A Dream of Death (Detective Lincoln Munroe, Book 1)

  “I know. It’s tearing me apart. I’ve barely seen the kids lately but this case, Algonquin, Kara, it’s too much.”

  “Deal with it. Your family needs you.”

  “So does everyone out there. This guy keeps on killing. What if you’re next? Think about that one.”

  She paused, the thought sinking in.

  “You said he only kills women who are home alone.”

  “So far. He attacked Kara. You think that was fucking random?” My anger was getting the better of me, it did that now whenever I thought of Kara and what he had done—what he tried to do.

  “I… don’t… know…,” stuttering now, fearing she could be next. Saving yourself by scaring the shit out of your wife. Well done, Lincoln.

  “You could be next for all we know, he targeted Kara. He wanted to send us a message. Maybe he’s pissed off now that he got stopped.” My blood pressure was rising, my face was getting warm. “Maybe he’ll change his game plan, stop coming after women. I stopped him, how do you think he feels about me?”

  She was pale now, her hands shaking.

  Her eyes moved to my side, to a drop of fresh blood that stained my shirt. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

  I hadn’t told her, it would have been too much. “I’m fine, just some stitches, but… he stabbed me.”

  She turned and sat on the stairs in the foyer. “You never even told me. I’m your wife, Lincoln. I should have been there beside you in the hospital holding your hand.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “That’s my right.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “I’m sorry, I should have called. It’ll be over soon.”

  “How long do we have to wait?” Her edginess was coming back. “How long until the kids get their father back?”

  “We’ll get him,” I said.

  “And then what? You’ve still got your past to figure out. Back to Algonquin and your murderer father?”

  “Fuck you.”

  She froze, I had never spoken to her like that. But, at least at the moment, I wasn’t sorry. Maybe that would come later.

  “If you came to me,” I said, “and told me you thought your father killed someone while you were there—just a kid for Christ’s sake—that it was making you hallucinate, that you had to work on the crime scene, I’d be a little more supportive. My world is crumbling around me, and it turns out the pillar I thought I had at home is made of fucking sand.”

  I turned to walk away.

  “Never swear at me again,” she shouted at my back, “and do not take the Lord’s name in vain in this house.”

  That wasn’t what really bothered her, but in her pain she held on to the only thing she had left to believe in. Still, I was stunned. I had to turn back. “Born again, are we? Going to church twice a year or whenever it’s convenient isn’t enough anymore?”

  “Every Sunday you work, Lincoln, I go. And I take the kids with me.”

  This was news. We had always said we would let the kids make their own decisions about religion. I believed if you raised a child Christian, they would remain Christian, Buddhist, Buddhist or Muslim, Muslim. I wanted the children to be informed of all viewpoints so that when the time came they could make their own decision.

  “Anything else that you’re brainwashing them about? And we really thought we should have another?”

  “Get out,” was her answer. “Get out.”

  I didn’t think twice. I walked past her and went upstairs first into Kasia’s room. I roused her, kissed her on the head and told her I loved her but that I would be busy at work for the next couple of days. I don’t know if she got it all, she was notorious for being difficult to wake up. Link woke up more easily and said he’d miss me before telling me to go out and get the bad guys. Life was still a game to him, a game that I was losing.

  Kat still stood by the door when I returned downstairs, standing guard and waiting for me to leave. I didn’t speak to her, I didn’t look at her. I set the house alarm—my last caring act—then walked out the door letting her slam it behind me.

  I only had one place to go.

  —20—

  I stood outside the door to Kara’s hotel room—the night clerk had given me her room number once I flashed my badge. And I stood there for a good ten minutes, frozen in place wondering if I should knock or just quietly get my own room.

  I filled my lungs before I raised my hand to the door and knocked twice. A part of me hoped she wouldn’t answer, that something would stop me from taking this next step so I wouldn’t have to try to stop myself. Footsteps approached the door then the light behind the peephole disappeared. A moment later I heard the lock turn.

  Neither of us spoke. Our eyes met and stayed fixed, hers shining like emeralds in the dimly lit corridor. Both of us were waiting, waiting for someone to make the next move. In the end, it was Kara, maybe because she was stronger or maybe because she had less to lose. With a loaded gun in her right hand she took mine in her left. A gentle pull brought me into the room.

  “Kat kicked me out.” I moved back toward the door. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Stay. Please.” I saw the fear in her eyes. “Sleep on the couch if you want, I can’t be alone. I thought it would be better but it’s not. I can’t… I keep seeing him on top of me, the hatred in his eyes.”

  I nodded.

  Kara sat down on the edge of the bed. “I called Grant, asked him to come here, take the night off. They would have given it to him. He said he couldn’t… more like he wouldn’t. What a judge of character I was on that one.”

  I took a few steps and sat down beside her. “Everyone handles things differently, you know that.”

  “He can’t even talk to me, we’ve been together over a year. My boyfriend can’t handle it but you’re here.”

  I didn’t want to be rude but the truth needed to be said. “I’m here because Kat kicked me out, I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “That’s not the only reason, Link.” She gave a coy smile. “You don’t have to say it. Why did she kick you out anyway, did you tell her?”

  “No. We had a fight about how little I’ve been home, how distant I’ve become, other things. I hadn’t even told her I’d been stabbed. She had to find out from blood on my shirt. Then it turned to the kids and religion. I swore at her and stormed out.”

  Kara laughed, not the reaction I was expecting. “How the hell did it turn to God?”

  “She started pulling some holier-than-thou thing. I couldn’t deal with it. Maybe she was right, but I just wasn’t in the mood. The religious part wasn’t why she was pissed… it’s just all she has to hold on to.”

  “You’re a good man, she’ll come around.”

  “Do you want her to? Do I?”

  Kara just shrugged, both of us speechless.

  * * *

  The couch was uncomfortable but safe. As long as I stayed on this side of the room, this side of the imaginary line on the floor, my marriage was safe as well. I tossed and turned before falling asleep only to wake up with a jolt a few minutes later.

  I saw him every time I closed my eyes—straddling Kara, the rope to her throat. I felt the knife enter me and I saw him running down the street.

  I saw the shot I never took.

  I shifted my focus to happier times but they would fade to black to be quickly replaced.

  I dozed off again and woke what seemed like seconds later to Kara screaming. The blankets hit the floor and I ran to her side. There was no one else in the room—it had just been a nightmare. I took the gun from her hand—grabbed from the nightstand by instinct—and held her hand tight in mine, the fingers of my other hand running through her hair. Tears flowed from her eyes soaking the pillow beneath her.

  “I can’t turn it off,” she said through her pain.

  “I know, neither can I.”

  “Lie with me? Please?”

  I shouldn’t have, I knew I shouldn’t h
ave. But I looked at her, her beauty and strength contrasting with her fragility—I couldn’t leave her on her own even if I would only be a few steps away. I climbed on to the bed behind her and laid down on top of the comforter, a barrier between us. I moved closer to her, lay with my front to her back and wrapped my arm around her.

  I felt her heart pounding and the wetness of sweat as it beaded on her skin and I knew she was terrified. I just didn’t know what of.

  She moved backwards closer to me, her body and mine snug to one another. The thin comforter and two layers of clothing were all that separated us. The thought lingered in my mind and brought with it a visceral excitement.

  Kara must have noticed. She turned over to face me and our lips met for the second time. There was nothing to stop us this time, no one to walk in and no willpower to speak of for either of us.

  We kissed like teenagers, our mouths attached to each other for an eternity before her warm hands slid under the edge of my t-shirt and pulled it over my head. Her fingers ran over the bandage on my side as she sat up and removed her shirt. Her breasts gave an almost imperceptible bounce as her shirt broke free.

  Without words she told me to get off of the comforter and pull it back to join in her in the bed. I did, and our mouths met again, our hands joining in the fray. We caressed each other; my hands explored her breasts, slid down the soft skin of her back and up to the ligature marks on her neck. We had no reason to hide our wounds from each other, they had been what had brought us together and we wore them well.

  We took the next step together, our hands moving lower as we continued our caresses. Our minds were lost in the moment and all reason had been thrown to the wind. I no longer thought of Kat or questioned my actions, I was lost once again and this time the feeling was to be enjoyed.

  Kara broke the kiss for just a moment, her mouth moving to my ear and a whisper escaping. It was a simple command and one I was eager to follow. The covers were off the bed in an instant and I was above Kara looking down at her beauty. I stared into her eyes as she guided me into her waiting body. We reached a perfect rhythm, our bodies moving in unison as sweat rolled of our skin and the sheets crumpled on the bed. I didn’t want to take my eyes off of her. We would kiss for a minute then break apart again our eyes meeting once more, permanent smiles etched upon our faces.

  We were joined from our head to our feet as I pressed myself into her with abandon until we reached a mutual point of no return. My rhythmic movement turned into a series of unattractive spasms and jerks before our motion ceased, our bodies separated and we lay on our backs beside each other exhausted in every way. Not a word was shared.

  Our hands clasped together and we drifted off to a restful and dreamless sleep.

  —21—

  The DNA results came in shortly after Kara and I arrived at the office in the morning. We hadn’t spoken of the previous night. Furtive glances were enough to fill the void where words would not go. It was as if speaking of it would cheapen it somehow. The alarm on Kara’s phone had woken us after far too little sleep and we had showered together, a lack of time preventing us from rekindling our physicality. I saw her then in full light, her naked body presented to me and mine to her. She was as beautiful as I had imagined—her petite well-built frame and lightly tanned skin made her look like a goddess, a creature so beautiful that man was never supposed to look upon her and live to tell the tale.

  And yet, there was an adolescent awkwardness to it all. I felt it and it seemed that she did too. I pulled myself away from my memories and fantasies and we looked over the test results as the calendar stared back at me: June nineteenth, twenty-eleven. Eldritch.

  “What’s that?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said ‘eldritch’ or something.”

  I must have said it aloud. “Oh, word of the day. Means strange or unearthly.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I can sleep well tonight now that I know that. Can we focus on these?”

  She handed me the test results.

  They were conclusive. DNA on the rope had matched each of the victims. It was the murder weapon used in each case. But in addition to DNA hits on the rope for Kara and the four victims, there was an unidentified female source. We had another victim out there, one that had never been found. The lack of a male donor confirmed that the killer had been wearing gloves.

  The blood didn’t trace back to anyone on its own but the familial search yielded a hit, a twenty-seven year old inmate by the name of Michael Saunders—serving fourteen months at Millhaven in Kingston for sexually assaulting a coworker. As a result of his conviction a DNA sample was taken and put on file, and now it told us to look for his father. I searched our records for Michael and found nothing.

  The next step was to log into the PIP server—the Police Information Portal—a file-sharing system set up between numerous Canadian police services. This allowed me to gain access to their reports and anything on file for a person, down to a car accident or by-law ticket. I searched through old files as Kara began checking other means to locate information on Michael, using the Ministry of Transportation database to find a driver’s licence, registered vehicles, any means at all to locate his father—our suspect.

  I poured through numerous police records for Michael, a troublemaker in London since the age of sixteen. The reports led me to two important pieces of information: Michael’s father was James Michael Saunders, born July seventeenth, nineteen-sixty.

  Our killer had a name.

  I gave Kara the information and she began searching for anything she could find on James. Meanwhile I read a report from February of two-thousand—a suicide. Michael woke up in the morning to get ready for school and couldn’t find his mother. He searched the house for her, wondering where she would be when her car was still in the driveway. The last place Michael checked was the garage, and there he found his mother, hanging from the rafters.

  James had been working night shift at a local factory at the time and was on his way home. He arrived to numerous police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck.

  And there was our missing victim—Nathalie Saunders, James’s wife. Just to make sure, I called the Centre for Forensic Sciences and requested a comparison of the unknown sample and Michael’s DNA. I had my answer within an hour. It was a familial match.

  The rope we had recovered, the rope used to kill four women and that nearly killed Kara, was the rope Nathalie Saunders had hung herself with.

  The question of how James Saunders managed to keep the rope was one I couldn’t answer. A rope used in a hanging is always seized as evidence. The report stated that Michael had cut his mother down, sawing through the rope with a steak knife. Had he inadvertently cut a piece off of the rope, a piece that had not been recovered by the responding officers? Or had the rest of the rope been left up, her DNA on it from tying it to the rafters? James had had an airtight alibi and the coroner ruled the death a suicide. The thought that James had killed Nathalie then hung her from a different rope didn’t escape me but it didn’t fit the evidence.

  No, his wife’s suicide was the trigger. It had festered for years before turning him into a killer.

  Kara found an address and Saunders’s driver’s licence photo. I had barely seen him in the dark and I couldn’t be satisfied but the picture that stared at me from the computer fit the man I had seen. Within fifteen minutes undercover OPP and London detectives were staking out the address located in a neighbourhood in London’s south end. Within two hours we had our warrants—to search and seize any evidence found within the residence or the suspect’s vehicle, a black ninty-six Chevrolet Blazer.

  Kara and I left the courthouse in downtown London and drove as fast as we could to Saunders’s address, warrants in hand. Uniformed officers and emergency response team members had arrived to assist, and the door was breached with a metal ram. The house was cleared first, the tactical team sweeping the entire residence and ensuring that there was no one inside.

  Now it
was time to prove our case.

  It couldn’t have been easier. As methodical as the killer was at his scenes, he lacked any intelligence at his home. Books on forensics, police investigations, true crime stories and unsolved murders lined the book shelves, along with every season of every recent forensics and police television show and dozens of similar movies. The top shelf was the gold mine—a number of handwritten journals. I took one down, opened it to a random page and read aloud.

  “I hate killing women but it’s the only way to make men realize the truth. Women are weak, they can’t protect themselves. It’s up to us to protect them, to save them from themselves. Every woman I kill, every pure life I take will remind men of their sacred duty: to protect the lives of those who can’t protect themselves.”

  “Arrogant prick,” Kara said as I flipped to another page.

  “I have never been so sorry as tonight. The woman I killed was pregnant, another sacred life growing within her. Her life had purpose, she was fulfilling her role as a woman and I ended her life. Women should be held sacred, that’s why this is hard for me to do, but if I don’t, how many more women will needlessly kill themselves? Our lives have changed too much, women shouldn’t be allowed to work, they should remain home to care for the children. That way they can avoid the evils of the world and remain pure.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  I had never heard Kara swear like that. Her face grew red contrasting the purple bruise on her throat she didn’t try to cover.

  The diaries would give us everything we needed—they were a confession written in the killer’s own hand detailing his every crime. We weren’t prepared for such a monumental find but we were even less prepared for what we found next.

  I opened the fridge as I always do at crime scenes—it’s amazing what you can learn about a person from the contents of their fridge. Organized versus disorganized, expired or rotten versus fresh, stocked or empty, organic, local, vegan. It was a tool of mine, one that fell deep into the realm of pseudoscience but one I stuck with none the less.