While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  All autopsies in the State of New Mexico came to the Office of the Medical Investigator, located at the University of New Mexico School of Medicine in Albuquerque. For Cameron, that meant a three-hour-plus trip. Although he didn’t normally attend autopsies, he knew he couldn’t afford to miss this one. Too much was riding on it.

  Now he stood at the head of the table observing, along with Assistant Chief Medical Investigator Russell Gavin standing at the broadside, and his assistant, Shelia Murphy, to his left. A microphone dangled loosely overhead to record the doctor’s comments while he performed the autopsy.

  Cameron shifted his attention away from Ben’s body and around the room, but the picture there wasn’t much better; in fact, in some ways, it seemed worse—three other bodies lay off to his right, two more on the left, each in various stages of examination … and decomposition.

  Without thinking, Cameron breathed in deeply, then realized it was not the best idea, as a strong odor of ammonia, blood, and decaying flesh filled his lungs. He forced the air out quickly, turning his attention back to Ben, back to the body of an eleven-year-old killer.

  Investigators had removed his clothing at the scene, bagged and tagged as evidence. All lint, fibers, or other substances that had managed to cling to them would be collected and catalogued for the investigation.

  Cameron was intent on staying professional, on not letting memories and feelings from his past cloud his thinking about this case. It wasn’t that he didn’t think about what had happened to his son—that was with him all the time. It was that he couldn’t allow it to intrude.

  “Ready, doctor?” Sheila asked.

  Gavin nodded. He cut the seal on the bag, drew the zipper down toward the bottom, and reached into the opening with both hands. Working from top to bottom, he pulled the two sides apart.

  If Cameron thought seeing Ben’s body in the closet had been the worst of it, he was in for a rude surprise; this topped it. Before, in the dimly lit closet, the boy had been crouched down, his body oddly twisted, and a good part of it barely visible. Now, laid out flat under the bright fluorescent light, there was nothing left for the imagination—it was all right there in front of him. Ben’s body was coated in a layer of dried blood, everywhere, and in some spots, caked thickly.

  Standing only inches away, Cameron could see with alarming clarity the kind of damage a .30/30 round can do when it intersects with flesh and bone. The gun blast had blown the back of Ben’s head apart, shattering the skull like an eggshell. This caused the facial features to collapse, leaving them spongy and unrecognizable. Scattered across his face were cuts and bruises, the heaviest of which on the right forehead, nose, and left cheek. Cameron studied the cracked stretch marks on the boy’s lips. He knew expanding gases from the gun barrel had caused them when it went off inside his mouth.

  The odor took things a step further—it reminded Cameron of rotting meat. Not only could he smell it in the air; he could taste it on his tongue. Cameron swallowed hard, trying to fight back his nausea, felt a tingling sensation in the pit of stomach as it began to churn.

  Gavin spoke suddenly, his voice much louder than seemed necessary considering the intimate surroundings. “The body is that of a white male, appearing consistent with the stated age of eleven years. Four-foot-one, eighty-five pounds, with a birthmark observed in the small of the back, approximately a half-inch in diameter. No other identifying marks or features.”

  Using his fingers, the doctor reached into Ben’s mouth and pulled it open easily, helped by the gun’s powerful discharge—it had broken the lower jaw, leaving it hanging loose. Then he lowered his head and looked inside. “There’s extensive destruction to the oral cavity, with the hard palate nearly gone. Several attached molars show a grayish-black soot deposition, and the tongue is covered with multiple, purple contusions ranging from one-eighth to one-half an inch at its lateral aspects.”

  The doctor pulled his hand away, and the mouth remained open. He closed it and examined the rest of Ben’s body, lifting the arms and checking a few other less exposed areas. “There do not appear to be any other signs of injury or damage to the body’s exterior.”

  He stepped back an inch or two and frowned, staring at Ben’s body for a moment. Then Sheila moved in and placed a body block under Ben’s spine, causing the arms, head, and neck to fall back and the chest to protrude forward, making it easier for the doctor to cut his incisions.

  Using a scalpel, Gavin made a deep, v-shaped cut going from shoulder to shoulder, then another that cut vertically, looping around the navel and continuing on toward the pubic bone. He pulled the two chest flaps open, immediately launching an even more potent odor into the air, a combination of human feces, trapped gas … and more blood.

  Oblivious to Cameron’s discomfort, the doctor went to work immediately, and began by inserting a syringe into the ascending aorta to extract blood samples. He would do the same with the bladder, in much the same manner, only this time removing urine samples. Both would be sent off to the lab for analysis to see if Ben had any drugs in his system, or an illness relevant to the case.

  After that, one by one, he began removing and inspecting organs. Later, in the interest of saving time, he would weigh them all at once.

  “The heart appears to be normal and free of abnormalities,” Gavin said, “as do the lungs, intestines, liver, and spleen.”

  He removed the stomach, which he placed on an adjacent table. After dumping its gray, soupy contents into a plastic measuring cup, the doctor began the dissection process. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “See that?” he said to his assistant, still looking down, pointing.

  Sheila leaned over with interest. “Yep … sure do.”

  Gavin directed his voice toward the microphone. “The gastric mucosa reveals extensive ulcerations along the greater curvature of the stomach.”

  Cameron leaned in, trying to figure out what was happening.

  Gavin, catching this, looked over at him to explain. “Although possible, the condition isn’t common in a child his age. We’re going to have to do some further microscopic evaluation here.”

  Cameron responded with a nod.

  The doctor turned back toward the body and began taking small tissues samples from the stomach, placing them into small, plastic cassettes.

  After examining the remaining trunk organs, he nodded to Sheila, who moved the body block up a few inches toward the back of the neck.

  There was no need to cut the skull open—the rifle round had done that work for him, shattering the back of Ben’s head, leaving the insides in plain view. After making a few small incisions, the doctor grabbed onto the scalp, then peeled the face flap down and away from the skull, much like a latex mask. He examined the underlying, bony surface, then moved toward the back of the head.

  The force from the gun blast had obliterated most of the brain, transforming it instantly into pulp and bone fragments. Using a gloved hand, the doctor reached in and scraped out the soggy, mashed contents. After that, he scooped them into a weighing pan where he examined them.

  Gavin continued calmly. “The cerebellum and brainstem are largely intact, as are portions of the posterior occipital lobes. The calvarium is extensively fractured. The remaining brain fragments are a pulverized, gelatinous, and partly clotted subdural mass—about ten milliliters’ worth.”

  He stepped back. “Cause of death: Intraoral gunshot wound to the head. Manner of death: Suicide.”

  He walked to the head of the table where Cameron stood, removing the latex gloves from his fingers as he spoke. “The toxicology tests normally take several weeks.”

  Cameron nodded, still staring at the body. “Those stomach ulcers you mentioned … you said they’re not normal.”

  “Ulcers in children, while not entirely common, do occur, but the vast majority of patients are adults.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, the most common cause of ulcers in adults is H. pylori, or Helicobacter Pylori, a bacter
ium often associated with peptic ulcers. Of course, we also see them in people who abuse alcohol or crystal meth.”

  “But in kids?”

  “In kids it’s different. Theirs tend to be more of a gastric nature, often brought on by certain medications. Do you know if the boy had been taking any, or if he’d been previously diagnosed as having stomach ulcers?”

  Cameron shook his head.

  The doctor shrugged. “No worries. The tox screen will tell us if he’d been taking anything, and I’ll have a look at his medical records to see if he had a history of stomach ulcers as well. Easy enough to find out.”

  “What kinds of medications would cause them?”

  “Most common are the anti-inflammatory drugs—over-the-counter meds— things like ibuprofen or aspirin and a few others.”

  “So if Ben was taking aspirin or some other pain reliever, they could have given him the ulcers?”

  “Not necessarily,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Not if he was just taking them on isolated occasions. Now, if he’d been popping them like Tic-Tacs—well, then we’d have cause to be suspicious, but ulcers as widespread as what he had? A few days’ worth of use isn’t going to do it. Those look pretty severe. It takes a lot of something, over a long time to cause that.”

  “But what that something is, we don’t know yet, right?” Cameron asked.

  “Not until we get the toxicology results,” Gavin repeated patiently.

  “Anything else that could’ve caused them?”

  “Hypothermia can produce a condition that resembles ulcers,” Gavin said, rubbing his chin while thinking aloud, “but not much chance of that happening this time of year, and certainly not in this situation. Besides, those kinds of hemorrhages look smaller, and Ben’s are much larger.”

  Cameron looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “You know, come to think of it, I don’t remember Ben having any sort of medical condition. I was his Little League coach—all team members had to get physicals in order to play. I would have been told if he did.”

  “I’ll double-check his medical records, just on the slight chance it got past you, and the lab will take a closer look at those ulcers under a microscope, as well. We should be able to come up with some answers.”

  Answers, Cameron thought as he left the building and headed toward his car—the autopsy hadn’t provided any. It had only raised more questions.

  He was getting used to that.

  Dead men tell no tales. Cameron shook his head. But what about boys? Tell me, Ben—tell me what really happened that night…

  And while you’re at it, tell me… what’s happening to this town?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sheriff’s Station

  Faith, New Mexico

  When it came right down to it, Faith’s top cop, Frank Donato, was a no-nonsense, no-frills sort of guy. That notion seemed obvious, judging by his office decor–or lack thereof. Defying any sense of comfort or style, it lent itself to the bare-bones school of design. No Feng Shui here.

  Back in the day, the walls were probably a cheery mustard color. Not anymore. Years of soot and grime had left their mark, leaving them a shade or two past the tune of dried egg yolk. Adding to the overall mood were tattered metal blinds hanging slightly lopsided in a solitary window, slats bent and buckled, along with a thick coating of dust. On a bright day, the sun poked through them, striping the dusty air with intense light and giving the word filthy completely new meaning.

  Frank reached into his drawer and grabbed a roll of antacids. Using his teeth, he pried one loose, then began gnashing on it.

  He looked up at Cameron. He wasn’t pleased.

  “So tell me,” he said, still chewing as he spoke. “With human carnage becoming a normal part of the landscape around here, I’m feeling a bit confused—exactly how does Ben Foley fit into all this?”

  “He doesn’t,” Cameron said, lowering himself into a chair across from his boss with an accompanying sigh. “That’s the problem. Nothing does.”

  “I thought we were getting closer to having things figured out.”

  “Not since the Foley murders. They changed everything.”

  Frank leaned back, and his chair complained with a loud squeak. He crossed his arms and looked at Cameron. “Okay, amigo, now’s the time for some good, old-fashioned detective work. Thoughts?”

  “On the slight chance these could be nothing more than isolated coincidences—”

  “Hold on," Frank said, with an expression that mixed frustration and sarcasm “Isolated is one thing. But coincidence? Doubt it. This is Faith we’re talking about, right? Five murders here would be about as coincidental as a turd in a shithouse.”

  Cameron cringed at the parallel, but allowed the theory. “Okay, going with the idea they’re isolated, then, we already have two killers, right? How ‘bout a third?”

  “Ryan kills Alma. Ben kills his family … so who killed Witherspoon?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “And the answer?”

  “Your turn. You tell me.”

  “Okay,” Frank said, “try this one on for size: what if they are all related? What if Ben and Ryan were working together? You hear stories about it … kids going on murder sprees.”

  “Sounds like a bad episode of primetime TV,” Cameron said. “Oh, and while we’re there, the news media’s back in town. In full force.”

  “We can thank Ben Foley for that one. It’s a surefire way to get the talking heads down here flapping their yaks.”

  “The yaks were flapping all right. You’d’ve thought their jaws were on fire.”

  Frank shifted in his chair, shifting his thoughts. “How ‘bout Foley’s autopsy? Anything new there?”

  “Preliminary toxicology report came back this morning. Negative for controlled substances.”

  “Interesting ...”

  “Yep. The boy was clean.”

  “So we know he wasn’t high, just garden-variety crazy.”

  Cameron wasn’t sure if Frank meant it as a joke or an observation. “There was one thing unusual. Ben’s stomach—it was covered with ulcers.”

  He caught on right away. “That’s kinda strange. Kids ever get those?”

  “Medical investigator says they can, but not the same way adults do. Usually it’s from a reaction to medications.”

  “Medications? What kind?”

  “Taking a lot of the over-the-counter anti-inflammatory drugs’ll do it.”

  “So the kid maybe had, like, an Excedrin headache?”

  “No, not exactly. He needed to be swallowing a helluva lot of ‘em over a long period of time to cause the kind of damage he had.”

  “But we know that wasn’t the case, since the tox screen came up negative. Right?”

  “Yes and no. The test is preliminary,” Cameron cautioned. “It only screens for the presence of alcohol or drugs, and only in a general sense. Takes longer for the specifics. But even so, if he took ‘em a long time ago, chances are they wouldn’t show up now, anyway.”

  Frank grunted his displeasure, thought for a few seconds. “M.E. got any theories about what else might’ve caused ‘em?”

  “Threw out a few other scenarios. Seemed unlikely.”

  “So, in a word, nothing.”

  “No. Not right now, at least. He is checking on Ben’s medical history to see if he had some sort of preexisting condition. That might explain it.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “So we have a kid who wasn’t high, had no detectable illness other than stomach ulcers—which, by the way, we have no idea where they came from—who suddenly wakes up one night, and decides to off his entire family, then himself? I’m not buying it.” He shook his head, put on his glasses, scanned a few pages of the report. Then he looked back at Cameron over the tops of his lenses. “You knew this kid?”

  “Thought I did …”

  “How well?”

  “Enough to know he wasn’t a killer.”

  Frank removed the glass
es, gazed out his window. The bright sunlight made him squint. “Well, no disrespect to your judgment, but we’ve got three bodies lying across town in a morgue who’d like to tell you otherwise.”

  Frank was right. There was no denying that.

  “What about at the house?” he asked. “Anything at all there to indicate why he might’ve done it?”

  Cameron threw up his hands. “If the kid was hiding a secret, he was doing a damn good job of it.”

  “Okay, so tell me this: how do we get from point A to point C? Something’s missing here, and I don’t like it.”

  “Not exactly thrilled about it myself, Frank. From all accounts, the kid was well-mannered and well-behaved. Never got into a lick of trouble in school or back at home, just like Churchill.”

  “Just like Churchill …” Frank said, contemplating the similarities. “Same shit, different shovel, except, that’s really the only connection we have between the two, and it isn’t much of one. How about the family?”

  Cameron shrugged. “That’s where the similarities end. Ryan came from a broken home. His grandmother raised him.”

  “Oh yeah? How’d that go?”

  “Not very well. Had a chat with her, a real piece of work, Bobbi Kimmons is. Did her best, but kinda get the feeling she starved the kid where genuine affection was concerned.”

  “And Ben’s family?”

  “Complete opposite. About as normal and nice as they come. Spoke to them several times last summer during Little League.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Get this—they were actually concerned he wasn’t aggressive enough for contact sports, too shy, too reserved.”

  “He obviously overcame that problem,” Frank said, “with flying colors.”

  Cameron shook his head. “I know one thing—from where I stand, the kid didn’t have it in him.”

  “So then why’d he do it?”

  “The answer’s out there somewhere,” Cameron said, standing up. “I’m gonna go have a talk with his teacher.”

  Frank crooked an eyebrow. “Think she knows something?”