by John Burley
Ben was dumbfounded. “He’s been helping her,” he pointed out. “You don’t see that?”
She looked back at him, tight-lipped. “No. I don’t.”
Ben walked to the table and rested his palms on the top of a chair back. “You know what I think?” he started. Susan simply stared at him, waiting. “I think you don’t like him dating her because it’s a daily reminder of the assaults. Monica represents something”—he pointed a finger at her—“that you’re having difficulty dealing with.”
“What are you, a shrink now?”
“This isn’t Thomas’s problem,” he told her. “It’s yours.”
She studied him for a moment. “Well, you’re right about that.”
Ben exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying to dissipate some of the anger. There was no use in them fighting about this. If she could just see—
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess you know just about everything.”
“Now wait a minute,” he protested, holding up a hand. “That’s not fair.”
“No, Ben,” she’d replied, leaving the room. “It’s not.”
It had been three weeks since then. The next day they’d made their apologies, sure, but things hadn’t been the same between them. It was the little things, he realized. They no longer took time to discuss the events of their respective days, for example—focusing instead on coordinating their schedules around the activities of their jobs and children. Their conversations were more formal, less personal, and they’d begun treating one another with the sort of cool politeness reserved for houseguests who’ve overstayed their welcome. Ben couldn’t help but wonder whether this was how it felt to embark on those first few steps down the twisting path toward divorce.
He stopped and looked up at the sky, a pregnant gray canopy lying low above the earth. The precipitation was coming down harder now, the heavy flakes catching in his lashes. Visibility was worsening, the sun already riding low on the horizon. He ought to close up the CO early today, make sure everyone got home before dark. The course of his walk had taken him on a winding loop through the park and an adjacent neighborhood, such that he was now back where he had started. He ascended the steps to the front of the building.
A small plastic bag, partially covered by the snow, leaned up against the door. He looked around, then stooped to pick it up, dusting off the powdery whiteness. In another hour, he realized, it would have been covered completely. They wouldn’t have found it until the steps were shoveled the next morning. He opened the bag, peering inside, wondering what sort of—
“Oh my God,” he whispered, the plastic package slipping from his fingers, the blanched, lifeless content spilling out onto the snow. He turned and gripped the wrought iron rail beside him, his body bent at the waist as if he’d been kicked low in the midsection. He could feel his knees buckling, the bile rising high in his throat, the world going dim and distant around him.
Lying in the snow, the palm turned upward in an act of supplication, was what remained of a human hand.
38
“No fingerprint matches,” Detective Schroeder announced, returning his cell phone to the black leather case clipped to his belt. They were sitting in Sam’s office at the station. Outside, the night had fallen, although the snow continued to plummet to the earth with unrelenting intensity. There was already two feet of accumulation on the ground, and the latest weather report was predicting an additional twelve to fifteen inches by morning.
Detective Hunt had been peering out the window. He turned around, his face grim. “It’s gonna be a bitch trying to locate the body in this. Even if we knew where to look…”
“We’ll search the vicinity around the Coroner’s Office,” Sam said. “Given the manpower we have, it’s the best we can do. Although I doubt we’ll find anything,” he added.
Carl shook his head. “The specimen was transported to the front steps of the Coroner’s Office from someplace else. Otherwise, why bother with the bag?”
Ben stood up from his chair and crossed the room restlessly, his fingers pressed to his forehead. A headache had formed behind his right eye, making him feel nauseous and light-headed. He’d dry-swallowed four tablets of ibuprofen thirty minutes ago, but couldn’t say they’d made much of a difference. “What I want to know,” he said, “is why was it delivered to the CO?”
“Good question,” Carl remarked. “We were hoping you might shed some light on that one.”
“I have no idea,” Ben replied. “I wish I did.”
The sound of a snowplow could be heard on the street below. It was the only vehicle that had passed this way over the last hour.
“Maybe he was doing us a favor,” Nat suggested from the corner of the room, and all eyes turned to him.
“What do you mean?” Detective Hunt asked.
Ben’s assistant shrugged. “It would’ve come to the CO eventually, along with the rest of the body. In a way, he saved me the trouble of transporting it.”
“You know anyone who might do that?” Carl asked, one eyebrow raised.
Nat thought this over for a moment. “Naah,” he said. “Not that I can think of.”
Danny turned to Ben. “The bag wasn’t there when you left the CO for your walk.”
“That’s right,” Ben confirmed. “It was sitting right up against the door when I returned. If it had been there when I left the building, I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed it.”
“So someone watched you leave, knew you were coming back, and placed it there for you to find.”
“Or just happened to deliver it while I was out of the building,” Ben pointed out. “I doubt it was left there for me personally.”
“Why not?” Sam asked, leaning forward in his chair. “It seems pretty clear that it’s a message.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “He’s taunting us.”
“Us…” Sam placed his big hands on the desk in front of him. “Or you, Ben?”
“For Christ’s sake,” Ben replied, working his right temple with the palm of his hand. The headache was worsening, despite the earlier dose of analgesic. “Why would he be taunting me? Just because I’m the one doing the autopsies?”
Sam’s face was still, his eyes studying the surface of his desk. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s something to think about.” He looked up at the men gathered in front of him. “Well… I don’t think there’s anything more we can do tonight. Let’s call it an evening, shall we?”
“I’ll contact Agent Culver in the morning,” Carl told him.
Sam nodded. “That’s fine. Let’s get a few boys to shovel a hundred-foot radius around the Coroner’s Office in the morning, and have the forensic team go over that area for anything useful. Ben,” he said as the others were filing out, “can I have a word with you?”
Ben looked surprised. “Sure,” he said, closing the door to the office when it was just the two of them.
Sam looked across the desk at him for a moment. “I have a question for you, Ben, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—but how well do you know Nathan Banks?”
“Nat?” Ben asked incredulously. “Pretty damn well, Sam.”
“Mm-hmm,” the chief replied. He swiveled his chair to the right so that he could look out the window. “He’s an interesting fellow, wouldn’t you say?”
Ben laughed. “Interesting. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Left-handed, is he?” Sam inquired, recalling the hand with which the boy had gripped the pen during his completion of the paperwork earlier that evening.
Ben’s face lost its humor. “About ten percent of the population is.”
“Oh, I know,” Sam said with a shrug. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything that he is.”
“No,” Ben agreed. “It doesn’t.”
“Still,” Sam went on, “I wouldn’t mind having a DNA specimen for our FBI colleagues to analyze… if you think you could get one for us, that is.”
“Sam, I can assure you…”
&nbs
p; The chief held up a hand. “I’m sure you can, Ben. Don’t make too much out of it. I’m just making certain that we cover our bases.” He rose from his chair and walked to the window. “We haven’t had a snowfall like this in years,” he said. “Bad timing for this sort of thing.”
“You thinking about postponing the search until some of this melts off?” Ben asked. He was still feeling unsettled by Sam’s questions about Nat. He wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted, indignant, defensive, or none of the above.
Sam grabbed his jacket and shoved one thick arm through the sleeve as he crossed the room. “Get home to your family, Ben.” He opened the door, stepping aside for his friend to pass through. “Someone will find the body,” he said, his fingers on the light switch. “Sooner or later, they always do.”
39
“You Detective Carl Schroeder?” the man asked over the phone.
“I am.”
“This is Sergeant Michael Edwins from the Rock Hill Police Department.”
Carl grabbed a pen from the top of his desk. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, I’m not familiar with that jurisdiction.”
“We’re in Rock Hill, South Carolina, Detective—just a li’l south of the North Carolina border.”
“Okay. How can I help you?”
“Got a man in detention here says he knows yah. Been askin’ for yah all mornin’.”
“What’s his name?”
“Well, his real name’s Clarence Bedford. Born and raised down here in York County, South Carolina. We know ’im pretty well—one of our regulars.”
“I’m sorry.” Carl frowned. “I’m not familiar with anyone by the name of—”
“Goes by the name of Harold Matthews, though.”
Carl sat forward in his chair. “You’ve got him? In custody?”
“For the moment,” the sergeant replied. “He was picked up for trespassin’. It’s a book-an’-release offense.”
“I’d prefer if you hold on to him. Mr. Matthews is wanted for questioning regarding the attempted murder of a young girl here in Jefferson County, Ohio.”
“I’ll bet he is. Roll in to the psych ward, did he?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,” Carl confirmed. “How did you know—?”
“Does it ev’ry time we have a young kid get killed around here. Always confesses to the crime. He’s got a long history with us, Detective.”
Carl put a hand to his forehead, laid the pen back down on his desk. “Is that right.”
“Sure ’nough. He’s a bit of a wanderer. Hops on a bus an’ leaves town to God knows where ev’ry so often for a few months at a stretch. Always manages to find ’is way back, though.”
“He said he’d killed others. Any truth to that?”
“Clarence hit a boy on a bike with ‘is car when he was twenty-three. Said the kid was stealin’ a baby that belonged to his sister. Clarence’s sister has cerebral palsy. She’s in a wheelchair, an’ sure as hell don’t have no babies. Child he hit was twelve. He died at the scene. Clarence was charged with murder, but it didn’t stick none. Turns out he’s got schizophrenia. He’s crazier ‘n a sack of rabid weasels, Detective. Spent a bunch of years in a mental hospital after that. I think he took it hard, though, that kid’s death. Still holds himself responsible. Ends up in our local psych unit ev’ry time a kid around here gets killed—sayin’ he’s the one who did it.”
Carl stood up and looked out at the darkening day through the small window of his office. “That explains a lot. I’m curious, though—there were quite a few scratches on his body when I interviewed him. Any idea what might’ve caused—”
“He’s a cutter. Cuts on himself to relieve tension.”
“I see,” Carl said. “Well, thanks for contacting me, Sergeant. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to send someone down there to collect some DNA samples from Mr. Matthews… or Bedford—whatever the hell his name is. Just to be certain.”
“We’ve got a lab here that can do it for you. Fax me the warrant, and I’ll get ‘em on it.”
“Thank you. Again, I really appreciate your assistance.” Carl took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, knowing that the sinking feeling in his gut was their only suspect in this case disappearing down the drain. “By the way, if Clarence Bedford is his real name, why does he call himself Harold Matthews? Does he have multiple personalities or something?”
“No,” the sergeant replied, “just a lot of underlyin’ guilt, I reckon. Harold Matthews was the name of the boy he hit—the one who died at the scene.”
40
The week leading up to Christmas break saw the heaviest single snowfall in eastern Ohio since 1950. Forty-two inches of fresh powder blanketed the frozen earth over the course of two and a half days. Schools had little choice but to remain closed from Monday through Thursday while the county plows and salt trucks attempted to deal with the mounting drifts. By the time the precipitation finally ended and the major streets, sidewalks, and parking lots were rendered usable, only Friday remained. Drawing on wisdom and experience gained from eleven years on the job, the superintendent of public schools for Jefferson County knew better than to embark upon a futile campaign for the hearts and minds of thousands of children during that one solitary day that teetered precariously on the precipice of a twelve-day winter break. Not wishing to generate ill will among the county’s parents and teachers for his lack of both pragmatism and holiday cheer, he proclaimed Friday a snow day as well and became an instant local hero, if only for a day.
It was a wise move. Many families had already left town for an early start to their winter vacations. The Stevensons were among them, with the notable exception of Ben, who’d decided to remain at home. Sam’s assertion that it was only a matter of time until the second body was uncovered contributed to that decision, as did the chief’s inquiries regarding Nat. It had been disconcerting for Ben, finding himself in the unexpected position of having to defend his amiable, good-natured assistant. And now Ben had been asked to get them a biological sample for DNA analysis. He felt ridiculous snooping around for something like that. More important, he felt like a traitor. Nat looked up to him, respected him, and had an allegiance to both Ben and the CO. In order to accomplish this, Ben would be going behind his back, even if it was to prove his assistant’s innocence. He didn’t like it—didn’t like it at all.
There was another thing, as well. Sam suspected that the amputated appendage had been left for Ben personally, as a message. Or a warning, Ben thought to himself with a shudder. Either way, it was an ominous sign. If Ben was being targeted by the killer, then his family might also be in considerable danger. He’d been immensely relieved when Susan had agreed to take the boys to visit her parents in Sedona, Arizona, for the holiday. It was difficult to know how much of a difference those two weeks would make, but moving his family to a safe location eased his mind. “You should come with us,” Susan had suggested, but Ben had declined. It was important that he be available to assist the detectives if or when the body was discovered. Anything he could do to help them catch this guy had to take precedence.
And yet, now that Susan and the boys were gone, Ben was surprised to discover how much he longed for them. His daily activities provided distraction enough, but in the evenings he found himself wandering from room to room, Alexander the Great padding steadfastly behind him. “It’s quiet in the house without them, isn’t it?” he’d asked the dog, who had swished his tail back and forth in commiseration.
“How are you two getting along?” Susan had asked him that evening on the telephone.
“Alex and I have been watching a lot of movies,” Ben advised her. “How’s Sedona?”
“It’s beautiful,” she told him. “Arizona’s spectacular this time of year. Dad’s taking us hiking tomorrow. I’ll email you some pictures.”
“Great,” Ben said, trying to sound more chipper than he felt.
There was a pause on the line. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Ben reach
ed down and ran his hand along the side of Alex’s broad neck. “I miss you guys, that’s all.”
“You could still catch a flight out to join us.”
“I can’t,” he told her. “Not right now.”
“Now might be the perfect time,” she suggested. “Nothing will turn up until the snow melts.”
“And if there’s another murder between now and then?”
“There won’t be.”
Ben sighed. “You don’t know that,” he said. “I’ve been telling myself for months that this guy has probably moved on. Thing is, I never really believed it. And now this. He’d just been waiting for the right opportunity, Susan—waiting this whole time.”
And mostly, Ben realized, that’s what it came down to now: an act of waiting. Waiting for the snow to melt. Waiting to discover what was lying out there somewhere beneath those infinite drifts. Waiting for another dismembered body part to materialize on the front steps of the CO. Waiting to see where the investigation would lead, how the pieces would fit together, and whose life might be claimed in the interim. Waiting, he thought as he said his good-byes to his family for the night and hung up the phone. Waiting like a sentenced man, standing blindfolded and rigid before the firing squad. Waiting and listening for the hammers to fall.
41
The blizzard that had blanketed most of Ohio and western Pennsylvania the week before Christmas had been followed by ten days of frigid temperatures. During that time, the afternoon highs had peaked above freezing for only a few hours on two separate occasions. As a result, the snow that had fallen two weeks previously had little chance to melt. Except for the sidewalks, parking lots, and roadways that had been cleared by necessity, the majority of the waist-deep drifts across backyards, fields, and forests remained untouched, as if the storm had occurred only the night before.
As one might imagine, this had several ramifications. Ski shops enjoyed an unprecedented surge in business, most notably in the sale of snowshoes and cross-country ski equipment. Local fire departments spent several days digging out hydrants from the mounds of snow under which they’d been buried. Sturdy backs and snow shovels were put to the test clearing driveways and reestablishing usable patches of backyards for small dogs to do their business. Emergency departments attended to a whirlwind of fractures and other injuries sustained by unsuccessful attempts to traverse icy sidewalks and parking lots. And for anyone under the age of twenty (and for many people over that age, as well) the most important derivative of the weather was the nearly unlimited sledding opportunities that presented themselves. Hundreds of thousands of children across the region, all on winter vacation, took to the hills for an exuberant, screaming, accelerating descent down snow-covered embankments on cheap plastic vessels. It was the purest joy many of them would ever know.