Free The Absence of Mercy by John Burley

small, wiry man named Harvey Nickelback—had not exactly been in agreement with the cautious approach Sam had asked them to take.
    â€œI don’t see why we have to pussyfoot around this,” he’d objected vociferously, tracing the outline of his thin mustache between his right thumb and index finger. “This kid had retinal hemorrhages and a head full of blood. That’s pretty convincing evidence for child abuse, as far as I’m concerned.”
    â€œThat’s why the case is under investigation,” Sam had replied. “If this death was due to shaken baby syndrome, then whoever did it will go to prison.”
    â€œAll right, then,” Nickelback agreed ardently.
    â€œBut we have to be careful,” Sam continued. “I don’t want to go after these parents with everything we’ve got until we’re fairly certain that we’re going after the right people. Keep in mind that they’ve just lost their only child. They’re in a world of pain right now.”
    â€œOr guilt,” the detective countered.
    â€œProbably both. But we only have one chance to do this right.”
    That was the thing that had impressed Ben the most about Sam: the delicacy with which he had handled the situation. He’d never mentioned it, but Ben thought that perhaps Sam had had an instinct about the case—somehow sensing that things didn’t quite fit together in the way that they should, although he probably would’ve been hard-pressed to explain why. In the face of nearly overwhelming evidence, he had asked the detectives to wait, to suspend their judgment a bit longer. In the end, it had been the right thing to do. The forensic chemist’s report that had landed on Ben’s desk the following week had identified high levels of glutaric acid in the infant’s organs, particularly in the brain and muscles. The abnormal levels raised suspicion for the possibility of a rare metabolic disorder, glutaric acidemia type 1, in which the body has difficulty breaking down various amino acids. The accumulation of the metabolic by-products, the report went on to explain, often results in multiple clinical manifestations, including mental retardation, alterations in muscle strength and tone, and hemorrhages in the brain and eyes that can be mistaken for child abuse. That explained the retinal hemorrhages and subdural hematomas Ben had discovered on autopsy. The forensic chemist’s findings had changed everything, for it became clear that the infant had not been the victim of child abuse, after all, but rather had died from complications of a rare genetic disorder. Sam’s instinct to wait, therefore, had been correct.
    â€œâ€”evenson?”
    It had been a remarkable thing, that intuition, and—
    â€œExcuse me. Dr. Stevenson?”
    Ben looked up from his desk, his eyes clearing. The CO’s secretary stood in the doorway of his small office, looking in on him.
    â€œWhat is it, Tanya?” he asked.
    â€œThat was Detective Schroeder on the phone,” she said. “He’s here with the boy’s father. They’re pulling into the parking lot now.”

10
    Phil Tanner was a tall, lanky man with a weathered face and a darkened, sun-battered complexion. He still wore his work clothes from the night before—faded dungarees and an old navy blue button-down shirt that bore the unmistakable bulge of a pack of cigarettes (Marlboros, if Ben had to guess) in the front pocket. Detective Carl Schroeder stood beside him, wearing a dark suit with a maroon tie. His black gelled-back hair matched the color of his shoes perfectly. He was shorter than both Ben and Phil Tanner by several inches, but his build was lithe and wiry, the eyes cool and watchful, and Ben imagined that in a physical altercation the detective was a force to be reckoned with. Schroeder introduced the two men in a brisk, practiced manner.
    â€œMr. Tanner.” Ben greeted the