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Halifax, June 8
6:43 p.m.
The inscribed plaque above the double doors read: Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. Let conversation cease. Let laughter flee. This is the place where death delights to help the living.
Delights? Audra had always raised an eyebrow at that. A strange choice of words to say the least. How could there be anything delightful about death or the morgue? Coming to this cold, ominous pace was her least favorite thing to do.
On the other hand, she loved solving a puzzling murder, catching the bad guy, and bringing some measure of closure to the victim’s family. Certain parts of the job required a level of dissociation, the ability to distance yourself from the carnage and not get lost in the tragedy. It was the main ingredient to a lasting career in homicide.
Now matter how grisly or brutal the murder scenes were, they never bothered her as much as the morgue. That was another monster entirely. She’d witnessed what went on behind the closed doors—bodies laid out on stainless steel tables, stripped of clothes and dignity, and then opened up and emptied of parts like a worn-out vehicle at a salvage yard.
It made her wish she would die nonviolently at a ripe old age in wrinkled skin and a soft bed. Maybe even watching a vibrant red sunset at the edge of the open Atlantic with just a smattering of clouds that caught the sun’s fading rays.
Audra flashed her badge at the on-duty guard and entered a corridor walled in beige cinder blocks and floored in matching vinyl. She passed shut doors leading into the X-ray room, the cooler, and the gross specimen storage room.
The facilities were rented, just like Coulter’s office on Spring Garden Road. Gossip had a new state-of-the-art medical examiner’s facility being built in another year or two, possibly in Burnside, to the tune of $12.9 million.
With each step closer to the autopsy suite, the tighter Audra’s stomach became. She paused a moment outside the door to brace herself. Then she stepped inside, and an unpleasant cocktail of odors struck her senses. She put a fist under her nose, taking shallow breaths. Despite many trips to this room over the years, she’d never gotten used to the smell, and it varied every time. On this evening it ranged from the vinegary smell of formalin to that of the recent autopsy—blood, meat, and feces.
The exhaust fans combined with the spider plants and peace lilies placed around the facility to help filter the air helped only a little.
Audra spotted Coulter on the far side of the room, still in his scrub suit. He was hunched over a steel counter lined with small formalin jars. Each one had a tissue cassette sealed inside that held a sliver of organ for later microscopic inspection. Bigger jars sat on the end of the counter, the largest one having a human brain suspended from a string.
On an adjacent table were paper bags of different sizes, manila envelopes, jars, and a long cardboard box. Audra knew the items contained everything gathered at the autopsy—the axe, specimen collections, duct tape from the body, as well as the sheet used to wrap it in. Through the viewing glass of a nearby drying cabinet, she saw Todd Dory’s bloody T-shirt and jeans hanging inside.
Eric Lefevre was rinsing off the dissection table with an overhead sprayer. Water, tinged with blood, swirled around the built-in drain, gurgling through the pipe as it flowed away.
Audra stayed in her spot by the door, not wanting to venture any farther. Neither man seemed to notice her standing there, so she yelled a “hey” to get their attention.
Eric looked over with a surprised smile and shut off the sprayer, threw a nod at her.
Coulter turned from the counter. “Detective Price.”
“You wanted to show me something, Doctor?”
“Yes, I did.” He screwed the lid onto a jar he had in his hands and set it down with the others. “Something I found interesting.”
“A clue?”
“Evidence another weapon might’ve been involved in the crime.” He held up an index finger for emphasis. “Involved, not used.”
Audra frowned. “Okay. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
A grin twisted the corners of Coulter’s mouth. “Good. I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible.”
He stripped off the double layer of latex gloves and tossed them into a biohazard bin. He scrubbed his hands at the sink then led Audra outside, across the corridor, and into the cooler, a small room with a bank of nine hatch-like doors filling the back wall. The refrigeration system chilling the bodies gave off a low hum.
Coulter opened hatch number four. A white sheet covered the body inside; only the feet stuck out. Audra could feel the cold draft flowing out of the vault, and she buttoned up her jacket against it.
Coulter double-checked the tag attached to the big toe and pulled out the drawer. He lifted the corner of the sheet and folded it down to reveal the mangled face and neck of Todd Dory. With the blood washed away, Audra saw the true extent of the damage—gaping wounds in the skin with the bone and muscle and severed vessels exposed underneath.
Coulter pointed to the left cheek. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
Audra leaned in to see a circular bruise an inch below the eye, dusky purple in color.
“Muzzle stamp,” Coulter said, “imprinted in the skin.”
“From what?”
“Twelve-gauge shotgun. Diameter is roughly eighteen point five millimeters, and that’s the standard bore measurement in most of them.”
Audra blew out a slow breath. She straightened up, her lips tight. She crossed her arms, and the fingers of her left hand drummed her right elbow as she racked her brain.
“That possibly answers a nagging question I had at the crime scene,” she said.
“Which is?”
“How’d the suspect get the victim to comply? But now this information opens another question—”
Coulter cut in, “How many people were involved?”
Audra looked at him and nodded. “Exactly.”
“I can only say the axe was used to commit the murder and, in all likelihood, by one person. Were there others at the scene?” Coulter shrugged. “I don’t know. The attack was swift and over very quickly. A lot of rage was involved.”
Audra held his tired eyes. Jealous rage, maybe?
“Did you swab the imprint?”
“I did. It was positive for GSR. That’s how I was certain.”
Audra lowered her gaze to the floor, kept it there for a bit, her jaw muscles bunching under the skin. So the shotgun had been fired before and not cleaned afterward. She wondered if the suspect was a recreational shooter or if the gun had been purchased or stolen from someone who was. Many lawful gun collectors in Nova Scotia had been targets for theft in recent years. Some of those stolen guns had made their way into the drug and crime markets and were partly to blame for the soaring rate of shootings in Halifax.
Audra looked up. “Were there any signs of a struggle on the body?”
Coulter shook his head. “Only wounds, other than the ones that led to death, were the abrasions on both wrists caused from the ties. He was a normally developed, well-nourished male. No evidence of natural disease. Loved the tattoos.”
“Had lots, huh?”
Coulter covered the face again with the sheet. “Took us fifteen minutes to document them all.”
“Wow. And he obviously bled to death.”
“Exsanguinated, which led to hypovolemic shock. There was grave damage to the jugulars.”
“Time of death?”
“My estimate is nine to twelve hours prior to taking the liver temperature.” Coulter pushed the drawer back inside the vault, closed the hatch. “That would make it anywhere between one and four.”
Pausing, Audra chewed on the inside of her mouth. “Did the axe give you a hard time?”
“No, it levered out rather easily. The condition of the skull surprised me. I was expecting more damage. The outer table was clean cut, but the inner table was fractured. I found bone chips in the brain.”
Audra smirked, gave a small shake of her head. “I don’t know how you do your job, but I’m glad we have you. When can I see your report?”
“I’ll get my prelim to you later tomorrow.”
Audra held out her clenched hand, and she and Coulter fist-bumped. “Great job, Doctor. Thanks again.”
With that, she left. She took the elevator to the main floor of the Health Sciences Center and walked outside, surprised at the mass of black clouds that had overtaken the sky. The moist feel of rain hung in the air. Her watch read 7:29.
She crossed the parking lot to her car, fished her keys from a pocket, and hit the trunk-release button on the fob. She kept a bottle of Cida-Rinse sanitizer inside her portable homicide kit. Taking it out, she squirted a dab of gel into her palm and rubbed it all over her hands until dry.
Then she closed the trunk lid and hopped into her car. She drove to headquarters on Gottingen, where she went upstairs to her office and ran Wendy Drummond’s husband, Justin, through the computer. She found one assault charge tagged to his name. Back in the summer of 2008, he had had words with another man outside the Dome nightclub and an altercation ensued. Justin was dealt one year of probation and ordered to pay $1,500 restitution to the man he assaulted. Since then, he’d been quiet.
Audra leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Could this case be as simple as a jealous husband killing his wife’s lover? Was he even aware of the affair? Did the inclusion of the shotgun suggest multiple suspects? Did one person hold the gun on Todd Dory while another tied his wrists to the chair and taped his mouth shut? Why the axe? What significance did the word “corpse” have?
Audra stared out the window across the office, watching Halifax slowly vanish in the growing dusk. Specks of rain appeared on the glass and began rolling down in long sinews.
Many hours could be spent here, running names through the computer and compiling a list of criminal associates of Todd Dory. But Audra needed to see her daughter, see what the hell was going on with her.
She loved this job, but there was a fine line between work and family. If push came to shove, her family took precedence. She’d seen too many failed marriages, too many broken families caused by the demands of this job. She didn’t want to wind up another statistic.
Logging off her computer, she headed out.
Much of the drive home was shadowed by the murder case. There would be a lot of legwork tomorrow. Recanvass the neighborhood around the crime scene. Hope those people missed the first time might have some information. Track down the two remaining members of the Black Scorpions.
Audra turned her car onto Ogilvie and coasted down a quiet street edged with maple trees whose full branches hung overhead like a canopy. Her home, built in the forties, was a two-story square on a postage-stamp lawn. Eight years ago, she and her husband, Daniel, had taken out a second mortgage to renovate the house from top to bottom.
The living room window flickered with the cast of a television. A light burned in Daphne’s bedroom upstairs.
Audra parked behind Daniel’s car and got out. She went into the house through the back door and kicked off her shoes, thankful to finally be out of them. Voices came from the living room. She peeked through the glass panels of the French door and saw Daniel snoring on the couch, the remote grasped in his hand. A ball game played on the television at low volume. The Blue Jays and Rays by the looks of it. José Bautista was at bat.
Audra left Daniel be. She removed her jacket and hung it on a hook by the back door. Then she filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop, ignited the flame beneath the burner. The clock on the wall read 9:52. Daphne usually turned in by 10:30 on a school night.
Audra’s stomach felt hollow from a day without food. She scooped some yogurt into a bowl and sliced up a banana in it. As she sat down at the table with her snack, she heard the French door open.
Daniel appeared with tousled hair and puffy eyes. At forty-four, he was strikingly handsome with a Greek nose, square jaw, and dark eyes. Middle age had been generous, barely lining his face or streaking his hair. Racquetball three times a week helped keep him fit and trim. He worked as an accountant with McMullin & Associates.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “You’ve had a long day.”
Audra spooned a banana slice into her mouth. “I know. And I never even scratched the surface.”
“I saw it on the news tonight. Another gang shooting?”
“Something like that.” Audra changed the subject. “How was your day?”
Daniel gave a light twitch of his shoulders. “Same old boring stuff. Nothing exciting ever happens.”
“That’s good in a way,” Audra said. “Have you seen much of Daphne?”
“Saw her at suppertime. Been up in her room all evening.”
The kettle let off a piercing whistle, and Daniel took it off the burner, extinguished the flame.
“How’d she seem?” Audra asked.
Daniel took a cup down from the cupboard, set it on the counter. “Quiet. More than usual now that you mention it. She didn’t eat much. Do you want chamomile?”
“Any green tea left?”
Daniel opened another cupboard door on the far side of the sink and brought out a tin canister.
Looking inside, he said, “One bag left.”
“I’ll have that, thanks. Unless you want it.”
“No, you can have it.”
“I’ll add it to the grocery list.”
“Bag in or out?”
Audra scraped the last of the yogurt from the bowl. “Out, please.”
Daniel brought over the cup of tea and placed it down in front of her. He took a seat on the other side of the table. Propping his elbows on top, he clasped his hands and rested his chin on them.
“Daphne’s been skipping school,” Audra said matter-of-factly.
Daniel blinked. “What?”
“The school called me this morning. Said she missed the last two days.”
“You’ve been dropping her off, haven’t you?”
“Yep.” Audra blew over the top of her tea, rippling its surface. “She must’ve hung around outside until I was gone.”
“Where’s she been going? Back here?”
“The park.”
“Jesus.” Daniel shook his head, leaned back in the chair. “It’s so late in the year. Exams are soon.”
“I know.”
“Have you talked to her yet?”
“I called her this morning. She told me she hates school. I told her to go home. We’ll talk tonight.”
Daniel crossed his arms, fixed his gaze on a point above her head. “Should we both talk to her?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Might be best. Maybe it’s a female thing.”
Audra sipped her tea. “I think something happened at school.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
Audra finished her tea. She put her empty cup and bowl in the dishwasher then went upstairs. A light shone under Daphne’s bedroom door. Audra knocked.
A soft voice inside said, “Come in.”
When Audra entered, she saw her daughter sitting in bed with her legs pulled to her chest and her hands resting on her knees. Her iPod and earphones lay on the quilts beside her.
Daphne was a slender girl with her mother’s heart-shaped face and her father’s dark eyes and hair. Her bedroom resembled that of any teenager—posters of Missy Higgins and Regina Spektor on the walls, laundry hamper nearly overflowing, books on the floor, papers scattered across the desktop.
“Are you okay?” Audra asked.
“Fine.”
Audra studied her. Daphne’s return look was sheepish, apologetic, wounded. Something was wrong. Audra sat on the edge of the bed.
“Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothin’, Mom.”
The rushed undertone of words sounded like banked anxiety.
“You’re not experimenting with alcohol or drugs, are you?”
Daphne’s mouth fell open, and her eyes grew wide and defensive. “What? God, Mom. No.”
“Then why were you skipping school?”
“I hate it there.”
“Why?”
“It’s boring.”
“Honey, we’ve been over this. You have two weeks left. Then all summer to do whatever you want.”
Daphne touched her forehead to her knees, mute. Audra stared at her, remembering the bright-eyed, inquisitive child she used to be, uncorrupted by secrecy and isolation. But her child had entered that tough road of adolescence leading into womanhood.
“Is it over a boy?” Audra asked.
Daphne’s head popped up. “What? No.” Then laughed when she saw the smirk on her mother’s face.
“Did something happen at school?”
Daphne paused, lowered her eyes. “No, Mom.”
Audra noted the softened change in Daphne’s voice. Yes, something did happen.
“Look, honey,” she said. “I’m always here for you. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“If there’s ever any problem with a teacher or another student, you come to me. I can take care of it.”
Daphne looked at her, and Audra saw a film of tears in her daughter’s eyes. Still, Daphne refused to open up.
“I’ll write you a note to take in to your teacher tomorrow,” Audra said.
“Okay.”
Audra got up and gave her a tight hug, kissed the top of her head. “Get some sleep, honey.”
> > > < < <
Daphne watched the bedroom door close behind her mother. She shut her eyes, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She hated lying to her parents. It made her sick with shame. But if she told them what was going on at school, it would surely bring trouble. Her mother was a cop, after all, and she had a fiery personality. Everything would probably get worse.
The name calling had started in April. In the hallway during class change and in the cafeteria at lunch break, they called her a bitch, a skank, a dork, a fucktard. Loudly enough for everyone to hear, and a handful of other kids not even involved had laughed at her.
It all came from four girls in the next grade. Daphne only knew the name of the main troublemaker, Margi Tanner. She didn’t know the names of the other girls, but they knew her. Hated her. Picked on her because she was shy and awkward and a bit of a loner. The girls were nasty little creatures with a pack mentality.
Shortly after it all started, Daphne’s handful of friends at school stopped hanging out with her. They probably feared they’d also become targets if seen with her.
The name calling had progressed into physical aggression last week. On Wednesday, the four girls slapped Daphne’s books out of her hands and shoved her into the lockers. On Thursday, they tripped her in the hallway, and one made a hawking sound as if going to spit on her. On Friday after school, they pushed her to the sidewalk and strolled off laughing.
And now they had found her on the Internet.
After supper, someone by the name of Cool Dude had posted on her Facebook wall a short video of an orangutan peeing into its own mouth. The caption read: What Daphne Price does in her spare time.
Daphne deleted the post immediately. She waited for an hour afterward for more postings. None came.
She wondered if there were more now.
Slipping off the bed, she went to her desk and sat down. She’d left her laptop on standby. Quickly, she connected to the Internet and logged into Facebook. A dull sickness settled on her once she saw the new post on her wall.
This one came from someone named Funny Monkey, and it said, “Like if you hate Daphne Price,” along with an animated picture of a sparkling purple bunny holding its nose. Directly below were the words You Stink.
Seventeen people she didn’t even know had already clicked the Like button. Some even commented on the post:
“Take a bath.”
“I h8t u.”
“Bitch.”
“Ur so ugly.”
“OMG. LMAO.”
“PU.”
“Nobody likes u.”
Daphne bit down on her lip. Those girls at school had to be the ones behind it. Who else would it be? They were using phony names and phony accounts. Why were they doing it? She’d never done anything to them.
Daphne could feel herself trembling. She deleted the post, thought about ending her Facebook account. If she didn’t, more postings would follow. She was sure of it.
In the security settings, she found the deactivate account highlighted in blue at the bottom. She clicked it and was led into another screen, asking if she was sure. It showed pictures of friends who were going to miss her. Tears welled in her eyes again as she tapped the touchpad on her laptop, confirming her decision.
Daphne shut off the bedroom light and crawled into bed. The thought of going to school tomorrow made her want to puke.
She rolled onto her stomach and began sobbing into the pillow so her parents couldn’t hear.
