Riverwatch

by Joseph Nassise

  Ignoring the masses of people moving all around him, Sam walked over to the elevators, his thoughts on Gabriel. The presence of the police and the emergency medical team confirmed what he’d previously only suspected. Something had happened here tonight, and he was all but positive it had something to do with Gabriel.

  A sense of evil lingered in the air, like a gas that had been only partially dispelled. He wasn’t the only one who felt it, others in the room were constantly looking over their shoulders as if they too could sense some presence in the room; a grim shadow that crouched behind them. In that instant Sam knew the object of Gabriel’s fears had come for him. All that was left to do was to find out if the old man had survived.

  Sam had a hunch he already knew the answer to that question and had to force himself to keep moving forward. He had to forcibly ignore the reluctance that suddenly settled about his shoulders like a mantle of lead, threatening to bend his back beneath its great weight.

  He was afraid.

  Afraid of what he would find upstairs.

  As he reached out for the elevator call button, a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him.

  "Sorry. Elevators are off-limits. Nobody leaves the lobby until we’re finished," a gruff voice said from behind him.

  Sam turned and found himself face to face with another police officer. The man glared at him with eyes as hard as stones and heavy with suspicion.

  "Oh," Sam said, a bit flustered by the man’s sudden appearance. "I’ll just use the stairs then." He moved to step past the officer.

  The other’s broad bulk blocked his path. "Are you deaf?" the man asked with ill-concealed hostility. "I said nobody’s allowed upstairs."

  "Look, officer. I work here. These people are more than my responsibility. Many of them are my friends. If something has happened to one of them, I’ve got to do what I can to help."

  "You can help out by staying the hell out of the way of the professionals."

  Sam willed himself to stay calm. Humor the guy, an inner voice said.

  "Okay, okay," Sam said in a resigned voice, and moved off into the crowd again. Several minutes later, when he was certain the officer was no longer watching him, Sam drifted slowly to his right in the direction of the stairwell.

  Damn! he thought, once he had the stairwell in sight. Another officer was stationed there, blocking the way to the upper floors. He was stuck. There was no other way to the upper floors unless he came through the walkway that connected the nursing home to the rest of the hospital complex, and if they had this end covered Sam was certain they would have that guarded as well.

  Now what?

  Then fate provided him with the opportunity he needed. Several members of the press arrived outside and were attempting to force their way past the officer guarding the front door. The officer guarding the stairwell noticed his partner’s plight, and moved to help, leaving the door to the stairwell unguarded.

  Sam took advantage of the opportunity and calmly walked over to the door, opened it, and slipped quietly into the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, his heart thumping madly in his chest. There might be more guards at the top, but for now he didn’t care, his only concern was the fate of his friend. He had to discover if Gabriel was still alive!

  He emerged onto the third floor at the opposite end of the hall from Gabriel’s room. The small corridor before him was empty, but he could hear a good deal of commotion coming from the main hallway around the corner.

  Sam took the chance.

  The main corridor was filled with people, most of them uniformed police officers. A few men were dressed in dark suits and ties. Sam took them to be detectives. Two ambulance attendants sat in the plastic chairs that lined the hallway with decidedly queasy looks on their faces. An empty stretcher was pushed up against the wall next to them.

  While Sam was standing there trying to decide what to do, he heard a familiar voice call his name.

  "Sam! Over here!"

  He looked to his left and saw Jerry Peters, a co-worker. Jerry was sitting at the nurses’ station, a uniformed cop at his left elbow. An open note pad was in his hand and he frowned as Sam walked over to join them.

  "What a fuckin’ mess, Sam! Last time I switch shifts with you!"

  His friend’s face, normally ruddy with a glow bestowed from the flask of Dewar’s he kept in his pocket, was so pale as to seem almost bloodless. Dark circles drooped beneath his eyes. Sam watched Jerry’s hands shake as he took a drag from the cigarette he was smoking. The ashtray in front of him was filled with butts.

  "Tell me about it, Jerry. What happened?"

  Before he could receive an answer the cop spoke up, "Who are you?"

  Jerry answered for him. "It’s okay, officer. He works here. This was supposed to be his shift."

  The officer looked questioningly at Sam.

  "Yeah, that’s right. I had the night off but came in for some things out of my locker and saw all the commotion. I came up to see what was going on," Sam replied.

  Deputy Collins hesitated. His orders were to make sure no one left the floor; nobody had said anything about keeping anyone out. For all he knew, the guys downstairs had sent this guy up here. After giving it a moment’s consideration, he decided it would be best to check with the Sheriff and let him know the guy was here. That way he’d at least have covered his ass. Let the guys downstairs take the heat for letting him by.

  "Got any ID?" he asked Sam.

  Sam dug out the laminated ID card he carried in his wallet. The card bore his photograph, and had his name and position printed beneath the hospital’s seal. He handed the card to Collins, who scrutinized it for a minute, then moved off down the hall without saying anything.

  Sam slumped into the chair the officer had vacated. "What’s going on, Jer?"

  "Shit! You ain’t gonna believe this man! Some fucker got in here and sliced one of the old coots to bits." Peters shuddered. "Found what was left of him ‘bout a half hour ago. Man, you shoulda seen that room. Blood was freakin’ everywhere!"

  Sam had heard enough. "Who was it?" he asked, dreading the answer but needing to ask.

  "It was, ahh, what’s his name? The guy who’s always havin’ those weird dreams? You now, the guy with the funny last name. Gabe what’s-his-face?"

  Before Peters knew what was happening Sam was up off the chair and running down the hall, racing past a group of officers too surprised by his sudden appearance to stop him. His heart lodged like a bone in his throat.

  Flashes of light could be seen coming from room 310, and a group of officers were clustered in front of that door, their backs to him.

  Barely slowing, Sam shoved through them into the room itself, ignoring the protests and evading their attempts to stop him.

  The room was awash in blood. Crimson splatters covered every surface.

  On the walls.

  On the floor.

  On the once-white sheets of the bed.

  Unidentifiable lumps covered in blood were scattered all about the floor.

  As he glanced around the room in shock, Sam’s gaze came to rest on the two men who were working inside the room. Dressed in white lab smocks, one used a camera to photograph each of those strange lumps in the place where they’d been found, then waited while his partner used a spatula-like device to scoop those pieces into a small plastic bag. The bag was then deposited onto a small, steel cart that stood behind them.

  Sam could see the cart was slowly being filled with bags. Numb with horror, he forced himself to walk over and peer at one of the objects through the clear plastic.

  The bags were filled with ragged chunks of human flesh.

  Gabriel’s flesh.

  The veteran police officers watching from the door might have been around long enough to have become hardened to the overpowering stench, but Sam had not. He spun around and stumbled back out the door of the room into the hall, desperately struggling to keep his teeth clenched tightly against the tide that surged up from his sto
mach.

  His distress grew stronger than his willpower, however, and he threw up, splashing the shoes of one of the nearby detectives with a semi-solid stream of vomit.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Baton Passes

  The cold water from the basin felt good on his face and hands. After unceremoniously losing his dinner, Sam had stumbled down to the men’s room and suffered another attack of retching that lasted almost fifteen minutes. His throat was raw. His stomach ached. He was all but certain that the next attack would leave him exhausted.

  Sam reached over and yanked several paper towels from the dispenser hanging on the wall and used them to mop his face dry. One glance in the mirror at the bleak, unhinged look in his eyes was enough. As he bent his head beneath the faucet and tried to rinse the foul taste from his mouth for the fourth time, he made sure he refrained from looking in that direction again.

  When he felt he had himself together, he left the men’s room and stepped back into the hall.

  Two uniformed officers were waiting for him just outside the door.

  *** ***

  Damon was talking with one of the responding officers when Collins came up beside him and signaled for his attention.

  "What have we got?" Wilson asked while studying Sam over his fellow officer’s shoulder.

  "Nothing much, I’m afraid." Collins pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "Name’s Samuel Travers. Claims he works here, stopped by to get a few things from his locker and ran into the commotion downstairs so he thought he’d check things out. The victim was a friend of his it seems."

  Collins handed Damon a small laminated card that had Sam’s picture and employee information. Damon glanced at the photo and then suddenly remembered where he had seen him last.

  Travers had been at the site where they’d discovered the Halloran corpse. Damon wondered if it was just a coincidence that Sam had shown up at this murder scene as well. Come to think of it, Jake Caruso had been at two of the murder scenes as well, the two at the Blake estates. Damon filed the thought away for later investigation.

  The Sheriff handed the ID back to Collins. "Check this out for me. Find out who his supervisor is and get him on the phone. I want to know everything he can tell us about this guy. You know the drill."

  "Gotcha, Sheriff."

  As Collins headed down the hall, Damon walked over to where Sam was standing. "Feeling any better, Mr. Travers?" he asked kindly.

  "Uh, yeah, thanks. Sorry about the mess." He waved his hand feebly in the direction of the doorway where he’d lost control of his stomach earlier.

  "Don’t worry about it," Damon replied. "A sight like that isn’t an easy one to take." He shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately, when you’re in a position like mine you get used to it after awhile."

  Sam didn’t reply. He was barely listening. He knew that he should be paying attention. He was probably in a whole lot of trouble, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His thoughts were a confused jumble, like a swarm of bees around a hive.

  He realized suddenly that the sheriff had asked him another question.

  "Uhh, pardon me?"

  Wilson eyed him calmly. "I asked if you knew the victim."

  Gabriel! a voice cried in the back of Sam’s mind. "Yeah. He’s…" he began, and then corrected himself. "He was a friend of mine. I work here, this is my floor." Forgive me Gabriel! How could I have known it was all true?

  "Are you friends with most of the patients entrusted to your care?"

  "Some of them," Sam replied.

  The heavy stench of death filled his nostrils as the ambulance attendants walked past carrying a stretcher on which sat a number of body bags. Sam’s gaze followed them the length of the hall until they disappeared around the corner.

  Damon waited until he had Sam’s attention again. Then he asked, "Do you know who killed Mr. Armadorian?"

  Yes! Sam’s mind cried, and for a moment he was afraid he’d be unable to prevent himself from telling the Sheriff all he knew, that his mouth would disobey the commands his mind was sending to it and the whole sorry story would be revealed, but some rational part of him was still functioning. He knew that if he told the Sheriff what he suspected he’d only wind up at the County Hospital awaiting a psychiatric exam. He managed to squelch his desperate need to unburden himself and answered the question in the negative.

  Sam’s inner turmoil did not go unnoticed, but Damon gave no indication that he’d seen it.

  If Sam might know something that could help the investigation of the murders, then Damon was duty-bound to bring him in for questioning. The mayor and the public were screaming for him to make an arrest and end the killing spree that was rapidly turning their town into a frightened community of hermits, too scared to leave their homes. He couldn’t arrest Sam just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time but bringing him down to the stationhouse for questioning wouldn’t violate any of his civil rights.Something stayed his hand, however.

  Maybe it didn’t make much sense, but in his gut Damon was certain that Sam had no connection to the murders. While there was no evidence yet linking this one to the others aside from its sheer savagery, Damon was certain that they were all connected. They had to be. There was no doubt in his mind that all four murders were committed by the same person. Or animal, if he were to use Strickland’s theory. While Sam’s appearance tonight might indicate he knew something about the murders, not for a moment did Damon believe that Sam was capable of committing them. It took a certain maliciousness to kill in such a brutal manner, and his gut reaction told him Sam wasn’t capable of that.

  Which left him back at square one.

  Except for whatever it was that Sam knew.

  Damon watched as Sam dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and stuck one between his lips. His hands trembled as he tried to light it and after three unsuccessful tries the Sheriff took pity on him and lit it himself.

  Sam weakly smiled his thanks.

  Damon came to a decision. "Look, Mr. Travers. I get the feeling you know a bit more about all this than you’re letting on. I’m giving you a chance to come clean right now. Is there anything you wanna tell me?"

  Sam merely shook his head. "Is it okay if I go now? I’m not feeling all that great and…"

  Damon cut him off. "Yeah, all right. I’m sure the whole situation has been a shock. There are a few other questions I want to ask you about Mr. Armadorian but they can wait until the morning. I’ll expect you in my office around eleven o’clock, all right?"

  "Yeah. Okay." Sam turned and began walking down the corridor. He’d only gone a few steps when Sheriff Wilson called out to him.

  "Mr. Travers?"

  Sam turned back around to face him.

  "The locker room is this way," the Sheriff said, indicating the other end of the hall with an outstretched hand.

  For a moment Sam was completely confused. The locker room? What the hell did that have to�? Then he remembered the cover story he’d told Officer Collins. He smiled weakly, doing his best to cover his lapse. "Thanks. In the midst of all this I guess I forgot why I came here." Sam turned and walked back past Wilson and down the hall in the other direction. He knew the Sheriff wasn’t fooled.

  Damon watched him go, then walked down the hall and re-entered the room where the old man had died. He stared at the splattered bloodstains while the crime scene technicians went about their business around him.

  Jesus H. Christ! he thought. Who the hell could do something like this?

  The mutilation of the Cummings had been bad. The memory of the man’s head stuffed into the toilet bowl rose in his mind, but he quickly shoved it away again. It was bad enough that he saw it in his dreams, he didn’t need to see it while he was awake.

  Yet that horror had been something he could understand. It was sick, sure, but normally sick, if that made any kind of twisted sense. Mutilation of a victim’s body wasn’t all that uncommon in psychotic killings.

  But this….

&
nbsp; This was beyond anything he’d ever seen.

  The poor guy had been torn to shreds, for Christ’s sake.

  He shook his head. What kind of animal am I after? How the hell did it get in here without being seen or heard? How intelligent is this thing?

  Sheriff Wilson’s right hand unconsciously slipped down to caress the butt of his service revolver.

  There was one question he did know the answer to, however.

  What did you do with an animal that was running wild in the streets?

  Damon smiled grimly.

  You hunted it down and killed it.

  *** ***

  Sam felt like he’d been caught up in a giant whirlwind that was hurtling his body relentlessly forward without his control. He sat slumped on the floor in the basement locker room, his back resting against the cool metal of the lockers. He was doing his best to stop the palsied trembling of his body that had started as soon as he’d sought refuge here.

  He wasn’t having much success.

  The events of the last hour had been too much for him. His mind and his body were numb with shock. It was hard to believe that Gabriel was dead. He knew it was true, yet a part of him resisted the notion.

  Sam was overwhelmed with guilt. There was no way he could deny the fact that he had killed his friend. He hadn’t harmed him physically, but he was as responsible in his own mind as whoever had actually performed the violence. He had dismissed his friend’s fears as the harmless ramblings of an old man rapidly approaching senility, even when there had been no evidence that Gabriel had begun in any way to loose touch with reality, and that had killed him as surely as if Sam himself had wielded the knife.

  If he’d listened, he might have been able to save him. He and Gabriel could’ve faced the old man’s enemy together. Gabriel might have survived.

  If only he’d listened!

  But he hadn’t, and Gabriel had paid the final price for Sam’s own ignorance.

  With his heart aching and filled with guilt, grief finally broke through. His face in his hands, Sam wept long and hard, his shoulders hitching with the force of his sobs.