The Absence of Mercy (24 page)

“Oh, I know,” Sam said with a shrug. “It doesn't necessarily mean anything that he is.”

“No,” Ben agreed. “It doesn't.”

“Still,” Sam went on, “I wouldn't mind having a DNA specimen for our FBI colleagues to analyze . . . if you think you could get one for us, that is.”

“Sam, I can assure you . . .”

The chief held up a hand. “I'm sure you can, Ben. Don't make too much out of it. I'm just making certain that we cover our bases.” He rose from his chair and walked to the window. “We haven't had a snowfall like this in years,” he said. “Bad timing for this sort of thing.”

“You thinking about postponing the search until some of this melts off?” Ben asked. He was still feeling unsettled by Sam's questions about Nat. He wasn't sure whether to feel insulted, indignant, defensive, or none of the above.

Sam grabbed his jacket and shoved one thick arm through the sleeve as he crossed the room. “Get home to your family, Ben.” He opened the door, stepping aside for his friend to pass through. “Someone will find the body,” he said, his fingers on the light switch. “Sooner or later, they always do.”

“You Detective Carl Schroeder?” the man asked over the phone.

“I am.”

“This is Sergeant Michael Edwins from the Rock Hill Police Department.”

Carl grabbed a pen from the top of his desk. “I'm sorry, Sergeant, I'm not familiar with that jurisdiction.”

“We're in Rock Hill, South Carolina, Detective—just a li'l south of the North Carolina border.”

“Okay. How can I help you?”

“Got a man in detention here says he knows yah. Been askin' for yah all mornin'.”

“What's his name?”

“Well, his real name's Clarence Bedford. Born and raised down here in York County, South Carolina. We know 'im pretty well—one of our regulars.”

“I'm sorry.” Carl frowned. “I'm not familiar with anyone by the name of—”

“Goes by the name of Harold Matthews, though.”

Carl sat forward in his chair. “You've got him? In custody?”

“For the moment,” the sergeant replied. “He was picked up for trespassin'. It's a book-an'-release offense.”

“I'd prefer if you hold on to him. Mr. Matthews is wanted for questioning regarding the attempted murder of a young girl here in Jefferson County, Ohio.”

“I'll bet he is. Roll in to the psych ward, did he?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,” Carl confirmed. “How did you know—?”

“Does it ev'ry time we have a young kid get killed around here. Always confesses to the crime. He's got a long history with us, Detective.”

Carl put a hand to his forehead, laid the pen back down on his desk. “Is that right.”

“Sure 'nough. He's a bit of a wanderer. Hops on a bus an' leaves town to God knows where ev'ry so often for a few months at a stretch. Always manages to find 'is way back, though.”

“He said he'd killed others. Any truth to that?”

“Clarence hit a boy on a bike with ‘is car when he was twenty-three. Said the kid was stealin' a baby that belonged to his sister. Clarence's sister has cerebral palsy. She's in a wheelchair, an' sure as hell don't have no babies. Child he hit was twelve. He died at the scene. Clarence was charged with murder, but it didn't stick none. Turns out he's got schizophrenia. He's crazier ‘n a sack of rabid weasels, Detective. Spent a bunch of years in a mental hospital after that. I think he took it hard, though, that kid's death. Still holds himself responsible. Ends up in our local psych unit ev'ry time a kid around here gets killed—sayin' he's the one who did it.”

Carl stood up and looked out at the darkening day through the small window of his office. “That explains a lot. I'm curious, though—there were quite a few scratches on his body when I interviewed him. Any idea what might've caused—”

“He's a cutter. Cuts on himself to relieve tension.”

“I see,” Carl said. “Well, thanks for contacting me, Sergeant. If it's okay with you, I'd like to send someone down there to collect some DNA samples from Mr. Matthews . . . or Bedford—whatever the hell his name is. Just to be certain.”

“We've got a lab here that can do it for you. Fax me the warrant, and I'll get ‘em on it.”

“Thank you. Again, I really appreciate your assistance.” Carl took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, knowing that the sinking feeling in his gut was their only suspect in this case disappearing down the drain. “By the way, if Clarence Bedford is his real name, why does he call himself Harold Matthews? Does he have multiple personalities or something?”

“No,” the sergeant replied, “just a lot of underlyin' guilt, I reckon. Harold Matthews was the name of the boy he hit—the one who died at the scene.”

The week leading up to Christmas break saw the heaviest single snowfall in eastern Ohio since 1950. Forty-two inches of fresh powder blanketed the frozen earth over the course of two and a half days. Schools had little choice but to remain closed from Monday through Thursday while the county plows and salt trucks attempted to deal with the mounting drifts. By the time the precipitation finally ended and the major streets, sidewalks, and parking lots were rendered usable, only Friday remained. Drawing on wisdom and experience gained from eleven years on the job, the superintendent of public schools for Jefferson County knew better than to embark upon a futile campaign for the hearts and minds of thousands of children during that one solitary day that teetered precariously on the precipice of a twelve-day winter break. Not wishing to generate ill will among the county's parents and teachers for his lack of both pragmatism and holiday cheer, he proclaimed Friday a snow day as well and became an instant local hero, if only for a day.

It was a wise move. Many families had already left town for an early start to their winter vacations. The Stevensons were among them, with the notable exception of Ben, who'd decided to remain at home. Sam's assertion that it was only a matter of time until the second body was uncovered contributed to that decision, as did the chief's inquiries regarding Nat. It had been disconcerting for Ben, finding himself in the unexpected position of having to defend his amiable, good-natured assistant. And now Ben had been asked to get them a biological sample for DNA analysis. He felt ridiculous snooping around for something like that. More important, he felt like a traitor. Nat looked up to him, respected him, and had an allegiance to both Ben and the CO. In order to accomplish this, Ben would be going behind his back, even if it
was
to prove his assistant's innocence. He didn't like it—didn't like it at all.

There was another thing, as well. Sam suspected that the amputated appendage had been left for Ben personally, as a message.
Or a warning,
Ben thought to himself with a shudder. Either way, it was an ominous sign. If Ben was being targeted by the killer, then his family might also be in considerable danger. He'd been immensely relieved when Susan had agreed to take the boys to visit her parents in Sedona, Arizona, for the holiday. It was difficult to know how much of a difference those two weeks would make, but moving his family to a safe location eased his mind. “You should come with us,” Susan had suggested, but Ben had declined. It was important that he be available to assist the detectives if or when the body was discovered. Anything he could do to help them catch this guy had to take precedence.

And yet, now that Susan and the boys were gone, Ben was surprised to discover how much he longed for them. His daily activities provided distraction enough, but in the evenings he found himself wandering from room to room, Alexander the Great padding steadfastly behind him. “It's quiet in the house without them, isn't it?” he'd asked the dog, who had swished his tail back and forth in commiseration.

“How are you two getting along?” Susan had asked him that evening on the telephone.

“Alex and I have been watching a lot of movies,” Ben advised her. “How's Sedona?”

“It's beautiful,” she told him. “Arizona's spectacular this time of year. Dad's taking us hiking tomorrow. I'll email you some pictures.”

“Great,” Ben said, trying to sound more chipper than he felt.

There was a pause on the line. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Ben reached down and ran his hand along the side of Alex's broad neck. “I miss you guys, that's all.”

“You could still catch a flight out to join us.”

“I can't,” he told her. “Not right now.”

“Now might be the perfect time,” she suggested. “Nothing will turn up until the snow melts.”

“And if there's another murder between now and then?”

“There won't be.”

Ben sighed. “You don't know that,” he said. “I've been telling myself for months that this guy has probably moved on. Thing is, I never really believed it. And now this. He'd just been waiting for the right opportunity, Susan—waiting this whole time.”

And mostly, Ben realized, that's what it came down to now: an act of waiting. Waiting for the snow to melt. Waiting to discover what was lying out there somewhere beneath those infinite drifts. Waiting for another dismembered body part to materialize on the front steps of the CO. Waiting to see where the investigation would lead, how the pieces would fit together, and whose life might be claimed in the interim.
Waiting,
he thought as he said his good-byes to his family for the night and hung up the phone. Waiting like a sentenced man, standing blindfolded and rigid before the firing squad. Waiting and listening for the hammers to fall.

The blizzard that had blanketed most of Ohio and western Pennsylvania the week before Christmas had been followed by ten days of frigid temperatures. During that time, the afternoon highs had peaked above freezing for only a few hours on two separate occasions. As a result, the snow that had fallen two weeks previously had little chance to melt. Except for the sidewalks, parking lots, and roadways that had been cleared by necessity, the majority of the waist-deep drifts across backyards, fields, and forests remained untouched, as if the storm had occurred only the night before.

As one might imagine, this had several ramifications. Ski shops enjoyed an unprecedented surge in business, most notably in the sale of snowshoes and cross-country ski equipment. Local fire departments spent several days digging out hydrants from the mounds of snow under which they'd been buried. Sturdy backs and snow shovels were put to the test clearing driveways and reestablishing usable patches of backyards for small dogs to do their business. Emergency departments attended to a whirlwind of fractures and other injuries sustained by unsuccessful attempts to traverse icy sidewalks and parking lots. And for anyone under the age of twenty (and for many people over that age, as well) the most important derivative of the weather was the nearly unlimited sledding opportunities that presented themselves. Hundreds of thousands of children across the region, all on winter vacation, took to the hills for an exuberant, screaming, accelerating descent down snow-covered embankments on cheap plastic vessels. It was the purest joy many of them would ever know.

These were not the only recreational activities. Bret Graham had convinced his uncle to let him borrow his snowmobile for the day, and by 10:30
A.M.
he was zipping across fields of untouched powder, the reverberating growl of the revving engine following in his wake like a snarling mongrel on a tattered leash. He held fast to the handlebars, turning them back and forth as he cut a random, serpentine path through the snow. Eventually, he brought the vehicle to a halt behind 403 Crawford Avenue. He let the engine idle for a moment, then killed the switch. Dismounting, he trudged a few steps across the yard to the rear patio and rapped loudly on the back door. At first there was no sound from within the house. Then he heard light footsteps approaching from the inside hallway, and Cynthia's face suddenly appeared in a pane of glass. She looked at him inquisitively for a moment, then spun the dead bolt and opened the door.

“What in the hell are you doing out there, Bret Graham?” she asked with a wide grin. Her voice was melodic and feathery. Just the sound of it kicked his heart rate up a notch.

He smiled back. “I'm here to take you snowmobiling, darlin'.”

She looked past him at the machine parked and waiting for her. It listed a little to the left in the soft snow. “I don't know, Bret Graham.” (She liked to say his full name, as in, “I'm dating Bret Graham,” or “Bret Graham is taking me to the movies tonight.”) “That thing doesn't look safe.”

“
Doesn't look safe?!
” he repeated with an exaggerated scowl. “What do you
mean
it doesn't look safe?”

“It looks sketchy,” she replied, crossing her arms in front of her. “Do you even know how to drive that contraption?”

“
Do I even
. . .” He let the words trail off at the end. “Shoot! Why, you're safer on the back of that so-called contraption with me at the wheel than you are standing right here in your own house!”

“I doubt that,” she said.

“You do?” He shook his head in mock disbelief. “Well, go put that snowsuit of yours on and let me show you what it's all about.”

“Yeah?” She was finding it increasingly difficult to hold back the excitement in her voice.

“ 'Course,” he responded with complete confidence, as if any other course of action was beyond discussion.

“Okay,” she said, her face lighting up with anticipation. She leaned through the open doorway and planted a quick kiss on his unsuspecting lips. “Bret Graham is taking me snowmobiling!”

“That's right.”

“Wheee!!” she exclaimed, and ran back to the foyer to fetch her gear. Bret stepped cheerfully inside to wait for her, acutely aware that on the other side of the threshold the sun was shining, the snow was soft and inviting, he had an adrenaline-packed rocket ship parked at the ready, and he was here to pick up his girl. When you're sixteen, it simply doesn't get any better than that.