Read Online Grave Situation by Alex MacLean - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alex MacLean
Tags: detective, Crime, Mystery, Police Procedural, CSI, serial killer, Murder, Addiction, forensics, twist ending, traumatic stress
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shouldn’t have
seen?
For a moment, he glanced at Jim,
who had stopped briefly to reload his camera.
Who’s the phantom bleeder? And why
is there no return blood trail?
Slowly, Allan went over to the
ECTUG building, tried the door. Locked. Around the building he
examined the windows on both floors. All intact.
Hands in his pockets, he made his
way back to Jim.
“How are you making
out?”
Jim lifted his head. Allan saw that
he was back at the start of the trail.
“This is the parent drop.” Jim
pointed to it. “The drip pattern is different from the others. On
this type of surface, drops will be more prone to have irregular
edges and satellite spatter as you can see. But this first drop is
rounder, typical of a person standing still. The others suggest
movement. The directionality is toward the end of the
wharf.”
Allan’s gaze moved from the first
drop to the body of Brad Hawkins. In his mind, he measured out the
rough distance.
“These bloodstains seem out of
place,” he said at last.
Jim nodded. “I don’t think they
came from the victim. Possibly the suspect cut himself during the
attack.”
Allan considered this. “But why the
void? There must be a twenty foot gap between this blood trail and
the victim.”
Eyes narrow, Jim rubbed his jaw.
“We can assume from the placement of the body and the trail here
that the blood never came from the victim.”
“Serology will determine that,” Allan replied. “It might be
possible that we’re standing in a second crime
scene.”
“Could be, Lieutenant.”
They expanded the perimeter of the
scene. Much ground could be covered with additional manpower, so
uniformed officers were brought in to assist with the neighborhood
canvass. Up and down stairs they went, banging on doors, hoping
someone out there had heard or witnessed something.
Other officers were assigned the
undesirable task of searching the recesses of alleyways and picking
through commercial and residential dumpsters around the waterfront.
They were armed with a description of two viable pieces of
evidence—a knife and the black notebook belonging to Brad
Hawkins.
In case the suspects had discarded
the murder weapon on one of the tugs moored at the wharf, the
Regional Director for ECTUG gave permission to board and search
them.
Nothing was found.
Allan called in the Regional Police
Underwater Recovery Team. Within thirty minutes, their Boston
Whaler came jouncing down the harbor, its outboard motor whipping
the water into foam. The team anchored near the tugboat wharf, then
set to work sectioning off the water into grids using a floating
marker system. Each section would be thoroughly searched, one at a
time.
Wearing Farmer John wetsuits and
full SCUBA gear, two divers entered the water and disappeared
beneath the waves. One back-up diver remained onboard as part of
the surface team in case of an emergency.
Watching them, Allan knew the odds
of finding any evidence would be slim. The proverbial needle in the
haystack. If someone had tossed a murder weapon off the wharf, the
currents could have carried the item a great distance away before
it reached bottom. To make matters worse, the harbor floor was
already littered with shipwrecks and other debris.
His watch read 10:23. There wasn’t
much time. He had a death notification and then the autopsy at
11:00. He went to the mobile command post and signed himself out of
the scene.
As he walked to his car, he saw the
press pool take notice of him. As one mass, they moved in his
direction. Flashbulbs went off. Microphones were thrusting forward.
Voices shouting questions.
Allan ignored them. He jumped into
his car and sped away.
12
Halifax, May 9
10:33 a.m.
The parents of Brad Hawkins lived
in an early twentieth century Queen Anne style home in the
south-end of Halifax. Blue with white trim, the house was two and a
half stories high, gable-roofed and fronted by a large porch with
tapered box columns.
Standing at the front door,
seen?
For a moment, he glanced at Jim,
who had stopped briefly to reload his camera.
Who’s the phantom bleeder? And why
is there no return blood trail?
Slowly, Allan went over to the
ECTUG building, tried the door. Locked. Around the building he
examined the windows on both floors. All intact.
Hands in his pockets, he made his
way back to Jim.
“How are you making
out?”
Jim lifted his head. Allan saw that
he was back at the start of the trail.
“This is the parent drop.” Jim
pointed to it. “The drip pattern is different from the others. On
this type of surface, drops will be more prone to have irregular
edges and satellite spatter as you can see. But this first drop is
rounder, typical of a person standing still. The others suggest
movement. The directionality is toward the end of the
wharf.”
Allan’s gaze moved from the first
drop to the body of Brad Hawkins. In his mind, he measured out the
rough distance.
“These bloodstains seem out of
place,” he said at last.
Jim nodded. “I don’t think they
came from the victim. Possibly the suspect cut himself during the
attack.”
Allan considered this. “But why the
void? There must be a twenty foot gap between this blood trail and
the victim.”
Eyes narrow, Jim rubbed his jaw.
“We can assume from the placement of the body and the trail here
that the blood never came from the victim.”
“Serology will determine that,” Allan replied. “It might be
possible that we’re standing in a second crime
scene.”
“Could be, Lieutenant.”
They expanded the perimeter of the
scene. Much ground could be covered with additional manpower, so
uniformed officers were brought in to assist with the neighborhood
canvass. Up and down stairs they went, banging on doors, hoping
someone out there had heard or witnessed something.
Other officers were assigned the
undesirable task of searching the recesses of alleyways and picking
through commercial and residential dumpsters around the waterfront.
They were armed with a description of two viable pieces of
evidence—a knife and the black notebook belonging to Brad
Hawkins.
In case the suspects had discarded
the murder weapon on one of the tugs moored at the wharf, the
Regional Director for ECTUG gave permission to board and search
them.
Nothing was found.
Allan called in the Regional Police
Underwater Recovery Team. Within thirty minutes, their Boston
Whaler came jouncing down the harbor, its outboard motor whipping
the water into foam. The team anchored near the tugboat wharf, then
set to work sectioning off the water into grids using a floating
marker system. Each section would be thoroughly searched, one at a
time.
Wearing Farmer John wetsuits and
full SCUBA gear, two divers entered the water and disappeared
beneath the waves. One back-up diver remained onboard as part of
the surface team in case of an emergency.
Watching them, Allan knew the odds
of finding any evidence would be slim. The proverbial needle in the
haystack. If someone had tossed a murder weapon off the wharf, the
currents could have carried the item a great distance away before
it reached bottom. To make matters worse, the harbor floor was
already littered with shipwrecks and other debris.
His watch read 10:23. There wasn’t
much time. He had a death notification and then the autopsy at
11:00. He went to the mobile command post and signed himself out of
the scene.
As he walked to his car, he saw the
press pool take notice of him. As one mass, they moved in his
direction. Flashbulbs went off. Microphones were thrusting forward.
Voices shouting questions.
Allan ignored them. He jumped into
his car and sped away.
12
Halifax, May 9
10:33 a.m.
The parents of Brad Hawkins lived
in an early twentieth century Queen Anne style home in the
south-end of Halifax. Blue with white trim, the house was two and a
half stories high, gable-roofed and fronted by a large porch with
tapered box columns.
Standing at the front door,
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