John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

“We’d better be damn sure about this before we start hauling people in for questioning,” he said at last. “If we’re wrong, the situation will be…” He searched for the right word. “Irreparable.” He looked at them both to make certain they understood. “Ben Stevenson not only has a close working relationship with this department, but he also happens to be a personal friend of mine.”

“A fingerprint match would clinch it,” Schroeder noted.

“No. I don’t want the boy brought in for fingerprinting until we’re reasonably certain.”

“A search warrant of the house would likely yield sufficient prints from the kid’s bedroom,” Danny suggested, “in addition to anything else we might find.”

“I’m not serving Dr. Stevenson with a search warrant of his home based on an observation you made from a photograph,” Sam told him, shooting an irritated glare in Detective Hunt’s direction. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t Hunt’s fault. He was simply doing his job—a job Sam himself had assigned him to do. You have to follow the evidence where it leads, he reminded himself, no matter whose door it takes you to.

“Why don’t we petition a judge to order the release of the kid’s dental records, now that we have someone specific we’re interested in?” Danny suggested.

Sam considered it for a moment. “There are three local dentists in town,” he replied. “We don’t know which one he goes to. We’d have to ask the judge for a court-ordered release of records from all three. That’s going to raise some local interest. It’s the kind of thing that’s hard to keep quiet in a small town.”

“How likely is it, anyway,” Carl wondered, “that he’s had recent dental imprints made, and that a physical casting would be available to send to the forensic odontologist. It would be a gamble that might very well turn up nothing.”

“I don’t know, Chief,” Danny sighed. “A limited search warrant of the home may be the most straightforward approach here—just to get fingerprints from the kid’s room and to take a quick look around. If we’re right, we’ve got him. If we’re wrong and the prints don’t match, we apologize to the doc and trust that, given the gravity of the investigation, he’ll understand.”

“I’d really like to avoid that if we could,” Sam responded. “I mean, what’s your degree of certainty here? I know Thomas Stevenson. He’s a good kid: smart, athletic, very likable…”

“Fits the profile,” Carl observed.

Sam traced his thumb across the leather armrest of his chair. “You really think he’s responsible for murdering and desecrating those kids, for attacking Monica Dressler? You think he’s capable of that?”

“We won’t know unless we check it out, Chief,” Carl said. Truth be told, he was somewhat surprised by his boss’s reluctance to pursue this lead.

“But what does your gut tell you?” Garston asked. “You think he actually did it?”

Carl shrugged. “Lord knows, I don’t want it to be him any more than you do. But just because we don’t want it to be so, doesn’t mean it isn’t.”

“Why don’t you try the high school,” a thin voice proposed from the kitchen, and Carla Garston’s frame appeared in the doorway. They all turned to look. “I’m sorry,” she told the detectives. “I know I’m not supposed to be eavesdropping. But after twenty-eight years of marriage, I can say with relative certainty that my husband will end up discussing this with me later tonight anyway. It saves him the trouble, if you think about it.” She raised her hands in a half shrug, as if to say, Gentlemen, let’s not quibble on the details . “I hope you’ll excuse the interruption.”

“What do you mean, ‘try the high school’?” Sam asked, nonplussed by his wife’s interjection.

“For prints,” she responded, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Carla, do you have any idea how many sets of prints would be covering that place?” her husband asked incredulously.

“Not that many,” she replied. “You just have to limit your search to a finite area.”

“Such as?” Detective Schroeder asked.

“The door to his locker, of course.” She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment as she returned the towel to its rack near the oven, then rejoined them in the living room. “School grounds are county property. That should alleviate your search warrant predicament. Plus, the building’s empty for winter break. You could be in and out of there without disturbing a soul, except for maybe the janitor who could locate it and unlock the door for you.”

They looked at each other, each considering the idea and finding it basically sound.

Carla shrugged. “Seems like a good starting place, anyway,” she said. “Care for a refill on that coffee, Detective Hunt? Detective Schroeder? I still have half a pot here that will go to waste if you don’t drink it. Sam’s doctor says he’s not allowed to have caffeine before he goes to bed. He’s been struggling with a little insomnia lately.”

“I don’t think the detectives need to hear about that, Carla,” Sam advised her. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“It’s no secret,” his wife replied. “With the bags you carry around under your eyes some days, I’m sure any detective worth his rank could deduce as much just by looking at you.”

“I’ll take some more coffee, ma’am,” Danny Hunt said with a grin. “I can drink a whole pot and sleep like a baby. Got used to it in college, I guess.”

“I should’ve known you were a college boy.” She smiled at him and refilled his cup. “No wonder you’re so smart.”

Danny was twenty-seven, and still had the tendency to blush an embarrassing shade of magenta when the situation called for it.

“Criminal justice major, I presume?” Carla inquired.

“No, ma’am. Philosophy with a minor in biochemistry.”

“Ahh. All the makings of a fine detective,” she said, turning to refresh Carl’s mug as well. With the pot empty and a reasonable course of action now decided upon, she excused herself to get ready for bed.

“Thanks for the pictures.” She spoke into the cordless phone cradled between her neck and shoulder. She stepped into her bedroom and closed the door for privacy.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

“I wish I was there with you.” Monica went to her computer and scrolled through the digital photos Thomas had e-mailed her that afternoon. Her favorite was a picture of him standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking the impressive expanse of a valley far below. Thomas was turned at an oblique angle to the camera, such that half of his face was highlighted by the light of the setting sun, while the other hemisphere was lost in shadows. The rocky landscape had taken on a deep ruddy crimson complexion, and the soft orange sky hovered in the background like an artist who chooses to add a few remaining strokes to a work he knows is already finished, simply because he cannot bear to pull himself away. She touched the photo with her thumb, stroking the side of his face. “When do you come home?”

“Three days. You think you can wait until then?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’ll have to go find some other guy then.”

She smiled. “I don’t want another guy. I want you.”

He was quiet for a moment, and Monica crossed the room, sitting down on the side of her bed. She ran her fingers across the sheets, thinking about the day they had lain here together, his deeply tanned arms wrapped protectively around her while the afternoon unfolded splendidly around them.

“What’ve you been doing since I’ve been gone?” he asked.