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Halifax, June 13
9:45 p.m.
Allan pored over the crime scene photos. They were a mixture of pictures showing the entire location, inside and out; the entrance and escape route Audra believed the killer had used; onlookers crowded together by morbid curiosity. Allan examined each face, looking for someone he recognized. None.
He shuffled through images of Todd Dory lying on the kitchen floor with his arms twisted under the back of a chair and his legs splayed out on each side of the seat. Allan felt a weird tingle in his stomach when he came to the severed ear on the floor.
A blowup of the axe clearly showed corpse written on the handle in black marker. Other photos showed the linear patterns of blood on the wall and ceiling.
By all accounts, the scene demonstrated control and rage. Allan agreed with Audra’s belief. The murder had been personal, done by someone driven by anger and hatred. The rage in the pictures reminded Allan of the rage he’d seen in lovers’ triangles.
Male sexual jealousy could be a strong motivator for homicide. Women usually killed their lovers; men killed their competition. But according to Audra, Wendy Drummond’s husband didn’t resemble the man in the video.
That left revenge.
Revenge killings involved extreme rage. Allan had read a study suggesting that meting out revenge actually stimulated pleasure centers in the brain, much like drugs or desserts. But who was the suspect? Who had Dory screwed over that badly? With his history, the list could be long.
Allan took out his notebook and wrote:
1. Suspect possesses characteristics under the organized dichotomy.
2. Used precautions.
3. Used con approach.
4. Murder planned.
5. Controlled scene.
6. Restraints used.
7. No theft.
8. Axe was used, brought to the scene, and left there.
9. Shotgun was brought to the scene, not fired, and removed after crime.
10. Corpse.
Allan looked at his watch: 11:43 p.m. Nearly seven hours gone and so much work left to do. He propped his elbows on top of the desk and lowered his face into his hands, rubbed at his temples with his fingertips.
A clap of thunder brought his attention to the window, and he saw a flash of lightning ignite the sky above the dark clouds. The rain continued to fall at a relentless pace. Streetlights glistened in the water drops running down the glass.
Allan plopped the surveillance disc into the DVD drive of his computer and sat down to watch it. Through a curtain of rain, the mystery man came into view on the corner of Birmingham and Morris. When he got close to the camera, Allan hit pause. He leaned forward in his chair, looking over the still image.
He felt confident this man was the suspect. The gloves. The duffel bag, long enough to carry an axe and a shotgun. The actions he made trying to conceal his identity.
The lab hadn’t gotten around to analyzing the video yet, but Allan doubted they could work their magic enhancing it. The weather was just too bad, and at no time did the man reveal his face to the camera. Not even at a distance.
Allan estimated he was about five-nine or five-ten. Maybe pushing one hundred seventy pounds. Around the weight and height of the average Canadian male. Nothing about him separated him from the flock.
Allan hit the play button again, let the video run through. As he watched the man drifting from view, presumably after committing his murder, Allan heard a sharp squawk of police sirens outside. He looked up from the monitor and saw red and blue strobe glancing off the rain-streaked window. The time was 1:03 a.m.
He got up and walked over, watched three police cars tear out of the parking lot and race down Gottingen Street.
Then he heard it.
That dreadful beeping of his pager, slicing the quiet of the office and rippling his skin with goose bumps.
Someone was dead. Someone had been murdered or had overdosed or had decided life was too much effort and cashed in.
Allan clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, shook his head. He never wanted to come back to this again. He returned to his desk and picked up his pager. Even before he pressed the button to light up the display, he sensed it—the strange foreboding pushing through his bloodstream, firing off a lightshow of impulses in his brain.
The downpour outside.
The dark cover of night.
The man in the black rainwear with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
Allan stared at the pager, feeling the pulse in his throat starting to throb.
“Kaufman,” he whispered.
