John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

“I wasn’t doing it for the confession,” Carl replied. He unlocked the car but stood there looking over the roof at his partner.

Danny paused for a moment with his hand on the latch. Then a dawning expression blossomed on his face. “Of course. Our killer is left-handed. You wanted to see what hand this guy writes with.”

Carl nodded. “Did you notice?”

Danny thought for a moment, recollecting the image of the pen poised above the paper. “Son of a gun,” he said.

“File the paperwork with the hospital to put him on a police hold. When he’s ready for discharge, we’re taking him in. Mr. Harold Matthews gives me the creeps, and I didn’t like that picture he drew. He may be crazy, but I don’t think we should write him off just yet. We need to be damn sure there’s nothing else to it.”

The office of Dr. Aaron Blechman, forensic odontologist, was located on the fourth floor of Children’s Hospital. It was situated at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, as if the room itself had been added to the building as an afterthought. A small sign affixed to the door identified the occupant. Inside, the office was cramped, almost claustrophobic, the majority of the floor space inhabited by a modest oak desk, its surface strewn with a haphazard assortment of books and papers. The afternoon gray filtered through a small window overlooking Forty-Fifth Street and St. Mary’s Cemetery, just beyond.

“So what you’re saying,” Detective Danny Hunt summarized, “is that the bite wounds from the second victim are identical to those from the first.”

Blechman shook his head. “Identical, no. The angle of contact with the skin, the depth of penetration, the surrounding patterns of ecchymosis—these will vary from wound to wound. A human bite is a dynamic force. It has many variables.”

“But you think it was produced by the same person,” Detective Schroeder interjected. His face looked strained, as if he were in the process of recovering from a long, tenacious illness. In some ways he was. Fifteen years on the force, two failed marriages, an adult daughter living on the other side of the country with whom he barely spoke. These days he lived for the job. It was all he had left.

“The pattern of dentition appears similar,” Blechman answered. “Comparison of saliva DNA analysis from the bite wounds sustained by the two victims may provide you with a more definitive answer to that question.”

“We’re pretty certain we’re dealing with the same perpetrator,” Detective Hunt advised the odontologist, glancing at his partner. “Unfortunately, the saliva DNA analysis from the first victim failed to yield a match through CODIS.”

CODIS, Ben recalled, was an acronym that referred to the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System. The program had been established in 1994 as a DNA database for biological samples acquired in connection with violent felony crimes.

Ben furrowed his brow a bit. “So the fact that the saliva samples from the first victim’s bite wounds failed to yield a match through CODIS means…”

“It could mean any number of things,” Carl explained. “Previous violent felony crimes might have been committed by this guy before the inception of the database in 1994. Or he might have committed prior crimes from which no biological specimens were obtained.”

“Or,” Detective Hunt interposed, “this could be the perpetrator’s first venture into this sort of work.”

Ben nodded. “Well, it seems to agree with him.”

The room fell silent for a moment, except for the faint sounds of traffic rising from the street below.

“There is something else,” Blechman reported. “There seems to be a spacing anomaly between the upper left canine and the first premolar. It’s what we refer to as a diastasis —a small, abnormal gap between the two teeth. It measures about two millimeters.”

Schroeder was jotting this down in his notebook. “A diastasis,” he said. “Would this be noticeable to the average person?”

“Not glaringly so,” the odontologist replied. “The anomaly is subtle. You’d have to know what you were looking for.” He retrieved a plastic dental model from his bookshelf, indicating the involved teeth with the pointed end of a pencil. “It would be here,” he told them, “just behind the upper left canine.”

Carl looked at Sam. “If we could get a hold of the town’s dental records…”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. Medical and dental information is protected by patient privacy laws. Ain’t that right, Ben?”

Ben nodded. The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, established by the U.S. government in 1996, was now well entrenched in medicine. As a result, access to medical and dental records was tightly controlled.

“A judge might issue a subpoena for the dental records of a specific suspect,” Sam continued, “provided there was enough additional convincing evidence. But getting a subpoena for the dental records of the entire town is a lost cause.”

“Even in a case like this?” Carl asked.

“ Especially in a case like this,” Sam replied. “Catching him is only the first step. We don’t want to do anything to jeopardize the DA’s ability to prosecute. I’d hate to catch him, only to see him walk on a technicality.”

“If I catch him, he won’t be walking anywhere for a while,” Carl muttered to himself, stuffing his notebook into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He turned to Dr. Blechman. “You’ll let us know when the DNA report from the girl’s wounds comes back?”

“Of course,” Blechman replied, shaking hands with each of them. “If there’s anything else I can do to help, please let me know.”

They filed out into the hallway and headed for the elevators. “I presume,” Sam commented, “that we’re all heading to the same place from here.”

A soft bell chimed and the elevator doors slid open in front of them. “Absolutely,” Ben responded. “Let’s go see how she’s doing.”

The ICU waiting room appeared as if an impromptu town meeting were about to be called to order. Scores of familiar faces milled about, both in the waiting area and in the hallway just outside. The chairs normally situated in the center of the room had been pushed up against the wall to accommodate the standing-room-only crowd. Paul and Vera Dressler were surrounded by a throng of friends and neighbors, each offering their heartfelt support and condolences. A small table in the corner was overflowing with a striking assortment of flowers, whose fragrance and brightness seemed to permeate the room. Children sat together in small clusters, giggling and chattering rapidly to one another, and a collection of teenagers from Monica’s high school had gathered at the far end of the hallway, talking quietly among themselves.

As Ben and the officers approached, they were greeted with careful smiles and warm handshakes. They were pulled into the crowd as one of its own, and were quickly enveloped in questions and conversation. They inquired about the status of Monica’s recovery, and were updated regarding planned studies and procedures. Ben was barraged with questions regarding the girl’s injuries and prognosis, and when he made eye contact with Susan from across the room, he could tell that his wife had also been tasked with the responsibility of explaining the medical details of the case in a digestible fashion to those who had come here.

In addition to these questions, Ben was asked about the progress of the investigation, about which he simply deferred to Sam and the detectives. Have any suspects been identified? they asked. Are there any leads yet? Do you think Monica was attacked by the same person responsible for killing Kevin Tanner? Do you think this was done by a local, or just someone passing through? Ben answered them all in the same way: “I don’t know. You’ll have to speak with the detectives.” Which was the truth, he decided, more or less.