Adoption Read online

  She grabbed him by the upper arm pulling him forcefully into the center of the kitchen floor. Without losing any momentum, she took the roll of duct tape off of the table top and began to tape his wrists together. Once his wrists were taped, she taped his ankles and then his mouth. Totally disabled and unable to stand or walk, she grabbed him by his hair and began pulling him across the kitchen floor toward the cellar door. He screamed into the duct tape and kicked his taped legs in protest to what was happening. This process was not new to him. She threw open the cellar door, and without losing a step, started down the stairs maintaining her firm grip on his hair. He followed through the doorway and felt the first stair fall away under him. He fell downward until the next stair came up to meet him slamming against his small body. Each step bruised the bones and muscles not yet fully developed – a child’s bones and muscles. There were twenty-two steps leading down into the cellar, and each left its mark somewhere on his helpless body.

  The house was supported by an old, field-stone foundation through which water and dampness entered every time it rained. The air smelled of mildew and was a perfect hiding place for rodents and spiders that lived in the stone-work and wood rafters in this damp, dusky environment. Across the cellar was a closet without a light. It was made of hardwood. The closet door had two locks and a barricade bar across the front. The closet was empty inside. Like the rest of the cellar, the closet floor was just moist, sticky dirt that lived through over a hundred years of occupants’ memories.

  She stopped just short of the closet, reaching up to a shelf hanging on the cellar wall. Taking down a blind fold and ear protectors, she put them on his ears and around his eyes, blocking out all sound and the dim, cellar light. The ear protectors and blind fold were then wrapped with duct tape just like his arms and legs. She did not want him to loosen them while he sat and thought about his disobedience. Dragging him the last few feet to the closet, she threw him inside like a bag of potatoes against the wall. Slamming and locking the door, she stormed away up the stairs back to the kitchen hurling cuss words into the cellar darkness.

  This time, she would leave him alone in the darkness of his damp prison for two days. There would be no food, nor water. Sometimes it was a shorter amount of time. Sometimes it was much, much longer. He knew better than to cry. The more noise he made, the longer he would remain alone in the total darkness of his closet prison.

  His van passed in front of the Sutton Police Station before he realized that he did not remember driving back from Worcester. “The benefit of flashbacks,” he thought, turning left onto Prentice Road, straight out of town toward his building. Marty would be waiting there for his return. The three monkeys rolled over face down on the front seat as the van hit a pot hole slamming into the front tire with a loud thud.

  19

  Marty woke up not knowing what time it was or how long she had slept. The drug responsible for knocking her out was slow to leave her system. She was in a state of half consciousness as she tried to focus, attempting to clear her mind, drifting in and out of sleep like a person recovering from anesthesia after undergoing surgery. There was no saliva in her mouth, and her tongue felt twice its size, making her gag as she rolled onto her side, looking down at the floor praying for a drink of cold water. She did not know if her kidnapper had returned after his initial departure, or if he would return at all. Would he leave her here in this familiar room to starve to death, or was there some other madness he wanted to inflict upon her when he returned? She thought about the word ‘adoption’ that he had used during his conversation and then gagged again as an unconscious swallow closed the back of her throat, thirsting for relief from this drug-induced drought. Tears of desperation began to move down her cheeks, small rivers of salty moisture she tried to direct into her mouth by twisting her head. She would drink her own urine at this point if that was all that was available. Her tongue was so dry she thought it might crack open when she coughed or gagged again. Her thoughts were broken by the sliding of the bolt lock on the door.

  “Shit!” she thought. “What the fuck! Is he going to rape me? Is that what he wants to do with me? Am I going to be some sort of sex toy he uses until he has satiated his madness? When he uses me every way he can think of, will he kill me, and dump my body in some wooded area for the animals to gnaw on until there is nothing left but a few bones and strands of hair mixed in with dead leaves and dried twigs? JESUS! Will somebody please come and take me out of this nightmare! Help ME! Help! Help! Help me! OH, CHRIST, somebody fucking HELP ME!” There was no reply to her inward pleading.

  She closed her eyes as the door swung open into the room. Pretending to be asleep, hoping that he would close the door and leave her alone, she listened to his footsteps entering the room. She heard the door close. Then, there was complete silence. She tried to control her breathing mimicking the slow, easy breathing of deep sleep. “Keep your breathing slow and easy,” she thought. “Slow and easy - do not move your eyes. Concentrate. Keep your eyes shut. If he knows you are faking, who knows what he’ll do.” All of these thoughts raced through her brain as she listened intently for the sound of his movement. But there was no sound to be heard. “What is he doing? He must be standing there just staring at me. What the FUCK is he DOING?”

  Suddenly, she felt it. Very faintly at first, but heavier as the seconds dragged on ever so slowly, like a long distance runner using a geriatric walker to run a marathon. Without making a sound, he stood by her bedside. Leaning over, he brought his face to within an inch of hers. He began to lightly blow onto her neck and cheek. Blowing very softly in long, extended breaths until he could blow no longer, then, inhaling a new batch of air to start blowing once again, watching for her reaction. She could feel his warm breath entering her nose and shuddered inside knowing that she was breathing in HIS breath. She felt a wave of nausea overcoming her and prayed she would be able to maintain her sleeping ruse, as fear once again began to rise in her mind.

  He spoke to her quietly. “Marty. I know you are awake. I can smell the fear streaming out of your pores. I know you must be frightened and wondering what I might do to you, and therefore, I understand why you would want me to think you are asleep. But I can assure you I mean you no harm. When I spoke before about you being a part of my family, I meant every word. I have rescued you from false parents who would have abandoned you and left you alone to fend for yourself. I know these things. I only want to protect you as I have protected my other adopted children. It is my hope you will give me the opportunity to prove this to you – give me a chance to show my genuine desire to keep you in my family. I would like you to open your eyes and look at me. Do not be afraid. Please, look into my eyes, Marty, and know the truth.”

  Marty knew instinctively she should not open her eyes and look at her abductor. As soon as she looked into his eyes and saw his face, she was as good as dead. He could not afford to let her go once she could identify him. But there was something hypnotic in his voice. She found herself opening her eyes while every alarm in her body sounded the warning: DO NOT OPEN YOUR EYES! DO NOT LOOK INTO HIS FACE! Her eyes continued to open until she was looking into two, deep, dark eyes staring back at her intently. Now it was too late to retreat. Marty could not close her eyes and pretend she had not looked at him. The die was cast and she would have to play along with him if she were to survive this nightmare.

  The room was dimly lit like a house at dusk when the sun goes down, only one or two lights shining through the charcoal grey of the evening. Marty estimated that he stood about six feet tall or a little taller. The full-length, black coat that he wore hid most of his torso and legs, but she knew he was well built and muscular. Squared shoulders and erect posture gave him the appearance of being more statue than human. His movements were almost undetectable and therefore his agility and coordination were probably superior. His face, partially hidden in the shadows of the room, had a lean and angular chin at the jaw line, with straight, thin lips
pursed tightly together. His face had a plastic-looking texture, without movement, without blemish – too perfect. For what seemed like an eternity he simply looked down at her lying on the bed. His eyes did not blink or turn away from her. Their eyes locked almost curiously together for this instant in time, absorbing the knowledge of one another. This was what the adoption process was all about. This was the time of acquaintance.

  “I need a glass of water.” Marty finally said breaking the silence. “My throat is so dry I can’t swallow any more. If you want me to be part of your family, this is not the way to start our relationship. I also have to go to the bathroom. I don’t know what you drugged me with, but, I have been here for a long time and I feel like I am going to explode. If I don’t go pretty soon, I’ll pee right here on these sheets.” Her words were shaky, but were laced with a confident defiance which he surprisingly admired.

  As he started to bend over toward her again, Marty flinched, moving back instinctively to the opposite side of the bed. Her hands and feet were still bound by the plastic ties hindering control of her movements.

  “Marty, I am not going to hurt you,” he said. “I am going to undo the ties around your ankles so you can walk to the bathroom. Sit still. DO NOT MOVE.” These last three words uttered in a low, definite commanding tone she knew he meant.

  She felt the ankle ties fall away. Gently grabbing her left arm, he pulled her to a sitting position on the bed. Dizziness overtook her for a few seconds as she became accustomed to sitting up. Marty shook head a few times, helping to clear her mind, as she began to regain some sense of awareness. The fingers of his right hand still firmly held her left arm as she focused - taking deep, long breaths to clear her lungs.

  “I will walk with you to the bathroom. You will find a plastic cup on the sink you can use to get yourself some water. Please, do not think about trying to escape. I am going to leave your hands tied and will search you when you have finished, to be sure you have not hidden a toothbrush, comb or some other article in your cloths that you think might make a good weapon, should the opportunity arise. Let me say, my dearest Marty, it is NOT that I do not trust you, but, that, I really do NOT trust you.” A small smirk crossed his lips as he enjoyed his impromptu, sarcastic humor.

  Marty felt his grip pulling her onto her feet. Her legs were wobbly, but she gained confidence with each step, as he led her over to the door. The hallway was dimly lit and she was actually glad he was holding onto her arm leading the way. She thought these rooms were located in a cellar, but was not quite sure. The building smelled like an old building, with a musty dampness lingering in the background against the walls and floor. By the time they reached the bathroom, Marty was almost frantic to drink a cup of water. Opening the bathroom door, she all but ran over to the sink picking up the cup between her bound hands. She did not wait until the cup was full. Instead, she held it under the faucet only briefly lifting it up quickly to her lips gulping down the first mouthful. The relief was instantaneous, although it took a few more large gulps to clear away the last traces of dryness from her tongue and throat.

  Resting her hands on the sink, Marty realized he was still silently standing in the open doorway watching her every movement. Turning her face toward the door, without letting go of the sink, Marty asked, “Are you going to stand there while I go to the bathroom, too? Can’t I at least have SOME privacy? It’s not like I can go anywhere! I’m in a friggin’ bathroom with my hands tied for God’s sake!”

  Without saying a word, he backed away from the open doorway into the hallway pulling the door closed as the shadows covered him - - his eyes never looking away, he just simply disappeared. After Marty finished peeing, she sat on the toilet in silence for a few moments. She was tired of thinking. The drug had left her exhausted. Although the water quenched her thirst, and the release of pressure in her bladder allowed her more physical comfort, an electricity of nervous emotion was running wildly throughout her body. Calm was a word that did not exist in her vocabulary. She felt like an animal caught in a trap - no physical damage, but, a captive still the same.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. Three taps on the door.

  “Are you done yet?” he asked. “We need to get back to your room. I have food I need to prepare for you. After you have eaten we need to sit and discuss your adoption. There is much for you to know now that you have come to live with us.”

  20

  Doc Cavanaugh knew the next few days were going to be exhausting. He wondered, “At sixty-three years of age, with a forty-eight inch waist and high blood pressure, how long can I keep up this pace before I am horizontal on a table next to one of my clients. I’ll be the last one to worry about me being dead.” He chuckled to himself, snipping the Kelly Clamp closed on the external carotid artery of Jane Doe # 3.

  Each of the Jane Doe’s autopsied up to this point mimicked the post mortem performed on Christine Sawyer. All of the women were: missing their eyes and lips, or their ears; the drugs used for lethal injection were found in all of their blood tests; the branded, circular mark was found on each neck hiding the injection points, and none of the victims were sexually molested. From this information, Cavanaugh concluded the women probably died at the hands of the same killer.

  Looking at lividity and pooled blood on each victim and comparing these findings to the photographs taken of the victims as they were uncovered at the crime scene, and noting the absence of excreted bodily fluids found at the scene, Doc Cavanaugh was able to determine that the women were killed at a different location, and their bodies then transported later for burial at the pond. He noticed large, dark spots of pooled and coagulated blood in areas of the girl’s bodies that were not lying on the ground. In fact, almost all of the areas of coagulated blood were located at the highest position of the bodies in the photographs. The law of physics told him the blood would pool in the lowest area of the body, not the highest, if the girls had died at the pond. Therefore, he knew the bodies had been moved to their graves after having been dead for quite some time. The blood, already hardened and coagulated, was unable to filter through muscle and organ tissue when the bodies were placed in their burial positions. Once tests sent to the State Crime Lab in Boston were returned, he would compare all test results and have a more definitive time of death.

  Because the bodies were buried in the late fall and frozen through as the temperatures fell below freezing, the usual rectal, and liver temperature probe was useless in determining the time of death for any of the victims – as was testing for rigor mortis after all this time. Rigor would have passed by this time anyway, as it usually passes within forty-eight hours after death.

  An interesting clue Cavanaugh noticed at the scene was the fact that none of the victims wore any jewelry -- watches, rings, bracelets or earrings -- or clothing family members said they were wearing at the time of their abduction. Each wore what appeared to be a new outfit, including new sneakers with ankle socks. The killer was making sure to minimizing any opportunity for the medical or police communities to trace these killings back to him should the bodies ever be discovered. New clothing meant it would be more difficult to find any fibers, dried stains, etc., that might have been on any of the victims’ original clothing or shoes from the time of the abduction to the time of the killings. The killer could have bought these outfits at any number of stores within a hundred mile radius, leaving it impossible for anyone to trace their purchase back to him.

  Cavanaugh wondered why the world spawned evil personalities such as this killer. There did not seem to be any logical reasoning to explain a person’s desire to torture and mutilate another human being. But, then, he was just a doctor of medicine and not a philosophical genius out to answer the unanswerable questions of life. Evil has existed in the world since the beginning of time, and he would not be having any epiphany today standing in the morgue performing autopsies on these young women.

  Cavanaugh noticed, through the frosted basement w
indows of the examination room that the street lights were fighting back the nights’ darkness outside. Looking up at the generic, medical clock on the wall, he knew it had to be well past supper time. Not only did the clock read 8:57 PM, but his stomach was growling like a lioness prowling the Serengeti Plain, looking for her next meal. A quick smirk crossed his face, as he remembered what his best friend in high school, used to say when he was hungry: “I’m so hungry, I could eat the butt off a Brontosaurus!” Then he would jump into his rusted out, ’69 Ford pick-up, drive to the nearest burger joint and order a half a dozen cheeseburgers and a large order of fries. Top that off with a strawberry frappe, and you had the fixin’s of a great “FFF”— Fast Food Feast. Right now though, these memories only served to increase the volume of his growling stomach, as it spoke loudly in protest. He would finish up with Jane Doe #4 in about a half hour and then take a break for a well-deserved meal.

  21

  I did not get to bed until after 3am. The first day after the boys found Christine was spent in meetings with FBI and Sate Police authorities. The Feds decided that they would not invest too much manpower because all of the girls found at the pond disappeared within Massachusetts. They did assign one investigator to assist the State Police in case some evidence or information indicated the need for federal intervention – a polite way of saying they would take over the investigation if within the parameters of their jurisdiction. Mountains of information already gathered was being reviewed and re-reviewed. With the discovery of the other girl’s bodies at the pond, we now had four times the information to sift through.