Baby Killer
He was curled in a ball, crying in the corner. His whaling tore my heart out. The bullet had grazed his arm. I knew his mother was dead before I touched her. She Lay by the cookstove in a pool of blood. More blood on the floor than in her body.
I went to him and reached down. His hands were curled into his stomach. I lifted him bodily. As I did, his arms went around my neck. He clung to me so tight it almost hurt. His crying slowed down.
His mouth next to my ear, he whispered. “Mommy dead?” Tears came to my eyes as my throat tightened. I swallowed. I didn’t answer him. I’m not sure I could. I turned his head away from his mother and carried him outside.
. Then he said something he and I would repeat many times over the next few months. “Bogyman hurt mommy. Why?” I couldn’t answer him then and I still don’t have an answer today. The night being cool; I wrapped him in my coat. His whole body quaked not from the chill night air. One of the female officers tried to take him. He would have none of it. He buried his head deeper in my neck.
He didn’t even let go when the paramedic dressed his arm. He just whimpered. He finally set back in my arms and said something that broke my heart. He looked me in the eye and said. “Make my mommy alive.” It wasn’t a command, just a request from a four-year-old. I said nothing. What could I say? How do you explain the police don’t have magical powers? I held him until he slept. Gently, I released him to the paramedic. Holding him, she climbed into the ambulance.
“No siren.” She whispered to the driver. He nodded. I watched until they turned the corner. CSI worked on the scene. 20 minutes later, Marge Durm met me on the front lawn.
“What we looking at, Marge? “I ask her. Pushing back her hood, she took a sip from her water bottle.
“Pretty straightforward. Purp kicked in the kitchen door. Started firing. ““So, the target was the mother?” I said, wondering what the woman had done to set someone off.
Marge shook her head. “The shooter was after the baby. The mother jumped into the line of fire.”
I stared at her. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. She gave her life for her child.” Tears filled her eyes. “You got a baby killer on your hands.”
As chief of the Sandburg PD, I was used to murder scenes. Well, not that much. We averaged one murder a year. Needless to say, we were a small department with five officers and two part-timers. Most of the time we dealt with drunks, spousal abuse or teenagers at Halloween.
When we had a murder, we relied on CSI from the state police. So it was a shock to me when Marge said baby killer.
“What do you mean, baby killer?” I said, staring at her.
“We got the alert yesterday. Last five months, there have been killings in four states.” She smiled a sad smile. “Should have connected it earlier. Checked your email lately?”
“No sorry, been busy”
I must admit busy but not with police work. My day off I’d gotten up late. Ate a leisurely breakfast and mowed the lawn. That afternoon, I took a nap while my wife went shopping. I normally didn’t check my email, but relied on my officers to call me if needed.
In the middle of this, the husband arrived home. To say I know him would be an understatement. I had been a teacher before I became a cop. Dennis was in my third period math class at Sandburg high. He and Jenny were regular attendees in my Sunday school class at Frist Baptist.
Dennis was supervisor at Leeward, manufacturing in Worthington, 50 miles away. Two of my officers stopped him from entering the house. He briefly fought them, then collapsed on the dew covered ground. He screamed out his agony. “Why, why, why.” I picked him up as I had his child. He squeezed me so hard I thought my ribs would break. “I loved her, I loved her so much.”
“I know, and she loved you.” I said soothingly.
“Why would anyone kill her? She loved everybody. "I briefly left him and called Steven Trester aside.
“Steve, I need somebody covering that kid tonight.” I told him what Marge had said. His face turned dark.
His jaw set he said. “I’ll do it myself. He’ll have’t come through me.” And I knew he would protect this little boy with his life if necessary. He took off for the hospital lights and siren.
A car skidded to a halt at the crime scene tape. Our pastor Ben Brown. A young man of 27. Ours was his first church as a senior pastor. Seminary had never prepared him for anything like this. All my officers knew him and let him in.
I nodded toward Dennis, now setting on the ground at the base of a tree. Dennis, seeing his pastor, stood to his feet.
The voice that came out of him reminded me of a wounded animal. “She’s dead pastor. He killed her for no reason.” As I had with his child and as I had with Dennis, pastor Brown wrapped his arms around him.
He held to his pastor as a drowning man would a life raft. He knew his wife was in heaven, but he would miss her all his life. I let them go and talked to Marge.
“”Tell me about this baby killer.” I said, setting beside her on the tailgate of CSI’s trailer. She took a deep breath.
“FBI did a profile on him. They tell us he is a white male early 20s. He travels for his job or recreation. I think it’s pretty obvious he hates children. He may have had a terrible childhood or somehow a child ruined his life.’ She hesitated. “And he will keep on killing until he‘s stopped.”
“His killing stops here.” I said with determination. “Not another child.”
She smiled a sad smile, patting me on the thigh. “I’ll help you all I can. We have hidden cams in the trailer taking photos of the people outside the tape. I’ll see that you get copies.”
“Thanks Marge. We’ll get him.”
We finished up, and I left one officer to guard the scene. The pastor took Dennis to the hospital to be with his son. My department stretched thin. The state police stepped in to help.
At 2 AM, Marge not only brought me the photos of our crime scene but also personally showed me others where children had been killed. When she showed up at the station, she said. “We got him. Well, not yet, but we know who he is.”She spread the photos over the surface of my desk. Pointing to one man in each picture. “That’s him.” She said, laying them out. “And he’s in every photo from other crime scenes.”
As if aspiring to be part of the crime scene activities, he crowded the tape. A small man slight of build he could, with the right clothing, be conceited a child.
“What is he 16?” I said, studying the photo.
“22 His name is Mack Duress. His mother abandoned him in a store when he was a little boy of five.”
“Wow, talk about a terrible childhood.” I said, setting back in my desk chair.
“It gets worse. He found his mother six months ago. He confronted her. She called the police and had him forcibly removed. Then put a restraining order against him.”
“Let me guess, he violated the restraining order?” I said, feeling sorry for the kid.
“Big time. Waited until they had a meal. Not only killed his mother, but her husband and two of her grown children.”
“We got to get to the hospital. He will not give up on this little boy.” I hurried out to dispatch. Handing Mack’s picture to the 911 operator, I said. “Get this out to every officer.”
Marge and I rushed out the door. On the way, I called Steven Trester.
“All quiet here, chief. Orderly is checking on the boy.” A charge went through my heart. I knew I was right. “Get him out of there. It’s the killer. Get him out of there now.” I shouted on the radio. Throwing down the mic, I hit the accelerator.
We flew into the parking lot of the hospital. I skidded to a stop in the emergency entrance. I must have been a sight charging in with my pistol out, Marge right behind me.
“Lock your doors. Police emergency.” I shouted to the security officer. “Keep everybody in this area. A killer is loose in the hospital.”.
Leaving him there, his mouth hanging open, we took the stairs. If the killer ran. He would not want to be boxed in an elevator; it would be by the stairs. We were about to enter pediatrics when two shots ring out, followed by female screams and running feet. I nodded at Marge. We braced ourselves. Her on the left, me on the right.
The door to the stairwell sung open. There he was, framed in the doorway. The embodiment of the photos on my desk.
“Drop the weapon, Mack, no more killing tonight.” He stood there for what seemed the longest minute. The orderly uniform rolled up at the arms and legs. He did indeed look like a child. But a child with a pistol in his hand. A deadly child. His face fell, his eyes leaked tears. He looked like someone had stolen his candy. Mack smiled and raised his pistol. He aimed at my heart. Marge must have seen my hesitation. She fired, taking him in the side. He fired, the bullet zinging upward. I fired, hitting him in the heart. He crumpled to the floor. I’ll never forget his last words. “I loved my mother.” He said. He closed his eyes and died.
Steven appeared in the hallway, holding his bleeding left arm. “Kid and his dad are safe.”
“Thanks Steve, I knew I could count on you.” I said. We got Steven patched up and sent home. He took a week off and went fishing. Marge returned to her work with the state police.
Some may question my motives. But I paid for Mack Duress funeral. Pastor Ben Brown preached the service. We had a problem finding pallbearers, that is until my officers volunteered. Steven Trester paid for the wreath to go on the top of the casket. Like I said, I have a great department.