― Hermann Hesse
My Watching Post
I had a definite lead in my case although it was a bit sketchy―Albert Deans saw a man in the woods about the time Ned Harkness was murdered and said he had a green face.
On the surface it seemed absurd, but Ella's explanation about the use of camouflage face paint made sense. At least now we narrowed the pool of possible perps to the male gender and probably to someone with Canadian forces training.
I thought at first that was too obvious considering the use of the specialized sniper rifle but maybe not. Maybe our supposedly clever serial killer may have just been lucky all these years.
I had put in a request for Nat Beatty's Canadian Forces service record and Clare Caskill at the detachment phoned me and said it had just come in.
I immediately drove down to the station to retrieve it.
As I sat at my desk scanning the document I had to shake my head in disbelief. I had never seen such a poor record of service with numerous infractions involving alcohol misconduct and conduct deficiency
The guy was a total deadbeat. The last line of the report summed up his service, "consider relieving the CAF member from the performance of military duty in accordance with QR&O article 101.09."
And this was the man Harold Franklin was recommending to me? Again, I shook my head in disbelief.
Curiously though, there was no mention of Nat being a trained sniper or having any particular talent along those lines.
That was disappointing because I liked him as a suspect, but it was very unlikely that a man abusing alcohol and without specialized training in long-range rifles could have carried out the murder of Ned Harkness.
Unless Nat had an accomplice, I was back to square one.
I left the detachment and drove out to my land to sit on the ridge and think. This case was beginning to vex me.
I lapsed into a passive state, totally immersed in nature and indifferent to wherever Fate might take me.
I was simply aware out in the woods there were different laws than the ones governing human society. Predators here weren't horrific monsters, but an accepted part of the circle of life.
I felt I couldn't see things for what they were because my human feelings kept getting in the way. But the man who carried out these murders didn't share my sympathy for humanity―he only cared about having his own way.
A strange feeling of detachment came over me. I could almost picture the killer's face, understand his lack of empathy and his cold indifference to his victim.
The perp wasn't clever, just narrow-focussed on whatever monomaniacal obsession was driving him.
It was a different kind of passion from any I ever experienced. It was akin to listening to the cool, calm voice of madness as it explained why it was completely necessary to obliterate every living thing.
I awoke from my trance-like state with a start.
All my senses were attuned as they were those nights in Afghanistan, staring out into the blind face of the dark, aware other faces were staring back.
A twig snapped and a sparrow flew up.
I felt eyes boring into the back of my head and knew in my gut somebody was watching me.