by Joe Hart
The pathologist shook his head. “I have no idea, but it looks almost like bone here,” he said, gesturing to the pointed end. “Then it transitions to something cartilaginous, and finishes in some kind of meat.”
“Meat?” Barry echoed from across the table.
Don shrugged. “Looks like lobster or crabmeat to me.”
Mooring laughed in the corner and his head dropped forward, obscuring his face. Sullivan frowned at the officer, and then looked back to Don. “What’s it doing in our guy’s mouth?”
“Not sure of that either. To me it looks like it was shoved in and twisted around. Then maybe Alvarez bit it off?”
Sullivan looked at the head with its mouth open lying on the table. He didn’t have to look inside to imagine the carnage the thing would have created in the soft tissue.
Don touched the recorder again and resumed his position. With gentle hands he began to explore the mouth and throat. “Examining the interior damage of the victim’s mouth, assumedly caused by unknown object found within. Gums and rear of the throat have extensive tr—aaahhh!”
Don’s words were lost in a bellow of pain as he stood straight up, his eyes bulging behind his glasses. The cry caught everyone by surprise, and Sullivan saw each person react. He and Barry stepped forward, while Amanda flew backward with her own short scream. Mooring only flinched. Both techs may as well have been statues, as little as they moved. When Sullivan looked down at the table and saw what had caused the pathologist to cry out, it took a moment for him to process what he was seeing. When the scene finally registered in his mind, he nearly screamed himself.
The head’s jaws had clamped down and were biting through Don’s first two fingers on his right hand.
Don lurched back and pressed his free hand against Alvarez’s face. Sullivan heard a distinct snapping sound, and he watched as the disembodied head and Don both fell to the floor. The head rolled under the autopsy table, and the aging pathologist fell against the cabinets behind him and slithered down to a sitting position, his left hand cupped protectively around his right.
Sullivan and Barry hurried to Don’s side and crouched next to him, both men’s guns drawn, although they didn’t really know in which direction to aim them. Amanda emitted a few choked sobs and pressed a whitened hand to her mouth. Mooring leaned over and stared under the table with narrowed eyes, his own sidearm not yet out.
“What the fuck was that?” Sullivan asked, gazing down at Don’s injured hand. Don was breathing heavy and pinching his index and middle fingers tightly with his left hand, staunching the blood flow, which nevertheless still leaked out from the severed stumps. Sullivan saw the white edge of bone glisten in the bright lights and his stomach lurched involuntarily.
“Should have known. My fault, my fault. I’m okay. Cadaveric spasm.” Don uttered the last statement as if it should explain everything.
“You two, get some gauze and a clamp over here,” Barry yelled at the two stunned technicians. The men rifled through the nearby drawers for the supplies, as Sullivan focused again on Don, whose face had paled further.
“What are you talking about?” Sullivan asked as he shot a glance under the autopsy table. He could see the outline of the head lying there. Thankfully the face was turned away toward the far side of the room.
Don blinked and heaved in a great breath like a man treading in deep water. “It happens sometimes. Bodies, their muscles spasm and stiffen when they die in an extreme bout of physical anguish. That’s what happened. God, I think I’m going to be sick.”
Sullivan saw Don’s eyes flutter, and in a matter of seconds the pathologist’s hand fell away from his wounded fingers as he passed out. Fresh blood flew out of the amputated stumps and splashed down onto the white tile of the floor in brilliant red streams. Sullivan grabbed Don’s bleeding fingers and pressed them tight in a grip he feared might actually snap the already traumatized bones. After a moment, Bob and Gene knelt next to him, and then Amanda was there too, seemingly having shaken off the shock, her doctor’s instincts taking over. Sullivan released his hold on Don’s hand and watched as the two techs, directed by Amanda, clamped off the injuries with a thick elastic band, followed by a dose of antiseptic and a tight wrapping of sterile gauze.
Sullivan and Barry backed away and circled the table. Reluctantly Sullivan holstered his .45, and knelt as he stared into the shadow cast by the steel platform above. His gorge rose in his throat as Barry and Mooring leaned closer to him and took in the sight that he wished he could run away from. Alvarez’s head lay on its left cheek. Its eyes were still mercifully shut, but that wasn’t what abhorred Sullivan to the point of sickness.
The muscles in its jaw were still clenching, the teeth partially visible in the mouth as the head bit again and again on Don’s fingers.
Chapter 6
“Fuck me sideways.”
Barry fell into the chair to Sullivan’s left and placed his face in his hands. The two sat side by side in the interview room off the prison’s lobby. Everything had become a blur after Amanda and the two techs successfully stopped the bleeding. Don woke in a bleary daze and threw up violently on the floor, the vomit mixing hideously with his drying blood. Sullivan and Barry had offered to try to retrieve the fingers from Alvarez’s mouth, but Don merely shook his head and replied that he didn’t want them back after where they’d been. Dr. Rabbers was notified and a report had been filed. Afterward, Mooring left for Singleton and returned with the ATV he’d been driving earlier that day. Don rode back in comfort, cradling his right hand and grimacing whenever the vehicle went over a bump. Officer Bundy had pulled the prison’s boat around, and Gene, Bob, and Don were all loaded inside and whisked away down the watery roadway, back to the crime-scene van. The last thing Sullivan saw as he stood on the bank below the fence was Don’s attempt at a smile, which looked more like a scowl, fading in the waning light of the evening, and then they were gone around the bend.
Barry sat back in his chair and looked over at Sullivan. “Have you ever. In your life. Seen anything. Like that before?”
Sullivan rubbed his face and turned toward his friend. “Have I ever seen a decapitated head bite off someone’s fingers? No, not that I can recall.” Sullivan’s guts churned, but for some reason he felt laughter tightening his stomach, and he shook his head as the first chuckles fell from his mouth. Barry glanced over at him and made a gagging sound, and Sullivan realized the other man was trying to keep from laughing also. Tears sprang to Sullivan’s eyes as he bit down on his lower lip to keep the insane giggles from spilling out, but it was no use. Soon, he and Barry were slumped back in their chairs, twisting and turning under the thumb of the hideous humor that gripped them. It was minutes before the laughter eased off and Sullivan was able to look through the glass walls to make sure they were still alone in the interview area.
“Jesus, what are we laughing about?” Barry said as a few remaining giggles slipped out.
“It’s this day, my friend. This is by far the strangest shit I’ve ever been witness to, and I think it’s just an overload.”
“Must be, because I nearly puked just now thinking about what happened back there in that room, and laughing only made it worse.”
Sullivan nodded in agreement. Visualizing Alvarez’s head biting down on Don’s fingers and the sound it had made—the cracking of bone being sheared through, the smell of blood—was enough to sober him once again. Sullivan shifted and felt something poke him through the material of his slacks. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag that contained the object that had been removed from Alvarez’s mouth. In the haste and panic that followed Don’s injury, he’d put the bag in his pocket and simply forgotten about it.
Now, he stared through the thick plastic at the object. If it had been found somewhere besides in a dead man’s mouth, the spiraling teeth and slender shape might have been beautiful. Were the sharp points teeth? Not teeth, just jagged tips. He looked closer at the ivory coloring of the thing. Slight
variations like layers could be seen as swirls on its surface. They resembled the lines in agates he used to hunt for as a child. The more lines, the cooler the rock. When he flipped the bag over to look at the object’s base, he could see the likeness Don described earlier. The material hanging out of the hard shell was light in color and striated. A few flaps dangled raggedly from the edge, assumedly where Alvarez had bitten through it. The head clamping down on Don’s fingers now made sense—the victim had died biting through the murder weapon.
“What do you think that is?” Barry asked, startling Sullivan.
“Not sure, but I think forensics will match some of the wounds on Alvarez to this thing. Might be from some kind of sea animal. Looks marine anyway.”
“Someone stabbed him to death with a crab claw?”
“Looks that way, smart-ass. You’ll be pissed when that’s exactly what it turns out to be,” Sullivan said as he tucked the bag into his pocket.
Footsteps outside the room caused them to turn their heads, and the lanky form of the warden filled the doorway. “Hello, gentlemen, how are you?”
“Just fine, sir. Thank you,” Sullivan said.
Andrews’s face pulled in on itself as he frowned at the floor. “I’m very sorry to hear that a member of your team was injured. Freakish, isn’t it?”
Sullivan nodded. “Yes, really strange, but Don’s going to be okay.”
“Good, good.” Andrews reached into the pocket of the light jacket he wore, pulled out two small pieces of plastic, and handed them to the agents. “These are electronic keys to the prison’s security doors. I thought they would be of use, so you can come and go a little more freely, but please keep them on your person at all times. They won’t unlock the prison cells or the armory, but they’ll get you into most any other room on the premises. Take care of them well.”
Sullivan was reminded of a grandfather handing a grandson his first slingshot and a pocketful of taconite pellets. “Thank you, Warden. We’ll keep them safe.”
Andrews waved his hands before him. “Please, call me David. Now, what’s next for you gentlemen? Anything else I can do for you?”
Sullivan looked at Barry and then back at the older man. “We’d like to interview Officer Bundy when he gets back from dropping our crime-scene team off.”
“Very well, I think he’s just returned, actually. Anything else?”
“Only a ride back to our vehicle when we’ve finished, if that works. We’ll stay in Brighton tonight and come back as early as we can,” Sullivan said.
The warden’s lips pursed as if tasting something sour. “I think it might be a better idea for you to stay here tonight. Have you looked outside in the last twenty minutes?”
Both men shook their heads. The warden motioned for them to follow him, and led them to the lobby.
“Unbelievable,” Sullivan muttered as he stepped close to the glass doors and peered out at the yard.
The approaching storm had worsened since their return to the prison. Rain fell sideways in sheets thick enough to obscure the fence outside, carried on winds that tossed the nearby forest into a frenzy of falling leaves and whipping branches. A slight abatement in the gusts provided a view of the water level near the front gate. Unbelievably, it looked higher than when he’d last seen it.
“Shit,” Barry said beside him. “You’re sure no one can bring us across?” he asked Andrews, who stood behind both men.
The warden’s eyes squinted out at the elements. “Gentlemen, I’d love to, but I don’t think it holds much sense to endanger one of my staff, or yourselves, on a night like this. Like I said, I’d be happy to arrange a room for you both tonight. They’re quite comfortable and they lack the bars the other guests have to put up with.”
Sullivan looked at Andrews and saw that the older man had just a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. All at once, the warden grimaced and grabbed his left bicep with his right hand, as if someone had struck him. Pain flashed like the lightning outside across his face, and Sullivan reached out to steady Andrews as he wavered on his feet.
“You okay, sir?” Sullivan asked.
The warden opened his eyes and Sullivan saw an accumulation of tears there. Andrews nodded and tried to smile again. “Arthritis.” He motioned to the doors. “This damp weather always sets it off. I won’t be right until a week after it’s dried up and blown away.”
Sullivan dropped his hand to his side and nodded, unconvinced. Andrews smiled again and turned toward the main desk. “So you’ll stay tonight?”
Both agents followed him, and Barry just shrugged when Sullivan tried to read his expression. “I suppose that’s best. I don’t want to put one of your men at risk,” Sullivan said.
Andrews stopped and leaned on the desk, and Sullivan noticed that the tall man wasn’t just idly resting; the counter looked to be holding him upright. “Good, good. I’ll send Officer Bundy to you gentlemen as soon as I locate him,” Andrews said.
Sullivan and Barry thanked him and headed for the interview rooms once again. As soon as they were inside, Barry withdrew his cell phone and began punching it with a fingertip. Out of habit, Sullivan withdrew his own, and was momentarily confused when the usual display didn’t light up. He then recalled the phone’s version of a swan dive into the puddle outside, and cursed as he tucked the useless thing away.
“Who’re you calling?” Sullivan asked, sitting on one side of the table.
Barry’s face was scrunched up in concentration as he brought the phone to his ear. “Sheriff Jaan,” he said. After a few moments, he pulled the device away from his head and frowned at it. “No answer.”
“Cell number?”
“Yeah, that’s all he gave me. We’ll have to look up the landline when we finish the interview.”
“Did you think of something to ask him?”
Barry sat in the chair beside Sullivan and sighed. “No, I just don’t want to stay in this fucking place tonight.”
“Why?”
Barry looked at Sullivan and just shook his head. “Not sure. I just don’t.”
Sullivan was about to agree and suggest that they simply commandeer the prison’s boat when the slouched form of Officer Bundy appeared in the doorway. The man stroked at his goatee and knocked on the door frame before entering.
“Come on in,” Sullivan said, gesturing toward a seat on the opposite side of the table. The dislike he felt at seeing Bundy’s lackadaisical manner and movement surfaced again like heartburn.
The officer slumped into the chair and looked back and forth at the two agents. “Whatcha guys need?”
Sullivan felt his left eyebrow slouch down as he studied the guard. “We need to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay with you.”
The guard tilted his head to the right and smoothed his facial hair again. Sullivan had the urge to reach across the desk and pull out a chunk of the pitiful beard, but managed to remain seated. “Whatcha want to know?”
Barry, sensing Sullivan’s anger, leaned forward. “We’d like to know what exactly happened last night while you were on shift. Can you run us through that?”
“Well, I clocked in at the regular time and got briefed on the prior shift. Myself and four other guards were scheduled to go out and keep sandbagging. I would say we stayed out until midnight, and then we were called in by the front desk. Told us that one of the inmates was dead. We all came scramblin’ in and accompanied Hunt down to solitary.” Bundy raised his hands in front of him, as if to say, you know the rest.
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary on your way down to the crime scene?” Sullivan asked.
“Other than Hunt shitting his pants? Nope,” Bundy said, chuckling through his goatee.
“Does this whole situation strike you as funny, Officer?” Sullivan asked. The tone of his voice was like a bullwhip snapping in the room.
Bundy quit laughing and scowled instead, his tongue pressed into the space of his bottom lip. “No,” he said after a brief pause.
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“Good, because I don’t know if you looked real close down there, or maybe it was too dark, but that man was literally torn to pieces and battered to death. Someone tried to shove his head down a drain. To me that says crazy, but what the hell do I know, right? I’m just a dumb special agent stomping around in your territory.”
“Sully,” Barry said out of the side of his mouth.
“I don’t really care to be talked to like this,” Bundy said and began to stand.
“Sit down,” Sullivan growled. Something in his voice must have registered with the guard, because Bundy sat and blinked at Sullivan, as if he had just become aware of him. Sullivan could feel his pulse beginning to slam inside his chest, not necessarily fast but hard. The adrenaline-laced blood coasted through his veins, asking for release.
Barry placed his hands flat on the table. “Look, we just need to know if there was anything out of the ordinary during your shift before Hunt came and told you what he’d found. Any visitors that day or disturbances other than what landed Alvarez in solitary?”
Bundy looked like he wasn’t going to answer, but then shook his head. “No, nothing strange. Just like you said, the fight that started this whole mess.”
“Do you know of any internal gang problems? Maybe someone that had it in for Alvarez prior to yesterday?” Sullivan asked. He could feel his pulse calming, but the compulsion to unleash his anger on the man across the desk still burned.
“No, nothing like that. Everyone usually gets along just fine here,” Bundy said, and Sullivan detected a hint of a smile, then it was gone.
Sullivan glanced at Barry and the other agent shrugged. “Thanks for your help,” Sullivan said.
Bundy rose from his chair, gave one contemptuous look over his shoulder, and went out into the hallway. Barry shut the door and sat down in the chair Bundy had vacated. Sullivan studied his friend. Barry’s thin hair was disheveled and there were dark bags hanging beneath his eyes.
“You look tired,” Sullivan said.