The Absence of Mercy (29 page)

“Tony—Deputy Linwood,” Ben said carefully, opting halfway through his sentence for the more formal address. “Am I under arrest for something?”

“No, sir,” the officer responded. “Not at this time.”

The trip in the police cruiser was a short one, and none of them spoke. There had been a second sheriff's deputy waiting for them just outside the lab, and the officer sat in the front passenger's seat, with Tony at the wheel. Ben was relegated to the back, where the doors could be opened only from the outside. A thick Plexiglas divide separated him from the officers, and his knees were smashed up against the back of the seat in front of him.

He had no idea whether sheriff's deputies worked in unison, or whether two officers to a car was the norm. He suspected the former, however, and wondered whether the second officer had been dispatched in case there had been a scuffle. It was hard for him to imagine—
ridiculous, even
—fighting with the police. What did they want to question him about? He wasn't guilty of anything that he could think of. And yet, here he was, sitting in the back of a cruiser like a common criminal.

It didn't take Ben long to figure out that they were headed for his house. Still, when they rounded the bend in the road and his driveway came into view, he was absolutely stunned by the number of police vehicles parked outside. The cruiser came to a stop several houses up the street. It was the closest they could get given the veritable parking lot of official-looking vehicles stationed along the modest residential street. Several of his neighbors stood on their lawns and front steps, gawking at the spectacle.

“Wait here,” the sheriff's deputy in the front passenger seat, unfamiliar to Ben, instructed him. (
As if I have a choice,
Ben thought to himself.) Tony remained in the car, hands still gripping the steering wheel, although he'd already turned off the engine. Ben considered asking him again what this was about, but decided against it. If he was truly wanted for questioning regarding what appeared to be a fairly big deal, then perhaps the less he said, the better. He shook his head. He was already starting to think like a defendant. Boy,
that
hadn't taken long.

He looked out through the dirty side window next to him. He could see Sam Garston approaching the car, accompanied by the deputy who'd ridden with them from the hospital. Sam looked grim and irritable. “What's he doing in the back of the car?” he barked in their direction. “Let him out.”

Tony jumped out of the driver's seat and opened the rear passenger door. Ben pulled himself into a standing position beside the cruiser.

“I'm sorry as hell to have to do this to you, Ben,” Sam said, drawing one of his large hands across the angle of his lower jaw.

“
I certainly hope so,
” Ben countered, not waiting for the man to finish. “Whatever this is about, Sam, I can assure you there's no need for this sort of . . .”

“Ben?”

“. . .
freak show
. . .”

“Ben?”

“. . .
I mean, I've got neighbors, for God's sake!
What're they supposed to—”

“Ben, shut up,” Garston said flatly, and that
did
shut him up. Like a slap across the face.

Sam paused a moment, waiting for another outburst. The two deputies standing next to them glanced at one another, but said nothing. When he was certain that Ben was listening, Chief Garston continued.

“As I was saying, Ben, I'm sorry as hell to have to do this to you, but before we proceed any further I have to go over your Miranda rights with you.”

“
My Miranda righ—
” Ben began incredulously, but the large man in front of him continued speaking as if he hadn't noticed.

“First,” he advised him, looking Ben directly in the eye to ensure that he was listening, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Ben felt as if he were hearing these words from a great distance. Sheriff's deputies continued to mill about in his driveway and on the front lawn of his house. It seemed to Ben that their movements were slow and surreal, almost as if they were floating from place to place. To his immediate right, his next-door neighbors watched the exchange between him and the officers with fascination. Ben knew them both: Harry and Samantha Caddington. Susan was their family physician. Three years ago, she'd visited their son every day in the hospital while he was being treated for Hodgkin's lymphoma. She'd sat with them for countless hours at the boy's bedside during the worst of the illness. They both had. Now, Ben noticed, they wouldn't even meet his gaze.

“Second,” Garston continued, “you have the right to an attorney. Are you listening, Ben?”

“Yes,” he responded through numb lips, his voice dull and metallic in his own ears.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.” Sam paused for a moment, taking a breath. He appeared to be sweating lightly, despite the cold weather. “Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“Yes, I understand them,” Ben said.

“Good. Now, listen to me. You're not under arrest, Ben. But we do need to ask you some questions.”

“Okay,” he replied weakly. It was all he could manage.

“We also have a search warrant for your house and property.”

“A search warrant,” Ben said, trying to make sense of the words. The term seemed strange and foreign to his ears, as if from a second language he was only just beginning to learn.

“Yes. Now we've been authorized to forcibly enter the house, if necessary. But it would avoid a bit of damage to your front door if you happened to have a key on you.”

Ben fished around in his right front pocket and brought out a small key ring, which he handed to one of the officers.

“Good,” Sam commented, nodding his head. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a piece of paper. “You have the right to inspect the search warrant, Ben.”

“It's okay. I trust you, Sam.” He glanced again at his neighbors to the right, who hastily averted their eyes and began inspecting the concrete construction of their own front steps.

“You shouldn't,” Sam said. “Not right now. As your friend, Ben, I advise you to take full advantage of your rights. Here, go ahead and read it.” He handed the form to Ben, who let his eyes wander over the language. It was written in fairly plain English, but the words seemed incomprehensible at the moment. He handed it back.

“Can we please get out of the street?” he muttered.

“Of course,” Sam replied. “Let's go.”

He turned and led the procession to the front door. The officer who'd been given Ben's keys fiddled with the lock for a moment. “It should only be the dead bolt,” Ben advised him, and he nodded. A moment later, there was the sound of the latch retracting into the cylinder. The officer placed his hand on the knob.

WHOOOOOO-WHOOO-WHOO-WHOOO!!!!

The deputy glanced at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “Dog?” he inquired.

“Oh, yeah,” Ben said. “Alex. Alexander-the-uh . . . He's our”—
security system,
he was about to say—“Great Dane.”

“Great Dane?” the officer repeated. From behind the door the howling continued.

WHOOOO-WHOOOOO-WHOOOO-WHOO-OOOOO!!!

“You'd better let me put him in the basement.”

The officer with his hand on the doorknob looked at Sam, who nodded. “I'll go in with him,” the chief advised them. “Everyone else stay here for a moment.”

The deputy stepped back and raised his right hand in a gesture as if to say,
Be my guest
.

Ben turned the knob and pushed the door open just enough to squeeze through. “Hold on, let me get his collar on,” he called back to Sam. Ben grabbed the choker chain from where it hung on the wall and slid it over the dog's massive head. He placed a finger through the metal ring and guided the dog toward the interior door leading to the basement. As he moved the dog away from the front entrance, Sam took the opportunity to slide inside, closing the door behind him. He followed the two of them down the hallway.

Ben stopped at the door to the basement, but did not open it. He turned toward the chief. “What's going on here, Sam?”

The man stared back at him. He looked sick—pale and slightly ashen. “It's serious, Ben. A . . . a nasty thing.” He shook his head. “I wish to hell it wasn't.”

“Tell me. Can you do that? Please, talk to me.”

The chief sighed. “Put the dog in the basement. We have to get started here. I'll bring in the others and we can talk.”

Ben opened the door, flipped on the light switch, and ushered Alex down the steps. Closing the door, he moved to a chair at the kitchen table. He tried to brace himself for what was to come next. He knew himself to be innocent, and he wasn't concerned about self-incrimination. That left Susan or one of the boys, and he didn't see how
any
of them could be involved in anything remotely serious. He knew them too well for that. You live and interact with the people in your family through all of the joy and nastiness (“
It's serious, Ben. A . . . a nasty thing.
”) that life has to offer. Along the way, the fabrics of what began as separate individuals are woven together into something new—something organic and inseparable. And the only thought that came to him now was this:
Please, don't let me lose them
. If one of them had died, or had suffered some devastating injury, he wasn't certain he had the strength to face it.
Please, don't let me lose them,
he prayed silently to himself, or to God if He was out there and felt like listening. In this moment of confusion and disorder, it was the only sentiment that seemed to matter.

“Okay,” he said, his dark eyes watching the officers fan out across the house—
his
house—and one hand gripped the edge of the table for whatever stability it had to offer. “Tell me what this is all about.”

“No. You're clearly out of your fucking mind.” Ben looked blankly at Detective Schroeder, who remained standing next to the sink, one hand resting on the granite countertop.

The detective returned Ben's gaze with infuriating equanimity. “The evidence is pretty convincing, Dr. Stevenson.”

Get your filthy hand off that countertop,
Ben wanted to scream at him.
My wife cooks there!

“The evidence is wrong,” he said instead.

“The boy's prints were on the bodies of two of the victims.”

“The boy's prints . . .” Ben echoed, his voice dry and hollow, trying to make sense of the words. Suddenly, his son—his oldest son, whom he loved with unflinching purity and tenacity—suddenly
his son
had become simply “the boy” to this man standing in front of him.

“The boy has a name,” he advised the detective. “I strongly suggest you start using it.”

The three of them—the two detectives and Sam Garston—were silent for a while, allowing the shock of the news to dissipate slightly before proceeding further. They could have waited an eternity as far as Ben was concerned. A few minutes' respite wouldn't make a bit of difference to him.

“Ben,” Sam started. “You and—”

“I want
this one
to get
out of my house
!” Ben thrust an index finger in Carl's direction.

“I'm sorry, Ben,” Sam replied. “This is Detective Schroeder's case. He has the right to question you.”

Ben turned to Detective Hunt, the only one of the three officers who'd taken a seat at the table, and who thus far had not uttered a word. “Aren't you also investigating this case?”

The detective nodded solemnly.

“Fine,” Ben proclaimed. “
You
stay.” He gestured once again toward the senior detective. “
This one
goes.”

None of the men budged. Carl Schroeder continued to stare at him, as if Ben were some sort of interesting insect he was considering adding to his collection.

“Listen, Ben,” Sam replied, “that's not the type of tone you want to take during this interview.”

“It's
exactly
the type of tone I want to take!” Ben's eyes flashed once more in Schroeder's direction. “I have nothing to hide—
nothing!
—and neither does my family. I am willing to cooperate with you, and I am willing to answer questions. But I
will not
sit here and listen to this man call my son a murderer!”

Silence filled the kitchen. In the adjoining rooms, nearly oblivious to their presence, teams of forensic crime scene examiners scurried about like beetles, fastidiously foraging for their esoteric treasures. Ben could hear them rattling about, conversing quietly with one another. He realized, of course, that he was behaving ridiculously. Carl Schroeder was simply doing his job. They all were. The chief and his team of investigators had followed the evidence to where they thought it led. They had made an egregious mistake, of course—that much was clear—and they would soon discover just that. In the meantime, was there really any cause for Ben to . . . (
doubt
) . . . to respond in this manner? It made sense to remain calm and to cooperate with them as much as possible. Didn't it?

And what if they're right?
a voice spoke up inside of his head.
What if they're right, Ben? Have you even bothered to consider that?

Of course he had. He'd considered the idea for a fraction of a second before tossing it properly out through the front door where it belonged.

Is that right?

Yes, that was right. They could lay out all of the circumstantial evidence they had in their possession—make whatever wild accusations they wanted. They
would not
make him doubt the innocence of his own son.
They would not
.