EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  "That's because there was no physical evidence—none that made it to trial anyway."

  "It's shameful," Denise added. "Misplacing the DNA from the rape-kit—how could the lab possibly allow that to happen?"

  Jonathan stood up from the large table, and slowly paced. The files would take a long time to read, and time was not on their side. He needed a shortcut, and thought of Thompson's fiancee. "Time to find Pam Sorrensen," he said, walking over to a computer in a small nook, surrounded by bookshelves. Denise followed.

  Jonathan sat down and typed in the web address for Loyola University. "I have adjunct professor status there—I can get into their student directory. We'll get her home address—then you'll go meet her and request that she come speak with us."

  "Just show up unannounced?" Denise asked.

  "Sure," Jonathan replied. "Too easy for people to turn you down over the phone or through email." Jonathan typed in his Loyola ID and password, then searched for Pam Sorrensen. In a few seconds a link to her directory information appeared and Jonathan clicked on it. Her information and a picture popped up.

  "Wow, she's pretty," Denise said.

  Jonathan agreed. The woman's bright green eyes seemed the perfect match for her short, blonde hair, which framed the delicate features of her face beautifully.

  Denise wrote down all of the woman's information, then opened her own laptop and searched for directions. "She's walking distance from Loyola."

  "Good, you can take the red-line," Jonathan suggested. He knew it was a safe neighborhood to take the subway.

  "Ask her to come tonight, and tell her we can compensate her for the interview."

  "That should sweeten the deal for a starving student," Denise replied with a smile.

  She slung her heavy backpack over one shoulder, and was out the door. Denise was tenacious, and Jonathan had little doubt she'd convince Sorrensen to cooperate. He just hoped Thompson's ex-fiancee wouldn't reveal something that killed the case.

  *

  After the doctors completed all of the medical tests, they measured every length of Will's body—every dimension.

  "Why do you need all of that?" Will asked.

  "It's for the Engineering Department," Poliakov replied. "They need it for the settings on some equipment."

  Will recalled not being satisfied with Dr. Smith's description of the "equipment," and saw the opportunity to get more information. "What type of equipment?" Will asked.

  "I don't know," Poliakov answered and walked away.

  Will didn't believe him.

  Dr. Noh arrived with an injection gun, and an array of syringes on a platter. He gave one word descriptions for each shot, for which Will was grateful. In the end, he'd received numerous booster shots, including tetanus, and was immunized for a number of other things, including the hepatitis series. Finally, a nurse came in and shaved his head-first with a clippers, and then with a razor and shaving cream.

  "Why such a close shave?" Will asked.

  The woman's eyes opened wide, and she shook her head as if to say: you don't want to know.

  He closed his eyes, but kept his head still as the woman did her job.

  A torrent of thoughts raged inside Will's mind: he'd fallen victim to the flawed judicial system, an incompetent defense attorney, and a jury of suggestible morons. And the negligence of the testing lab that lost the DNA evidence, evidence that would have exonerated him, was indefensible.

  He admitted the circumstantial evidence had looked bad. He recalled the testimony of the school cop: "Less than ten minutes after the defendant left the trees, and the scene altogether, the girl came stumbling out of the pines, naked from the waist down. She had a serious head wound and was visibly disoriented."

  "And what did she do when she got under the lights, in full view?" the prosecutor had asked.

  "She cried out, fell down and tried to cover herself," the cop had replied. "She was slurring, but managed to communicate that she'd been raped before losing consciousness."

  Will didn't see any of that, but he could imagine the scene—and what it must have looked like with the timing. Even more unfortunate than the lost DNA was that the girl's brain had swelled as a result of the head trauma, and she lapsed into a coma. He prayed she would come out of it before the end of the trial, but that hadn't happened. Now it didn't look good for either of them.

  Will still had trouble believing all that had occurred—the circumstances were just too bizarre. Even more so, it was Pam's betrayal at the most crucial moment that had sealed his fate. He could never have predicted that. He told her he didn't do it, she didn't believe him, and things were over between them in an instant. He could never forgive her: she had called him a liar, and in light of the accusations, something much worse.

  He had to survive the year, if only to clear his name.

  Finally, Dr. Johnson informed him the session was over, and the orderlies were called.

  *

  Denise took the subway to Loyola University, and walked in the cold wind another fifteen minutes until she reached the front door of a small house. She was in a cozy residential neighborhood where the houses were packed so closely together there was barely room to walk between them. It was bright out despite being an overcast morning, and she squinted as she took off her sunglasses to knock on the door.

  The floors creaked behind the entrance as someone approached. She heard the locks turn, the door opening to reveal a short, heavyset woman with brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses.

  "Yes?" the woman said.

  "Is Ms. Sorrensen in? I need to speak with her."

  "One minute," the woman replied, closing the door.

  A few moments later a woman that Denise recognized from the directory photo stuck her head out of the door.

  "Ms. Sorrensen?"

  "Yes, how can I help you?"

  "I'm Denise Walker, I work for the DNA Foundation. I was hoping to spe-"

  "The DNA Foundation?" Pam cut her off.

  "We're a group of lawyers and law students who investigate cases in which DNA evidence might exonerate persons who have been wrongfully convicted."

  "What's this about?"

  Denise could tell from the woman's eyes she knew exactly what this was about. It would have been better to ease into the conversation, but now Denise figured she had no choice but to plow ahead. "We're investigating the conviction of William Thompson." She noticed an immediate reaction from Pam, who looked back as if to check that no one in the house was listening.

  "I'm not interested," Pam replied, and backed into the doorway.

  "I understand, Ms. Sorrensen, but it will only take an hour—and we'll compensate you for your time." To this Denise saw a more positive reaction; desperation was a feeling she knew all too well.

  "I have a new life now. I'd like to keep this private," Pam said in a low voice. "What do you want to know?"

  "We just have some questions regarding the case and trial—my boss would like to meet you ... I think it would be best if you came in to his office." Pam seemed agreeable to this.

  "How about tonight around 9:00 p.m.? I know it's New Years Eve, but it will only be an hour."

  "Fine," Pam replied. "Compensated means cash?"

  "I don't know how much, but yes," Denise said, handing her a slip of paper with Jonathan's office address and her own phone number. Pam took it and closed the door, and Denise began her walk back to the subway. It would be a working night.

  *

  Jonathan flipped on the lights in his office to account for the waning winter daylight as Denise sipped coffee and filled him in about her encounter with Pam Sorrensen.

  "So what's our next move?" Denise asked.

  "Thompson starts treatment tomorrow," Jonathan replied, "so the clock is ticking." He got up, retrieved the carafe of coffee, and topped off their cups. "Providing our interview with Ms. Sorrensen doesn't kill the case, I have a specific job for you."

  "Yes?"

  "I want you to go to the testi
ng lab in southern Illinois to look for the lost DNA samples ... It's a long shot, but it may be our best chance at reopening the case." Jonathan saw a hint of a grin on Denise's face. "What?"

  Her grin turned to a smile, and she laughed. "Nothing ... I'm just looking forward to doing some work that doesn't involve the law library."

  "Yes, I suppose it's about time." Jonathan chuckled and continued, "You'll rent a car for the trip and stay in a hotel for a night or two. Make some reservations right away, and plan to leave tomorrow." He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a leather credit card holder, and handed it to Denise. "You can charge everything on this—it's a Foundation card."

  "Thanks," Denise said and put the card in her backpack, together with her notes and some of the case files.

  "How exactly should I proceed?"

  "I'll call ahead and arrange for an appointment at the lab," Jonathan explained. "You'll go there and request all of the DNA samples—for the girl, Thompson, and the rape-kit samples taken from the girl after the crime ... You'll request permission to search for them—or help them search."

  "If they refuse?"

  "I have connections that can put pressure on them."

  Denise nodded and smiled. "Okay."

  "A few more things," Jonathan continued, his face more serious now. "You'll need to conceal your identity. Make some fake business cards, get a pre-paid mobile phone—and pay for everything with the Foundation card. Also, create a dummy email address." Jonathan's face became even more serious, nearly frowning. "And be careful. If you sense any danger at all, get out of there immediately."

  "What could be so dangerous?" Denise asked.

  Jonathan now feared she might be too inexperienced for a solo assignment. It should be a relatively safe task, but she needed to develop smart habits: he had personally seen very dangerous situations emerge from seemingly benign activities. "We know very little about the Compressed Punishment system ... We might be poking one hell of a hornet's nest here," Jonathan replied. "You have to keep your eyes open at all times."

  He saw her smile and nod. It reminded him of his daughter's typical reaction after he'd lectured her; an expression of naiveté. He knew Denise was not a teenager—neither was his daughter anymore—but it worried him. "One last thing," he said as he pulled something out of a drawer in his desk; an object rolled up in a khaki cloth.

  Jonathan watched Denise's smile fade away as he handed her the gun.

  *

  The orderlies brought Will to a door, upon which there was a sign that read: B-Level: Rm. 2 Dental. He knew it was coming—it was mentioned by the woman in his first meeting—but the words on the door frightened him. There was nothing wrong with his teeth, but he knew it didn't matter—there hadn't been anything wrong with his body when he'd entered the medical room, either.

  The large orderly ushered Will into the room, and closed the door as he left.

  Will stood near the entrance and peered around the room. Shards of light glinted into his eyes from an assortment of dental instruments arrayed on a cart beneath a bright, adjustable light. The dentist chair was more elaborate than any other he had seen.

  Suspended from the ceiling, directly above the chair, was a metal grid, riddled with tubes, nozzles, and gas tanks, and illuminated panels of electronic instrumentation twinkled from a large rack against the far wall.

  Will felt his muscles tense when he saw the subtly-placed, steel eyelets on the chair—a less-than-subtle hint he was not there for a routine checkup. The room smelled of antiseptic, and it was either too warm, or he was already developing a nervous sweat.

  Will detected motion in his peripheral vision, and he turned to see a woman dressed in red scrubs walk out from a back room, stopping a few feet in front of him, near the foot of the chair. She was just a few inches shorter than Will, probably in her mid to late twenties, and very attractive. A mop of blonde hair mushroomed inside her hairnet, making it look like she was wearing a giant beret. She pointed to the chair and said, "Have a seat. The doctor and I will be back in a few minutes. The door is locked, so don't get any funny ideas." She disappeared again into the back room.

  Will climbed into the chair, which was in the upright position and seemed comfortable—if only because he was exhausted.

  Just as he was calming to the point of closing his eyes, Will heard the scuffing of faraway footsteps. His heartbeat picked up a pace as a small man walked in from the back. The dentist was skinny, to the point of being frail, and wore round, wire-framed glasses.

  He put on a pair of latex gloves and faced Will. "Hello Number 524. I'm Dr. Colby—like the cheese. Everyone remembers me if I tell them that." The man chuckled as he pushed a button, and a motor lowered the chair into a nearly horizontal position.

  Will was certain that no one who sat in his chair ever forgot this man—just as he knew he'd never forget Dr. Johnson, with her bright-red lipstick. Colby's smile gave away his age; the wrinkles around his eyes were deep, and his teeth had often bathed in coffee. Will guessed he was in his fifty's, even though he had a good hairline, and not much grey had mixed in with the yellow-blonde.

  "They're referring to me as 523," Will responded, forcing the words out of his tired body.

  "Ahh ... let's see ... " Colby said and looked at the file. He sighed in disgust and dropped the file onto a desk, shooting a look of annoyance at his assistant who had just entered the room. "Please get me the today's file, Ms. Hatley-523."

  The woman nodded, and walked at a hurried clip into the back room.

  Colby turned back to Will, "Wouldn't do anyone any good if I had the wrong records now, would it?" he asked and then laughed. "Please put your arms up on the bars so we can secure you."

  Will flinched.

  Colby tilted his head raising an eyebrow. "There is no point in resisting," he warned. "I'll just call the orderlies to forcibly strap you in."

  The man's smile persisted, and Will noticed a subtle German accent in his voice—shtrop you in. He nodded and tried to relax as the dentist proceeded to secure him.

  "I'm sure you're wondering about what we're going to do here," Colby said as he assembled the restraints; it was a more elaborate restraining arrangement than that in the medical room. "First, we'll have a look at your general dental health. You see, we'll fix as much as we can while you're here—that's one benefit for you: free dental care. Well, not exactly free, per se." His face became more serious and his voice lowered. "The other things we'll do won't be very pleasant. We're going to assess your pain thresholds. If this isn't done carefully, and we acquire an inaccurate calibration curve for the control instruments you'll be hooked up to later, you could go into cardiac arrest, and possibly die during your treatment. And that isn't good for us or for you. So you don't want to fake anything—like passing out, etcetera—because that could be bad for you later. Get it?"

  "Yes," Will said. His nerves tingled, and he felt a rash-like sweat break out on his back and neck. Now he anticipated the worst—but he had no way of knowing what that meant.

  Colby secured the straps tightly, and walked around the chair, testing each one with a strong pull and shake. "Any questions before we begin?"

  Will could hardly speak, but summoned the nerve to ask, "What do you mean by pain thresholds?"

  "Ahh ... " The dentist's eyes lit up. "Interesting topic. You see, there are many different types of pain, as you may have noticed from your medical exam. Different nerve bundles deliver different types of signals—and the teeth and jaw possess so many kinds. They come from the gums, surfaces and roots of the teeth, bones, sinuses, and so on. Each type is processed differently by the brain, and we need to test all of them to get a good estimate of your limits. Dental pain is the king of all pains."

  The dentist's response only made things worse, and the irritating itch on Will's back and neck made him squirm against the restraints.

  Colby pushed Will's head firmly into the headrest of the chair folding up hinged wings on each side, near his ears. Next, t
he dentist wrapped a multi-strapped harness across his forehead and around the back of his head, feeding the open ends of the straps through winches mounted on the wings. He reached beneath the chair and moved a handle up and down, making a clicking sound with each iteration. The "strap-hat" pressed Will's head tighter and tighter against the headrest with each click of the ratchet. The pain built up quickly, and he soon felt his skull start to flex under the pressure.

  "That too tight?" Colby asked.

  "Yessss ... " Will gasped, wincing. A moment later he heard another click, and felt a quantum of pressure release on his skull. Colby grabbed the sides of Will's head and tried to wiggle it back and forth, then released the harness two more clicks. The pressure was instantaneously more bearable.

  "That sucker could crush your head," Colby said, smiling constantly. "That should be better now."

  Ms. Hatley returned with a different file, and Colby pulled some x-ray images out of the folder, placing them on a backlit viewer. He examined the images for a few minutes, then turned towards Will and said, "Looks like we have some work ahead of us—wisdom teeth, root canal—at least one—and some filling replacements."

  Will couldn't move his head one millimeter in any direction, but looked around the best he could with his peripheral vision. Colby opened a cabinet and retrieved a rubber-coated device that looked a like a miniature car jack, or a spreader bar with curved ends.

  "Open wide."

  Will opened his mouth and Colby placed the curved up end of the device behind his top front teeth and the curved down side behind his front lowers. He turned a knob on the device with his unusually small hands, and the two ends of the jack pushed apart, forcing Will's mouth open. Will felt his jaw muscles involuntarily try to close, and he had to fight his gag reflex. Colby then produced a hex key from his shirt pocket and inserted it into a corresponding depression in the knob. He cranked the key and forced Will's jaws open even further—against his tightened muscles. The pain made him groan.