John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

Carl shook his head. “The specimen was transported to the front steps of the Coroner’s Office from someplace else. Otherwise, why bother with the bag?”

Ben stood up from his chair and crossed the room restlessly, his fingers pressed to his forehead. A headache had formed behind his right eye, making him feel nauseous and light-headed. He’d dry-swallowed four tablets of ibuprofen thirty minutes ago, but couldn’t say they’d made much of a difference. “What I want to know,” he said, “is why was it delivered to the CO?”

“Good question,” Carl remarked. “We were hoping you might shed some light on that one.”

“I have no idea,” Ben replied. “I wish I did.”

The sound of a snowplow could be heard on the street below. It was the only vehicle that had passed this way over the last hour.

“Maybe he was doing us a favor,” Nat suggested from the corner of the room, and all eyes turned to him.

“What do you mean?” Detective Hunt asked.

Ben’s assistant shrugged. “It would’ve come to the CO eventually, along with the rest of the body. In a way, he saved me the trouble of transporting it.”

“You know anyone who might do that?” Carl asked, one eyebrow raised.

Nat thought this over for a moment. “Naah,” he said. “Not that I can think of.”

Danny turned to Ben. “The bag wasn’t there when you left the CO for your walk.”

“That’s right,” Ben confirmed. “It was sitting right up against the door when I returned. If it had been there when I left the building, I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed it.”

“So someone watched you leave, knew you were coming back, and placed it there for you to find.”

“Or just happened to deliver it while I was out of the building,” Ben pointed out. “I doubt it was left there for me personally.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, leaning forward in his chair. “It seems pretty clear that it’s a message.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “He’s taunting us.”

“Us…” Sam placed his big hands on the desk in front of him. “Or you, Ben?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Ben replied, working his right temple with the palm of his hand. The headache was worsening, despite the earlier dose of analgesic. “Why would he be taunting me ? Just because I’m the one doing the autopsies?”

Sam’s face was still, his eyes studying the surface of his desk. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s something to think about.” He looked up at the men gathered in front of him. “Well… I don’t think there’s anything more we can do tonight. Let’s call it an evening, shall we?”

“I’ll contact Agent Culver in the morning,” Carl told him.

Sam nodded. “That’s fine. Let’s get a few boys to shovel a hundred-foot radius around the Coroner’s Office in the morning, and have the forensic team go over that area for anything useful. Ben,” he said as the others were filing out, “can I have a word with you?”

Ben looked surprised. “Sure,” he said, closing the door to the office when it was just the two of them.

Sam looked across the desk at him for a moment. “I have a question for you, Ben, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—but how well do you know Nathan Banks?”

“Nat?” Ben asked incredulously. “Pretty damn well, Sam.”

“Mm-hmm,” the chief replied. He swiveled his chair to the right so that he could look out the window. “He’s an interesting fellow, wouldn’t you say?”

Ben laughed. “Interesting. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Left-handed, is he?” Sam inquired, recalling the hand with which the boy had gripped the pen during his completion of the paperwork earlier that evening.

Ben’s face lost its humor. “About ten percent of the population is.”

“Oh, I know,” Sam said with a shrug. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything that he is.”

“No,” Ben agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“Still,” Sam went on, “I wouldn’t mind having a DNA specimen for our FBI colleagues to analyze… if you think you could get one for us, that is.”

“Sam, I can assure you…”

The chief held up a hand. “I’m sure you can, Ben. Don’t make too much out of it. I’m just making certain that we cover our bases.” He rose from his chair and walked to the window. “We haven’t had a snowfall like this in years,” he said. “Bad timing for this sort of thing.”

“You thinking about postponing the search until some of this melts off?” Ben asked. He was still feeling unsettled by Sam’s questions about Nat. He wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted, indignant, defensive, or none of the above.

Sam grabbed his jacket and shoved one thick arm through the sleeve as he crossed the room. “Get home to your family, Ben.” He opened the door, stepping aside for his friend to pass through. “Someone will find the body,” he said, his fingers on the light switch. “Sooner or later, they always do.”

“You Detective Carl Schroeder?” the man asked over the phone.

“I am.”

“This is Sergeant Michael Edwins from the Rock Hill Police Department.”

Carl grabbed a pen from the top of his desk. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, I’m not familiar with that jurisdiction.”

“We’re in Rock Hill, South Carolina, Detective—just a li’l south of the North Carolina border.”

“Okay. How can I help you?”

“Got a man in detention here says he knows yah. Been askin’ for yah all mornin’.”

“What’s his name?”

“Well, his real name’s Clarence Bedford. Born and raised down here in York County, South Carolina. We know ’im pretty well—one of our regulars.”

“I’m sorry.” Carl frowned. “I’m not familiar with anyone by the name of—”

“Goes by the name of Harold Matthews, though.”

Carl sat forward in his chair. “You’ve got him? In custody?”

“For the moment,” the sergeant replied. “He was picked up for trespassin’. It’s a book-an’-release offense.”

“I’d prefer if you hold on to him. Mr. Matthews is wanted for questioning regarding the attempted murder of a young girl here in Jefferson County, Ohio.”

“I’ll bet he is. Roll in to the psych ward, did he?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,” Carl confirmed. “How did you know—?”

“Does it ev’ry time we have a young kid get killed around here. Always confesses to the crime. He’s got a long history with us, Detective.”

Carl put a hand to his forehead, laid the pen back down on his desk. “Is that right.”

“Sure ’nough. He’s a bit of a wanderer. Hops on a bus an’ leaves town to God knows where ev’ry so often for a few months at a stretch. Always manages to find ’is way back, though.”

“He said he’d killed others. Any truth to that?”

“Clarence hit a boy on a bike with ‘is car when he was twenty-three. Said the kid was stealin’ a baby that belonged to his sister. Clarence’s sister has cerebral palsy. She’s in a wheelchair, an’ sure as hell don’t have no babies. Child he hit was twelve. He died at the scene. Clarence was charged with murder, but it didn’t stick none. Turns out he’s got schizophrenia. He’s crazier ‘n a sack of rabid weasels, Detective. Spent a bunch of years in a mental hospital after that. I think he took it hard, though, that kid’s death. Still holds himself responsible. Ends up in our local psych unit ev’ry time a kid around here gets killed—sayin’ he’s the one who did it.”

Carl stood up and looked out at the darkening day through the small window of his office. “That explains a lot. I’m curious, though—there were quite a few scratches on his body when I interviewed him. Any idea what might’ve caused—”