Free The Absence of Mercy by John Burley Page A

boy’s father, shaking the large, calloused hand extended in his direction.
    The man nodded slightly, saying nothing. He stood tense and rigid in the hallway.
    â€œSir, I know this must be an extremely difficult time for you,” Ben continued. “You are welcome to come sit in my office for a moment until you feel that you’re—”
    â€œWhere’s my boy?” Tanner responded, looking over Ben’s shoulder into the next room. His voice was deep and gruff, the product of too many years spent smoking too many cigarettes.
    â€œWell, we were hoping you could identify—”
    â€œLet me see ’im then.”
    â€œYes, of course,” Ben agreed. He led the two men into the next room. He had taken as much care as possible to prepare the boy’s body—his face, anyway—for viewing. His injuries had been severe and disfiguring, and Ben was no plastic surgeon. Suddenly he wanted more time to work on the boy, especially that gaping bite wound across his left cheek. He’d been able to pull the wound edges together using a series of horizontal mattress sutures, but now it didn’t seem nearly sufficient to withstand the eyes of the boy’s father.
    â€œThe wounds were fairly extensive,” he explained to them, somewhat apologetically. “There’s been some significant disfigurement to the face.” Ben carefully folded down the edge of a cloth blanket he’d placed over the body prior to their arrival. He tried to brace himself for the father’s response.
    Phil Tanner was quiet for a long moment, studying the boy’s marred but placid appearance. He looked upon him with a surreal and uncertain fascination. In the front room the phone rang, and Ben heard Tanya answering it. “Coroner’s Office,” she said, and Ben silently kicked himself for forgetting to have her put the phones on hold during the visit. The sound seemed to break Phil Tanner’s trance, and he looked up at them with confusion.
    â€œThat ain’t my boy,” he said, and Ben exchanged a surprised look with Detective Schroeder.
    â€œThat’s not your son, sir?” Schroeder asked.
    â€œNo,” the man answered. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait. That’s not exactly right. What I mean to say is that, yes, it is my son, but it . . . it’s just that he don’t look like my son.” He searched the faces of the two men standing before him, attempting to make himself understood.
    â€œHe’s sustained some injuries that alter his appearance,” Ben explained again.
    â€œI can see that for myself, Doctor.” Phil Tanner’s eyes flashed at Ben, who took an involuntary half step backward. “I’m not an idiot.”
    â€œTake it easy, Mr. Tanner,” Detective Schroeder interjected in a calm and level voice. “Something like this always comes as a great shock. I can assure you that Dr. Stevenson was not implying—”
    If Phil Tanner heard him, he didn’t seem to notice. His left hand groped beneath the blanket, finding the boy’s cold, insensate hand. He grasped it tightly.
    â€œKevin?” he asked, puzzled and unbelieving. “Kevin? Kevin? ” His voice rose steadily in pitch and urgency each time he spoke the boy’s name. The words echoed slightly off the room’s concrete walls. They had a hollow, lonely sound, like a knock at a door that will never be answered.
    At last Tanner looked up at Ben, his eyes pleading. “That ain’t my boy, is it, Doctor? I mean . . . Jesus . . . Tell me this ain’t my son lyin’ here on this table with his face torn to pieces! Tell me that, won’t you, Doctor ?!”
    â€œMr. Tanner, please,” someone said without much conviction. Ben wasn’t certain if it had been Detective Schroeder or himself.
    â€œ Kevin? ” the boy’s father went on, his voice continuing to escalate.