and peer at one of the objects through the clear plastic.
The bags were filled with ragged chunks of human flesh.
Gabriel’s flesh.
The veteran police officers watching from the door might have been around long enough to have become hardened to the overpowering stench, but Sam had not. He spun around and stumbled back out the door of the room into the hall, desperately struggling to keep his teeth clenched tightly against the tide that surged up from his stomach.
His distress grew stronger than his willpower, however, and he threw up, splashing the shoes of one of the nearby detectives with a semi-solid stream of vomit.
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Baton Passes
The cold water from the basin felt good on his face and hands. After unceremoniously losing his dinner, Sam had stumbled down to the men’s room and suffered another attack of retching that lasted almost fifteen minutes. His throat was raw. His stomach ached. He was all but certain that the next attack would leave him exhausted.
Sam reached over and yanked several paper towels from the dispenser hanging on the wall and used them to mop his face dry. One glance in the mirror at the bleak, unhinged look in his eyes was enough. As he bent his head beneath the faucet and tried to rinse the foul taste from his mouth for the fourth time, he made sure he refrained from looking in that direction again.
When he felt he had himself together, he left the men’s room and stepped back into the hall.
Two uniformed officers were waiting for him just outside the door.
Damon was talking with one of the responding officers when Collins came up beside him and signaled for his attention.
'What have we got?' Wilson asked while studying Sam over his fellow officer’s shoulder.
'Nothing much, I’m afraid.' Collins pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. 'Name’s Samuel Travers. Claims he works here, stopped by to get a few things from his locker and ran into the commotion downstairs so he thought he’d check things out. The victim was a friend of his it seems.'
Collins handed Damon a small laminated card that had Sam’s picture and employee information. Damon glanced at the photo and then suddenly remembered where he had seen him last.
Travers had been at the site where they’d discovered the Halloran corpse. Damon wondered if it was just a coincidence that Sam had shown up at this murder scene as well. Come to think of it, Jake Caruso had been at two of the murder scenes as well, the two at the Blake estates. Damon filed the thought away for later investigation.
The Sheriff handed the ID back to Collins. 'Check this out for me. Find out who his supervisor is and get him on the phone. I want to know everything he can tell us about this guy. You know the drill.'
'Gotcha, Sheriff.'
As Collins headed down the hall, Damon walked over to where Sam was standing. 'Feeling any better, Mr. Travers?' he asked kindly.
'Uh, yeah, thanks. Sorry about the mess.' He waved his hand feebly in the direction of the doorway where he’d lost control of his stomach earlier.
'Don’t worry about it,' Damon replied. 'A sight like that isn’t an easy one to take.' He shook his head sadly. 'Unfortunately, when you’re in a position like mine you get used to it after awhile.'
Sam didn’t reply. He was barely listening. He knew that he should be paying attention. He was probably in a whole lot of trouble, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His thoughts were a confused jumble, like a swarm of bees around a hive.
He realized suddenly that the sheriff had asked him another question.
'Uhh, pardon me?'
Wilson eyed him calmly. 'I asked if you knew the victim.'
Gabriel! a voice cried in the back of Sam’s mind. 'Yeah. He’s…' he began, and then corrected himself. 'He was a friend of mine. I work here, this is my floor.' Forgive me Gabriel! How could I have known it was all true?
'Are you friends with most of the patients entrusted to your care?'
'Some of them,' Sam replied.
The heavy stench of death filled his nostrils as the ambulance attendants walked past carrying a stretcher on which sat a number of body bags. Sam’s gaze followed them the length of the hall until they disappeared around the corner.
Damon waited until he had Sam’s attention again. Then he asked, 'Do you know who killed Mr. Armadorian?'
Yes! Sam’s mind cried, and for a moment he was afraid he’d be unable to prevent himself from telling the Sheriff all he knew, that his mouth would disobey the commands his mind was sending to it and the whole sorry story would be revealed, but some rational part of him was still functioning. He knew that if he told the Sheriff what he suspected he’d only wind up at the County Hospital awaiting a psychiatric exam. He managed to squelch his desperate need to unburden himself and answered the question in the negative.
Sam’s inner turmoil did not go unnoticed, but Damon gave no indication that he’d seen it.
If Sam might know something that could help the investigation of the murders, then Damon was duty-bound to bring him in for questioning. The mayor and the public were screaming for him to make an arrest and end the killing spree that was rapidly turning their town into a frightened community of hermits, too scared to leave their homes. He couldn’t arrest Sam just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time but bringing him down to the stationhouse for questioning wouldn’t violate any of his civil rights.Something stayed his hand, however.
Maybe it didn’t make much sense, but in his gut Damon was certain that Sam had no connection to the murders. While there was no evidence yet linking this one to the others aside from its sheer savagery, Damon was certain that they were all connected. They had to be. There was no doubt in his mind that all four murders were committed by the same person. Or animal, if he were to use Strickland’s theory. While Sam’s appearance tonight might indicate he knew something about the murders, not for a moment did Damon believe that Sam was capable of committing them. It took a certain maliciousness to kill in such a brutal manner, and his gut reaction told him Sam wasn’t capable of that.
Which left him back at square one.
Except for whatever it was that Sam knew.
Damon watched as Sam dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and stuck one between his lips. His hands trembled as he tried to light it and after three unsuccessful tries the Sheriff took pity on him and lit it himself.
Sam weakly smiled his thanks.
Damon came to a decision. 'Look, Mr. Travers. I get the feeling you know a bit more about all this than you’re letting on. I’m giving you a chance to come clean right now. Is there anything you wanna tell me?'
Sam merely shook his head. 'Is it okay if I go now? I’m not feeling all that great and…'
Damon cut him off. 'Yeah, all right. I’m sure the whole situation has been a shock. There are a few other questions I want to ask you about Mr. Armadorian but they can wait until the morning. I’ll expect you in my office around eleven o’clock, all right?'
'Yeah. Okay.' Sam turned and began walking down the corridor. He’d only gone a few steps when Sheriff Wilson called out to him.
'Mr. Travers?'
Sam turned back around to face him.
'The locker room is this way,' the Sheriff said, indicating the other end of the hall with an outstretched hand.
For a moment Sam was completely confused. The locker room? What the hell did that have to?? Then he remembered the cover story he’d told Officer Collins. He smiled weakly, doing his best to cover his lapse. 'Thanks.
