Grave Situation (43 page)

Location: Mountain Point Road.
Acresville, Nova Scotia

Weather: Sunny. 20°C

Pausing for a moment, he shaded his
eyes with a hand and surveyed the crime scene, the people present.
Near a Ford F-750 service truck, David and Sam were interviewing
three forestry workers in fluorescent orange jackets and matching
protective trousers. Willy was cordoning off the road with barrier
tape, while two Ident techs were snapping pictures and taking
measurements. Pretty standard procedures.

Allan turned back to Fitzgerald.
“Any ID on him?”

“I’ll look,
Lieutenant.”

From a front pocket came some loose
change and a set of keys. Fitzgerald straddled the body and
gingerly rolled it over. Allan moved closer, observing the large
exit wound in the lower part of the skull. Clumps of dirt and
gravel were stuck to the blood and brains that soaked the
hair.

Fitzgerald withdrew a ragged wallet
from the victim’s back pocket and gave it to Allan without opening
it. The wallet was fat with 10s, 20s and 50s, a considerable sum
for anyone to be carrying around. Tucked into the gusseted slots he
found several credit cards.

Robbery is out.

Allan took out the driver’s
license, staring at the thin face in the picture—lank, dark hair,
clenched jaw, and serious eyes. It was the dead man all right. No
doubt about it.

“Stephen Victor Eagles,” Allan
said, recording the info in his spiral. “Born August third,
nineteen seventy-four. Lives on the Bedford Highway.”

Fitzgerald raised his head. “He’s a
ways from home, isn’t he?”

“That he is.”

“So what’s he doing up
here?”

Allan slid the license back in the
wallet. “My guess, he came out here to see somebody.”

“Drug deal gone bad?”

Allan shrugged. “Maybe. Considering
the location, I don’t think either party wanted to be
noticed.”

From another slot inside the wallet
Allan slipped out a photograph. It was old and worn around the
edges; a wrinkle line creased the front. The photo showed an older
couple, perhaps in their fifties. The man was conservatively
dressed in black pants and a white shirt with the cuffs turned up
at the wrists. His gray hair was neatly combed, his chin
clean-shaven.

At his right stood a slender woman
in brown curls and a heather gray portrait dress. Spirited blue
eyes enlivened her pretty face.

Allan flipped
over the photo to see the words:
Mom &
Dad.

At the edge of his vision, he saw
David walking over. Allan slid the photo back inside the slot and
gave the wallet back to Fitzgerald so he could process it through
the proper chain of custody.

As David reached them, he said in a
disgusted tone, “I think Acresville is going to hell in a hand
basket. It’s been nearly fifteen years since we last had a murder
here and now look at this mess.”

The Chief didn’t need to say more.
Two men were dead, a grave desecrated.

In Allan’s view, David looked like
he was under great stress. He appeared tired and sad and lost
somehow. His complexion was pale, his eyes withdrawn.

Allan imagined the turmoil that now
surrounded David—his peaceful town suddenly thrust into the
spotlight, revealing not only that violence could touch anyone,
anywhere at any time but also the glaring inexperience of a small
police force compelled to investigate it. Allan felt David’s burden
on his own shoulders.

“What did they tell you?” he
asked, indicating the forestry workers with a lift of his
head.

David folded his arms. “They found
the body at three forty-five on their way back from
work.”

“What were they doing?”

“Clearing bush on the
mountain.”

“How far up were they?”

“A couple of miles.”

Allan paused, taking in the open
mountain range around them. Out here, he figured, the report of a
firearm would carry a great distance.

“Did they hear anything that
resembled a gunshot?” he asked.

David shook his head. “No. They
were all wearing hearing protectors.”

“Where does this road
go?”

“It joins a network of other roads
on the mountainside.” David told him. “Fire crews use it to gain
access to the mountain. No one lives up here.”

Allan watched James work over the
Civic.

“The victim’s name is Stephen
Victor Eagles.” Allan gave David the info from his spiral. “Lives
in Bedford.”

David’s frown deepened the creases
in his face. “Eagles? I know that name.” He read over the birth
date. “Thirty-five years old. The age is about right.”

“You knew him?”

David blinked, seemingly lost to
him. He walked over to the body and peered down at it with
narrowing eyes.

“Could be him,” he observed
quietly. “Years can change appearances.”

“Chief?
”

David turned to Allan.
“Pardon?”

Allan waited a moment. “I asked if
you knew him?”

“Through the justice system I did.
He used to be in all kinds of shit. Stealing. Drug
dealing.”

“How long ago was
this?”

“Fifteen years or more.” David
motioned Sam over and gave him the information on Eagles. “Run a
background on this man and let us know what it turns
up.”

“I’ll get right on it, Chief.” Sam
walked off to the side of the road, keying his mike.

Just then, James called out to
Allan and David. “Gentlemen, can you come over here
please?”

Both of them looked to see him
holding something in his hand. Allan followed David over and as he
got closer, saw the object in his hand to be a spiral bound
notebook with a blue cover.

“What is it?” David asked the
tech.

“I found this in the glove box,”
James said, handing the notebook over. “Not sure what it
means.”

David opened it. As he began
leafing through the pages, his brows bushed together.

While waiting, Allan asked James if
he found the car’s registration. He did; the car belonged to
Stephen Eagles.

“We also found a cell phone
charger,” James added, “but there’s no cell in the car.”

“None on the body either,” Allan
said.

“This doesn’t make any sense to
me,” David mumbled. He closed the notebook and gave it to Allan.
“You have a look, Lieutenant.”

Inside the notebook Allan saw
jagged handwriting, the scrawl of someone in a hurry. On each page
there was a name of a cemetery along with a person’s full name
below it. Allan found it odd that each page he turned to had a
check mark.

He recognized
many of the cemeteries listed as being in the Halifax and
surrounding area. As he reached the final entry, he felt time stop
abruptly. He read:
Dartmouth Memorial
Garden, Cathy Ambré.

Allan found his throat dry when he
tried to swallow. Unlike all the other pages before it, this one
with Cathy’s name had no check mark.

What does that mean? And how is
Eagles affiliated with her?

“Can you make heads or tails of
it?” David asked.

Allan shook his head. “No, I
can’t.”

There came the clunky sound of a
lock disengaging. Allan looked over to see James opening the trunk
of the Civic. James paused there, staring at something inside. Then
he looked over at the two men.

“Maybe the guy was a grave
digger,” he said.

Curious, Allan and David walked
over.

“What’d you find?’ Allan
asked.

“See for yourselves.”

James moved out of the way. Inside
the trunk were shovels, rubber boots, coveralls, tarps, a pry bar,
a chest cooler, and a hacksaw with the blade wrapped in a
rag.

“Wonder if he has any cold ones in
there.” James smiled, gesturing to the cooler. “What do you
think?”

Allan didn’t crack a smile. “Open
it.”

The tech dutifully stepped toward
the Civic, reached into the trunk and pulled the cooler forward.
When he removed the lid, he suddenly staggered back in shock,
dropping it to the ground.

“Fuck me!”

Since David was closest, he peered
into the cooler first.

“Oh my Jesus,” he
muttered.

One of his hands rose to his open
mouth. As he slowly turned to Allan, his eyes were astonished, his
face filled with sudden revelation.

“What is it?” Allan
asked.

Quiet, David moved aside so Allan
could see for himself and what he saw made his breath catch—two
human arms, sawed off at the elbows. Allan stared in disbelief. He
felt a chill walk over his skin.

The arms belonged to a male, he
realized. Their size and muscularity, coupled with the mat of dark
hairs on them told him that. He bent to the cooler for a careful
inspection of the wounds when a pungent odor struck his nostrils
and he snapped his head back at the abruptness of it. It wasn’t the
smell of death or decomposition; it was chemical-like.

Embalming fluid?

Allan shook his
head, stunned and confused. The notebook trembled in his hands as
he opened it to the entry before Cathy’s. The name said:
Cecil Drake.
The page
had a check mark on it.

Are those Cecil’s arms?

Allan looked from the notebook to
the items in the trunk to the dead man on the road, his mind
reeling.

What the fuck is going on here? Is
Cathy next on the list? Goddamnit, I don’t want to get an
exhumation order.

David’s worried voice came through
to him. “Think this is our man?”

Allan responded with a small shrug,
unable to think straight. He knew he had to recapture that
professional part of himself that allowed him to observe things
like an investigator. He turned away from everyone and read the
entries over again. One name that wasn’t there stood out to
him—Hector Walsh. What was that telling him? Why was it
important?

David walked over to him. “What is
it, Lieutenant?”

Allan ran a hand over his chin. “I
need to go back to Halifax.”

“Is there something I should
know?”

“I can’t say at this point.” Allan
swallowed. “Fingerprint the hands on the arms in that cooler to see
if you can establish identity. Find out who Stephen Eagles is and
his history. Also, check with all the cell phone carriers in the
province to see if he has an account with any of them. We need to
find out the names of this man’s associates.”

“We’ll get right on
it.”

“Thank you, Chief.” Allan held up
the notebook. “Can I take this with me?”

David nodded. “By all
means.”

“I’ll get back to you when I have
more information.”

Allan hurried to his car. He took
out his cell phone before he left and called Captain
Thorne.

“Can you have
someone check on Cathy Ambré’s gravesite at
Dartmouth Memorial Gardens?”
Allan
inquired. “I need to know if it has been tampered with. And if not,
could you post someone nearby to keep an eye on
things?”

There was a long pause on the line.
“What’s going on up there, Al?”

Allan told Thorne everything—the
murder of Stephen Eagles, the items in his trunk and most
conspicuously, the notebook.

“I need to search Eagles’
residence,” Allan said. “Can you pull a Form five for
me?”

“I’ll do one better,” Thorne
replied. “I’ll get the search warrant for you.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Allan hung up and started the car.
For a moment, he stared through the windshield at the scene
ahead—David talking to Sam; Fitzgerald pulling a gurney from the
back of his van; James taking pictures of the items in the trunk of
the Civic; the forestry workers sitting in their truck, as if
waiting for the okay to leave.

Thoughtful, Allan inhaled a deep
breath. He found something very unsettling about this case. If
Eagles was the man behind it all, then who killed him? Someone
trying to frame him? Someone else who might be involved and was
trying to cover his or her tracks?

Allan felt a growing uneasiness
about where this could be heading. Was there something much bigger
at work? Something much more disturbing?

Allan stepped on the gas and raced
for Halifax.

45

Acresville, May 23

7:27 p.m.

Herb sat amidst the wreckage of his
life and wondered how he could go on. He had neither eaten nor
slept in what felt like forever. His mouth was parched, his stomach
raw. On the kitchen table before him was a half-emptied bottle of
whiskey. Next to that lay a revolver with five bullets and one
empty casing neatly lined up beside the barrel.