The Taint
Page 10
“Why not?”
He remembered why not as soon as she picked up the scalpel. Then she put it down again.
“May as well do the hands first.” She removed the plastic bag from David Burroughs’ right hand, her own hands in sterile gloves. She turned the hand over. “There are no contusions or abrasions and no swelling. I don’t think he was able to strike whoever attacked him.” She picked up a curved instrument and began to scrape underneath the fingernails, carefully putting the scrapings into a glassine envelope which Jon held for her.
“Look like anything?”
“Not to me.” She paused. “You’ll need a microscopic exam to be sure.” She finished the right hand and gently put it down. “Let’s do the other.”
He followed her around the table.
“Same story here. Nothing to indicate that he fought his attacker. At least, not with his hands.” She looked up. “Like Randy Cruz?”
“Could he have been tied up, maybe, and the rope removed after his death?”
“I don’t think so. Again, there are no marks on his wrists, no edema in his hands.” She looked at him. “Just nothing.”
“What about drugs?”
“Maybe. Although I’m not familiar with any drug which would make someone allow themselves to be killed. Strangulation is not pleasant.”
She finished with the second hand and returned to the right side of the table. “Are you ready?”
“Go ahead.”
She opened the chest with a long clean stroke.
He swallowed.
Her hands moved quickly, laying open the chest, retracting the ribs, each accomplished with a minimum of effort.
“Well, he was alive when the dirt was stuffed into his mouth; it’s aspirated into the lungs.”
“This gets nastier every minute,” Jon said.
“A lot of power exerted on the throat. Massive edema, the trachea is crushed, what a mess.”
“Was it manual strangulation or did the killer use something—some leverage on the throat.”
“Clear indications of both. Impressions of fingers, externally, but also a straight edge.”
“Jesus.”
She returned her attention to the internal organs and began to remove them, measuring and weighing each in a scale that reminded Jon of a butcher shop.
She took samples of the stomach contents, fluid from the lungs and urine from the bladder. When she was finished, she straightened and looked at Jon.
“You see this?” She pointed to some discoloration along his sides and ribcage.
He was momentarily disjointed; he’d been concentrating on the internal examination since she’d opened the body.
“What is it?”
“Soft tissue swelling, hematoma. On both sides, at approximately the same location.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I’d say these marks were caused when his attacker straddled him and strangled him.”
“And?”
“Look.” The largely emptied chest cavity glistened. She pointed along the rib cage. “Fractures. Dozens of them, on both sides. One, these fractures were inflicted while the victim was alive and must have been incredibly painful, yet we still don’t have any indication that he made any attempt to defend himself. He just lay there, on his back, and let someone kill him. And two, very few people have leg muscles which would be able to exert this kind of pressure. Inward pressure.”
“So we’re dealing with . . .”
“A madman. Superhuman strength.” She looked down at the body. “And helpless victims.”
The woman’s body was on a stretcher and had to be transferred to the table. She took up a great deal less space than the man had.
“I need to know . . . if she’s been raped.”
“I hope I can tell you. With sexually active women, it’s often impossible to tell.”
She began the dissection as before, the organs much smaller this time, the results much the same.
“I’d say this one was with the hands only,” she paused in her examination of the throat, pointing with the scalpel at the marks on the skin. “And, by the looks of the bruises, he kept letting her go, letting her breathe, and then he’d get another hold. There appear to be four areas here, four sets of marks.”
“Why do you think he did that?”
“Probably wanted her to live for a while. Maybe for a sexual reason, maybe just to make her suffer.”
Jon stepped back, ran his hand through his hair. “Damn.”
She opened the trachea. “The swelling alone could have killed her . . .” She sighed. “But it wasn’t that easy.”
Jon was pacing now, not looking at the body.
She watched him for a moment and then returned to her work.
Later, when she had finished, she washed up and went to her office where he was waiting.
“So?” he said when she came into the room.
“So. We have the same rib fractures. She also had aspirated dirt in her lungs. She had engaged in sexual relations just prior to her death. There were numerous small contusions . . . vaginally.” She looked at him. “I’ve collected swabs, done a vaginal wash, and so on. Essentially a complete rape exam.”
Jon was quiet, nodding slowly.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go look for a killer.” He met her eyes. “How is Tyler doing?”
“The same, why?”
“I think he killed his wife right before the accident.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing. I’m just thinking out loud. Cruz disappeared about the same time as Louisa Tyler was killed.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with Cruz’s death, do you?”
“Maybe Randy came upon Tyler as he was killing his wife. And Tyler knifed him . . .”
“I think you’re stretching it.”
“Let me finish. He’s catatonic, supposedly, and he’s crazy. He sneaks out in the middle of the night, when the nurse is busy, and kills two more people. Then back into the hospital.”
“I think it just snapped. I don’t believe you really think that’s what happened.”
“Nothing has happened in this town in years. He shows up, and now four people are dead.”
“May I remind you, I came home the same day. Or am I a suspect too?”
“All right. But I think he killed his wife. The odds on another killer showing up at the same time, same place . . .”
“The odds on a catatonic patient being able to remove his restraints and go out to kill everyone in sight are a little long, too. Why go out to the forest? There are people in the hospital, other patients, the nurses. Me.”
Jon turned to face her. “I’m going to get a deputy down here to guard his door.”
“Look, we’ll go down to his room and take a look at him. If he’s been out, he’ll have dirt on him, and you said you thought the killer was bleeding. There’ll be evidence. Not supposition.”
Tyler was in his bed, restraints in place and with no visible cuts. His hands were clean and unmarked. “Are you satisfied?” They were walking back down the hall toward her office.
“I still think he killed his wife.” When they got to the office, he held the door open for her. “And he’s hiding, right in front of our eyes.”
“Well, we’ll find out soon.” She sat on the edge of her desk, rubbing her neck.
“How will we find out?”
“I’m going to hypnotize him.”
“What?”
“Hypnotherapy, to bring him out of it.”
“Now wait a minute.” He stood only a few inches away, his look incredulous. “You’re going to bring a probable killer ‘out of it’?”
“It’s a very valuable therapeutic tool,” she began.
“The man may be crazy.”
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“That’s a judicial problem, my problem is keeping anyone else from getting hurt.”
“And he might just snap your neck for you.” He was shouting now.
“He’s in restraints . . .”
“I’ve seen people do things you wouldn’t believe . . .”
“You think you have a corner on experience, don’t you?”
“I don’t think your college and medical school can compare to the streets. Oh, you see them in here, in your antiseptic little rooms, but you don’t find them in the alleys, they don’t die in your arms . . .”
They stared at each other, the silence deafening.
“You’re thinking of Tim, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft.
“People kill other people. And some people die because they don’t expect it. They’re not on guard. They take chances.” His face was pained. “I don’t want you to take any chances.”
She slid off the desk and stood in front of him, searching his face, drawn into the deep green of his eyes. She put one hand on his arm, her pulse quickening. “Why?”
He did not answer.
Her phone rang. She made no move to answer it, wishing desperately that it would stop, that she could go on, to drown in his eyes.
Then he stepped back, reached and picked up the phone, handing it to her. She took it and listened to the voice at the other end, not taking her eyes from his face, thinking only that she had to make him stay.
As he left she agreed to wait until Nathan was back before she attempted to hypnotize Wendall Tyler.
THIRTY-SIX
Amanda Frey sat at the back of the church, listening to her husband’s sermon, trying not to think of the stack of dishes in the kitchen sink, and trying to ignore the exhaustion that haunted her every waking moment. There was still so much to do. The potluck.
Martin’s voice droned and she gave up trying to understand him. She had told him once, when they were first married, that his voice had a tendency to be a monotone. He reacted with such wounded pride that she had never mentioned it again, even as she saw his congregations falling away, or worse, falling asleep.
She had learned to think of something complex, a problem, a crisis. Something which required a great deal of thought. And, over the years, she had solved a lot of problems during the sermon. She had never told Martin, but she was sure that the Lord would approve.
This time it was her summer school. Every summer for the last three years, she had run a school at the church. Eight weeks, Monday through Friday, eight in the morning until four. The response was nothing short of astonishing.
Not that there were that many children living in Crestview, for there surely weren’t. But summer almost doubled the population in town, and the parents who could afford two houses, one in the city and one in the mountains, were not usually inclined to put up with their children’s demands. For time or entertainment.
What she had initially planned as a break for the year-round residents had turned out to be a summer camp for the rich kids. And the rich kids weren’t easily amused. Finger painting and nature study was fine for the quiet, polite town kids, but the others . . .
It was a constant worry to come up with something different. Last year she had kept them occupied all summer by staging a play. They rehearsed, built stages, sewed costumes, hung lights and made up posters and handbills. They were busy, and challenged, but she knew better than to suggest another play for this summer. It was exciting the first time, the second time it would be a bore.
How quickly they ran through life’s experiences.
She was at her wit’s end. And now, to top it all off, she had to go into the hospital for that blood transfusion. With school set to start on Tuesday.
She needed an inspiration. At least she was in the right place for it.
She tuned back to Martin’s sermon, trying to gauge how much longer before she had to get up and get things going in the hall. Maybe fifteen minutes, depending on how many meaningful pauses Martin inserted.
She had been considering a week-long camping trip, to get things started and to break the kids out of their cushioned lives. Without the distractions of television and that rather violent music, they’d be easier to calm down. The first week was often the hardest.
But everyone was buzzing about the murders of a young couple, and speculating about the violation of the woman. The woods were no place to be, right now.
What else, what else? Her mind was blank. If you eliminated the outdoors, there was very little left in town. The quarry had been closed for years, ever since the owners had discovered how hard it was to take the rock down the mountain. The lumber mill was in ruins, probably not even safe to walk though.
The industry, if you could call it that, was recreation. People vacationed here; there were some people who made things—quilts, ceramics, wood carvings—to be sold to the tourists. Yet none of the crafts were big enough, or organized enough, to be a field trip for the kids.
The hospital employed the largest number of people in town but somehow she couldn’t see inflicting sick people with the rude exuberance of the kids.
She sighed, and quickly looked around her, hoping that no one mistook her utterance for boredom with her husband’s sermon. No one seemed to have noticed.
Then she heard her warning phrase, and slipped from the pew, back through the side door and into the hall. As she worked she found herself planning still.
She would have them plant a garden. A big one, in the field beside the church. She would unpack some of her old dresses, from the war, and Martin’s uniform, and she would read them stories, and somehow make them feel nostalgic for something they had never experienced. She would fix up the basement to serve as a bomb shelter, and read them biographies, of Churchill and Roosevelt, and show them what made a real hero.
Martin could help her, if he would. Could make the sacrifices real, the casualties staggering. Stories of boys, not much older than they, but grown and grand, tall and straight, and most of all knowing. What they were for and what they were against.
She began to feel better, almost invigorated. Still tired, but that would change.
And when she’d had the transfusion, she would be a new woman.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Rachel sat at the desk in the nurse’s station, reviewing the patient charts. It had been a quiet night, according to the progress notes, with no unusual occurrences. No one spiked a temp, no one was any sicker than they had been, and no one went for a walk.
Franklin Dunn was sedated, per Nathan’s orders, and was resting comfortably. His wounds showed no signs of infection.
It had taken some doing to get Nathan to go on his fishing trip after his friend’s mishap. He had in fact been dressing to come to the hospital when she had knocked on his door to announce breakfast. But she had stood her ground, insisting that if he really had faith in her as a doctor, he would go. And reminding him that there was little else he could do for Franklin Dunn.
She assumed that he was at the lake by now, and that he would gradually relax.
Wendall Tyler.
“I’m going down to the lab,” she told Emma who nodded without looking up from her embroidery.
She removed the culture dishes from the incubator and opened the first one.
Covered by the whitish organism. Whatever it was, it was growing fast.
The samples from the autopsy cases were in a rack on the counter. It had been some time since she had set up for culture and sensitivities; at a certain point in her training she was no longer required to do what she and most of the other student doctors considered “scut” work. Now she wanted to do it.
It was amazing how fast it all came back to her.
She did cultures in chocolate agar on her two cases, and then, for the hell of it, did Cruz and Louisa Tyler. Four autopsies, four C & S’s.
She wondered briefly if Nathan had put Tyler’s last blood sample through the machine, but decided that he would have told he
r.
When she arrived back at the desk Emma was waiting.
“I just had a call from Reverend Frey; he’s bringing his wife in—she fainted at the Sunday potluck. She’s already scheduled for a transfusion.”
“Nathan mentioned it to me.”
“I’ll go down and get the blood,” Emma continued. “And I’ve got it all set up in 106.”
“Thanks, Emma.” She watched as the woman hurried off down the hall. “It was too quiet to last,” she said to herself and decided to wait in ER for the Freys.
They arrived twenty minutes later, Reverend Frey solicitous if scolding.
“I’ve been telling her to slow down,” he informed Rachel. “Haven’t I?”
Amanda Frey nodded weakly. “Yes, Martin, you always tell me to slow down.”
Rachel detected an undercurrent but Mrs. Frey’s appearance was so alarming that she shoved the thought aside and concentrated on getting the woman into the hospital room.
“We’ve had these episodes before,” he continued, walking alongside the stretcher. He patted his wife’s hand, his smile exuding warmth and concern.
“Reverend Frey, would you mind waiting outside?” Rachel positioned herself between him and the door, his wife already inside.
“I think she’d rather have me by her side.”
“Soon. After I get the transfusion running.” She smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the chapel.”
“I . . . I . . .” he stuttered, at a loss for words.
“Thank you.” Rachel went into the room and the door swung shut in his face.
Emma came out the door minutes later to find him, still standing in the same place, his face still showing his amazement. Emma gently moved him aside.
“Is Amanda all right?”
“She’s doing fine. Don’t worry so.” She tried to give him a little push down the hall in the direction of the chapel. “Dr. Adams is taking very good care of her.”
“Is she calling for me?”
“Who, Dr. Adams?” Emma’s face was innocent.
“Amanda. She must be beside herself. She needs me with her.” He twisted his hands.