While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Ryan had been laboring away on his research paper for almost twenty-five minutes now, with a fervor Alma had never before seen in him, almost as if he couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with his thoughts.

  “You must really be onto something, Ryan,” she said with a grin. “I’ve never seen you type so fast.”

  “I have a great idea!” he replied, enthusiasm evident.

  “Good, good! That’s wonderful! I can’t wait to read it.”

  “Neither can I,” said Ryan. “I really want you to see it.”

  She was pleased. “Keep up the good work, kiddo. You’re doing great!”

  Bashful smile again.

  Alma reached down into her drawer for a pen, fishing around for a moment in vain. “Shoot,” she said, looking up at Ryan. “I have to go to the supply room. Will you be okay while I’m gone for a few minutes?”

  Ryan kept typing and did not look up. “Sure. I’m fine.”

  When Alma’s office door clicked shut, Ryan froze instantly, almost as if on cue. He pushed his chair back and locked his fingers behind his head, taking a good long look at his work, admiring his accomplishment.

  He smiled, but this was different—nothing bashful or endearing about it.

  On the screen, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, page after page, the same passage, repeated over and over:

  He hunts his prey, a troubled soul.

  Murderous thoughts as dark as coal.

  The need to kill, it rules his mind.

  With bloodstained hands, a heart maligned.

  Ryan pulled the hunting knife from the sheath inside his boot. He gazed with admiration at the seven-inch blade with its razor-sharp serrated edges glistening and its tip pointed. He felt a rush of adrenaline shoot through him. It made his spine tingle, was invigorating. A wicked smile widened across his face.

  It would feel so good driving his knife through that bitch’s heart.

  The door opened and Alma entered the room. She noticed he was no longer typing.

  Ryan dropped the knife down to his side and away from her line of sight.

  She turned her back to him and closed the door. “Done so fast? Ready to give it to me?”

  Chapter Seven

  Eisenhower Middle School

  Faith, New Mexico

  “Get ready. It’s ugly in there. Real ugly,” Deputy Shawn Callahan said to Cameron. Authorities had sent the students home early and put the school on lock-down. Alma Gutierrez’s office was now a crime scene and a gruesome one at that.

  The door was open just a tiny crack. Cameron nodded to the deputy standing guard outside. He stopped for a few seconds, trying to gather his thoughts, then pushed it open with a gloved hand.

  What he saw first was a woman’s shoe, lying on its side, in a corner, and covered in blood; it looked as if it had been thrown across the room. But what he saw next was even worse.

  It was Alma—or what the killer had left of her. Cameron moved very slowly, very cautiously toward the body; as he did, his jaw tightened and his temples hollowed. The similarities to the Witherspoon murder were impossible to ignore.

  Alma Gutierrez was suspended upside-down, nude, with her legs spread apart and a broomstick lodged deep into the tendons just above her ankles. A bloody strand of rope wound around her feet, securing it all in place.

  Cameron moved around the corpse, studying it closely. Images of Bradley Witherspoon flashed through his mind. Another murder victim left hanging upside down, he thought: a pattern.

  “It’s called field dressing,” said Callahan, a note of disgust in his voice. “What hunters do to age venison before eating it. Hung her by her feet like some damned animal. Used the broomstick as a gambrel … cleaned her out, too.”

  “Did what?” Cameron asked, turning quickly toward Callahan.

  “Sliced her right down the middle from breastbone to pelvis,” he said, pointing at the long incision on Alma’s naked body, “like a cool melon on a hot summer day.”

  Cameron looked at Callahan, almost as if making sure he’d heard him correctly, then stepped forward to examine the gaping hole in Alma’s body. He turned back toward Callahan again, shaking his head slowly.

  Callahan continued. “Took out all her organs. She’s hollowed out … empty as air.”

  Cameron glanced around the room. “So where are they?”

  Callahan walked behind Alma’s desk, pulled open the top drawer. The killer had organized Alma’s internal organs, neatly, from small to large.

  “The heart, spleen, and kidneys are in this one.” Callahan closed the drawer and opened the next two, one at a time. “The stomach, intestines, lungs, and the rest, are all in here. I’ll give ’em one thing: this killer knew what he was doing. The organs seem to have been removed with surgical precision.”

  It was true. Alma’s body had been prepared in a meticulous, almost clinical manner. The procedure seemed to follow the most stringent of guidelines employed for field dressing an animal carcass. The killer had even severed the jugular to drain the blood. Alma’s corpse was nothing more than a hollowed-out shell, stripped of its organs, stripped of its dignity.

  Cameron placed his hands on his hips and looked down at the floor, studying it. There were blood smears everywhere, but not a footprint to be found: the suspect had covered his tracks, albeit, sloppily.

  But the message seemed clear: Alma was his prey, stalked, killed, and then processed for transport and eventual consumption; only the perp had done neither, instead, leaving her violated body behind and on display so everyone could witness his vulgar accomplishment first-hand.

  Again. Just like Witherspoon, Cameron thought, then felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He drew air into his lungs, and exhaled. It felt like the first time he’d breathed since arriving there. “What about a suspect?”

  “A couple of ideas, nothing concrete. The last person to see her was her two o’clock appointment.” He tilted his pad up and glanced at it. “Ryan Churchill. Next appointment was at three-thirty. Luckily, a teacher came in and found her before the kid did.” He hesitated. “It was Laura Hightower. She stopped by to pick up some student assessment reports. Not too lucky for her, though. Pretty shook up. They had to take her to the emergency room. Damned near had a nervous breakdown.”

  “Understandable,” Cameron said. “Anyone talk to the kid?”

  “Nope. Nobody can find him. We’re looking.”

  “Let’s make that our number one priority, then … and check his locker for clues as well.”

  “For sure, boss.”

  Cameron couldn’t help but feel like he was singing the same old song, only in a different key. He sat on the edge of a student desk just across from Alma’s, thinking. As he did, the movement caused the computer monitor to light up, going from power-save mode to illuminated. The flash caught his attention, and he glanced down at it for a moment, then away, then back down at it again. He jerked, almost falling off the desk.

  “Shawn?” Cameron said, now crouching down, face level with the screen.

  Callahan had been taking notes. He stopped and looked up. “Yeah, boss?”

  “You won’t believe what I’m seeing here.”

  The deputy walked around and stood behind Cameron, looking at the monitor.

  “Make sure this computer’s been dusted for prints,” Cameron said, “I think we have a confession.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sheriff’s Station

  Faith, New Mexico

  With the poem as evidence, Ryan Churchill was now the number-one suspect in Alma Gutierrez’s murder.

  Now all they had to do was find him.

  But that was going to be a challenge. Nobody had seen or heard from him since Alma was killed. Like a shadow before the setting sun, the boy seemed to have faded into the scenery, no sign of him anywhere.

  Cameron walked into Frank’s office with an old, tattered book in his hand, which he dropped onto the desk as he passed by, then settled into the
chair opposite him, arms folded, waiting for his boss’s response.

  Frank picked it up, opened it to the bookmark, then gave it a fleeting once-over. He looked up at Cameron. “The Hunted Soul?”

  “It’s a poem by Virgil Morrison.”

  “Never figured you for a poetry buff.”

  “I’m not. Look closer.”

  Frank glanced over the words, then quickly up at Cameron. “It’s what Ryan had on the computer.”

  Cameron nodded with something half-resembling a smile. “Word for word.”

  Frank looked down at the book again. “It’s about somebody huntin’ a deer.”

  “And Alma was field-dressed,” Cameron said, “just like a deer.”

  Frank rubbed his cheek with his hand as if someone had just slapped it. “What’s going on around here?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Cameron said. “The kid ‘fessed up.”

  “Not exactly a confession,” Frank corrected, “but a start.”

  “Frank, it went on for pages—over and over—the same damned passage. You don’t think it’s a confession?”

  “No. ‘I killed Alma Gutierrez’… that would be a confession. This is just evidence.” He slammed the book shut. “By itself, it wouldn’t hold up in a courtroom.”

  “Confession or not,” Cameron said, “nobody’s getting any sleep at night knowing Ryan’s on the loose.”

  “Can’t say I blame ‘em.”

  “Similarities and differences,” Cameron suddenly said, thinking aloud.

  “Huh?”

  “The two murders: different weapons, different methods, but they still look a lot alike. Both bodies raised in the air, both hung upside down, both mutilated.”

  “But that’s where the similarities end,” Frank pointed out.

  “True, but it’s enough to make you wonder.”

  “Wonder what? We’re not going back to a serial killer theory again, are we? ‘Cause if that’s the case, then we’ve got about the youngest one I’ve ever heard of.”

  Cameron shuddered. “I’d hate to think so, but it sure would explain things.”

  “Look, I can see the kid overpowering the teacher—she was tiny—but a deputy? One that’s six-foot-two?”

  Cameron stood up and began pacing. He stared down at the floor, nervously running his fingers through his hair as he spoke. “I’ve been thinking about that. Theoretically, he could have pulled it off, if he did it right.”

  “And how would that work?”

  Cameron stopped and looked directly at Frank. “Bradley went for gas before he was killed. Sam Parkins over at the gas station confirmed it.”

  “Okay,” said Frank, gesturing for Cameron to continue.

  “The evidence shows Bradley was probably attacked from behind with the hooks, right?” He didn’t wait for Frank to respond. “So say the Churchill kid sneaks into the car at the gas station and hides in the back seat while Bradley goes to take a leak, or leaves the car for … whatever.”

  “Go on …”

  “It’s no secret the road next to Saddleback is where the deputies go to take their naps. Heck, they’ve been doing that for years. And we know Witherspoon was pulling a double. He probably went there after the gas station to catch a few winks.”

  “So the kid attacks him while he’s sleeping,” Frank said, slowly nodding.

  “Yep. Never got to put up a fight. Never even had the chance.”

  “But here’s where you lose me. How’d the perp manage to nail him from the back of a squad car? How’d he get past the barrier cage between them?”

  “Didn’t have one,” Cameron replied. “His vehicle broke down while he was working the earlier shift. He took the new car. The cage hadn’t been installed yet—they were still waiting on parts.”

  “Not the safest move … or the smartest,” Frank said.

  Cameron shrugged. “Had no choice. There were no other vehicles around.”

  Frank reflected for a moment. “Think someone knew that? Maybe even planned it?”

  Cameron shook his head. “Doubtful. Witherspoon’s car had a rusted cylinder. Normal wear and tear. Not much time or opportunity to plan a killing.”

  Frank groaned. “Just his luck. But again, if it was Churchill, how the hell does a boy his size manage to move a body the size of Witherspoon’s around?”

  “That’s a little tricky, but he could’ve dragged him. Wouldn’t be easy or quick for him, but it could be done.”

  “This kid have any history of mental problems?”

  “Already checked. Nothing.”

  Frank put his thumb and index finger on each corner of his mouth, tapping them alternately as he processed a thought. “You know, there’s still one other possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You think maybe Witherspoon was banging somebody’s wife?”

  Cameron looked up at him quickly. “Bradley?”

  Frank tilted his head and threw up his hands. “I’m not saying … I’m just saying. A good lookin’ guy like that? A hook through the nuts sends a pretty clear message. Can’t ignore it.”

  “If it’d been anyone else, I’d have to agree with you … but Bradley? If he’d been having an affair, I’d’ve heard about it. In fact, in a town this size, somebody else would have, too. Besides, that just wasn’t him. You knew him. I knew him too. His family was his world.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, scratching his head, “suppose you got a point there—still, stranger things could happen.”

  “Stranger things have already happened, but not that. I’m just not seeing it.”

  “What about with Alma—what’s going on with her? Any word from the M.E.?”

  “Just got off the phone with him. Not much work left to do—the killer did most of it for him. Since the organs were already removed, only thing he had to do was inspect and weigh them.”

  “Thoughtful,” Frank said with a sarcastic smile. “What else?”

  “Suspect drove the knife directly into her heart.”

  “We can be thankful for one thing, then.”

  “What’s that?” Cameron asked.

  “At least she wasn’t alive while he performed his spur-of-the-moment autopsy.”

  Cameron looked down at his feet, then up at Frank. “Yeah, about that …”

  “What?”

  He stared at him for a moment. “According to the M.E., the heart was still pumping when the organs starting coming out.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sheriff’s Station

  Faith, New Mexico

  Cameron sat in his office trying to think his way through all the recent events.

  On the floor beside his desk was Bentley, his chocolate lab, who couldn’t have looked more relaxed. The canine let out a lion-sized yawn, smacked his dangling chops, and then dropped his head to the floor, falling asleep instantly.

  “Yeah, easy for you to say,” Cameron remarked.

  Bentley’s one ear perked, then an eye opened. He let out an exhaustive harrumph and again drifted peaceably, back toward sleep.

  Cameron couldn’t help but envy the dog; he had not a care in the world, his only concerns, when to wake up and what was for supper. Not a bad life, he thought, not bad at all.

  In his own life, things were far from easy. For a town like Faith, where traffic tickets and an occasional domestic dispute were about as bad as law enforcement got, it was a rude awakening to be thrown into not just one but two homicides. Even worse was that they’d occurred only a few days apart.

  Still hounding Cameron, were the similarities between the two cases—there were just too many of them. Like Bradley Witherspoon, Alma Gutierrez had suffered a merciless round of torture before succumbing to death, and, like Witherspoon, was hanged upside-down and put on display in a most disturbing way.

  For now, the main focus of his investigation centered on two victims but only one possible suspect: Ryan Churchill. From all accounts, he was a quiet, well-mannered kid. In fact, no matte
r whom Cameron spoke with, it always seemed to be the same old story, that Ryan adored Alma. But if that were the case, why would he not only turn against her, but do so with such vengeance? It just didn’t add up.

  Of course, Ryan killing Witherspoon made even less sense. Other than probably seeing each other around town, the two hadn’t really known each other. Why would the boy want to go after him? Although plausible, there wasn’t nearly enough evidence to support the theory.

  Cameron did learn that Ryan’s family background hadn’t been a stellar one. His father disappeared soon after he was born, and his mother dropped out of the picture several years later. After that, Ryan’s grandmother had raised him.

  Broken homes often create broken children, Cameron thought. Speaking with the grandmother might be the first step in finding out where Ryan went wrong, and why.

  ***

  4087 Falcon Street

  Faith, New Mexico

  Bobbi Kimmons rented a one-bedroom apartment near the center of town. The place was actually nothing more than a garage converted to a granny flat off the main house. Whoever changed it into living quarters hadn’t done much to hide that. The structure itself was flat and boxy with a nondescript window hanging off to one side. Nothing fancy, for sure, not even a driveway to park a car. In fact, it looked as though she kept hers in an alley butting up against the neighboring hardware store.

  Much like the apartment, Bobbi’s ‘86 Camaro also seemed less-than-adequate. On one side, the rear bumper hung loosely, and on the other, a tattered strand of rope held it in place. The oxidation process had taken its toll on the body, robbing it not only of its original color, but of its smooth finish, giving the texture and appearance of sandpaper.