I wiggled the pen in my fingers slightly before stating, “Yes, I’m afraid so, but the condition of the body has made it very difficult for us to identify him.”
Mr. Thomas squeezed his wife’s hand. “Jackson has a small tattoo of a scorpion on his left forearm.”
While that normally would have been helpful information, we’d only recovered the torso of the unidentified teenager at the crime scene. I breathed out a sigh and asked, “What specifically have you heard or read about the incident at Memorial Heights Cemetery?”
Mrs. Thomas cleared her throat. “Just that those three boys were found dead.”
Her husband added, “We heard they were mangled, maybe by a jaguar or something. Why?”
I took a sip of coffee and rubbed the top of one hand with the other. “The media reports don’t give the full account of what we found.”
“How so?” Mr. Thomas asked.
“The reason we’ve had difficulty identifying this body is…” What was the least graphic way to explain the condition of the body? “We don’t have anything to identify him by.”
“What? What do you mean?” Mrs. Thomas asked.
“I’m trying to explain this as delicately as possible. There really isn’t an easy way of saying it.” I let that sink in for a few seconds before dropping the difficult information on them. “The body was decapitated and completely dismembered.” Mrs. Thomas gasped.
“I apologize for the graphic description, but—”
“No, it’s okay. We, um… we understand,” Mr. Thomas offered and then swallowed. He took a deep breath and then asked, “What about DNA? You had cops inside the house, didn’t you?”
“We did, but…” I turned my attention to his wife. “Would you consider your brother to be a germaphobe?”
“Germaphobe? No, he isn’t. Why?”
“The house was spotless. Oddly enough, all the trashcans were empty. No toothbrushes, hair brushes, nail clippers or anything that would have DNA.”
“Robert and Dana like to keep a clean house,” Mrs. Thomas said with bewilderment. “I haven’t the slightest idea why they’d remove them, unless they were going on vacation. But I would have known that.”
“I found it very odd myself,” I said while reaching inside my jacket pocket. I placed a sealed package of a DNA buccal swab on the table. “There is another way that you can help us.”
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas stared at the swab container and questioned me with their puzzled expressions.
“It’s for DNA testing,” I explained. “I’m sure you’ve seen these used on those TV crime shows.”
Mr. Thomas offered, “Oh, yes. We watch CSI: Miami.”
“Me too. Good show, as far as the drama goes.” I held the container and explained, “If we get a sample of your DNA, we can compare your chromosomes with that of the victim. People typically use this type of testing for genealogical purposes. It’s sort of like a paternity test.” I could see the apprehensiveness in Mrs. Thomas’s eyes. “It’s the only shot we have of helping identify the body.”
“So, if the test shows that Sandra is related to the, um, body,” Mr. Thomas said, “how do we find out if it’s Jackson?”
“Process of elimination. We know it isn’t Austin because of the size of the torso.”
Preferring to avoid vagueness, and to tell things as they were, I believed it was best for people to see the unfiltered facts and process them upfront. As difficult as I could imagine it was for Sandra Thomas, she agreed to give a sample of her DNA.
DNA testing usually takes between five to ten days, but if I requested a rush order, the lab could provide results as soon as seventy-two hours. That’s what I’d planned to do. I glanced at my watch. I needed to get the DNA sample to the lab right away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Orphan
I’ve never been that great with kids. I didn’t even like them all that much, which was one of the reasons I’d been divorced three times. Every time my wife mentioned wanting kids, I would come up with some excuse for why we should wait. College, work, finances – you name it. Hell, I’d told my last wife flat out I didn’t want the responsibility or the headaches that came with kids. Our life was perfect just the way it was. Needless to say, that conversation didn’t turn out too well, and instead of a wife, I’m married to my work.
My friend Gene Bukowski had once given me unsolicited counseling about it. He’d suggested that, had I revealed the underlying reason why I didn’t want kids, maybe I could have saved myself the pain and humility of a divorce. I wasn’t sure if I believed that, but Gene believed that it had something to do with my dad dying in the line of duty when I was ten years old. My mom had killed herself six months later. The truth is Gene was right. I didn’t want to repeat history. I didn’t want to have kids and then one day lose my life and put them through what I’d gone through. No kid should have to go through that, and I refused to take that risk.
As I approached Cody’s room on the sixth floor of Brackenridge Hospital, I considered Gene’s advice. If I wanted the kid to open up, then I needed to exercise some patience and just talk him. About what, though? What was I going to talk to an eleven-year-old about?
I took a deep breath and tapped on the door. I didn’t wait for a response before cracking the door open and poking my head inside. Cody was lying on his side with his back to me. I kept my footsteps as silent as possible while I checked to see if he was awake. Based on the rapid eye movement underneath his eyelids, he was sound asleep and dreaming.
I stood over the boy and watched him sleep for a moment. He seemed at peace, but I knew better. I actually felt sorry for him. I could somewhat relate to him, because I’d also lost my parents at such a young age. I sighed at the memory and let the boy sleep. I could always go back later.
Cody mumbled something as I turned the handle to leave. He moaned, rolled over on his back, and mumbled again. What was he saying? I returned to his bedside to find out.
“Forneus, mich schützen.” He said in his sleep, and repeated, “Forneus, mich schützen… Schützen Sie mich vor dem Bösen, mein Herr!” I couldn’t understand him, but it sounded German. While he tossed and turned in his bed, he changed his dialect to another language. “Non volevo questo...Non è stata colpa mia…Non è stata colpa mia…Forneus, ti prego, aiutami.”
The television flickered on, its cooling fans spinning to life. On screen, Scooby-Doo and Shaggy sneaked through a haunted house. Cody moaned again, and then the television shut off. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up like porcupine needles.
Cody lay still, relaxed. His breathing steadied. As I watched him, his eyes opened and shifted to mine. He didn’t say anything. He just stared.
I swallowed and managed to say, “Hey, Cody.” My voice sounded almost feminine. It’s all I could think of saying after the weird turn of events. “Um… I just came by to check on you. You know… to, uh… see how you were doing.”
“I’m thirsty,” Cody said, his voice raspy.
“Okay. Uh… water? Soda?”
Cody reached for the remote control and switched the TV back on. I formed a subtle smile at the thought of the television powering on and off by itself. The kid must have hit the power button while he’d been tossing and turning in bed.
“I’m getting a Coke. What do you like?”
Cody didn’t answer. Great, the silent treatment again. I groaned softly and then headed towards the door. As I opened it, Cody said something, but I didn’t understand him.
“What was that?”
“Root beer,” he stated, with his eyes focused on the television.
“All right, root beer it is.”
The public vending machines were downstairs next to the cafeteria, six floors down, but Pamela Houston (my new favorite nurse) pointed me to the break room just down the hall.
“Thanks, Pam.”
“My pleasure, honey.”
There were a couple of nurses in the break room eating their lunches. One of them, a
young brunette woman, gave me a flirting wave. I smiled back at her and barely missed plowing straight into the vending machine by a couple of inches. My body then twitched at the sensation of my phone vibrating in my pocket.
“Sanders,” I answered while digging into my pocket for some coins.
“Aaron, this is Donald.”
“Oh, hey, Don. Whatcha got for me?” I fed the soda machine three quarters.
“I compared the wounds on Deputy Chandler with the wounds on Carol and Tony Scoletti and the three boys.”
I pressed the Coke button. “And?”
“No match. Our jaguar is officially exonerated of those crimes.”
The soda machine released my beverage down the chute, and as I grabbed my drink, I asked, “You sound disappointed. I hate to tell you I told you so, but—”
“Then don’t.”
“All right. I’m just saying…” I spoke softly while feeding the machine two more quarters and three dimes. “Jaguars are extremely rare here, and you know it was just a coincidence that—”
“I never said that a large predator is still not a possibility. I simply stated that this jaguar didn’t do it.”
I lowered my brow, with my finger hovering over the Root Beer button. “You’re not suggesting…” I glanced over my shoulder at the eavesdropping audience and completed my transaction. “Hey, Don, let me call you back. I’m at the hospital, trying to bond with our little orphan Cody.”
“Bond? Are you planning on hanging out with the kid?”
“God, no, I just need him to start opening up.” I set the drinks on a nearby counter. “Going the casual route seems to be working. Well, kind of.”
“All right, Aaron. I’ll talk to you later. But I need to tell you one thing before we go.”
“I’m listening,” I said while slipping my fingers into the soda machine’s change slot to retrieve a solitary nickel.
“I’m confident that the wounds are claw marks. I believe an animal killed the Scolettis and all three of those kids… not a madman with a blade.”
I remained silent for a moment. I stepped out of the break room and whispered, “So, we have a jaguar epidemic or something? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“I’m just sharing what the evidence is telling me. And judging by the comparisons, I’d say we’re dealing with something much bigger than a jaguar.”
“That jaguar had to have been over three hundred pounds.”
“Three-twelve to be exact. If these are in fact claw marks, the sizes of these wounds would suggest a lion, tiger, or maybe even a bear.”
“Oh my!” I couldn’t resist. “Around here? Come on, Don. Seriously?”
“You didn’t expect to find a three-hundred-pound jaguar on the outskirts of Austin, did you? I’m giving you my professional opinion based on my observations. I’m telling you, Aaron, these people were not murdered. An animal attacked them. A big one.”
Regardless of the incident with the jaguar, I still couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense. “Okay, supposing you’re right. This thing shows up at a cemetery, chews up a bunch of kids, and then ends up inside a residence to kill a couple of adults? That’s a stretch, Don.”
“Maybe it followed Cody home. Animals have a heightened sense of smell. Wasn’t the front bay window broken inward?”
I tilted my head upward, took a deep breath, and headed back inside the break room for the sodas. “I respect your opinion, and maybe you’re right, but until I know for sure, I’m going with my gut. And it’s telling me something different.”
“Aaron.”
“I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, Don.” I ended the call and went back to Cody’s room with the cold, sweating soda cans. I needed some ibuprofen, and I almost asked one of the nurses to hook me up. This case was giving me a terrible headache.
†
I opened the can of Root Beer and offered it to Cody, but he just glanced at me and the soda can without taking it.
“Thought you were thirsty?” I set the soda down on a tray next to the boy’s bed and pulled up a chair. “You mind if I watch cartoons with you?”
Cody shrugged. That was better than no response at all.
“Guess I just wasted seventy-five cents on a drink you didn’t want after all,” I said, pulling the tab off my Coke.
Cody widened his eyes and sighed before reaching for the Root Beer and taking a sip. He held the soda while gazing at the television. I didn’t know what else to say. I knew what I wanted to say. I wanted to ask Cody about the night at the cemetery, with his friends. I wanted him to tell me what he saw; but I didn’t ask. Instead, I followed Glen’s advice.
We watched a rerun of The Flintstones on Boomerang, but Cody seemed lost in thought. What was going through his mind? And where was his family? I’d expected a grandparent, an aunt, or somebody to be at his side. Instead, he had a middle-aged cop, with no family of his own, hanging out with him in the hospital. Why was that?
Cody drank more of his root beer, and then set his drink on the tray next to his bed. A life insurance commercial played on the television. It showed a family enjoying themselves on the beach. The commentator stated that the government only paid two hundred fifty-five dollars in death benefits, and that the average funeral cost was over eight thousand dollars. The eloquent spokesperson talked about how important it was to have life insurance, so that our loved ones wouldn’t have to worry about bills and the rising costs of funerals. I glanced at the boy to see if he was okay.
Cody’s face was flushed, his eyes moist with tears. His mouth and chin quivered as he viewed the commercial. That was the first sign of real emotion I’d seen from him. I felt sorry for him, but I was also relieved the shock was finally wearing off.
I knew what it was like to lose a parent at such a young age, but Cody had endured a far more traumatic experience than I had. At least, I’d had friends and family to comfort me. Cody apparently didn’t have anybody. He couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. I didn’t know what to say or do. I just sat there, silent. Helpless. I’d had a perfect success rate in solving every murder and robbery case put in my charge, and I’d sent some of the most violent thugs in the country to prison. And yet, something as simple as comforting a crying child seemed impossible to me.
“Want me to call the nurse for you?” It was all I could think of at the moment, and I felt like an idiot for it. What was the nurse going to do? Give him a pill? Well, I figured she’d at least be able to comfort him better than I had.
Cody shook his head.
I set my drink next to the can of root beer. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can bring my mom back,” he said. But his bloodshot, tear-stricken blue eyes said a lot more than his voice ever could.
I thought about the time my mother gave me the devastating news that my dad wasn’t coming home anymore. The way Cody’s eyes bore into mine – those desperate, pain-filled eyes – reminded me of how much I missed my parents. My dad had been my hero, the inspiration that had led me to a career in law enforcement.
I leaned my shoulder against the bed, sighed, and tried to show Cody genuine reassuring compassion. I hoped he trusted that I wasn’t just being a cop, waiting to dig information out of him. Then, at that moment, I knew what I needed say.
“My dad died when I was about the same age as you are. I loved him so much. He was like a superhero to me.” I gathered my thoughts as I remembered that day. “Dad was going to take me to my first NFL game. Man, I was so excited! We were going to see the Dallas Cowboys play against the Washington Redskins.”
Cody showed interest in his focused eyes, and while his face still showed grief, he no longer cried.
“My dad was a Texas DPS state trooper. Been a cop for about five years.” I could feel the tears forming in my own eyes as I shared my story. “He was killed during a traffic stop on I-35.” My voice was raspy, so I reached for my soda.
“Was… was he shot?” Cody asked, in almost a
whisper.
I pursed my lips and nodded. “Dad was working the graveyard shift when he pulled the guy over for speeding. From what I heard, the guy was only going about seven or eight miles over the speed limit, so knowing Dad, he probably would have just given him a warning. He didn’t like giving people speeding tickets. He preferred to give a little pep talk and then send them on their way, unless of course they were going way too fast, or acted like complete asses.”
I had Cody’s complete attention. It felt good knowing that we were breaking some ground. I guessed Gene was right. Just talk to the kid.
“So, anyway, Dad walked up to the driver’s side door and before he had a chance to say anything, the driver shot my dad in the chest. Dad got a couple of shots off before the guy sped off. He didn’t hit him, though. A truck driver stopped to help my dad, but he ended up bleeding to death before the paramedics arrived. I didn’t find out until after school the next day.”
“What happened to the bad guy?” Cody asked.
“They never caught him. Dad’s dash cam had a clear shot of the plates on the car, too, but he never ran them. Like I said, he was probably just going to give the guy a warning. Turns out the car was reported stolen later that night.”
Cody lowered his head and said, “That really sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.” There was a moment of silence before I said, “You know, I didn’t like talking to anybody about it back then. It hurt too much thinking about what happened to my dad. It still hurts today even.” I glanced at the boy who fidgeted with his fingers. “I still have those football tickets, too. Every time I watch a Cowboys game, I think of my dad. He’s the reason I became a cop. I made a promise to myself that I would do everything I could to catch scumbags like the guy who killed my dad, and make sure they spend the rest of their lives behind bars.” I leaned forward a little and asked, “Take a guess how many cases I’ve been unable to solve.” Cody shrugged.
I formed a circle with my thumb and index finger. “Zero. Zilch. Nada. Every case that has come across my desk has either ended up with the bad guy dead or rotting in a prison cell. I never quit until I catch the bad guy.”
Devil's Nightmare (Devil's Nightmare, Book 1) Page 6
