acts associated with Eagles? Assaults or anything like that?”
“No.”
Given the picture forming in Allan’s mind, he wondered if Eagles was even capable of murder.
David added, “I did find out that he had an account with Sprint. I’ll have the warrant for the call records tomorrow. But it might take a couple of days for those to get to me.”
Allan sat up. “That’s another thing we didn’t find—his cell phone. You can always try calling his number, see if someone answers.”
“Way ahead of you, son. Nobody answered.”
“Triangulate it.”
“I’ll get on that in the morning.”
“Did you track down his family yet?”
“Yes. They live here in Acresville. I dealt the notification, and they took it pretty hard. As expected.”
“Do they know anything?”
“They never knew what their son was involved in. Even after he got arrested at various times in his life, it always came as a surprise to them.” David breathed in. “They did give me the name of his best friend, a guy named Hoss. He lives here in Acresville too.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I have,” David said. “I don’t know if it’s the years I spent as a cop, but something about this guy seemed...well, off.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. It was his demeanor. But like I said, it could be the years I spent as a cop.”
Allan smiled. “I know what you mean. After a while you start suspecting everyone.”
“I had run-ins with this man’s father years ago when I was still a constable. He was very violent. Drank. Fought all the time. I don’t know how many men he put in the hospital. I never told his son any of that.”
Allan asked, “What’d this guy tell you about Eagles?”
“He got a call from him earlier in the day.”
Allan straightened. “Yeah?”
“Apparently Eagles had some business to take care of and told him he might drop over. He never showed up.”
“We know why that is,” Allan said. “Did the guy give you the names of anyone else Eagles might know?”
“No. I think most of his associates are going to be in your territory, Detective. That’s where he’s been living for the past several years.”
Allan blew out a puff of air. “I think you’re right.”
“Dr. Fitzgerald scheduled the autopsy on Eagles in the morning,” David told him. “Maybe something will come from it.”
Allan suddenly froze.
Autopsy?
His heart started beating faster.
Was that it?
“I need to go, Chief,” he said abruptly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The two men hung up, and Allan gripped the steering wheel in front of him. His thoughts flipped from Cathy Ambré to Hector Walsh and back again. All at once, he became aware of another connection between them. They weren’t linked to Eagles at all. Allan cursed himself for not noticing it before. Maybe because it seemed so unlikely. Even now he couldn’t get his mind around it.
Cecil Drake would be exhumed in the morning. Allan needed to see the body—the piece to this whole puzzle could lie with it. Guesswork or instincts, it didn’t matter now.
If he was right, the ramifications were huge.
