The Absence of Mercy (15 page)

“Jesus,” muttered Detective Schroeder. “You haven't even stitched her up yet.”

“There's no point in it,” the surgeon replied, her eyes remaining on the patient. “The first surgery in cases like this is strictly damage control. Get in, do what needs to be done, and get out. The liver and small bowel were lacerated in several places. The spleen was bleeding so badly it had to be removed. The left kidney also took a hit,” she said, pointing to a urine reservoir bag hanging on the side of the bed. Like the fluid in the abdominal drains, the urine had taken on a bloodied maroon color. “Anyway,” Dr. Elliot concluded, “we'll have to go back in at least once more to take a look at things—to make certain the bleeding from the liver is under control, to take another look at the bowel anastomoses, and to be sure nothing else was missed. So there's no point in closing the abdomen yet.”

Ben nodded. “What other injuries did she sustain?”

“You name it, she's got it,” she said. “Bilateral hemopneumothoraces, a small right ventricular puncture wound through the pericardium that I have no idea how she survived, multiple small bowel injuries, a grade III liver laceration, grade IV splenic injury requiring splenectomy, left renal laceration, facial bone fractures, tracheal contusion, a left ankle dislocation and medial malleolar fracture that was reduced in the OR, multiple soft-tissue avulsion injuries, and traumatic amputations of two fingers on the left hand.” She sighed, brushing the hair back from her patient's forehead. “Most of her right ear is missing. Whoever did this did not intend for her to live.”

“How's her brain?” Ben asked. “Any intracranial injuries?”

The doctor shook her head. “That's one thing her assailant didn't get around to. She's pharmacologically sedated now, but provided her blood pressure holds and she survives these other injuries, I have no reason to believe she won't wake up once she's weaned off the sedative agents.”

“When will that be?” Ben asked.

“Don't know yet,” she said, glancing at the green digital display of the machine monitoring the patient's vital signs. “She's still hypotensive, despite the vasopressors. A thousand things could happen between now and then. She could go into DIC, and I'm worried about that liver.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then Ben said, “Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Elliot, and for everything you've done for her so far. If it's okay with you, I'd like to take a few photographs of the injuries. We shouldn't be long.”

“Take all the time you need,” she said. “This poor girl . . .” She trailed off, her face becoming pinched and hard. She turned away from them for a moment, studying the monitor, one hand on her patient's shoulder. Her fingers touched the thin plastic tubing of the central line that descended from an IV pump before it entered the girl's body just beneath the right clavicle. The surgeon exhaled slowly, then her posture straightened as she turned to face them. “Take all the time you need,” she said again, and she strode quickly from the room and disappeared through the swinging double doors at the end of the hallway.

“The patient is a Caucasian female, age sixteen, identified by family as Monica Dressler. At the request of the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department and after consent from the patient's parents, this examination is being performed at Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh, where the patient is being treated for her injuries. The patient is currently intubated and on a ventilator, and she is pharmacologically sedated. She has a right subclavian central line, bilateral chest tubes, an open abdominal compartment following recent exploratory laparotomy, three abdominal J-P drains, and a Foley catheter in place. Bulky dressings have been applied to the left hand following traumatic amputations to the fourth and fifth digits. . . .”

“. . . contusions to the face and anterior neck consistent with blunt trauma . . .”

“. . . bandaging to the site of the right ear, which was severed during the assault and was discovered at the crime scene by Jefferson County forensic . . .”

“. . . large avulsion injury to the region of the left deltoid, and similar soft tissue injuries to the left lateral thigh and upper back. Serrations along the wound margins are consistent with a human dentition pattern . . .”

“. . . eight puncture wounds to the anterior chest, resulting in bilateral hemopneumothoraces. According to the operative report, the pericardium and right ventricle were also penetrated, and a hemorrhagic pericardial effusion was discovered, requiring a pericardial window via the subxiphoid approach . . .”

“. . . an avulsion injury to the right breast. The lateral portion of the areola and underlying adipose tissue have been severed . . .”

“. . . penetration of the peritoneal cavity . . .”

“. . . left renal laceration from a penetrating wound to the left flank . . .”

“. . . report of multiple lacerations to the small bowel, liver, and spleen . . .”

“. . . fracture and dislocation of the left ankle with extensive swelling and ecchymosis . . .”

“. . . patient is currently listed in critical condition . . .”

“. . . Dr. Ben Stevenson, board-certified pathologist. A copy of this report was submitted to the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department in compliance with Ohio state statutes pertaining to forensic evidence . . .”

“. . . End report.”

The trip back to Wintersville took considerably longer than the day's earlier journey. After leaving the hospital, Ben had taken Joel to an ice-cream parlor that he'd frequented with Susan during their time in residency training. Ben hadn't felt much like eating, but he'd promised his son this particular part of the excursion as an enticement for Joel to join him on the trip to Pittsburgh. Watching the boy wolf down two scoops of rocky road topped with hot fudge, whipped cream, peanut crumbles, and a maraschino cherry had proven to be too much for Ben's already tenuous stomach. He'd chosen to distract himself by looking out through the large plate glass window at the passing pedestrian foot traffic. Dusk was beginning to fall on the city now, and Ben was eager to get home. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Susan to tell her they'd be getting back later than expected, advising her not to wait on them for dinner. “It's just leftovers,” she said. “I'll heat something up for you when you get home.” Ben looked across the table at his son as the boy twirled his spoon along the inside bottom of the tall glass, meticulously retrieving the last remnants of melted goodness for his consumption. “Don't bother,” he told his wife over the phone. “I don't think either one of us will be particularly hungry.”

He returned the phone to his pocket and placed his open palms on the table. “You ready, kiddo?”

Joel dropped the long metal spoon into his glass. “Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think she'll die?”

“The girl we visited today in the hospital?”

Joel nodded.

“I hope not,” Ben replied. “It's too early to know for sure. But the doctors and nurses are taking real good care of her.”

Joel peered into the bottom of his glass, then looked up at him. “But she might die anyway.”

Ben sighed. “That's right, son. She might.”

The index finger of the boy's right hand traced a line around the outside of his glass where the condensation had formed a small ring on the table. “Will she go to heaven, Dad? If she dies?”

Ben looked across the table. “I don't know what happens to us when we die, Joel. Nobody really does.”

“Mom says we go to heaven.”

“I know.”

“But you don't believe in heaven, do you, Dad?”

Ben's gaze drifted to the right as he looked out through the window at the people shuffling by. A pedestrian darted across the street against the stoplight, causing an oncoming taxi to screech to a halt. The cabbie laid on his horn long and hard, yelling an obscenity out the window. The jaywalker turned and flipped the guy the bird.

“Sometimes I don't know if we deserve it,” he said quietly.

Joel was silent for a moment, pushing his napkin around the table. “Mom says everyone deserves forgiveness. She says it's not up to us to judge each other. It's up to God.”

“Yeah?” Ben smiled, turning his attention back to his son. “Well, your mom's pretty smart now, isn't she?”

Joel looked back at him blandly. “She's pretty smart, Dad.”

A bell jingled as the door in the front of the shop opened and two more patrons walked in, the sounds of the city nipping at their heels. The wind gusted briefly through the open entrance, sending Joel's napkin scurrying to the floor.

“Okay,” Ben said, retrieving a replacement from the metal dispenser and sliding it across the table. “Wipe that chocolate off your face and let's get going. It's getting late.”

“Sure, Dad,” his son replied, smiling up at him. They slid out of the booth, gathered their jackets, and walked together toward the door.

That night Ben slept poorly, feeling alternatingly either too hot or too cold beneath the covers. After considerable tossing and turning, he'd finally managed to drift off, but he had fallen into a dream in which he was being chased through the halls of the hospital by a large black wolf. He'd fled down long corridors, the floor cold and sterile beneath his bare feet. Behind him he could hear the thing coming, its nails clicking and skittering along the tile. In desperation, he'd entered a room at the end of one of the passages, swinging the door shut behind him and flipping the dead bolt in its track. He stood with his ear pressed up against the door, listening, trying to get control of his breathing. There was no sound from the hallway beyond, only the soft, methodical whisper of the ventilator from the patient lying in the bed behind him. The wild drum of his heartbeat began to slacken in his ears. Then he heard it: a small click as the side rail of the gurney was slowly lowered, the creak of someone shifting their weight in the bed, the soft slap of feet touching the floor. He turned to find Monica Dressler sitting up facing him, her thin legs hanging over the side of the bed, the endotracheal tube still protruding from between her lips. Her eyes were vacant and unseeing, her right hand sifting through coarse black fur. Beside her, sitting at her feet and studying him with its greenish-yellow predatory gaze, was the wolf.

The image startled Ben awake, and he lay there in bed, sweating lightly, bunching the sheet into matted balls with his hands. Finally, he got up, walked across the bedroom in the darkness, opened the door, and slipped quietly into the hallway. The house was silent, except for the subtle pulse of the grandfather clock in the living room below. On the left side of the hallway stood the closed door to Joel's bedroom, and beyond that on the right, lost in the shadows, was the door to Thomas's room. No noise emanated from behind either, and after a moment's pause Ben started down the hallway in the direction of the stairs, thinking he'd go to the kitchen to get some—

Suddenly, he stopped. Up ahead at the end of the hall, sitting there in the shadows, was the wolf. Ben could hear its panting, could just make out the outline of its body in the darkness, its long tongue lying flat and slightly protruding through its partially opened jaws. Ben took a step backward, his right hand grasping blindly for the light switch on the wall. Then the thing came for him, rising up from its seated position on its haunches and padding heavily down the short, dim corridor. Ben stood frozen in position, unable to move, bracing himself for the impact of the animal's teeth on his thigh, for the weight of its body pulling him to the ground. His breath came in quick, hurried gasps, the sweat that had begun to dry on his skin now awakening once again and coalescing into tense, tight beads on his arms and back. A small sound escaped him—something between a whimper and a half scream—and although his fingers had finally located the switch on the wall he now felt both unable and unwilling to use it, knowing that to flip it on and to see the wolf in its full form would be too much for his mind to handle.

The creature came to a halt in front of him, and then suddenly and inexplicably, its tail began to swish back and forth in a friendly sign of greeting. The broad head pushed insistently against his left hip, and Ben's hands went reflexively to the sides of its head to ruffle the ears and stroke the long, broad neck.

“Alex, you scared the
shit
out of me,” he said, exhaling slowly, then patting the canine's right shoulder as the dog leaned into him in his usual fashion. The bony tail whipped enthusiastically from side to side, striking the wall with a loud crack.

The second door on the left opened, and Thomas's head poked out into the hallway. “Hey.”

Ben looked up. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry to wake you. Alex just about gave me a heart attack.”

Thomas looked at the two of them without speaking.

“I was going to head down to the kitchen for something to drink,” Ben told him, glad to have someone to talk to. “Feel like coming?”

“Okay,” Thomas said with a shrug.

“Great,” Ben replied, leading the expedition down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen. He flipped on the light, opened a cabinet, and pulled two glasses from the shelf. “What'll it be?” He smiled.

“What've you got?”

Ben opened the refrigerator and perused the options. “Let's see: milk, grape juice, water, Diet Coke . . .” He frowned. “There's half a pitcher of unidentifiable pink stuff in here.”

“How about a beer?” Thomas suggested.

Ben turned and looked at him. “You want a beer?” he asked. To be honest, the option didn't sound half bad right about now.

Thomas shrugged noncommittally.

“Okay,” Ben replied, retrieving two bottles from the back of the fridge. He looked at Thomas. “You need a glass?”