by Julie Cave
"I'm nearly done here," he said quietly.
Cage and Dinah waited as Dr. Schlabach neatly and precisely finished the autopsy, until he broke the silence. "This is just tragic," he said, shaking his head. "I believe he is related to your other murders?"
"Yes," said Detective Cage. "We think so at this point."
"As you can probably see," said Dr. Schlabach. "He was suffering from Huntington's disease. He was probably at the midpoint of the illness. He would have suffered reasonable muscle wastage and loss of strength."
"He was found in a motorized wheelchair," said Cage.
"Okay, that makes sense," said Dr. Schlabach. "He would have had limited function in his arms and hands. That's what makes it so hard to believe that he was victimized."
"To be honest, we're not sure if he was a willing participant or not," said Cage. "As far as my limited knowledge goes, it doesn't look like he was murdered violently like our other victims, but the message left on his body leaves us in no doubt that it's the same killer."
Dr. Schlabach nodded. "We'll have to wait for toxicology results, but I can give you some preliminary findings. There was no indication of violence anywhere on Billy's body, not even any signs of coercion. Did you find a glass or bottle nearby with alcohol in it?"
"Yeah, we found whisky, with some crushed white powder residue," said Cage.
"There was definitely an alcoholic odor about the body when he came in," said Dr. Schlabach. "So my first guess would be that Billy died of an overdose of alcohol and a drug of some kind — I would say a depressant of some kind."
"Why do you think it's a depressant?" Dinah asked.
"Mixing depressant drugs is dangerous and increases the likelihood of an overdose," explained Dr. Schlabach. "Alcohol is a depressant, it's easy to get, most people like it, and you don't have to hide it."
"So what would the alcohol have been mixed with?" Cage asked.
Dinah was silent, thinking of her own suicide attempt. She had tried to mix alcohol and sleeping pills, unsuccessfully. She was thankful to this day that she'd failed.
"Depressants include drugs such as opium and heroin, cannabis, Valium, and barbiturates," said Dr. Schlabach. "Any of these could have been used. I'd be thinking he might have used Valium or barbiturates, based on your description of finding white powder."
"So do you think Billy willingly swallowed this mixture of alcohol and depressants?" Cage asked.
"Well, as I said, there were no visible marks of violence on him," said Dr. Schlabach. "If one were forced to consume the mixture, you would expect to see bruising around the jaw. Of course, sometimes the anticipation of violence is enough to compel someone to do something. We probably won't know if that was the case."
There was silence in the morgue for a few minutes.
Then Dinah said without thinking, "I can sometimes understand why people in Billy's situation would agree to be euthanized."
Dr. Schlabach gave her a quizzical look. "I have great empathy for Billy Atwood," Dr. Schlabach began. "I can't imagine what it would've been like to live with such a disease. I watched my own sister die of motor neuron disease, and it was the worst thing I've ever experienced in my life. But my sister Evelyn was a Christian woman. And she knew that even in the worst of circumstances, God works everything for good. Evelyn knew that she would die of her illness. Her faith and grace during her deterioration brought even the hardest of people to tears. Her love for God shone through everything she went through."
The doctor stopped to gather his thoughts. "Of course, from a clinical perspective, I am also opposed to euthanasia. Holland is one of the few countries in the world that has legalized euthanasia. It's now reached a point where there is virtually no limit to killings done in the name of medicine. It is estimated that over 50 percent of euthanized patients were done so on an involuntary basis, or the patient themselves had not given consent to die."
Dr. Schlabach rubbed his eyes. "Furthermore, a study of terminally ill cancer patients showed that the suicide rate among that population was non-existent. Yet the euthanasia advocates would have you believe that almost anyone suffering from a terminal illness wants to die. Do you see the disparity there? Eventually, the argument moves from having the right to die, to the duty to die. The most vulnerable members of our community — the very sick, the elderly, the disabled — may feel that they have become a burden to their families and completely lose their right to life under the law."
He stopped and suddenly gave a wry grin. "Sorry, I've been sermonizing. I guess you can see how strongly I feel about euthanasia."
"I feel entirely the same way," Dinah said quickly.
Samson Cage just raised his eyebrows and as usual, said nothing.
****
The following morning, Dinah and Cage paid an unexpected call to the office of Edward Sable. The middle-aged Sable sat tensely behind his desk as his cashier showed them to his door.
Detective Cage didn't sit down. Instead, he paced the room; the effect was like having an agitated rhino stamping around. Edward Sable used a white handkerchief to blot the sweat blooming on his face.
"Guess what, Mr. Sable?" Cage began, stopping for a moment and glaring at the other man.
"What?" Sable asked weakly. His eyes darted around nervously, as if seeking an escape.
"We found our next victim."
"Oh …that's too bad," said Sable.
"Yes. And did you know that the next victim was physically disabled?" Cage leaned over the desk toward Sable, who shrank back.
"No …no, I didn't."
"Of course you knew that!" Cage roared. Sable flinched and scooted his chair back against the wall.
"I didn't know that! How could I have known that?" Sable said desperately.
"Because that was next on your list," said Cage. "Remember your list of defective people who shouldn't be allowed to live? Remember how coincidental it is that the victims are being killed in the precise order of your list?"
"That list is public," protested Sable. "I published it on our website. Anyone could have downloaded it and used it!"
"Perhaps they did," said Cage agreeably. The change in his tone made Sable look at the detective with a mixture of relief and suspicion. "Or perhaps you sanctioned the use of the list, and the killer is using it with your full knowledge."
"No!" said Sable. "There is no way that I know who the killer is! It certainly isn't me."
"So where were you last night?" Cage asked.
"At home, with my family," said Sable. "We had dinner, watched a movie on TV."
"What movie?"
"Uh …Disturbia, I think."
"How ironic," commented Cage.
"They'll vouch for me," said Sable, wiping his brow. "I couldn't possibly have done this."
"What about your pal Leonard Marks?"
Sable paused, trying to adjust to the sudden change in subject. "What about him?"
"He strikes me as an extremist," said Cage.
"Well, he is one of our more radical members," admitted Sable, clearly relieved that the heat was on Marks now.
"Is he so radical to embark on a murder spree?" Cage asked.
"Look, I really don't think so," said Sable. "But I don't know him that well."
"Aren't you both in this eugenics society?" Cage asked. "What do you call it?"
"The Movement," replied Sable. "Yes, we do both belong, but we don't socialize."
"You don't hang out at all?" Cage asked incredulously. "Come on. You expect me to believe that?"
"I do socialize with some of the members," conceded Sable. "But not Leonard."
"Why not?"
"Well, you've met him," said Sable. "He's a little …unbalanced. He's just not that fun to hang around, you know what I mean?"
"Right. So is he unbalanced enough to commit murder in the name of improving society?" Cage asked.
"I don't know. I suppose he could be." He's eager to shift the suspicion away from himself, thought Dinah. He will say an
ything about his colleague.
As if thinking the same thought, Cage shot Dinah a wry glance. "He certainly appears to be the most outspoken among the members of the Movement," continued Cage.
"Well, he's young and idealistic," said Sable. "I've toned down over the years because I've learned acting aggressive about it gets you nowhere. He hasn't learned that yet."
Cage sat down and leaned back in the small chair, trying to look relaxed. "Anyone in your group do martial arts?"
Sable looked confused. "Martial arts? Like karate?"
"Sure, that's one of them. Or judo or kickboxing or tae kwon do."
Sable frowned. "Uh …not sure. Why do you ask?"
"What about Leonard Marks?" pressed Cage. "Does he do any martial arts?"
"I don't know," said Sable. "If he does, I've never seen any evidence of it."
"Do you know anything about the time he spent in Thailand?" Cage asked.
"I know he was researching his thesis or something like that," said Sable. He flicked his ponytail nervously. Dinah imagined taking a pair of scissors and cutting the stupid thing off.
"Anything else you know about that trip?" Cage asked. He stood up and started pacing again impatiently.
"No, I'm sorry. The thing is, we don't really talk outside of society business," said Sable. "I'd really like to help you."
I'll bet, thought Dinah, if it means you're no longer a suspect.
"So who is next on the list?" Cage asked, pulling a sheet of paper out from his pocket and consulting it.
Sable had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Uh …if I remember correctly, an alcoholic?"
Cage snapped his fingers. "Right. What are we going to do if the next victim turns out to be an alcoholic?"
Dinah turned her most venomous gaze on Sable, who began to wilt. "I don't know! I really have nothing to do with this!"
Cage pointed at the other man. "I'm watching you. If I find out you have anything at all to do with this, I'm going to charge you with everything I can think of. You holding out on me, man?"
Sable began to shake. "No! No!"
Cage gave him a disgusted look and motioned to Dinah. "Let's go."
Cage and Dinah left the building, their frustration building.
"We have the list tying Sable to the victims," said Dinah, thinking out loud. "But he can't be the killer. He doesn't match the physical description."
"Leonard Marks does match the description," mused Cage. "I've seen him perform at least one martial arts technique, plus he has no alibi."
"You think he's our guy?" Dinah asked.
"I'm starting to think that way," admitted Cage. "I'm thinking of a search warrant. What do you think?"
"Let's do it," agreed Dinah.
It would give her great pleasure to bring down Leonard Marks.
****
Her father fell asleep reasonably early that morning, having had endured another rough night filled with nightmares. Ella Barnett wasn't sure she wanted to keep reading The Lost Boys but she felt she must; she had a compelling need to finish the book. She knew it would reveal to her the connection between her father, John Barnett, and the mysterious Peter and Henry, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know the details.
With coffee and a bagel, she sat in the kitchen where she could still see her father, and began to read.
The autobiography began to delve into some dark territory. The boys were wards of the state during the 1950s, a time when there was precious little regulation and the warden wielded ultimate control. The warden was a strict authoritarian, and his punishments were severe.
In the classroom, corporal punishment was common and frequent. Boys were boxed in the ear for giving the wrong answer. Infractions such as talking during class or being disrespectful earned lashings with the ruler at the front of the room.
The worst punishment was being sent to the warden's office. The walk down the long corridor was dubbed the Green Mile; such was the fear of facing the warden. There, he would remove his belt and thrash the boy repeatedly on the back, leaving welts, bruises, and cuts. Often the boy would be unable to sit or lie comfortably for a week. The warden would often, if the mood suited him, punch, kick, and push a boy for no reason at all.
For what were considered major infractions, such as not doing homework or breaking a rule, the boys would serve solitary confinement, which translated to several days locked in a closet, unable to stand or lie; starvation of meals for several days; or being forced to stand outside in all kinds of inclement weather for hours on end.
Ella put the book down and took a deep breath. She felt sick and cold at the same time. It was inconceivable to her that someone could abuse children in his care so harshly — and worse, that he seemed to get away with it.
Ella thought of Henry and Peter living in such a place, completely alone in the world, nobody to stand up for them. If she had thought the absence of love was bad, the daily beatings and anticipation of violence at any moment must be a thousand times worse.
Yet this was where Henry and Peter had spent their formative years.
Ella realized her hands were shaking and her palms were slick. She took a few more deep breaths. It was important to continue, much as she didn't want to. The compulsion driving her to read the book was deep, something she didn't understand and yet knew was vitally important.
Perhaps the abuse would have been tolerable if the boys had united together, but this was actively discouraged. Of course, such a violent atmosphere taught the boys that the strongest survived, and so violence bred among the boys as virulently as the plague. The warden would pit boys against each other, under the guise of teaching boxing or self-defense. In reality, it was for the sick entertainment of the warden.
Seeing the close friendship between Henry and Peter, the warden sensed their combined hatred for him. Peter Kilpatrick described one afternoon on the football field with the rest of the school watching, when he decided to give them lessons in bare-knuckle fighting:
"Go on, hit him," he said. "Let's see what you're made of."
I didn't want to hit him. I was a little heavier and a little taller than my friend Henry. I didn't want to hurt him. We both stood shirtless, and I could see he was bony and slight. He was scared, too. He stared at me in silent desperation, willing me not to hit him.
So I gave a pathetic swing, which missed Henry by a mile.
"Are you a girl?" demanded the warden. "Hit him properly!"
I did it again, still missing Henry's face by a good margin. It was a mistake: it infuriated the warden. He marched over to us and said to me, "If you don't hit him properly, I will. And then I'll hit you, too. Understand?"
My knees went weak and wobbly. The warden's threats weren't empty, and the pain he inflicted was very real.
Knowing that I would at least do less damage than the warden, I hit my friend Henry. I hated the sensation of it. I could see the pain flash through his eyes, as his head was knocked backward.
"Hit him back, you gutless coward!" the warden yelled at Henry. I welcomed it. I wanted Henry to inflict pain on me, too.
Although he was afraid, Henry hit me. For a small guy, he packed a surprising power. Blood began flowing from my nose.
"Hit him!" screamed the warden. So back and forth, we exchanged blows, each hoping that we weren't hurting the other too much.
Inevitably, my size began to win this amateur fight and Henry's blows began to miss their targets. As I threw a punch, Henry turned his head and I caught him flush underneath the jaw. He collapsed to the ground, groaning. I could see blood coming from his mouth and from a cut about his eye.
Part of me was utterly sickened that I had caused him pain. Part of me was thankful that this sorry fight was over.
At least I thought it was.
"Keep going!" screamed the warden. "You're not done yet!"
I turned to the warden, dumbfounded. "He's down!"
"Keep going!"
I looked down at Henry, curled into the fetal
position to protect himself. "No way," I said.
"Do it!" shrieked the warden.
Although I was scared of the warden, I knew my own limits. I just couldn't do it. "No."
The warden came over to me. "I'll do it then," he threatened. "And you'll go to solitary."
I squeezed my eyes shut. "I'm sorry," I said to Henry. "I just can't do it."
The warden kicked Henry in the ribs with a stomach-turning thud. He wouldn't be able to walk, sit, use the bathroom, or stand without pain for a week.
I got three days in solitary with no food. I sat in that hellhole, wondering when it would end.
Ella let the book fall to the floor from shaking hands. She wasn't aware of the tears that streamed down her face.
Chapter 17
Dinah arrived home, the frustration with the case still churning in her stomach and mind. What is it we've missed? she wondered. Was there some tiny clue she'd overlooked — some connection that hadn't fired? She slammed her bag down on the counter and glared at the refrigerator angrily as if it were to blame.
The doorbell rang. Still preoccupied, she signed for an envelope from the courier without really looking at it and wandered back into her living room. She tore open the envelope and took out a card.
Then she realized what she was holding and stared at it.
It was a generic greeting card with the words In Sympathy embossed on the front cover. It was very similar to the cards found on the bodies of the victims. In trepidation, Dinah opened the card. There was a plain computer printout glued to the inside of the card. It read:
Legislature passed in Germany 1933.
Eugenics in the Service of Public Welfare
For the prevention of progeny with hereditary defects in cases of congenital mental defects, schizophrenia, manic-depressive psychosis, hereditary epilepsy, and severe alcoholism.
The last two words were circled in thick, black marker. Most chillingly, the next two words read:
You're next.
Dinah felt her stomach freeze and constrict as she stared at the words. The room spun crazily around her for a moment as she reeled in shock. Then she realized that she was an investigator and she had to get herself together. With a mental slap across the face, she started to think logically about the message.