The Boy by Kristi Lynn

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This story was part of a tandem story ..my chapter added to many other people's ongoing chapters to create a story in whole:

"It's dark here... I don't want to die...," the boy whispered, through cracked, dry lips.

His words fell on empty air.

Those words had been repeated endlessly for days, perhaps even weeks. The boy lost track. It had become his mantra. Better to hear his own voice than the silent darkness that surrounded him.

His parched throat wanted, no, NEEDED water. It had been a long time since the man brought the last dish and set it at his feet. The darkness did not allow the boy see clearly. Faint shadows crept eerily between slats of the high-boarded windows. A length of thick chain held his ankle, forbidding much movement from the dirt floor amid dank smells of the dark place in which he was kept.

In the beginning, the boy had bellowed loudly in anger. But his cries had fallen unheard, echoing on metal shelving across the room.

Eventually, his loneliness became a very real thing. He had screamed in horror in the beginning when scurrying insects ran across his bare feet. Sometimes a spider would slide down a web and crawl into his hair or across his cheek. Now, he half-heartedly pawed at them, not caring much whether they bit at him or not. Once in awhile something skittered into the room, making the boy cringe in terror. He was thirsty, hungry, and sitting in pools of his own fluids and excrement. At first, he had been strong and brave. The boy had spent long hours methodically planning escape routes and ways to catch get back at the man who snatched him from his friends and family.

Once, he had confronted the man, only to be struck across the side of his head and sent reeling into the cement wall. The man had kicked him hard with his boot, breaking his front teeth. The boy spit out blood and teeth, vomiting on his filthy clothes, from the pain. Bruised and sore he had relented, after failed attempts toward freedom, which eventually turned to pleading and begging for his life.

Clean streaks from tears cut through the layers of dirt on his face. The man stayed away longer and longer each time and every visit brought more terrorizing for the boy. The boy had given up twisting and bending a section of the barbed wire wrapped around his throat in hopes of breaking it free. Sitting up was the only position possible. Short catnaps, disturbed by nightmares prevented any rest. His movements were limited, and the torn tips of his fingers were bloody and throbbing. The man had caught him working at the barbed wire and effectively halted the escape attempt.

In retaliation, each one of his fingernails had been slowly pried from his fingers with strong pliers. Not quickly, but slowly, with searing pain. The boy could not get the sound of the man's pleased voice from his head, as the pain and suffering grew more intense. He faded from consciousness, only to be slapped harshly and woken.

"What?" the boy mumbled through swollen lips, as his arms hung limply at his sides. He was not alone. The man was standing, glaring down at him, as he sagged against the wall.

What was the man saying?

Sounds were fuzzy and he could not concentrate. Dancing bright lights flashed in his head with every brutal slap. Forcing his tearing eye to focus, the boy looked sideways, at the man, seeing only the sickening happy look on his face. A cry caught in his throat and extinguished before it could be uttered, as the man finished the task that he had so painstakingly started. The body was tossed into a shallow grave in the woods.

Police eventually swarmed to the scene. All investigators were hurriedly called to assist. Tish's phone began ringing. Tish had been the county coroner for the last 3 years. A coroner was simply a person who officially pronounced a body deceased. No medical degree required. That would be the Medical Examiner's territory. Her husband had been a highly regarded funeral director in the small town and frequently called by the Medical Examiner to assist with notification of the next of kin.

On the suggestion of his friend, John Crampton, added his name to the ballot for coroner and held the post for years. He had worked unofficially with the Sheriff's Department for years, providing invaluable help to death investigations. The department liked to have a death care professional involved during the investigation and determination of the circumstances, manner, and cause of sudden or unexplained deaths in the County.

He offered his compassion and specialized expertise in preparation and authorization of the issuance of death certificates and disposal of the remains of the deceased.

He loved his work, and she loved him. When they had married, he had convinced her to get her funeral director's license, mainly to lighten his workload so he could devote more time to the County position of Coroner. She readily did it for him, as she would have done anything for him. Acquiring her Funeral Arts and Science degree, passing the National Board Exam, the State Jurisprudence Exam, serving an apprenticeship, passing the practical exam, and finally being awarded her Practitioner of Mortuary Science license by the state, were all done for her husband.

Tish and her husband made an efficient pair. They handled the late night phone calls that dragged him out of their warm bed to make removals in the middle of the night. The tension and despair that accompanied each case was not discussed, but understood by them both. They even ran a bereavement group the met at the town hall once a month. The meetings were so well received that they managed to expand their community involvement to include the local hospice director and the chaplain at the hospital.

This benefited everyone who attended, and brought Tish and her husband a sense of well-being and togetherness. There were only two other competitors in the area, but families generally called them, when they saw the name of their chapel in the window of the hearse that always went to the scene of the crime or death. A few cases were hospice care, cancer, or long-term illnesses. The Coroner was called to each. It was not necessary in the hospice cases, but the small town had gotten into the habit, and her husband had never minded.

Her husband had died suddenly, three years ago.

Their good friends, John and Joan Crampton, had convinced her to take over the position of coroner. Joan reminded Tish of the reasons that she had become a funeral director, and was the driving force that convinced her not to sell the Funeral Home. Joan was right; her husband would have wanted her to stay involved and vital in the community. John was a devoted cop, until a accidental bullet in the thigh by a felon removed him from active duty on the police force. John had a difficult time dealing with the early retirement.

Her husband had been a good friend to him. Tish leaned them during her husband's funeral. She was not ready to deal with that loss, even though she regularly helped other families as a grief facilitator. John had called, after a long hiatus from contact. Immediately Tish sensed something was wrong. His voice trembled as he spoke, and it was not because of the massive painkillers he been living on since his accident.

"John? What's wrong? Is it Joan?" she asked.

"No, it's my sister. Stroke," he managed to choke out.

"OH! I am sorry! Tish voiced her concern.

"But that isn't why I am calling. Something happened just before she collapsed. Actually, it may be why she collapsed. Shelly saw something, felt something. Remember the case, a few years back? The missing child that we found? You did the funeral." This was stated matter-of-factly as he tried to elicit a response.

She did remember. How could she not? The stress from that crime scene and the arrangements for that funeral, were the main causes of her husband's heart attack. Myocardial Infarction; part of his heart had died. Tish had shaken her head in disbelief as she had read the death certificate. His doctor had an appointment set for an electrocardiogram, when the attacks of angina began.

Angina was caused by ischemia, a constriction of a branch of the coronary artery, which keeps blood out of the heart. He was getting attacks the day before, and his chest had felt squeezed. It was probably because of all the stress he had been dealing with over the case. The doctor had told him to rest, but that didn't happen. A workaholic by nature, he never stopped until everything was finished and finalized for all of the funerals.

"How could I forget?" Her blood chilled through her veins, and she shivered. "It was awful, they never did catch the killer, did they?"

"No, he replied, anger making his voice tense and strained. "I think he is here again, Tish. We found another body. Boy, about twelve years old, just like the others. Mutilated."

"Oh, my God. Where?" Cradling the phone against her chin and shoulder and tugging her jeans on, she listened to the details. "I am on my way."

Cars, lights, and cops surrounded the burial site of this victim deep in the woods. Hordes of cops surrounded the ditch. Tish singled out Sheriff Jim Stelea from the look of the gathering. Making her way to John's side, she looked down where he and the Sheriff stared.

Tish blinked the tears back, trying to be strong in front of the male cops, as she pulled on two pairs of latex gloves from her case of supplies. The sight before her was horrific. A boy of about 12, mangled. Along side him, lay two rusty pieces of barbed wire, which had been used to partially decapitate him; slicing through muscles and tendons and severing his carotid artery. The head lolled grotesquely against the boy's shoulder. Tish could hear the Medical Examiner's voice in her head listing the injuries during the impending autopsy.

With a quick initial examination, she noted the severed the platysma, sternohyoid, and sternocleidomastoid muscles. Crushed larynx. The carotid artery, internal jugular vein, and vagus nerve are all severed.

The first thing that Tish did was wrap the boy's hands in plastic bags, in the hope of saving skin cells or anything else that might may have adhered to his fingers, from the killer. It was impossible to go under the fingernails for fibers and clues, as she normally would. There were no fingernails, just raw red flesh in their place.

"Sheriff Stelea, has anything been moved?" she asked, knowing that when a child was found like this, instinct made a person want to touch the child. It didn't matter who found the child, invariably, the crime scene would be disturbed. Parents were usually the ones who would move a child, or wrap a blanket around them. Today there were no parents in sight; a good thing, for now. Also not in sight was the barrage of newspapermen, television film crews and sightseers all eager to race to the sleepy little town, for the latest breaking news of death and gore on which the public thrived.

Tish wanted this body moved as quickly as possible from the site, before the crews could arrive.

"Is that police photographer finished, yet, Sheriff?" she asked, with controlled impatience. "Let's move quickly before we make the front page of the morning edition, huh?"

She watched the officers pull the thin yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter trees, to cordon off the area from gawkers.

Tish knew that later, she would assist the Medical Examiner during the autopsy. They would gown up, pull on the face shields, and use the orange goggles to protect their eyes, while the special fiber-optic light would scan every inch of the boy's body. They would be looking for semen, hair, and fibers, which would all show as white in the special light. She would be transcribing to paper and tape recorder, as the M.E. commented on each wound, whether new or old. They would note each contusion and abrasion. It wasn't her job, but they had worked so well together over the years, the work flow between them was comfortable.

The medical terminology and spelling had been no problem for her, thanks to the Pathology and Microbiology and Chemistry classes at school, and the late hours at the morgue filled her time. Tish also knew, as she was preparing the body for removal from the scene, that she would be going over each small detail of the restorative art needed on each injury, to prepare the body for the funeral. Parents normally wanted to see their child, no matter the condition.

Too many times, she had spent tedious hours tucking a tiny pink or blue receiving blanket around a dead fetus or stillborn. A few other things would need to be attended, such as tenderly closing the lips and eyelids, sometimes with mortician's wax, petroleum jelly mixed with denture cream, or superglue. She also took time to clear the nostrils of congealed blood and mucous. Little fingers were tucked into a fist against its cheek, as infants tend to do when they sleep. A stuffed toy or rattle would be set beside the tiny body in the small white infant box if it had arrived with the child from the hospital. Many times a letter from the mother would also go in the infant box.

She always prayed that the parent would not want to cuddle the baby. The skull bones were so fragile, and the autopsy at the hospital was not kind. Even with repair work that she might do, the skull could still come apart. From experience, she knew that dead or not, the child was still their baby. One last look was normally demanded, no matter how you prepared them, or tried to talk them out of it. Such as it would be in this case.

It was time to call the boy's parents and have them come to the funeral home to finalize arrangements. They had chosen the casket online from the funeral home website, while speaking with Tish on the phone. It had been too traumatic for the parents when she asked them to come choose the casket at the chapel. They could not bring themselves to stand in a room surrounded by the icons of death.

Tish took a last scrutinizing glance at the remains of the boy. She adjusted the collar of his shirt and closed the lid of his casket as she wondered how something this awful was possible.

~The End~

Author Bio:

Kristi Lynn


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The Boy

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