While the Savage Sleeps (25 page)

She did another search, this time using
Caduceus
and
letter N.
The results were even more telling:

Army Nurse Corps: There it was, the context Kyle needed. The scenes she saw in her dreams had taken place during World War II. That’s why everything looked so outdated.

On to an image search using
US
Army Corps, nurses, uniforms, history.
It
gave her more of what she needed. Studying the photos, she could see that in World War I, the uniforms didn’t conform to the shape of a woman’s body; in fact, they were formless, no curves at all. During World War II, however, styles began to change, and the new look complimented the female body rather than hiding it.

Those uniforms Kyle saw in her visions were definitely from World War II. The skirts still went all the way down to the lower calf, but there was much more shape above them.

Kyle had nailed it.

Chapter
Fifty-One

Sheriff’s Station

Faith, New Mexico

“
The kid was wandering around Truth,” Frank said to Cameron as they stood outside the canteen, now serving as a makeshift interrogation room. He nodded toward the door. “He’s in there.”

“
Truth
?” Cameron said. “That’s a good seventy miles from here. How’d he get there?”

“
Judging by his condition, I’d say he walked,” Frank replied. “Kid looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. Clothes torn up, blood all over them, cuts and bruises everywhere. Filthy, too, from head to toe.”

“
Anyone talk to him yet?” Cameron asked.

“
Sure. Problem is he won’t talk back. Not even so much as a
fuck you.
”

“
How ‘bout the grandmother?”

“
Kimmons?” Frank grunted his disapproval. “She split. Left town a few days ago. Apparently couldn’t take all the heat she’d been getting over Ryan. Still trying to track her down.”

“
Okay,” Cameron said and took a deep breath. No law prohibited officials from questioning a minor without a parent present. They were okay there. “How ‘bout I give him a try?”

“
Sure. Take him for a spin.” Frank stretched his hand out toward the door. “I’ve already played the bad-cop. Maybe the good cop’ll work.”

“
I do good cop pretty well,” Cameron muttered, moving past Frank, and heading on toward the door.

“
Well, here’s your chance to prove it.”

When Cameron entered the room, Ryan Churchill sat straight up in his seat, flinching, as if moving to avoid a blow. Appearing shell-shocked and tired, the boy wore only a paper nightgown. His clothes had already been removed and were en route to the lab to see if the bloodstains on them matched up with Alma Gutierrez’s DNA.

Frank was right. Physically, the kid was a mess—lip busted, face and arms covered with scrapes and dried blood. His wrists were cuffed behind him, hooked onto the chair, and his feet shackled as well.

Ryan was trembling, his chair squeaking and the chains around his legs rattling with his movement. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks, leaving behind murky streaks, almost like running mascara. He looked like wounded prey, counting seconds before being devoured alive.

This wasn’t what Cameron had expected. He’d anticipated a cold-hearted killer, but what he saw instead was a timid, frightened child. It was hard to believe this was the same kid accused of slicing his teacher from neck to spleen, then robbing her of her life—slowly, one organ at a time—as if it meant nothing.

Basic criminal profiling told Cameron the suspect would be smug and detached, with a self-confidence level bordering on egomaniacal—not the tearful, frightened boy now cowering before him.

“
Hello, Ryan,” he finally said, his voice calm and quiet.

No response. No eye contact.

Cameron studied him for a moment, then walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and grabbed a bottle of water. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the boy watching him. Cameron unscrewed the top, took a long swallow, then turned to face Ryan, who quickly turned his head away.

“
Sure is hot outside,” Cameron said, staring out the window. He took another swig of water then looked at Ryan as if it were an afterthought, holding up the bottle. “Want some?”

The boy nodded at the offer, but didn’t speak, still avoiding eye contact. At least he was responding. It was a good sign.

Cameron reached into the refrigerator, pulled out another bottle, then headed toward the boy, who followed it with his eyes as if it were something rare and exquisite. After twisting off the lid, he held it up to the boy’s mouth, allowing him to drink from it.

Ryan greedily clamped his mouth onto the bottle with such force that Cameron lost his grip, dropping it onto the floor. When he brought it back up again, the boy resumed gulping, emptying it within a matter of seconds.

Cameron watched, round-eyed, then said, “Would you like another?”

Ryan nodded.

Cameron took out another bottle and went through the same process all over again. It seemed obvious the boy was dehydrated, hadn’t had any water in days. Cameron wondered why nobody’d thought to offer him any.

Four bottles later, Ryan finally seemed satisfied, though he was gasping for air. Drinking had been more important than breathing.

Cameron pulled up a chair and sat across from Ryan. The others had obviously tried the intimidation route and failed, leaving behind a subject who wasn’t in the best frame of mind for an interview. Cameron decided to go the opposite route, offering the boy comfort, while at the same time trying to establish a bond.

“
I want to help you, Ryan, but in order for me to do that, I need to ask you a few questions. It’s important you answer. Do you think you can help me out with that?”

A quick, timid nod, but with eyes still filled with terror.

“
Do you know why we’re holding you here, Ryan?”

He shook his head. Once again, tears began rolling down his cheeks.

“
No idea at all?”

He closed his eyes tight, squeezing out even more tears, which again tumbled rapidly down his cheeks. After that, a sob exploded from his mouth, and Ryan let it all out. He cried, shaking his head.

Cameron waited a few moments, allowing the boy to compose himself. “Ryan, do you know what happened to Alma Gutierrez?

The boy shot his head up, startled. “Miss Gutierrez?” He scanned the room as if searching for her. “What happened to Miss Gutierrez?”

“
Ryan, are you telling me you don’t know what happened to her?” Cameron looked directly into the boy’s eyes. Fear and confusion stared back at him.

“
I
don’t
know. Is she okay?”

Cameron paused. “She was killed, Ryan.”

Instantly, the boy’s expression went from confusion to horror. “She was …? I don’t under … who’d want to …?” He began crying again.

Now Cameron was confused too. “Are you telling me you don’t know
anything
about this? At
all
?”

Ryan shook his head emphatically, his bottom lip quivering.

Cameron didn’t know what to make of the boy’s answer, and he was having a difficult time hiding his surprise. Either the kid was an Oscar-caliber actor, or he knew nothing about Alma’s murder, which made no sense. Cameron put his hands together and looked down at them, thinking a few seconds before he spoke. “Ryan, what was the last thing you remember when you saw Miss Gutierrez last Wednesday?”

Ryan sniffled a few times, composing himself, then responded almost matter-of-factly. “I didn’t see Miss Gutierrez on Wednesday.”

“
You didn’t? Ryan, are you sure?” Cameron said. “You
never
saw Miss Gutierrez that day?”

The boy said nothing, just sniffled again, nodding his head.

“
Ryan. I need you to be truthful with me.”

“
I
didn’t
see her Wednesday,” he cried out between gulps of air. “I swear!”

“
Where were you, then, Ryan?” Cameron asked, hearing his own voice become more tense. “Where were you when you were supposed to be with her in her office, getting tutored?”

“
I …” He stopped, looked around the room, shaking his head, and trying to think. “I was … I …” Then he let out a giant, frustrated sigh, and said, “I don’t remember, but I know I didn’t see her. I’d remember it, and I just don’t.”

Cameron drew a steadying breath and tried to regroup. “Let me make sure I understand you correctly, Ryan. You have no memory of seeing Miss Gutierrez on Wednesday, but you have no idea where you were instead? Can you see how I’d have a hard time believing you?”

Panic had returned to the boy’s face, and he labored over each breath he took. “I know … I know it sounds weird. It sounds weird to me too. I … I can’t explain it. But it’s true—I
swear
it is—and it’s not just that. I can’t remember a lot of things.”

“
What do you mean?”

Ryan glanced down at his feet, shaking his head, almost as if they didn’t belong to him. “Lots of stuff. It’s like there are big spaces in my head. They’re missing or something.”

“
You mean blocks of time you can’t remember?” Cameron suggested.

“
Yeah.” He nodded, relief in his voice.

Cameron studied the boy’s face for a few seconds. He didn’t know what to think. Ryan
did
look genuinely confused. Could he have killed Alma and had no memory of doing it? Did he even kill her at all? “Ryan, do you remember
anything
that happened that Wednesday?”

“
Some,” Ryan said. “But I was sick. I wasn’t feeling too good.”

Cameron was reaching into his shirt pocket for his pen and froze. “Sick, how?”

“
I had a stuffy nose. And my throat hurt.”

Cameron swallowed hard. “Were you running a fever?”

“
My gramma took my temperature. Said it was just a little over 99. Not bad enough to keep me home, so she made me go to school.”

“
Okay,” Cameron said, feeling his throat becoming tighter. “Do you remember what happened after that?”

Ryan deliberated for a moment, then looked across the table and shook his head. “I don’t know. I think maybe when I was on the bus.

“
Going to school?”

“
No … I mean … yes ... I mean … I’m just not sure. Can we stop? I’m really confused right now. I need to think for a minute.”

He wasn’t the only one.

Cameron paused, then turned his head sideways, looking at a manila folder lying on the table. He reached for it, opened it up, then pulled out a sheet of paper. After glancing at it for a few seconds, he flipped it around and slid it in front of the boy. “Ryan, does this mean anything to you?”

Ryan tilted his head so he could read the paper. When he was done, he looked up at Cameron, confused. “What’s
that
?”

“
You have no idea?”

The boy shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“
It’s a poem called
The Hunted Soul
, by Virgil Morrison. You’ve never read it before?”

“
It’s scary. Why would I want to read something like that?”

Cameron scratched his forehead, staring at the paper as he spoke. “Ryan, I have to leave the room for a few minutes.”

The boy panicked, his eyes welling with tears. “You’re leaving? Why? Did I give the wrong answers? Please, ask me again. I promise I’ll try harder. Just don’t go.”

Cameron sat, speechless. How could this child, this scared little boy, so eager to please, be their suspect? The longer he heard him talk, the more preposterous the notion became. “I promise, I’ll be right back.”

When Cameron came out into the hallway, Frank was still there, waiting to hear what had happened. “So? Did ya get the kid to sing?”

Cameron leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and looking at the ceiling. “Oh… he sang all right. Just the wrong song.”

“
Did he confess?”

Cameron hesitated, trying to find words. “That kid in there?” he said, nodding toward the door. “If he killed Alma Gutierrez, then he sure as hell doesn’t know it.” He paused. “And you wanna know something else? To be perfectly honest … neither do I.”

Chapter
Fifty-Two

Sheriff’s Station

Faith, New Mexico