| |
Halifax, October 18
5:03 p.m.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Audra said softly.
Luc Saint-Pierre squeezed his eyes shut, and the muscles at the sides of his jaw bunched up. He looked tired, confused, and broken. He twisted the wedding band on his finger.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered.
“When did you last see Kate?”
He opened his eyes, and his stare seemed to burn straight through her, fixing on something not inside the interview room. Audra could tell a painful memory was flaring behind his blue eyes.
“Yesterday,” he said. “When she left for her run.”
“What time was that?”
“Six thirty.”
Audra checked the missing-persons report on the table in front of her, comparing the time Luc had originally given. They were the same.
She said, “Kate’s an early riser.”
“We both are.”
“Yeah? You look fit. Did you often run with her?”
Luc winced, dropping his gaze. “But not yesterday. The one day I should have.”
“Weren’t feeling up to it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I was a little hung over. We’d gone out to a dinner party with friends Saturday night.” A distant look spread across his eyes, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Kate had such a great time. She was so happy. Laughing.”
Audra paused. “Where’d you go?”
“The Bicycle Thief.”
Audra knew of it. Down on Lower Water Street. A place frequented by the younger, hipper crowd.
“Who’d you go with?” she asked.
“Do you want their names?”
“Yes.”
“Larry and Faith Bradden. Owen and Scarlett Mercer. Faith and Kate were best friends.”
Audra wrote the names down in her notebook.
She asked, “So you were up with Kate Sunday morning, right?”
Luc nodded. “I watched her head out the door.”
“Did she drive to the park?”
“Walked,” he said. “Or jogged. We live on Emscote Drive. So we’re close.”
“Okay, I gotcha. Did you see her have breakfast?”
“I had it with her.”
“What’d she have?”
Luc frowned. “Is that important?”
“It’s important information for us.”
“She had a banana and a tablespoon of almond butter.”
“At about what time?”
Luc gave a tiny shrug. “Around six.”
“What’d you do after Kate left for her run?”
“Went back to bed. Slept a few hours.”
“What time did you get up again?”
“Nine or so. I realized Kate hadn’t come back.”
“How long is she usually out for?”
“She’s usually home by eight. Eight fifteen.”
“What’d you do when you realized she hadn’t come back?”
Luc’s throat worked. “I waited until ten, then I went over to the park to look for her. When I couldn’t find her, I called you guys.”
“Does Kate own a cell phone?”
“Yeah, but she never takes it.”
Audra leaned back in her chair. She watched him prop his elbows on top of the table and press his palms to his face. She regarded the backs of his hands. No scratch marks. None on his face, either. His hair didn’t seem to have any clumps torn out.
She doubted he had killed his wife. His posture and demeanor told her as much. In some people you could just see and hear the deception leaking out of their verbal and nonverbal behavior. They would have nervous hand gestures or shift in their chairs. They would slouch back, as if distancing themselves from it all. They would overuse adverbs when answering questions or repeat the questions in order to buy time while they thought up an answer.
Luc Saint-Pierre did none of that. He sat upright, cooperated, and gave direct answers. His grief seemed raw and genuine. And what about Mary Driscow? If Allan Stanton were correct in assuming the same man had killed her and Kate Saint-Pierre, then that person would have to be Luc. No, it just didn’t seem likely.
But on the flip side, anything was possible. Experience had taught Audra not to become blinded by her opinion. Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true. In this profession, you had to remember things might not always be what they seem. And when a woman is murdered, the husband invariably comes under scrutiny.
Audra and Allan would interview Kate’s friends and family. See if any stories abounded about troubles in the marriage, maybe even a possible love triangle. Dr. Coulter would determine if Kate’s body exhibited any new or old injuries suggesting spousal abuse.
“What do you think should happen to the person who did this?” Audra asked.
It was a question meant to gauge reaction. A guilty person generally endorses a light punishment, while an innocent person endorses a harsher one.
Luc lowered his hands to the table and balled them into white-knuckled fists. When he spoke, he bit off each word.
“I know what I’d like to see happen. The person strung up by the neck.”
Audra could see the daggers in his eyes. She felt a wash of pity for him as she pictured him fighting to keep it all together after a wrecking ball had just smashed through his life. That was why she regretted her next question so much.
“Would you mind consenting to a DNA sample?”
Luc’s gaze narrowed at her as if he didn’t understand the language. “What?”
“Would you consent to a DNA sample?”
“Why? Am I a suspect now?”
Audra hated herself. “Should you be?”
Luc shot her an emphatic “No.”
“I’m sorry. But you have to realize we need to look at all angles.”
Luc groaned. He said, “What do you need, my blood?” Forcibly, he began rolling up one shirtsleeve and dropping his bare forearm to the table. “Take it.”
Audra shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s a buccal swab. We swipe the inside of your mouth. It’s fast and noninvasive.”
Luc clenched his hands together and leaned back from the table.
“Okay,” he said with a resigned tone. “Let’s get it over with.”
Audra glanced up at the camera looking down upon the room and gave it a nod. Within moments, Allan came into the room carrying a DNA collection kit. He laid out on the table disposable gloves, cotton-tipped swabs, and an evidence submission box and envelope. He set a pen and a permission-to-search form in front of Luc.
“Can you sign this for me, please?”
Luc scribbled his name on the line. Audra and Allan signed the bottom as witnesses. As Allan slipped on the disposable gloves, Audra began filling out the information on the submission box and evidence envelope—report number, Luc’s name, the date and time.
“Are you chewing gum?” Allan asked him.
Luc shook his head.
Allan removed a pair of swabs from one package. Holding them together, he had Luc open his mouth, and then he proceeded to swipe the insides of both cheeks. He put the swabs in the submission box and closed it up. Audra took the box from him and placed it inside the evidence envelope, sealing it then sticking a biohazard tag over the flap.
She said, “Okay, Mr. Saint-Pierre, you’re free to leave.”
“We’ll keep you apprised of any developments,” Allan told him. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
Luc looked at both of them, and Audra saw a pain in his eyes that she wanted to shrink away from. Without a word, he got up and left the room.
Audra blew out a breath. “Well, that was tough.”
Allan slipped off the gloves. “Yeah.”
“I don’t think he’s involved.”
“Me either. A husband who stages a rape-murder of his wife rarely leaves her posed semi-nude like Kate Saint-Pierre was.”
Audra raised her eyebrows. “That’s true.”
“But we have to cover all bases.” Allan picked up the evidence envelope. “I’ll get this off to the lab. Be back in a bit.”
“Al,” she said.
Allan turned around, holding the door open with one hand.
“If you ever want to talk,” Audra said, “I’m here. You know that, right?”
Allan held her gaze for a moment, and she recognized the timeworn fatigue that she’d seen in other cops beaten down by the emotional and physical demands of the job. He’d been evaluated and given clearance to return to work, but part of Audra wondered if he was ready, really ready to come back. She worried about him, and so did Captain Thorne. Two officer-involved shootings in the span of a month, the second one ending in a shootout that cost four people their lives. Few officers ever witness that type of trauma in their entire careers. Few ever have to draw their weapons.
Allan gave her a smile and a nod.
“I know,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
Audra watched him walk out. She found herself staring at the closed door long after he left.
