Between the Shadow and the Soul - 32. Fifth Interlude - Vengeance

February 6, 2001

Detective Weston chewed his cigar with gritted teeth. The madder he got the more he chewed, and the more he chewed the faster the cigar disappeared. He'd throw the occasional angry glance at District Attorney Landers, though it wasn't Landers that put a burr under his saddle. It was the damned FBI and their jurisdiction crap.

"Don't worry," Landers said, not the least bit flustered as he slapped a roll of papers against his open palm.

"This is bullshit!" Weston growled.

Waving the thick stack of documents in the detective's direction, the finely suited district attorney smiled the smile of a predator. "Not anymore, it's not."

The ding of the elevator's arrival had them both turning toward the sound. Nurses and doctors shuffled and meandered and consulted quietly in the hospital's intensive care unit, but neither man had eyes for anything other than the four incompetent assholes stepping out of the elevator.

After glancing around, the group of interlopers spotted the two men and immediately headed in their direction. The woman leading the group was tall, lean, lithe, and Weston thought she might be pretty if she didn't look like she had a flagpole stuck up her ass.

Her white blouse primly contained beneath a slim blue blazer buttoned snug beneath her less than ample bosom, her slacks too spacious to show her figure, FBI Special Agent Dempsey marched ahead with the safe assumption that her entourage would follow in her wake.

Already waving her credentials as she prepared to stake a leading claim in the investigation of Richard Sawyer, her gaze met the unflinching stare of Dallas's District Attorney and she frowned, as though she'd just caught a whiff of something unpleasant.

"DA Landers," she greeted with just a hint of disdain in her voice, "what a ... pleasant surprise."

"Stow it, Dempsey," he replied, taking the step necessary to close the distance between them, stabbing her in the gut with the stiff roll of papers in his hand. He felt childish satisfaction when she huffed out a startled breath, her hands automatically wrapping around the documents as he released them.

"What—"

He didn't let her finish. "As of this morning—I'm sure you've been too busy primping and preparing a speech for this moment to keep up with such mundane minutia—the United States District Court for the Northern District of Texas has issued an emergency restraining order against the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Washington DC Metro Police halting any jurisdiction claims you might or might not make in matters pertaining to Doctor Richard Sawyer and his alleged crimes."

The pleasure her shocked and outraged expression made him feel amplified his resolve; he'd always wanted to take this particular special agent down a notch or ten.

"Furthermore, said District Court has also issued an emergency restraining order against the FBI and DC Metro halting any attempts to interfere, undermine, participate in or otherwise insinuate into the local investigation, arrest, charging and trying of Doctor Richard Sawyer. As you'll notice from the court orders in your hand, SAC Dempsey, the court took the bold initiative of staying its own orders and bumping the matter up to the United States Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit for emergency review." Leaning forward enough to invade the FBI agent's personal space and thereby forcing her to lean away, he added with a growl, "That court remanded the matter back to the District Court with its full support of its decision. Therefore, Agent Dempsey—" He loved the flinch it caused to drop the Special from her title. "—the FBI and the capital's police are hereby ordered to get its nose out of our business until we've dealt with this matter."

Dempsey huffed, nearly spat, then proclaimed, "This is absurd! We have interstate crimes involved, which clearly—"

"Stow it, Miss High-and-Mighty," Weston barked. Waving his pudgy hand at her and her group he explained, "You ... people—" That word came out sounding like it really didn't apply. "—knew for three fucking months what he was capable of, what he'd already been up to in our esteemed nation's capital, and you told us fuck all shit about it. And now ... now we've got a boy who's already gone through seven hours of surgery just to keep him alive and keep him from making his injuries worse. His parents say he has more surgery coming. That boy—" He waved vaguely toward the ICU room behind him. "—will be shitting through a hole cut into his intestines for months, because the damage is so severe. His kidneys are so bruised there might be permanent damage, and even if there isn't, he'll be pissing blood for a good long while. His fucking eye socket is fractured." He punctuated that by tapping above his own eye. "He has a major concussion, lost more blood than a boy that size should contain, has two broken ribs and several permanent teeth that could fall out at any minute ... and his fucking windpipe is crushed to the point where they had to put a tube down his throat just so he could breathe. Fuck all, people, he won't be able to talk normally—if at all—for a good long while. His face is smashed to high heaven so he doesn't even look human anymore. He's beaten and battered from head to foot, like a damn stampede ground him underfoot."

He couldn't continue. He just couldn't do it. He was so disgusted, so angry, so horrified by this case, and to think these assholes from the FBI and the DC Metro Police knew and didn't so much as offer a simple phone call to let them know they might want to keep an eye on the bastard. The short, heavyset cop huffed in derision and turned away. He couldn't even look at them anymore.

"We were in the middle of investigating an increasing number of claims by former patients," Dempsey offered, though it sounded like an excuse even to her ears.

"You could've warned us," the DA replied in a tone so devoid of emotion that its coldness sent a chill up the spine of everyone who heard it. "We have a teenager in there fighting for his life who will be permanently scarred both inside and out, a boy who's suffered a tragedy no human should suffer. No, maybe we couldn't have prevented it, but we'd feel a mite bit better about the situation if somebody in the know had reached out with a simple courtesy call. But you didn't," he went on with a scowl, his voice dropping, "and now we have a mighty big mess to deal with."

"But interstate—"

"No! You have the court orders in your hand, little miss. I suggest you read them, then I suggest you talk to your superiors, then I suggest you think long and hard about why we have a crime so heinous that the federal courts have granted us jurisdiction despite clear federal crimes." Stepping closer, he finished, "Ask yourself this, Miss S-A-C: Why would both the District and Circuit Courts agree that our case supersedes the DC and federal cases? And then ask yourself what you might have done differently to avoid this situation."

He spun on his heels and walked a few steps before stopping and turning back. "By the way," he said to the stunned faces that stared back, "DC Metro and the FBI are hereby prohibited from having any interaction with the victim and the suspect, as well as any witnesses, friends, family members or others with direct or tangential connections to this case. You're also prohibited from visiting any related locations, issuing or serving any warrants, speaking to investigators or other law enforcement personnel involved in this matter ... You know what? Let's make it real simple, since you people are obviously dumber than a sack of wet hair. Stay away from this case in its entirety until I say otherwise." With a glower he said, "Don't try me on this, folks, because it'll take me the blink of an eye to be back in the District Court to have you arrested for federal witness tampering, contempt, obstruction, and anything else I come up with when I reach the courthouse. Trust me, this is Texas and we don't take kindly to people hurting our kids, and that includes the incompetent fools who knew this might happen but didn't think it important enough to mention it."

"In a way, you're at least partially responsible for this bullshit," Detective Weston offered with as much disgust as he could muster. "It would be a real shame if somebody revealed to the public that this boy was savagely beaten and raped because the FBI and DC Metro Police knew what Sawyer was capable of but didn't want to share that information with anybody else. Oh, and his parents already have that information, but for now we've convinced them that it would be counterproductive to publicize it."

The district attorney had an unpleasant smile on his face when he offered, "Of course, I'm not sure how much longer we can convince them to sit on that information. But I suppose we'll do our best ... for now."

* * * * *

February 8, 2001

The pain in his head kept him nauseated and disoriented, yet The Fiend swam up from sleep toward the light of wakefulness. Before he opened his eyes, however, he became aware of a presence, perhaps more than one. Although cognizant of his location—in a hospital—and aware that things had spiraled out of control, he felt confident he could minimize the damage from this debacle once his head cleared and he had sufficient time to formulate a sound plan.

Assuming the other person or persons in the room were medical staff, he slowly opened his eyes, blinking and squinting. Though when he attempted to reach up and rub the sleep from his eyes, a sharp clank halted the movement after only a few inches. He yanked his hand a few times, feeling the sharp bite of metal against his wrist with each pull, so he glanced down. Then groaned and let his head fall back. Such a simple movement had caused a great deal more pain than he had anticipated.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Sawyer." The voice was gravelly and rough, deep and throaty and ... somehow menacing.

With his eyes still closed, he evaluated his options, understanding the implied sneer in his title indicated the person in the room was less likely to be a hospital employee and more likely someone with law enforcement. Richard understood the precariousness of his situation from that simple greeting alone. Thus he settled his mind and cleared his thoughts, letting loose his great intellect and human understanding with the intention of mitigating whatever fallout might be in store.

Again opening his eyes, he attempted to reach up with his other arm only to be met with the same clank and halt that had stayed his previous attempt with his right arm.

Handcuffs, he realized. He was cuffed to the hospital bed.

The Fiend let his squinting eyes wander about the room until they fell upon a squat, overweight man in a rumpled suit and askew tie, a frumpy little Native American with messy hair and a chewed cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Detective, he thought, then he let his eyes wander from the obvious policeman to the more dashing, taller, WASPish gentleman beside him, seated in a chair against the wall, one leg dangling over the knee of the other, hands clasped in his lap, for all the world looking as though prepared for an important business meeting.

"Thirsty," he croaked.

"You're on IV fluids, Doctor Sawyer. It seems you might've bumped your head and they're concerned about nausea and possible issues swallowing, so you'll have to be patient. The nurse'll be back to check on you shortly. Just as soon as we're done."

That last sentence sounded ominous, threatening even, and The Fiend again reevaluated the situation. He could remember going to see The Boy, arriving at his house full of desire and need and a superior sense of accomplishment, knowing he would find Greg home alone and ripe for harvest. He also remembered the outrage at The Boy's denial based on the ludicrous emotional attachment the adolescent felt toward Richard's own son. More and more he regretted siring a child despite the reasons that made the decision sensible at the time.

But more than all that, The Fiend remembered how quickly things fell apart, how his anger overrode his intellect, how he had decided taking by force what he had expected to be offered by choice had become the only path available to him. He remembered the shivering sense of guilty pleasure that accompanied overpowering The Boy and subduing him. And he remembered the primitive carnal satisfaction that came from taking and taking and taking.

Then, much to his surprise, The Boy had somehow surprised him, knocked him aside long enough to attempt escape. And he remembered the television. Near the door. Moving too fast and intercepting his forward momentum and direction.

Then nothing but bits and pieces. A little from the ambulance. A little from the hospital. Then a little more and a little more, all leading to the moment he now found himself in, handcuffed to a bed whilst facing down on obvious detective and one silent yet intimidating other who probably represented the District Attorney. His suit looked far too pristine and pressed and expensive to belong to a lowly cop.

"Who are you?"

The grin on the detective's face looked wrong, too sure, too forced, too angry. "My name's Detective Weston with the Dallas Police. And this—" He gestured to his left toward the man in the chair. "—is District Attorney Landers."

Not an ADA, The Fiend thought. Clearly I need to up my game if the big man himself is here.

"Is there a problem?" The Fiend asked innocently, making sure to include a hint of nervousness, a dash of curiosity, and more discomfort and pain than he actually felt.

The detective scowled. "It's just a concussion, Doctor, so you can drop the act. You're only here because they wanted to keep you for observation, not because you're in mortal danger."

Increasing his curiosity and mixing it with unease and confusion, Richard blinked repeatedly and settled on an expression of inquisitive discombobulation. "I'm sorry, detective. I'm not sure I know what's going on here, but I'm more than willing to help in whatever way I can."

"How generous." District Attorney Landers let his words drip with disdain and incredulity, a viscous combination oozing with peril aimed right at The Fiend.

Clank. Richard glanced down at his hand, securely cuffed to the bed's railing. How had he forgotten about the cuffs already? These two men and their aura of superior anger, not to mention the predatory gleam in the detective's eyes, had somehow unnerved him.

"For the protection of all the other young boys in the state," the detective offered with snide distaste.

"I beg your pardon?" The Fiend responded, meeting the policeman's gaze.

Gesturing to the cuffs as he approached the bed, Weston explained, "The cuffs. They're there to protect the other young boys in the state."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Let's cut the bullshit, Doctor. Why don't you shut your pie hole and listen. We haven't read you your rights yet, but I'm sure you know what they are and what they mean. We're not here to question you and we're not here for a confession."

"We're here to make you squirm," the DA added, his voice low and smooth and all the more dangerous.

A brief shake of his head made it hurt more, so The Fiend halted that the moment it started. Using that gesture to indicate confusion or lack of understanding seemed an unnecessary discomfort, as he was more than capable of manipulating these men without the benefit of non-verbal cues.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage—"

"Like you had that young boy at a disadvantage?" came the sharp rebuke from the detective, eyes ablaze and lips mashed into a thin gash with the chewed cigar as its only interruption.

"I don't think—"

"As I said, Doctor, you might want to bite your tongue instead of letting it waggle. We're not interested in your mind games and your acting skills and whatever other tricks you have up your sleeve. We're just here to share a bit of information, then the two nice uniformed officers stationed outside your door are going to come in here, read you your rights, then babysit you until we can haul your ass downtown."

Rising from the chair, Landers straightened his suit jacket, buttoned it, smoothed the front of it, squared his shoulders, then moved to join the detective standing astride the bed. His silence unnerved The Fiend, as though the man was enjoying a particularly captivating show instead of trying to intimidate a suspect. He exuded confidence, as did the cop. That did not bode well for Richard, and he knew it.

Flipping through sheets of paper bound in a plan clasped folder, Weston shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth before saying, "You assaulted a young boy and raped him repeatedly—"

"I never!"

His voice increasingly tense and disgusted, the detective explained, "Your genitals were covered with his blood. Your fists, knees and the tips of your shoes were covered with his blood and his skin. You had his hair, skin and blood under your fingernails. He had your skin, blood and hair under his fingernails. Your pubic hair was found glued to his body by blood and semen. His rectum had—fucking hell—his rectum was covered with and full of your semen, and your pubic hair was found inside his rectum as well. The hospital's staff and attending physicians are ready to expertly testify as to the level of medical knowledge necessary to inflict the injuries suffered by your victim, including how those injuries are consistent with that knowledge being used to overpower someone."

Falling silent, the detective glanced at the DA, who gave a small nod.

Back to Richard the detective added, "And we found your fingerprints around his neck. They were perfectly matched to the strangulation bruises."

"Fingerprints on skin?"

"If we get to them quickly enough. And we did. In this case."

"So much for do no harm," the DA growled.

"Interesting enough, Doctor, the physical evidence against you is so irrefutable and incontrovertible that the victim's testimony is unnecessary for conviction. Which makes you wonder what he might have to say to add to our case."

Richard grimaced. It looked like a flinch from pain in his head but it came from frustration, mostly aimed at himself. He had lost control, allowed primitive emotions to override his intellect, all because The Boy still loved his son and it so angered The Fiend that a child would deny him based on so pathetic a thing, as though love meant anything, counted for anything, when pleasures of the flesh were all that mattered.

"By the way, Doctor, the FBI and the DC Metro Police are here. It appears they have some questions for you, in addition to some more bad news. But don't worry about them. We're holding them at bay for now so we can deal with this little matter first. Once we're done, we'll let them join the party."

Both men, looking smug and satisfied, turned and walked toward the door. But before they reached it, the squat detective looked back. "One more thing, Doctor."

The Fiend felt nauseated, and not because of the concussion.

"We have forensic psychologists and psychiatrists on staff. They've already talked to your son and they've already made plans to talk to the young boy you viciously attacked. It seems, in addition to aggravated sexual battery on a minor, aggravated assault of a minor, forcible sodomy, and carnal knowledge of a minor, we'll be adding charges of coercion and enticement. What amazes me, Doctor, is that we've only been at this for a little more than three days. Makes you wonder what we'll come up with tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, or next week. Yeah, sure makes you wonder."

With that, both men walked out the door as two uniformed police officers walked in, neither looking particular friendly.

* * * * *

April 11, 2001

"Your Honor, as you can see from the documentation submitted and the testimony provided, it behooves Child Protective Services to petition for the immediate termination of the father's parental rights. Though not physically abused, psychiatric investigation has discovered that the child has endured years of psychological and emotional abuse in addition to emotional neglect. In light of the father's incarceration and pending trials here in Dallas, in Washington DC and in federal court, we believe, in the child's longterm interests, a better home environment and familial setting will be best."

"Where has he been staying since the father's arrest?"

"With his best friend's family, Your Honor, as per his wishes and the wishes of the Beaumont family. This move was and is supported by testimony and evaluations as being the most appropriate environment for him."

"The best friend was a victim of the father, was he not?"

"Yes, Your Honor, in the criminal case pending here in Dallas."

"Interesting. I see you've also petitioned this court to recognize Yvonne and Gavin Beaumont as his legal guardians, is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Again, CPS believes this to be the best environment for him through the remainder of his adolescent years."

"And what if the father's found innocent?"

"The dispositions of those charges have no bearing on these proceedings, Your Honor. Our findings are separate from the criminal complaints."

"Is there any intention of petitioning for an emancipation decree?"

"No, Your Honor. That would not be in the child's best interests."

"Very well. In light of the evidence and testimony, and in the boy's best interests, this court finds sufficient cause to terminate Richard Sawyer's parental rights and grant legal guardianship of Nathanial Sawyer to Yvonne and Gavin Beaumont, as per your petition, both orders effective immediately. In addition, I'm instructing Child Protective Services to continue monitoring the boy's wellbeing until such time as this court vacates its order or he reaches legal adulthood, whichever comes first, to include quarterly reports submitted to this court. It is so ordered."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

* * * * *

August 9, 2003

"What do you mean we can't sue him? Why the hell not?"

"Please, sir, calm down for a minute and let me explain."

"You bet your bottom dollar you'll explain. He hurt our boy! He's gotta pay!"

"Mr. Hamilton, please, take a seat."

"Honey, sit down, please, and let him explain."

"Fine. Explain."

"There are two problems with trying to sue him in civil court. The first is that he hasn't been convicted for sexually assaulting your son. In a civil trial, you'll have to prove to the jury that he did it. Since the police have all the evidence and we can't get to it until they go to trial and reveal it, you'll have to rely on your son's testimony and only your son's testimony—"

"What about all those other boys?"

"You can't sue on their behalf and, without a conviction, their testimony would be irrelevant and inadmissible since it has nothing to do with your son's assault."

"That boy in Texas, we can use him. He was convicted of that one, right?"

"That came years after your son's assault. It doesn't help because it only shows Mr. Sawyer was capable of a crime much later in life and in another state. Besides, you can't force that kid to testify. He's still a minor and this isn't a criminal case."

"Well that's a load of crap!"

"Honey, please. Now, you said there were two problems."

"Right. The first being you'd have to prove he did it without access to any evidence except your son's testimony. The second problem is that Mr. Sawyer, for whatever reason, put all his assets in a trust under his son's name."

"What in hell does that mean?"

"Honey, let him explain. Hush now, John."

"What that means, Mr. Hamilton, is that, aside from his medical practice and the money necessary for living expenses, Mr. Sawyer sank all his other assets—houses, car, investments, savings—in a trust under his son's name. His parental rights were terminated years ago, so even he doesn't have access to the trust anymore. Everything's locked up waiting for his son to turn eighteen."

"Then we'll sue the son!"

"Honey! Absolutely not."

"Why not? That's the asshole's stuff. Just because it's under the son's name, that doesn't mean we can't sue him."

"Mr. Hamilton, his son is a victim of his father. You'd be suing a victim, and you'd be punishing a son for his father's crimes."

"That's absurd. It's not even his money, it's his father's."

"Not anymore. It belongs to his son and his father isn't involved, can't touch it, has no claims against it."

"That's the craziest thing I ever heard. Of course we can sue him. It'd be like suing his estate."

"No, Mr. Hamilton, it would be like suing his son, an adolescent who's also a victim. He had nothing to do with his father's activities. Taking him to court will be the fastest way to make yourself public enemy number one. Besides, you can't sue because Mr. Sawyer no longer owns the assets. The son can't even touch the assets for another year or so. Right now they're being managed by his legal guardians."

"We'll sue them."

"Honey! Now you're just being stupid."

"Somebody has to pay!"

"You're not looking for justice, are you, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Of course I am!"

"No, I don't think you are."

"But somebody has to pay!"

"Even if he's not convicted for any other crimes, he's been convicted of several crimes in Texas. He has almost a hundred fifty years of prison ahead of him without the possibility of parole."

"That's not enough! He has to pay for what he did to our son! He has to pay!"

* * * * *

September 19, 2006

"They convicted him on all counts."

Greg looked at Nate, his face blank. Nate stared back, unsure if feeling happy about the news made him a bad person. Both boys turned back to Yvonne.

"But there's another trial," she added. "There's a federal case against him for transporting some of the boys over state lines."

"How long did he get?" Greg asked, his voice devoid of emotion, his reaction distant and stoic.

Shaking her head, again feeling anger and upset, especially seeing this cold detachment in her son, she shrugged, answered, "Almost two thousand years."

"What?" Nate couldn't believe it. How was that possible?

"I read that each molestation conviction is ninety-nine years, to be served consecutively, plus all the other charges with seventeen victims involved. Yeah, it came out near two thousand years."

"Huh," Greg remarked. "The fucker got what he deserved, I guess."

Yvonne watched her son and wondered if he'd ever be the same person he was before. Farid had said Greg was using some kind of self-deception to avoid the feelings and memories he didn't want to deal with, a potent kind of denial, and his mother felt it had somehow changed him. He wasn't unemotional or anything, but there was this strangeness to his reactions sometimes, as though he wasn't really seeing or reacting to the real world, at least not the world everyone else experienced.

Very slowly, she saw Greg's hand slide across the table toward Nate, whose hand set aside his fork and slid toward Greg. Somewhere in the middle they joined hands. When both boys—Goodness, they were twenty already and she was still thinking of them as boys—when they looked at each other, there was such trust and love and affection in their eyes and expressions, and it seemed they each gained strength from the other.

She loved her boys and she cherished the unique and powerful bond they shared. But still she worried for both of them. Somewhere deep inside where she seldom ventured, Yvonne feared that Richard wasn't done with her family. Not yet anyway.

* * * * *

March 24, 2008

"Did you hear?" Nate asked softly. He could see the answer in Greg's face when their eyes met.

Nate rushed to him and wrapped him in his arms as Greg began crying, mumbling over and over, "Is it really over?"

The news media had been carrying the story since it happened a few hours earlier. On his way to his federal trial, looking haggard and thin and dispirited, Richard had reached the courthouse and exited the FBI vehicle, surrounded by agents.

In the underground parking garage, as they made their way toward the entrance, one of the armed guards approached them, apparently looking disinterested and casual. But when he was within ten feet of the group, he drew his weapon and opened fire, hitting The Fiend seven times before falling to the barrage of bullets the FBI agents sent in his direction. Both men died at the scene and two of the agents were wounded, though not critically.

* * * * *

Terrence Hamilton—Terry to his friends and family—was twelve years old when The Fiend decided the youngster was ready. The kid's torment lasted two years before Richard lost interest.

Terry was Richard's youngest victim. He was also his first victim.

Terry committed suicide two weeks before the guilty verdict was handed down in the second trial. That made him The Fiend's last victim as well.

The guard who killed Richard that day was John Hamilton, Terry's father.