Devil's Nightmare (Devil's Nightmare, Book 1)

by Pruneda, Robert

  “But he confessed to the murders.”

  “Just do it, Riley.” I adjusted the side view mirror and looked into it. I could see Jackson rubbing the back of his head against the seat and then stared out the window towards the house. “Call me the second you find anything.”

  “What exactly are we looking for?”

  I glanced at Jackson’s father and leaned closer to Riley. “That boy didn’t do this by himself,” I said in just over a whisper. I readjusted the side mirror and pressed the button to roll up my window. Riley backed away while I turned the car around, stopping briefly to give Riley a quick nod. He acknowledged and approached Mr. Smith.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Redline

  “I’m transporting him to the tank right now,” I said to Chief Hernandez, as I pulled on the highway and peered into the rearview mirror. Jackson gazed out the window.

  “No interrogation without his parents or attorney present,” he reminded me.

  I turned the wiper dial to the highest setting while the rain came down in thick sheets. The heavy gusts of wind hit the car with enough force to give the steering wheel a slight jolt.

  “Come on, David,” I said. “You don’t have to treat me like a rookie.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter with my free hand.

  “In fact, I don’t want you interrogating him at all tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just process him through. Something…” The chief’s voice broke up in a hum of static. The screen on the phone showed we still had a connection, but as I raised the phone back to my ear all I could hear was more static.

  “David? Chief?” Lightning scattered across the sky ahead of me while heavy rain pounded against the vehicle. The rain slapping against the roof made hearing the chief that much harder through the static. “Can you hear me?”

  “Aaron…call…you get…processing…ackson…ith.”

  “Hey, you’re breaking up.” More static filled my ear. Then a double-beep indicated the call had disconnected. “Wonderful.”

  I tossed the phone aside to the passenger seat and checked on Jackson through the rearview mirror. A dark silhouette with a pair of glowing amber eyes suddenly appeared next to him.

  “Holy sh—” I panicked as another flash of lightning lit up the sky. A thunderous rumble reverberated against the windows of the Charger. The car skidded on the pavement as I tapped on the brake pedal. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, regained control of the vehicle, and then shot another glance back in the rearview mirror. The silhouette had disappeared. Jackson continued to stare out the window with his head resting against the seat, oblivious. I rubbed my eyes and my face and checked the rearview mirror again, all the while trying to convince myself that my eyes had simply played tricks on me, a side effect of sleep deprivation.

  “Man, I need to get some serious sleep,” I mumbled to myself. “You okay back there?”

  Jackson ignored me.

  I sighed and continued our trek into town. With the rain letting up a bit, I lowered the speed of the windshield wipers. As we traveled towards the Austin city limits, I thought about the grisly scene at the cemetery. Images of Jason Dexter’s and Cullen Chandler’s mangled bodies, as well as the still-unidentified torso of the third victim, flashed through my mind, tearing at me as I tried to piece together what had happened to those kids… and to Cody’s parents.

  I felt a sense of relief as I peered into the rearview mirror again. My initial hunch that Jackson Smith had at least some connection to the deaths of those boys was correct, and I had him in custody.

  However, there were still so many unanswered questions.

  How could a fourteen-year-old boy commit such an atrocious crime and do so much damage to the bodies? Jackson Smith had the frame of an athlete, a star varsity football player, but at five and a half feet tall and maybe a buck thirty in weight, I found it hard to believe he had the physical capability to do it on his own.

  We traveled another five minutes and entered the city limits. The rain had finally stopped. I rubbed the back of my tense neck and glanced towards a digital marquee displaying the time and temperature beneath a bank business sign. It was a quarter to ten, but felt much later. I yawned while I checked on my suspect. He was still gazing out the side window.

  What was he thinking? What had happened the night of the murders? Jackson had said he only wanted to scare the boys. It was only supposed to be a joke, he’d claimed. He’d never explained what ‘it’ was. What had he planned, to scare the youngsters, and what had gone so horribly wrong that it resulted in their brutal deaths? I clenched my jaw and shook my head. As I approached the Travis County Jail, the images of their mutilated bodies faded to the back of my mind.

  My first encounter with Jackson Smith had been an unpleasant one. He had been cocky with me, disrespectful, and had a foul mouth. He reminded me of every punk delinquent I had ever dealt with as a juvenile probation officer early in my law enforcement career. Most of the kids I’d dealt with back then had been bullies with a history of aggressive behavior and drug use, some of them likely born into that lifestyle. Some of their parents had shown just as much disrespect and arrogance as their children.

  When I’d first met Jackson Smith, his demeanor had triggered an emotional response in me. I’d had issues with youth who’d tried to act tougher than they really had been, with their vulgarity, blatant lack of respect for authority, and abusive nature. I had dealt with my share of bullies growing up as a kid, and living at Saint Hedwig Youth Home at such a young age had caused profoundly negative effects on me. That probably had contributed to my failure as a juvenile probation officer. I’d had a hard time keeping my emotions at bay when handling disrespectful youths. So, when Jackson had attacked me with his blatant slander, as far as I was concerned, he’d been no different from any other delinquent.

  The truth was, however, Jackson was far different. None of the juveniles I’d supervised had ever committed such a violent crime. As a suspect possibly involved in the deaths of those kids, Jackson had become someone I abhorred. He disgusted me. However, when he’d broken down on his living room floor and confessed to killing three of his peers, I’d actually felt sorry for him. My internal response surprised me. How, I wondered, could I have any form of sympathy for someone involved in such a violent crime?

  When Jackson had curled up sobbing, I hadn’t seen a murderer. I hadn’t seen a criminal. He was a fourteen-year-old boy emotionally torn, distraught, and completely void of all hope. A troubled youth who no longer wanted to hide from the demons that haunted him. I had recognized a blend of relief and emotional pain when I arrested him. For the first time in my career, an odd sense of compassion had overwhelmed me while arresting my suspect.

  †

  “Another one?” said Deputy Clinton Willis as I parked the Charger near the booking entrance inside the Travis County Jail garage.

  “Busy tonight.” The deputy glanced through the rear side window. “Sorry, Aaron, but you’ll have to take him to JDC. You know we can’t house minors here.”

  “I know, Clint. I just need to hold him here while I get him processed.”

  “You can process him at Juvie.”

  “He just confessed to killing the three boys at Memorial Heights Cemetery… and possibly two adults.”

  The deputy’s eyes grew wide. “No shit? Damn, what the hell’s wrong with kids these days?”

  “I highly doubt this one is going through Juvenile Court.”

  “Probably right.” Clint looked back at Jackson and then leaned closer to the car. “Um… I think there’s something wrong with your perp.”

  I peered over my shoulder. Jackson was still staring blankly out the window. “Hey, you okay?”

  He didn’t respond. I rushed out of the car and opened the rear passenger door. Jackson’s face was pale with glazed-over eyes. I pressed two fingers against his neck under his jawbone. No pulse.

  “Son of a bitch. He coded! Get me a defib! An
d alert Medical!”

  I unbuckled the seatbelt and pulled Jackson onto the concrete floor. Another deputy rushed into the parking garage from inside the building.

  “Help me get these cuffs off him,” I said to the deputy.

  I held Jackson while the deputy removed the handcuffs. Then I laid him on his back and began administering CPR.

  “What happened?” the deputy asked. He waved over at Clint, who was running toward us carrying a small first aid kit.

  “I don’t know,” I answered, pumping down on Jackson’s chest. “He just redlined on the way over here.”

  “Is he on drugs or something?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I need some scissors.”

  Clint handed me a pair from the first aid kit. I cut Jackson’s shirt, tore it open, and motioned for the defibrillator. Then I grabbed the adhesive electrode pads out of the deputy’s hands, peeled the backing off the pads, and applied them to Jackson’s chest.

  “Connect the pads to the defib, charge it.”

  Clint did as I asked. There was the high-pitched tone of the defibrillator charging and then an electric shock pulsed into Jackson, causing his upper body to rise, his back to arc. The first shock failed to resuscitate Jackson’s heart, so I ordered for the deputy to hit him again. The second shock still didn’t revive the teenager.

  “Come on, damn it,” I said under my breath. “Don’t die on me.”

  A paramedic and emergency medical technician rushed into the garage from inside the holding cell area. I stepped aside and let them work on Jackson.

  “How long’s he been in cardiac arrest?” the paramedic asked.

  “Five minutes,” I guessed. “Maybe ten or fifteen. I don’t know. He coded during transport.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jackson Smith.”

  “Have his parents been notified?”

  “No.”

  The paramedic eyed me while another jolt from the defibrillator hit Jackson. “How many times did you hit him with the defib?”

  “Four,” I answered, feeling helpless.

  The paramedic glanced at me while he removed the adhesive electrode pads. “You need to call his parents,” he ordered. He then directed his attention to the EMT assisting him. “Let’s try ours.”

  The paramedic placed gel on the paddles of a larger defibrillator, rubbed the paddles together, and placed them over Jackson’s bare chest. “Clear!”

  Jackson’s chest jumped and his back arched as the paramedic administered the shock. He then read the heart rate indicator on the machine. No pulse. He tried a second, then a third time, but still could not resuscitate the fourteen-year-old boy. “He’s gone,” he said.

  “Wait, no. I can’t lose him,” I said. “What about an adrenaline shot to the heart?”

  “An intracardiac injection? Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not. You don’t understand. I can’t—”

  “This isn’t Pulp Fiction, Detective,” he said derisively, setting the paddles down. “You can’t just jam a needle full of epinephrine, all Hollywood style, and not expect consequences. Why do you think we don’t use that method anymore? Even before the early 90s, we’d used it very sparingly. It often caused more harm than good.”

  I glared at the paramedic and then got down on the concrete floor and began administering CPR on Jackson again. I pumped his chest, and yelled, “Come on, damn it! Breathe!” I felt a hand on my shoulder, but I brushed it away. I breathed air into Jackson’s mouth, trying to fill his lungs (another procedure apparently no longer used), and continued to pump his chest for a couple of minutes, before I finally gave up. I gazed at the lifeless body, the teen’s eyes glassed over and fixated on the ceiling, his discolored lips parted. I placed my hand on Jackson’s chest, desperately hoping to feel his heartbeat.

  “Damn you!” I yelled upward and hit the car with the flat of my fist. Resting my body against the door, I lowered my head into my hands with closed eyes. I could feel the blood pulsing through the veins in my body, my ears burning and my chest tightened as the anger built up inside. I could sense the others staring at me, but none of them said a word.

  I ignored my ringing phone while I reflected on the unexpected turn of events. “How the hell does a healthy fourteen-year-old kid die from a heart attack?”

  I hadn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until the EMT answered, “It may not have been a simple heart attack. May I ask what you brought him in for?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just thinking that maybe whatever he did… maybe he took something.”

  “He didn’t kill himself. I was with him the whole time.”

  My phone chimed again. I sighed and checked the screen. I had a voicemail from Detective Riley. I glanced at Jackson Smith’s pale body, shook my head, and walked towards the street.

  “Detective?” The paramedic called out to me. “What about his parents?”

  “I’ll take care of it!” I growled, and checked the voicemail.

  Aaron, this is Steven. This may surprise you, but Robert Smith didn’t have a problem with us searching the house after all. The team got here pretty quick, but so far we haven’t found anything incriminating. I did find something that you may be interested in looking at. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Smith just left here. So, I just wanted to give you a heads up. Call me back.

  When I returned Riley’s call, he informed me that he’d found part of a Ouija board with blood stains, in a burn barrel. “I also have Jackson’s cell phone with some text messages and photos that I think you should look at.”

  “Take it to the lab and brief me later.”

  “You don’t want me to take it to you? I think you’ll want to ask Jackson about—”

  “He’s dead, Riley.”

  “He’s… what? How?”

  “I don’t know, but I need you to do something for me.”

  “Yeah, of course. Anything.”

  I heard sirens approaching. “I need you to ask Jackson’s mother if he had any medical problems or if he was taking anti-depressants.”

  “Okay.”

  “And then I need you to tell her that he went into cardiac arrest on the way here. Be sure to let her know that we did everything we could to resuscitate him.”

  “Okay, I think I can handle that.”

  “You think you can? Or you can?”

  “Don’t worry,” Riley reassured. “I’ve got it.” He paused. “What about his father? He’s on his way over there right now.”

  I sighed and watched the dark clouds float overhead. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a kid die on me like this before.”

  “May I suggest something?”

  “I don’t know. It depends.”

  “Well, I was going to suggest you let me talk to him.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I protested. “I need you to—”

  “Just trust me on this one, okay? I can tell you’re distraught about this. Let me take some of the load off you.”

  All I could think about was Jackson’s father somehow blaming me for his son’s death, triggering an inevitable wrongful death lawsuit against me and the Austin Police Department. As much as I didn’t want to trust Riley, I was the last person that should break the news to Robert Smith. And, admittedly, his offer did give me a sense of relief, which earned him a little more of my respect. “All right,” I said to him. “I’ll trust that you won’t screw this up. And on second thought, don’t tell Jackson’s mother anything. Let’s inform his dad first. How quickly can you get here?”

  “Half hour. Maybe less. What about the evidence?”

  “Let CSU take care of that.” An ambulance and another vehicle turned into the parking garage. “The bus and M.E. just showed up. I need to go. Make sure you have a deputy with you when you talk to Jackson’s dad. I’ll call you when his parents can see him.”

  I ended the call and headed back inside the parking garage.

  †

  Donald Luther made preliminary
examinations of Jackson Smith’s body, but couldn’t come up with a clear cause of death. Chief Hernandez arrived a few minutes after the medical examiner and ambulance arrived. I hadn’t searched Jackson before placing him in the car. What if he had somehow committed suicide with a drug or something? Don would be able to answer that for us with an autopsy.

  “So, what do you think, Don?” I asked while staring at Jackson’s lifeless body. “You think he was on something?”

  “Before you arrested him, did you see him raise his hand to his mouth at any time?”

  Jackson had curled up on the living room floor, so maybe he’d had an opportunity then, but I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Don stood and adjusted his glasses. “He has bruises on his arms, probably from playing football, but other than that, he physically looks fine.”

  “Other than being dead.”

  “Yes.” He touched my shoulder and said, “We’ll take it from here, Aaron. Go take a load off. Have a drink. I’ll let you know what I find out after the autopsy.”

  I pinched the ridge of my nose and rubbed my eyes with my index finger and thumb.

  “No te preocupes,” Chief Hernandez said, encouraging me not to worry. “It wasn’t your fault. He probably had an aneurysm or something.”

  “The chief’s probably right,” Don agreed. “It wouldn’t be the first time a high school football player died unexpectedly like this. It probably was an aneurysm.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, gazing down at Jackson’s body. I knelt down and closed his eyes. “He’d just confessed to murdering those kids, Don, but I know he couldn’t have done that by himself. Now, he’s dead.” A chill tingled down my spine. What in hell had I seen in my rearview mirror on the way over here? I shook my head and said, “No. That’s just crazy.”

  “What is?” said Don.

  “What’s crazy?” said the chief.

  Don and Chief Hernandez stood over me while I remained knelt next to Jackson’s body. I hesitated before I finally explained to them what I had seen on the way into town. Don smiled, and Chief Hernandez laughed. I didn’t find it amusing.