A River of Silence

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Radhauser said nothing.

  “But you’re not here to talk about our library, are you? How may I help you, Detective Radhauser?”

  “I’d like to talk with you about one of your patients. Reggie Sterling.”

  “As I’m sure you’re more than aware, our patient records are confidential.”

  “And as I’m sure you’re more than aware, Dr. Collingswood, even patient confidentiality can be waived when it’s part of a criminal investigation, especially murder.” Radhauser handed him the warrant.

  Collingswood looked it over, pushing his hair out of his eyes with his right hand. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, then stood and walked out of the room. He came back a moment later with Reggie’s file in his hand. “What exactly do you want to know about Mr. Sterling’s stay with us?”

  Radhauser asked the preliminary questions. Date he was admitted and released. Did he enter of his own accord or was it a family intervention? Was he a compliant patient? Did he complete the program?

  According to Collingswood, Reggie entered the center in July after an intervention arranged by his father and other members of the Sterling family. This confirmed what Reggie had said.

  “He arrived with a blood alcohol five times the legal limit and enough to kill someone with a system not adapted to daily consumption of large amounts.”

  “Did he complete the program?”

  “Yes. Reggie spent three weeks longer than the average patient. He was released a little over two months after he entered. According to the center’s records, Reggie attended the recommended thirty meetings in thirty days. As far as I’m concerned, Reggie was a compliant patient who contributed to the group sessions and seemed to be committed to his recovery. But the recidivism rate for alcoholics is very high.” Dr. Collingswood shrugged. “I can’t predict whether or not Reggie will remain sober.”

  From what Heron told Radhauser, Haloperidol was often prescribed for hallucinations during acute alcohol withdrawal. “Did he suffer hallucinations during withdrawal?”

  “Reggie’s withdrawal was difficult—one of the worst the center had ever seen.”

  “Did you or your staff administer any drugs to help him through the withdrawal phase?”

  Collingswood opened the file. “I’m sure we did. We don’t like our patients to suffer any more than necessary. Alcohol withdrawal is not a pretty sight.” He spent a moment reviewing the patient notes. “Reggie hallucinated. He believed spiders and snakes crawled all over his skin. He screamed, tried to scratch them off and actually caused his skin to bleed.”

  “So, what did you give him to help with the withdrawal?”

  “Benzodiazepines are the medications of choice for treating alcohol withdrawal because of their rapid onset sedating qualities. But they have a high risk of liver failure. Antipsychotics may lower the seizure threshold and, consequently, increase the risk of seizures associated with alcohol withdrawal. Even after using benzodiazepines, Mr. Sterling exhibited psychosis and acute agitation, which is not uncommon with acute withdrawal. We administered Haloperidol or more commonly, Haldol. It has the benefit of a rapid tranquilization.”

  Perfect. Just what Radhauser wanted to hear. “Did he go home with a prescription for Haldol?”

  “No,” Collingswood said. “We wean our patients off once they complete the acute phase of withdrawal. Usually after a week or two at the most.”

  “Do your nurses use a hallway cart to distribute nighttime medications?”

  “Yes,” Collingswood said. “But at all other times, medications are locked in a cabinet at the nursing station.”

  “Is it possible Reggie stole Haldol from the hallway cart when the night nurse delivered drugs?”

  “Anything is possible. Alcoholics are devious. Denial and lying are part of the disease. But we’re pretty careful with our drug documentation and nothing was reported missing.”

  It wasn’t what Radhauser hoped for.

  But at least it was a connection.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was long after hours when Radhauser arrived back at the police station Wednesday night. He was exhausted and anxious to go home to be with Gracie, but instead he Xeroxed copies of the notes he took at Sunrise Drug and Alcohol Treatment Center and placed them on top of the folders Vernon had distributed around the table. They contained the information already gathered on the case.

  Radhauser grabbed another cup of bad coffee, sat at the small conference table and dropped his head into his hands.

  While he waited for the others, he considered Reggie as a suspect. He had opportunity—admitting to being at the Bryce home around 11 a.m. and again between 7:30 and 8 p.m. on the night Skyler died. He certainly had motivation. Radhauser had several witnesses, including Scott, who would attest to Reggie’s hatred for Skyler and his belief Skyler was not his biological son. But means was a problem. Hopefully the search of his house would lead to something.

  As he looked through the folder, Vernon, McBride, Corbin, and Leonard filed into the room. Murphy eventually joined them and took a seat at the opposite end of the table from Radhauser. There were dark circles under his eyes and Radhauser could smell the anxiety coming out of his pores like sweat.

  Murphy didn’t waste any time. “We need answers on this case and we need them now.”

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Radhauser said. “So far, we have five potential suspects. Maybe six or even seven, if we count the two unlikely ones. Skyler’s four-year-old brother, and Henry Evans, the son of Dana’s boss.” He told them about the injury Henry suffered and that he had the mental capacity of a seven-year-old.

  “Reggie Sterling is my number one suspect. He believes Skyler is not his biological son. And he was given Haloperidol as part of his alcoholism treatment, but was not given a prescription upon his release.”

  “Dana Sterling who may have wanted to get back together with her ex by eliminating the child who stood between them.”

  “The next-door neighbor, Tilly Olson, who was arrested for her involvement with a drug overdose to a four-year-old in Philadelphia back in the sixties. The charges against her were dropped for lack of evidence. But we’re still looking into it.”

  “Montgomery Taylor, an accused pedophile, who plastered his darkroom walls with photographs of Skyler. Some of them pretty disturbing.”

  “And finally, Caleb Bryce, the 9-1-1 caller, who has acted as father to the toddler for the past year. He admits to preparing the bottle of apple juice, but denies any knowledge of the drug Haloperidol.”

  Murphy shook his head and focused his gaze on Radhauser. “Potential suspects are not good enough. And you want to know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because you’re dragging your feet and not getting any results. Everyone and his brother wants results when a toddler is murdered. All the press this case has received is killing us. Most Ashland residents have kids or grandkids and they are horrified something like this could happen here in their safe little town. They expect us to arrest and punish someone. Most of them figure if an innocent baby can be murdered here, then their children aren’t safe either. People are calling their congressmen and asking why we haven’t made an arrest. They want to know what kind of police department we’re running here.”

  “But it’s only been a week since we got the autopsy results,” Vernon said.

  “That doesn’t matter. And you know as well as I do if a murder case isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours, the likelihood it ever will be goes way down. I want a suspect in custody. And if we don’t have one, I want to know why the hell not?” He paused for a moment, as if to let that sink in before he opened his folder and scanned the documents. For about ten minutes, the room was silent as each officer studied the folders in front of them.

  “What about the deaf guy who called 9-1-1?” Murphy said. “He had the opportunity. Hell, he even admits to making the damn bottle. From what I understand, his girlfriend was about to leave him. One of the neighbors heard him threate
ning to murder the older boy.” He stopped and glared at Radhauser. “You even called Child Protective Services. Maybe he was trying to punish the girlfriend by killing her baby and hurting the older boy. We’ve all heard that 9-1-1 tape where he keeps calling the baby she. Saying she was going to die. Maybe he meant his former girlfriend.” He paused and held up the photo Radhauser had taken of the playhouse. “What the hell kind of a nickname is cockroach?”

  “It was a pet name. A term of endearment.”

  “Sure, right,” Murphy said. “We all know how much everyone loves a cockroach.” Murphy’s gaze shifted from Radhauser to Vernon. “Did the search warrant give you anything promising?”

  It was the moment Radhauser dreaded.

  “We found an empty bottle of Haloperidol in the bathroom trash can. It was the liquid concentrate. It’s my understanding it’s only available in prescription form, but it had no patient name on it. Must have come in a package of more than one.”

  This was incriminating evidence. But the fact there was no patient name on the bottle of Haloperidol could mean it was stolen from someplace like Sunrise Treatment Center where the drug was most likely purchased in bulk.

  Vernon continued. “And the lab found traces of Haloperidol in the baby bottle we found in the crib.”

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Murphy said.

  Radhauser couldn’t come up with a reason why Bryce would kill a toddler he clearly loved. In Radhauser’s experience with murder, the why was always inseparable from the who. “Bryce’s prints were not on the bottle.”

  “Maybe he wore gloves,” Murphy said. “He’s deaf, but not stupid. Why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “There was a set of unidentified prints on the bottle,” Radhauser argued. “They weren’t in our system.”

  “Have you fingerprinted the other major suspects?”

  “Yes. Tilly, and the accused pedophile were in the system. Reggie had a DWI, so his were on file, too. Dana wasn’t a match.”

  “If the killer wore gloves,” Murphy said. “The fingerprints could be from whoever packaged the drug.”

  “The truth is, I don’t think Bryce did it,” Radhauser said.

  “Why, because he’s deaf and you feel sorry for him?”

  “No. The evidence against him is all circumstantial.” Radhauser knew what it felt like to love a kid who died. “I think he genuinely loved that boy.”

  “I don’t care what you think. Arrest the son of a bitch.”

  * * *

  Thursday morning, Bryce was draped over his kitchen table gulping black coffee and rereading a collection of Raymond Carver short stories when the amplified sound of the doorbell let him know he had a visitor.

  He answered and held the screen door open with his foot. A uniformed police officer, shorter than Bryce by at least six inches, and Detective Radhauser stood on his front porch.

  “Are you Caleb Bryce?” the smaller officer asked.

  There was a change in the weight of the air around Bryce. Something was terribly wrong. “Y...Y...Yes,” Bryce stammered, his voice once again unreliable. “D…D… Detective Radhauser knows who I am.” He made a feeble gesture, invited them inside.

  “I’m Sergeant Leonard of the Ashland Police Department and I’m placing you under arrest for one count of child abuse against Scott Sterling and first-degree murder in the death of Skyler Sterling.”

  A door slammed somewhere in Bryce’s head. He stared at Radhauser in disbelief. “Murder? Me? You can’t be serious.”

  Radhauser looked stricken. “Give me a moment alone with him, Lenny,” he said to the other officer.

  Sergeant Leonard was built like a fire hydrant with a shaved-bald head and intense blue eyes that were difficult to read. His squared-off chin was clean-shaven, his skin tanned and taut. There was something affable in the way he nodded to Radhauser as if he completely understood his need to speak with Bryce alone.

  Sergeant Leonard stepped back onto the porch.

  “I’m sorry I have to do this,” Radhauser said. “My captain is insisting we’ve got enough evidence to hold you over for trial. And, unfortunately, the DA agrees with him.”

  Panic rushed down to Bryce’s toes and numbed him all over. “What evidence? I whacked Scott on the backside with my open hand. But I didn’t do anything, at least not on purpose, to hurt Skyler.”

  “Listen to me. I’m going to keep digging, even if I have to do it on my own time. I’m not convinced this case is solved. Do yourself a favor. If anyone starts to question you, even if it’s me and we’re not alone. Say absolutely nothing. Ask for an attorney.”

  “I can’t afford an attorney.”

  “The state has to appoint one for you,” Radhauser said. “It’s the law. And I’ll do my best to see you get a good one.”

  “I was so sure it was an accident. A terrible accident.”

  “As Tilly probably told you, the autopsy revealed high doses of a drug called Haloperidol in Skyler’s system. It’s known to cause seizures and can result in death, especially in a young child. The officers who searched your house found the drug in your bathroom trash can and traces of it in the baby bottle in Skyler’s crib.”

  It was a surreal moment and it took Bryce a little time to get his mind around it. “My trash can? How could it be in my trash can when I never even heard of that drug? I don’t take any drugs, Detective Radhauser. Only Tylenol now and then for a headache. Was the prescription made out to Dana?”

  “Not to anyone,” Radhauser said. “It was in a small glass bottle, inside a Ziploc bag.”

  “Well, I can guarantee you I didn’t put it there.”

  “Does Skyler take a bottle of something to drink to bed every night?”

  “Yes. Sometimes water. I’m always afraid the milk will sour unless he drinks it all before he falls asleep. That night it was apple juice,” Bryce said. “Dana reminded me before she left that we had to keep him hydrated.”

  Radhauser took out his notebook and jotted down something. “She asked you to make the bottle, specifying apple juice? Did she give you a specific baby bottle to use?”

  “We only have one,” Bryce said. “We were trying to wean him from the bottle to a sippy cup, but he wasn’t happy about it. So we compromised, tossed most of his bottles, and gave him one only at night. We washed it out every morning and put it in the kitchen cabinet.”

  “The officers who searched the house collected the original apple juice container from the trash, but it showed no evidence of the drug. That means, if you had nothing to do with it, the drug was either in the baby bottle itself before you poured in the apple juice, or someone tampered with it after you made it.”

  Bryce told him Reggie was in the bedroom reading to Scott. And had every opportunity to tamper with Skyler’s bottle.

  Radhauser made more notes in this black book. “The search of Reggie’s house was a bust.” He kept writing while he talked, as if confirming something for himself. He called the sergeant back inside.

  And Sergeant Leonard, self-confident and intelligent, looked directly at Bryce and commanded that he put his hands behind his back.

  Bryce braced himself. This was no joke. He planted his feet wide apart on the living room tile, and crossed his wrists behind his back. Radhauser handcuffed Bryce, while Sergeant Leonard stood in front of him reciting his rights. The young officer sounded like a child forced to repeat a poem he memorized. His brow furrowed as he spouted off the entire paragraph as if it were one long stanza.

  As he heard the click of the cuffs and felt the pressure against his wrists, Bryce stared at his boots, so far away from the rest of his body it was as if his legs stretched out. Like that green, rubber Gumby Scott liked to play with, Bryce’s feet receded farther and farther away.

  Near the bottom of his steps, he peered hard at the vast Oregon sky, the clear and brilliant blue that comes with autumn. And for some strange, incomprehensible reason, he thought about the enormity of space and longed to somehow reach o
ut into the emptiness and grab onto whatever lay beyond this day.

  Oddly detached from the scene now, Bryce floated somewhere outside himself, wondering about the identity of the unshaven, handcuffed man being pushed toward a police car. Sergeant Leonard nudged him gently forward, his hand pressed into the small of Bryce’s back, but the forward movement only twisted the knife in his chest. Perhaps it signaled his fear, or maybe remorse, or grief. He wasn’t sure. Bryce only knew that the pain belonged to him. It entered to inform him that at least his body better understood where he was headed. Leaning against the police car, he stared at the tips of his shoes.

  When he looked up again, Tilly stood on her front step.

  She hurried toward him, carrying the broom she used to sweep her porch. “Don’t you go worrying none, Bryce. They are makin’ a big mistake.” She took a step toward the police car, then stopped, pushed her glasses up. “Mark my words, boy, you’ll be back home before the night’s over.”

  Bryce turned to Radhauser. “Did you give my key back to Tilly?”

  He nodded.

  Tilly planted her feet more securely in the gravel. Her eyes were wet and wide as she dropped the broom and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Take care of Pickles for me, would you? His food is in the kitchen cabinet next to the window.” Bryce drew in a couple of deep breaths and kept his gaze away from Tilly.

  “Never ya mind, boy, I’ll look after everything.” She tried to smile, but the tremble in her bottom lip betrayed her. “Dang fool,” she hissed at Radhauser. “I thought you had better sense.” She turned and walked away.

  Sergeant Leonard protected Bryce’s head with his hand as he climbed into the back seat. And when the cop reached down and fastened his seatbelt, Bryce believed he was being strapped into an awful mistake. The trap door opened and he tumbled into an unknown world.

  Though he desperately wanted it to be, this was no joke. It was all so impossible to believe. He had never been arrested, never been handcuffed, never even been inside a police vehicle. His mind was racing out of control. Arrested for Skyler’s murder. How in hell could something like this happen to him?