While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Cameron moved into the office and looked over her desktop and through each drawer. Everything there appeared neatly in order.

  “Hey, Cam.” The familiar voice seemed to come from nowhere.

  He turned around quickly, loosening some after seeing who it was. “Hi, Jason. You startled me. Didn’t hear you coming.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” Jason said with a nervous laugh.

  “Nonsense. Great to see you.” Cameron moved forward to shake his hand. He’d heard Jason was in town. Deputies had called him as soon as his mother went missing, but Cameron had been so busy working the Champion case that he hadn’t had the chance to catch up with him yet. “I barely recognized you.”

  “Been a long time, huh?” Jason said. His grip felt loose and tentative.

  “Seems like ages,” Cameron replied, suddenly noticing how awkward the moment had become, while at the same time, trying to hide his discomfort. “Sorry we have to meet again under these circumstances.”

  Jason didn’t react to the comment. Instead, he broke eye contact with Cameron by switching his attention toward the front entryway. “Hope you don’t mind I came inside. Didn’t want to disturb any evidence. The deputy let me in.”

  “’Course not. This is your house, after all,” Cameron replied. He looked down at the floor, unsure what to say next, then decided to take a stab at the obvious. “I started cleaning up the place. You know how your mom’s always been … just thought about how much it would bother her, seeing things like this.”

  For the first time, Jason looked around the room. He appeared just as disturbed by the mess as Cameron had. “She always liked you a lot.”

  “The feeling’s mutual, Jason. She’s a special lady,” Cameron said, careful not to speak of her in the past tense. “Actually, the cleaning was just an afterthought. I wanted to go over things again, make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not so far.” An awkward pause, then a shift in subject. “So where ya living these days?”

  “Out in California,” Jason said, his voice slightly more animated now. “San Diego. Working for a biotech firm. Not too exciting, but it pays the bills.”

  “You look great,” Cameron continued. It was true. He’d shed a lot of the baby fat he carried around as a kid and appeared to be in better physical shape. His complexion, once covered with teenage acne, was now suntanned and clear.

  “Thanks … you too,” Jason replied. “So what do you have so far on my mom?”

  “Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. She most likely disappeared around Saturday evening. Last time anyone saw her was when she closed shop for the day, around four.”

  Jason nodded, processing the information.

  Cameron thought for a moment. “Mind if I ask you a few questions … about your mom?”

  Jason nodded and shrugged.

  “Wanted to know if you can think of anyone who’d want to hurt her.”

  Jason laughed a little. “My mom? Naw. I don’t think so. Everyone loves her.”

  “No disagreements? With anyone? Ever?”

  “If she did, I never heard about it.”

  “Not even at her shop?”

  Jason shook his head. “It’s just not the way she does business. If a customer was ever unhappy, she’d always bend over backwards to make it right. That’s just the kind of person she is.”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said, nodding, rubbing his chin, thinking. “Had to ask, though. You gonna be in town a while? Can I call you if anything new comes up?”

  “Sure. I took a leave of absence from my job. At least until we know if my mom’s …” He stopped. “Until something definite comes up. My wife’s here too. I’m married now.”

  “That’s great, Jason.”

  “She’s back at a friend’s house. I had to get out. You know, driving around town, trying to clear my head a bit.”

  “Understandable.”

  “I’m staying with the Reddings, over on Helix Street. You can call me over there, if you want.”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. I figured that’s where you’d be—Chip being your best friend and all.” It should have been me.

  “Yeah. Chip’s always been there for me,” said Jason. The deadpan expression on his face was difficult to read, but seemed to imply blame. Cameron couldn’t be sure whether he’d meant the comment as a jab. He decided to change the subject once again. “I’m gonna head upstairs to the bedroom. I need to look over a few things. You’re welcome to come along if you want.”

  Jason mulled it over for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. I think I will. Maybe I can help you out.”

  When they reached Judith’s bedroom, Cameron suddenly turned around toward Jason, started to say something, stopped, then began again. “You know, I feel real bad about how I treated you in high school, Jason. You were never anything less than a good friend to me, and I screwed it up real bad because of dumb peer pressure. I wish I’d done you better. We do stupid things when we’re young. I’ve regretted it for a long time. I’m sorry. I realize it’s little consolation now, but I just wanted you to know.”

  Jason offered a softened smile and blinked a few times. It was as if he’d been waiting for an apology all these years. He nodded solemnly. “It’s okay, Cam. We were just kids. We don’t always make the best choices at that age. We grow up, and we learn … that’s all. It’s history now. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

  But it did. He knew Jason well enough to know he’d been deeply hurt. Now his mother was missing, maybe even dead; still, Cameron felt relieved to have cleared the air, glad Jason had accepted his apology. The moment seemed to offer both men a moment of consolation amidst a sea of uncertainly.

  Inside Judith’s bedroom, Cameron shone a flashlight under the bed as Jason looked on. Once again, not a speck of dust or lint to be found. As he got up off the floor, however, he froze, staring at the wall across from him.

  “Cam, you all right?” asked Jason. “You look pale.”

  Cameron moved around the bed, inching closer toward the wall, blinking hard, wondering if his eyes were seeing things wrong.

  Tacked to the bulletin board was a photo of Judith: beautiful smile, arms wrapped around two friends—one on each side—happy as could be.

  And wearing a lime-green sweater.

  “Cam?” Jason repeated.

  “Jason?” Cameron finally said, moving even closer toward the bulletin board, still staring at it. “How long has your mother had the sweater in that photo?”

  Jason moved closer too now, squinting, inspecting the picture. “That? Oh, shit, man, for years. It’s her favorite. I think she got it in England.”

  “I know.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Do you know if the sweater’s here now?”

  Jason shrugged, hands buried in his pockets, then nodded toward the closet. “It would be in there. Mom always likes to hang her sweaters. Hates bunching them up inside drawers. You know how she is.”

  Cameron turned his gaze toward the closet, then moved forward, his feet falling heavily, like bags of sand.

  “What’s going on, Cam? What’s this all about?”

  Cameron didn’t respond. He was sifting through the clothes, searching for the sweater, for an answer he was afraid to find.

  It wasn’t there.

  Cameron took a step back, eyes opened wide, still fixed on the closet’s interior. Then he turned to Jason. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What is it? What do you have?”

  “Jason, I promise I’ll get back to you and explain everything, but for now, I have to go.”

  Cameron ran down the steps, and then out the door.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chrysanthemum Way

  Faith, New Mexico

  Cameron put the squad car in drive and took off down Judith Hedrick’s street at a speed that was neither safe nor legal. Not that he cared. Not right now, at least.

  Judith wasn’t a victim after all.

&n
bsp; She was a suspect.

  Judith killed Felicity, used her own car to dump the body elsewhere, then took it back to the vicinity of the murder scene, where she pushed it into the canyon. After that, she took off, heading out on foot.

  But even though the logistics seemed to add up, in Cameron’s mind, the act itself did not. He knew Judith, knew she was a gentle, caring woman, one who would never hurt anyone.

  How could this be?

  Cameron recalled Felicity Champion’s autopsy. Part of her face had been chewed off, not by animals, but by another human. By Judith? The loving mother, upstanding citizen, and proud businessperson? He shook his head quickly, trying to jar the thought from his mind but with little success—not because he didn’t want to—because the sweet woman who once served him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Saturday afternoons wouldn’t let him.

  A murderous cannibal?

  He’d had trouble seeing Ben Foley and Ryan Churchill as killers, too.

  Still, even if Cameron could entertain the possibility that Judith had killed Felicity, what was her motive? There was no connection between them. Felicity wasn’t even from around these parts—she was just passing through on her way to Albuquerque. They didn’t even know each other.

  Or did they?

  Cameron’s boyhood hero, Sherlock Holmes, said, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

  While not entirely impossible, it was improbable the two women had ever crossed paths before this—all the more reason, Cameron supposed, to dig deeper, especially after uncovering this most recent bombshell.

  He started running different scenarios through his mind: Judith disappeared shortly after closing her shop Saturday. Felicity went missing around the same time. A slight shift in the time frame, and theoretically, the girl could have stopped in town on her way through. It was also possible Felicity had gone by the florist shop. That would have afforded her the opportunity to meet up with Judith.

  But even if their paths did intersect there, what would make Judith want to murder Felicity? Had the two women shared some kind of secret connection? One that caused them to come to blows with one another?

  He thought about the other cases, trying to come up with a common variable among them. The only logical one was that the three known suspects—Ryan, Ben, and Judith—were also the least likely. None had a criminal history. None had an inclination toward violence.

  Thinking back to his internet research on English Angora, Judith’s sweater looked a lot like the photos he saw there. That certainly wasn’t enough to make her a murderer. But something else was: the fibers—they were on Felicity Champion’s body. They were also an unusual color, and worst of all, they matched Judith’s sweater. Then there was Felicity Champion’s blood in Judith’s car. When Cameron added all those up, he had the inescapable truth.

  Solid, irrevocable evidence making Judith a viable suspect.

  Backed into a corner, Cameron thought. He needed to get himself out of it, had to turn this all around before it was too late. Before another body turned up.

  Frank, Cameron thought: he had to let him know what he’d found at Judith’s. Grabbing his cell phone, he frantically began punching the number. It rang once, twice, three times, but no answer. What now? He dialed Frank’s pager.

  Just as he finished, his phone rang. Cameron looked down at the number.

  “Frank,” Cameron said, not even giving him a chance to speak. “You won’t believe what I have here.”

  The sheriff laughed. “I was just going to tell you the same thing.”

  “Unless you have Felicity Champion’s killer in custody, I’d better go first.”

  “Not Felicity’s, but Alma Gutierrez’s. That count for anything?” He sounded smug.

  “What?”

  “Ryan Churchill,” Frank said. “We have him.”

  Cameron dropped his phone, catching it near his waist. He fumbled, trying to get it back up to his ear. “What? Where?”

  “Right here. At the station. We’ve got him in custody.”

  “I’m on my way.” Cameron’s tires squealed as he made a 180-degree turn and headed back in the opposite direction.

  “Hey! What was your news?” Frank’s tinny voice came through the phone, trying to catch Cameron before he disconnected.

  “Never mind,” Cameron said as he slid up to an intersection, moving his head in both directions to see if it was clear. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  “Oh good. More surprises. We don’t get enough of those around here.”

  “You won’t be saying that when you hear it.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Abrams Medical Center

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Time to go to the internet for a refresher course on the caduceus, Kyle decided. It had been years since medical school, where she first learned its extensive history.

  It came from Greek god Hermes, who carried a winged staff symbolizing fertility, healing, and wisdom. She read on.

  The Caduceus was approved by the US Army in 1902 for its medical corps. It later spread to the civilian population and has been an emblem representing American medicine ever since.

  She did another search, this time using Caduceus and letter N. The results were even more telling:

  World War II Medical Department, The Medical Corps: For each division, a letter was placed over the Caduceus. For example, Veterinary Corps (V), Medical Administrative Corps (A) Sanitary Corps (S) and Army Nurse Corps (N).

  Army Nurse Corps: There it was, the context Kyle needed. The scenes she saw in her dreams had taken place during World War II. That’s why everything looked so outdated.

  On to an image search using US Army Corps, nurses, uniforms, history. It gave her more of what she needed. Studying the photos, she could see that in World War I, the uniforms didn’t conform to the shape of a woman’s body; in fact, they were formless, no curves at all. During World War II, however, styles began to change, and the new look complimented the female body rather than hiding it.

  Those uniforms Kyle saw in her visions were definitely from World War II. The skirts still went all the way down to the lower calf, but there was much more shape above them.

  Kyle had nailed it.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Sheriff’s Station

  Faith, New Mexico

  “The kid was wandering around Truth,” Frank said to Cameron as they stood outside the canteen, now serving as a makeshift interrogation room. He nodded toward the door. “He’s in there.”

  “Truth?” Cameron said. “That’s a good seventy miles from here. How’d he get there?”

  “Judging by his condition, I’d say he walked,” Frank replied. “Kid looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. Clothes torn up, blood all over them, cuts and bruises everywhere. Filthy, too, from head to toe.”

  “Anyone talk to him yet?” Cameron asked.

  “Sure. Problem is he won’t talk back. Not even so much as a fuck you.”

  “How ‘bout the grandmother?”

  “Kimmons?” Frank grunted his disapproval. “She split. Left town a few days ago. Apparently couldn’t take all the heat she’d been getting over Ryan. Still trying to track her down.”

  “Okay,” Cameron said and took a deep breath. No law prohibited officials from questioning a minor without a parent present. They were okay there. “How ‘bout I give him a try?”

  “Sure. Take him for a spin.” Frank stretched his hand out toward the door. “I’ve already played the bad-cop. Maybe the good cop’ll work.”

  “I do good cop pretty well,” Cameron muttered, moving past Frank, and heading on toward the door.

  “Well, here’s your chance to prove it.”

  * * *

  When Cameron entered the room, Ryan Churchill sat straight up in his seat, flinching, as if moving to avoid a blow. Appearing shell-shocked and tired, the boy wore only a paper nightgown. His clothes had already been remov
ed and were en route to the lab to see if the bloodstains on them matched up with Alma Gutierrez’s DNA.

  Frank was right. Physically, the kid was a mess—lip busted, face and arms covered with scrapes and dried blood. His wrists were cuffed behind him, hooked onto the chair, and his feet shackled as well.

  Ryan was trembling, his chair squeaking and the chains around his legs rattling with his movement. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks, leaving behind murky streaks, almost like running mascara. He looked like wounded prey, counting seconds before being devoured alive.

  This wasn’t what Cameron had expected. He’d anticipated a cold-hearted killer, but what he saw instead was a timid, frightened child. It was hard to believe this was the same kid accused of slicing his teacher from neck to spleen, then robbing her of her life—slowly, one organ at a time—as if it meant nothing.

  Basic criminal profiling told Cameron the suspect would be smug and detached, with a self-confidence level bordering on egomaniacal—not the tearful, frightened boy now cowering before him.

  “Hello, Ryan,” he finally said, his voice calm and quiet.

  No response. No eye contact.

  Cameron studied him for a moment, then walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and grabbed a bottle of water. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the boy watching him. Cameron unscrewed the top, took a long swallow, then turned to face Ryan, who quickly turned his head away.

  “Sure is hot outside,” Cameron said, staring out the window. He took another swig of water then looked at Ryan as if it were an afterthought, holding up the bottle. “Want some?”

  The boy nodded at the offer, but didn’t speak, still avoiding eye contact. At least he was responding. It was a good sign.

  Cameron reached into the refrigerator, pulled out another bottle, then headed toward the boy, who followed it with his eyes as if it were something rare and exquisite. After twisting off the lid, he held it up to the boy’s mouth, allowing him to drink from it.