The Absence of Mercy (28 page)

The call from the crime lab regarding the fingerprint match had invoked in Sam an unpleasant surge of nausea that he'd been unable to shake over the last fifty minutes, despite a generous swig from the bottle of Maalox he kept in the lower right-hand drawer of his desk. That, mixed with the onset of just a touch of mild chest pressure, made him wonder (with no small degree of concern) whether he might be in the process of having himself one of those all-American heart attacks he'd heard so much about over the years.
Why not?
he asked himself. He'd put in his time at a few greasy spoons in his day. He was certainly due for a few rounds in the ring with the ol' Massive Coronary. If so, perhaps he'd be staring up at the inside of a closed casket before the week was through. “Now
there's
a nice thought,” he muttered, as he watched a piece of melting ice abandon its grip on the gutter above him and tumble unceremoniously like the corpse of a dead bird to the concrete below. He took another swig from the bottle of antacid in his right hand, wincing at the thick, nasty artificial sweetness of it.
Heart attack
. Just the idea caused him to break out in a light sweat.

This is one of the many unpleasantries of the job,
he thought: finding out that someone you knew, someone whose parents you'd had dinner with on more than one occasion and whose father was not only a colleague but also a friend, had wandered onto the wrong side of the law. (Hell, in this case “wandering onto the wrong side of the law
”
was a monumental understatement now, wasn't it?) And yet, when Sam thought about the fury that had been unleashed on those young souls . . . When he thought about the heartbreaking agony sustained by those children's parents . . .
Indeed,
that
was the worst of it,
he reminded himself.
Not this
.

As for this part—the arrest and its aftermath—Sam was merely fulfilling his responsibility, wasn't he? It was a responsibility that'd begun when he'd entered the training academy as a young man. Back then, it had only been an idea, a concept—words he had uttered with the rest of his class during a graduation ceremony almost forty years ago. Still, he'd never suspected the measure of sacrifice the job would ultimately demand of him, or the personal casualties that would be sustained along the way. Now, decades later and near the end of his career, he could look back and finally take stock of the full weight of those casualties. His restless nights and the half-empty bottle of Maalox he now clutched in his hand were only the beginning. The uncomfortable pressure that had taken up residence in his chest this afternoon was also a part of it. But most of all, there were certain tragedies he had witnessed—their images stuck in his mind like desert burrs, caked with the dirt of time but sharp and tenacious nonetheless—that served to remind him that the world, or at least the human race, was indeed broken in some fundamental and perhaps irreparable way.
That
was the true measure of payment the job had exacted upon him over the years.

The phone on his desk began to ring. It would be Detective Schroeder, notifying him that they'd obtained the search warrant. The final act of this investigation was about to commence, and Chief Samuel J. Garston of the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department, having served steadfastly and dutifully on the force for the past thirty-eight years, two months, and fourteen days, realized he wanted nothing to do with it.

I do solemnly swear,
he thought to himself, reaching for the phone,
that I will faithfully and impartially execute the duties of my office . . . to the best of my skill, abilities, and judgment; so help me God.

It was Carl Schroeder on the line. The conversation was brief, a simple confirmation, and Sam hung up the phone within thirty seconds. He grabbed his coat off the rack and opened the door to his office. The chest discomfort he'd experienced earlier was subsiding, at least. There was that much. Hopefully, it had been nothing too serious. So help him God.

Detectives Schroeder and Hunt were the first to arrive at the Stevensons' residence. There was one car in the driveway—Susan's gray Saab—but after a protracted series of knocks on the front door it became clear that the house was empty. This wasn't completely surprising, since it was the middle of the day and both of the physicians would presumably be at work. Officers were immediately dispatched to the hospital where Ben worked, and to the medical office Susan shared with a colleague. On the off chance that Ben was engaged in official duties at the Coroner's Office, a car was sent to that address, as well. The building would need to be secured and thoroughly inspected regardless, since its numerous drawers, racks, and countertops could very conceivably host the weapons used in one or all of the murders. Chief Garston pulled into the driveway a few minutes after Schroeder and Hunt, and two additional cruisers arrived shortly thereafter, along with a van from the forensic investigation unit that had been dispatched to assist with the search of the premises and related evidence-gathering. The congregation of law enforcement vehicles and personnel quickly filled the Stevensons' driveway and spilled out onto the narrow road servicing the suburban neighborhood.

Mary Jennings, who lived just across the street in a modest two-story split-foyer, noticed the accumulation of sheriff's deputies and emergency vehicles from her kitchen window as she was preparing lunch. In a state of concern, she picked up the phone and dialed Susan Stevenson's cell phone. As circumstances would have it, the voice that answered was neither across the street in the house now surrounded by police officers, nor at her medical office three miles away, but rather almost two thousand miles away, on the other side of the country.

“Hey, Mary. What's up?”

Susan sounds particularly nonplussed,
Mary thought,
given the fact that half of the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department is walking around on her front lawn
. “I just wanted to make sure everything's okay,” she replied. “There're a bunch of cop cars sitting in your driveway. I thought maybe you guys might've had a break-in this morning.”

There was no response from the other end of the line, and Mary wondered if perhaps they'd been disconnected. “Sue?” she asked tentatively. “You still there?”

At first she thought that, indeed, she'd lost the connection. But as she listened she realized that the line was not completely dead. She could hear something in the background: the muffled voice of what sounded like a convenience store clerk ringing up a purchase (“
Will that be all? Can I get you anything else today?
”) beneath the subtle static of the open line. She began to take the receiver away from her ear when she heard—or at least thought she heard—a reply on the other end.

“—any?”

“Hello, Susan?”

“Mary, you there?”

“I'm here,” she replied. “Sorry. I thought we'd lost the—”

“How many?”

Her brow furrowed. She had no idea what her friend was referring to. “How many
what
?” she asked.

“Cops. Sheriff's deputies, Mary.” Susan's tone sounded strained and impatient. “How many police officers are at the house?”

Still, the question bewildered her. It seemed to Mary that this was among the
least
important details of the situation. “I, uh . . . I don't know. Let me check.” She went back to the window and peered through the glass. “I assume you're not at home,” she said.

Susan left the question unanswered. Instead, her neighbor repeated her initial query. “How many, Mary?”

Mary counted the vehicles and the people whom she could see. Most, but not all of them, were in uniform. “Five—no, six—cars,” she reported. “One white van. Looks like about . . . I don't know . . . twelve to fifteen officers. It's hard to say. Some of them are still sitting in their cars. It looks like they're waiting around for something. I thought . . . I mean, I know it's a horrible thing to say and all,” she continued, “but . . . I thought maybe they were waiting for an ambulance.”
Or a hearse,
she thought, but omitted this last part. In the back of her mind, she'd been worried that perhaps Ben had suffered a heart attack or even a cardiac arrest. Susan's husband had been looking like he'd been under a lot of stress lately. He'd seemed too gaunt, too . . .
haunted
was the word that popped into her brain. Her body gave an involuntary shudder.

“—en there?”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. What was that?”

“Is Ben there?” Her voice sounded tense but controlled, almost—as ridiculous as the idea seemed—as if she'd been expecting this development all along.

”No,” she said. “I don't see Ben's car, and I don't see him. Maybe they're waiting for him to get home.” A thought struck her then, and she was unable to keep the alarm out of her voice. “Oh, God, Susan! I hope it's not the children! I hope nothing's happened to one of the kids!”

“The kids are with me,” Susan replied.

“
Oh, thank God!
” she said. “
Thank God
for that, honey.”

The voice on the other end was quiet for a moment, then responded: “Yes. Thank God for that.”

For perhaps five seconds neither one of them spoke. It was a short pause, but within it, Mary was struck with the impression that a decision had been made.

“I have to go now, Mary,” Susan said. “Thank you for calling. I can't tell you how important your phone call was, or how much I appreciate it.”

“Oh, you're welcome, honey,” she replied, modestly brushing away the compliment yet pleased with herself for having been such a good friend and neighbor to the Stevensons, and to Susan in particular. Contacting her to make certain that she and her family were okay had just come naturally to Mary. It was the kind of thing neighbors used to do for each other all the time when she was growing up—and in the Midwest, she was proud to imagine, something neighbors
still
did for one another, no matter how disconnected and self-absorbed the rest of the country had become.

“You've always been a good friend to us, Mary. That friendship has meant a lot to me personally over the years. It still does. Regardless of everything else, I hope we can still have that.”

“Of course we can, Susan. You know you can come to me no matter what. If there's anything I can do—anything at all—you just let me know.”

“Thank you, Mary. Good-bye.”

There was an audible click as the line was disconnected, and Mary returned the phone to its receptacle. She stood in the kitchen for a few moments, turning the conversation over in her mind. She realized that she'd learned very little about what was going on across the street at the Stevensons' residence. Nevertheless, she decided that she had been able to offer them assistance, and for that she felt grateful. Humming quietly to herself, she went about setting the table for lunch.

The face of the sheriff's deputy who appeared in the doorway of Trinity Medical Center's pathology lab that afternoon belonged to Tony Linwood, a friend of the Stevensons. Looking up from his microscope, Ben recognized the deputy immediately.

“Hello, Tony,” he said, smiling. “Nice to see you.”

“Doc.” Tony nodded. His youthful, often animated face appeared neutral, his body language guarded.

Ben, who had begun making his way around the large desk to greet him, registered the officer's tone and stopped, his fingers resting lightly on the varnished wooden surface.

“What brings you all the way down to what we in the business lovingly refer to as the ‘bowels of the hospital'?” he asked.

Tony's feet shifted slightly, a little restlessly. “Chief Garston has requested your presence, sir.”

Ben felt his stomach clench.
Not again,
he thought.
And so soon
? He couldn't face another one so quickly after the last autopsy. He simply couldn't.

“Has there been another murder?” he asked apprehensively.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss things with you further, sir. I've just been asked to come get you.”

So formal. So guarded. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him:
What if my presence is needed not as the medical examiner, but as the father of the victim
? A moment of panic seized him, and he was struck with the nearly overwhelming urge to rush at the deputy, grab him by the front of his uniform, and demand to know what was going on. (“
Is it one of my boys, goddamn it?! DID HE KILL ONE OF MY BOYS?!!
”) If he'd taken such an approach, it wouldn't have gone well for him—family friend or not. When Deputy Linwood had received the call over the radio, the dispatcher had said, “Possible suspect in a 187, needed for questioning.” One-eighty-seven was the radio code for homicide, and in a town that almost never saw such a crime, Tony had little doubt which series of murders the dispatcher was referring to. Any sudden rush by Dr. Stevenson would have resulted in Ben lying face-first on the floor with the full weight of the deputy's knee pressing into the back of his neck.

Fortunately, Ben suddenly recalled that the boys were with their mother and grandparents in Arizona, and thus well out of harm's way. Which left him with one residual thought:
Who's it going to be this time
? He released a sigh of resignation. “Okay, let me get my keys.”

“You can leave your car here, sir,” Tony advised him. “I have instructions that you're to come with me.”

Ben frowned. “I can just follow you, Tony. It's not a problem.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I have specific instructions.”

Ben paused for a moment, considering. “
I have instructions that you're to come with me
,” Tony had said. “
I'm not at liberty to discuss things with you further, sir
.” He'd never received a police escort to any of the other crime scenes. So, what was going on here? He was having difficulty making the pieces fit.