The Absence of Mercy (17 page)

Blechman shook his head. “Identical, no. The angle of contact with the skin, the depth of penetration, the surrounding patterns of ecchymosis—these will vary from wound to wound. A human bite is a dynamic force. It has many variables.”

“But you think it was produced by the same person,” Detective Schroeder interjected. His face looked strained, as if he were in the process of recovering from a long, tenacious illness. In some ways he was. Fifteen years on the force, two failed marriages, an adult daughter living on the other side of the country with whom he barely spoke. These days he lived for the job. It was all he had left.

“The pattern of dentition appears similar,” Blechman answered. “Comparison of saliva DNA analysis from the bite wounds sustained by the two victims may provide you with a more definitive answer to that question.”

“We're pretty certain we're dealing with the same perpetrator,” Detective Hunt advised the odontologist, glancing at his partner. “Unfortunately, the saliva DNA analysis from the first victim failed to yield a match through CODIS.”

CODIS, Ben recalled, was an acronym that referred to the FBI's Combined DNA Index System. The program had been established in 1994 as a DNA database for biological samples acquired in connection with violent felony crimes.

Ben furrowed his brow a bit. “So the fact that the saliva samples from the first victim's bite wounds failed to yield a match through CODIS means . . .”

“It could mean any number of things,” Carl explained. “Previous violent felony crimes might have been committed by this guy before the inception of the database in 1994. Or he might have committed prior crimes from which no biological specimens were obtained.”

“Or,” Detective Hunt interposed, “this could be the perpetrator's first venture into this sort of work.”

Ben nodded. “Well, it seems to agree with him.”

The room fell silent for a moment, except for the faint sounds of traffic rising from the street below.

“There is something else,” Blechman reported. “There seems to be a spacing anomaly between the upper left canine and the first premolar. It's what we refer to as a
diastasis
—a small, abnormal gap between the two teeth. It measures about two millimeters.”

Schroeder was jotting this down in his notebook. “A diastasis,” he said. “Would this be noticeable to the average person?”

“Not glaringly so,” the odontologist replied. “The anomaly is subtle. You'd have to know what you were looking for.” He retrieved a plastic dental model from his bookshelf, indicating the involved teeth with the pointed end of a pencil. “It would be here,” he told them, “just behind the upper left canine.”

Carl looked at Sam. “If we could get a hold of the town's dental records . . .”

Sam shook his head. “I don't think so. Medical and dental information is protected by patient privacy laws. Ain't that right, Ben?”

Ben nodded. The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, established by the U.S. government in 1996, was now well entrenched in medicine. As a result, access to medical and dental records was tightly controlled.

“A judge might issue a subpoena for the dental records of a specific suspect,” Sam continued, “provided there was enough additional convincing evidence. But getting a subpoena for the dental records of the entire town is a lost cause.”

“Even in a case like this?” Carl asked.

“
Especially
in a case like this,” Sam replied. “Catching him is only the first step. We don't want to do anything to jeopardize the DA's ability to prosecute. I'd hate to catch him, only to see him walk on a technicality.”

“If I catch him, he won't be walking anywhere for a while,” Carl muttered to himself, stuffing his notebook into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He turned to Dr. Blechman. “You'll let us know when the DNA report from the girl's wounds comes back?”

“Of course,” Blechman replied, shaking hands with each of them. “If there's anything else I can do to help, please let me know.”

They filed out into the hallway and headed for the elevators. “I presume,” Sam commented, “that we're all heading to the same place from here.”

A soft bell chimed and the elevator doors slid open in front of them. “Absolutely,” Ben responded. “Let's go see how she's doing.”

The ICU waiting room appeared as if an impromptu town meeting were about to be called to order. Scores of familiar faces milled about, both in the waiting area and in the hallway just outside. The chairs normally situated in the center of the room had been pushed up against the wall to accommodate the standing-room-only crowd. Paul and Vera Dressler were surrounded by a throng of friends and neighbors, each offering their heartfelt support and condolences. A small table in the corner was overflowing with a striking assortment of flowers, whose fragrance and brightness seemed to permeate the room. Children sat together in small clusters, giggling and chattering rapidly to one another, and a collection of teenagers from Monica's high school had gathered at the far end of the hallway, talking quietly among themselves.

As Ben and the officers approached, they were greeted with careful smiles and warm handshakes. They were pulled into the crowd as one of its own, and were quickly enveloped in questions and conversation. They inquired about the status of Monica's recovery, and were updated regarding planned studies and procedures. Ben was barraged with questions regarding the girl's injuries and prognosis, and when he made eye contact with Susan from across the room, he could tell that his wife had also been tasked with the responsibility of explaining the medical details of the case in a digestible fashion to those who had come here.

In addition to these questions, Ben was asked about the progress of the investigation, about which he simply deferred to Sam and the detectives.
Have any suspects been identified?
they asked.
Are there any leads yet? Do you think Monica was attacked by the same person responsible for killing Kevin Tanner? Do you think this was done by a local, or just someone passing through?
Ben answered them all in the same way: “I don't know. You'll have to speak with the detectives.” Which was the truth, he decided, more or less.

They had all come to see Monica: this child of the town who had sustained a brutal attack and had been left in the woods to die—this brave girl who had somehow summoned the strength to drag herself more than an eighth of a mile through the mud and underbrush to the side of the road in order to be found. They had come to support her parents, yes; but they all wanted to see her, to sit at her bedside and to pray for her recovery, to will her back to health by their sheer numbers, by the force of their desire to see her well.

It occurred to Ben then, as the faces around him began to blur together into something whole—something unifying—that Monica Dressler represented more than simply one of their own. In many ways, she
was
the town—a physical manifestation of the emotional assault they were all enduring together. To Ben and most likely to others, she represented their will to fight back, their refusal to succumb to the evil that had descended upon them. She had become an inspiration, even as she fought for her life. For if she could find a way to survive this thing, then perhaps so could they all.

“What do you
mean,
‘He eloped'?” Detective Schroeder ran a hand through his dark hair. He was standing near the ambulance entrance next to the emergency department.

“Sorry—hospital terminology,” the security officer responded. “Patients aren't prisoners, so we don't usually say they ‘escaped.' But in this case, well . . .” He looked back at the automatic sliding glass door. “We called it in to the police as soon as it happened. They're out there looking for him right now.”

“I
know
we're out there looking for him. I heard it over the radio.” Carl took a deep breath, telling himself to ratchet his anger back a notch. “
How did this happen?
I thought the psychiatric unit was a locked facility.”

“It
is
a locked facility,” the man confirmed. “You need an ID badge to leave the unit itself, and also one to summon the elevator.”

“I remember.”

“But the patient didn't escape from the psych unit. He escaped from the ER.”

“What was he doing back in the ER?”

“He had a seizure on the unit—a pretty bad one, I guess. The nurse called us to come help them transport him down here. It took a bunch of us just to lift him onto the gurney.”

“Was he still seizing?”

“No, he'd stopped by then. But he was unconscious. I mean, I'm just security—I don't know about the medical stuff—but that guy was dead weight.”

“So what happened then?”

“Once we got him onto the gurney, we left the psych unit, took the elevator to the first floor, and brought him to the ER. When we got here it was pretty crazy. They'd just brought in a patient in cardiac arrest. There were no beds available, so the charge nurse told us to put the gurney up against a wall by the ambulance entrance. Then the family of the cardiac arrest guy showed up and started going nuts. The ER staff needed help with them, and since our guy was unconscious we figured, you know”—he shrugged—“
he
wasn't going anywhere.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“But a few minutes later when I looked back at the stretcher he was gone. Just got up and walked out, I guess.
Man,
I've never seen a seizure patient wake up that fast before.”

“If it really
was
a seizure in the first place,” Detective Schroeder grumbled.

“What do you mean? You think he faked it?”

“Right now, I don't know
what
to think,” he called back over his shoulder, heading for his car. “All I know is that he's out there somewhere, and we'd sure as hell better find him.”

The junkyard at S&D Auto Salvage off Thistlewood Drive had always been referred to by the younger generation as simply
the Yard
. The quarter-acre lot was enclosed by a chain-link fence topped with an arthritic, twisting spine of barbed wire. A simple glance at the scattered heaps of scrap metal and rust-laden automobile carcasses was enough to make one check the expiration date on their last tetanus shot. A pockmarked sign, yellowed with age, hung at a listless angle near the padlocked front gate, advising would-be visitors that
TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEALT WITH ACCORDINGLY
—conjuring images of a toothless, barefooted proprietor in overalls with a shotgun at the ready. A mangy, ill-tempered Rottweiler named Rocco patrolled the premises, endlessly pacing the makeshift aisles between the abandoned detritus, as if anything here were actually worth stealing.

The Yard was clearly no place for teenagers, and as such it was really no surprise that this had become the chosen meeting spot for all sorts of gatherings and events. Ernie Samper's father, an accountant by profession, had inherited the place when his own father had died eight years ago. He should've sold it, for an accountant knows very little about the world of scrap metal and automobile salvage, but he just hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. As odd as it might sound, the place had taken on a certain sentimental value, and so it remained in the family but otherwise sat dormant as the years went by, the cars and decrepit office trailer slowly settling into the dust like everything else within its fiercely guarded perimeter.

“What I don't understand,” Dave Kendricks was saying, “is how the police let something like this happen so soon after the first murder.”

“They can't be everywhere at once,” Eileen Dickenson pointed out from her seated position on the sun-welted hood of what was once recognizable as a blue Chevy Malibu. “I don't think it's fair to blame this on them.”

“That's 'cause your dad works for the Sheriff's Department,” Kent Savage commented. He plucked a small stone from the dirt, took aim, and hurled it at the left headlight of a Ford Ranger eighty yards away. There was a metallic chink as the stone bounced off the front grille, a foot and a half to the right of its intended target.

“That's got nothin' to do with it,” Eileen responded, glaring in his direction. “When things go wrong, everyone always wants to blame the police. They're an easy scapegoat. I didn't see
you
offering to walk people home that night.”

“Well, Brian Fowler walked her home, and she got attacked anyway,” Kent retorted.

“He didn't walk her
all
the way home, though, did he?”

“No, he didn't. So maybe we should blame him.”

“I think he blames himself enough already,” Devon said. He reached down with his hand and scratched Rocco behind the right ear. The dog growled and wagged his short, stubby tail simultaneously, apparently uncertain what to make of the unsolicited affection. “How is he, by the way?” Devon asked. “Has anyone heard from him?”

The others were silent. Despite multiple phone calls and attempted visits, none of them had seen Brian Fowler in almost two weeks. His chair, along with that of Monica Dressler, sat empty at school as the academic year drew to a close, constant reminders of the two teenagers' absence and the circumstances behind it. If that vacant space was a distraction to learning, none of the teachers had mentioned it. The seats remained empty, day after day. No one dared sit there, and no one dared remove them.

Paul Dalouka spoke up. “His stepfather told my mom that Brian received permission to finish the school year early.”

The others nodded.

“I don't blame Brian,” Eileen Dickenson commented. “There's no way he could've known.” She looked around, as if searching for support in her assertion. “Any one of us would've done the same thing.”