Investigation into the Duerius Case became my problem. I was unprepared, unqualified and too inexperienced for it, but that didn’t prevent the troubles from becoming my own. I had no choice but to accept the task of discovering the truth.
I opened the file and noted that very little was established about the Duerius Case. There was a description of the mother and her child, a hospital report on the child’s toxicology, a copy of the note from the child’s teacher, signed by the school nurse and an official complaint from the social worker that had looked into the matter. I felt the first moment of creepiness before I made my first move.
I picked up the phone on my desk and called the case worker. After the formalities I was told why there was an investigation:
“It is my professional opinion that it is an actual incident of factitious disorder imposed on another.” The social worker explained. I pondered the meaning of the words for a moment before I responded:
“Munchausen syndrome by proxy? Is that what you are describing? Are you implying that the mother is actually poisoning her kid?” I asked. I felt cold, despite the warmth of my office.
“It is what I think. I’ve never seen such a thing before. It was a comment by the doctor that made me realize it is what must be occurring.” The voice of the case worker was serious and grave.
“I understand. What did the doctor say, exactly?” I inquired. Making such an inquiry of someone is my specialty, as a special inquiries investigator.
“The doctor said that the toxicology indicated a tolerance to the drug. That the symptoms have decreased and the dose increased over a considerable amount of time.” The case worker repeated the doctor’s concern.
“Under what circumstances did the doctor make such a comment to you?” I asked without warning. The person I was speaking to hesitated and then revealed:
“I was confided in by someone I am acquainted with, the doctor is a close friend. I believe the doctor and I made the case on behalf of the child.” The confession came.
“You have no other connection to the Duerius case? There is no actual reason for a social worker to be involved.” I probed.
“No. But it is the only conclusion. You have to investigate.” The social worker insisted. I thought for a couple of seconds before I said:
“I can only proceed with this investigation if I am presented with evidence of an actual crime. Unfortunately, without the testimony of the doctor, I can do nothing.” I imposed. I knew that the social worker would give me the doctor’s name and number and so I waited until they decided that was their only option:
“Then you will have to talk to the doctor.” The social worker concluded.
I received the name and number of the doctor and called until I got through.
“I was told by a mutual friend that you have useful information regarding the Duerius toxicology. I presume you were present and had concerns, prior to the results? Is that what made you ask a friend for help?” I asked.
“It is. The toxicology report was inconclusive, but I have seen such a thing before. The results were consistent with a drug addiction, increased usage, tolerance and withdrawals. It is what I deal with all the time.” The doctor explained carefully.
“I am afraid I don’t comprehend why you didn’t contact the police. What drug are we talking about?” I asked.
“There was no actual evidence of any drug. Just the symptoms. The school had sent the child to the emergency room without parental consent. The parent, the mother, she couldn’t be reached. She only came and got her child later. She wanted no further treatment and she was angry that her child was in the hospital.” The doctor attempted to explain to me why they had done nothing except tell a social worker to make an official complaint. There was suspicion of child abuse.
“That’s fine. Thanks for your time.” I told the doctor.
“You will look into it though?” The doctor asked, concerned.
“As long as there is evidence of a crime. This toxicology report, you said yourself, there’s no actual evidence of any drug.” I reminded the doctor.
“Yes but…” The doctor protested.
“What?” I asked, after the hesitation.
“Please look into it. I am sure there is something wrong.” The doctor implored me.
“I will do what I can.” I stated. There wasn’t anything I could do, at least nothing I could do in official capacity. I waited until the call was over and then I hung up.
Then I called the school. The school nurse was available to speak to me over the phone and I had to remind them that I had a signature on the teacher’s note.
“I don’t want to comment on it. The vice super intendant has told me that the school isn’t pressing charges and that the information is confidential. I can’t help you.” The school nurse sounded worried about themself, more than the case.
“Can you tell me why you sent the child to the emergency room? I understand that you were unable to contact the parent prior to your decision.” I tried every access point to get them to speak. “Perhaps you can tell me how you felt about having to make such a decision?”
“I felt scared.” The school nurse admitted reluctantly.
“Why?” I asked. “Didn’t you feel confident that you were doing the right thing?”
“No, I knew something was wrong.” The school nurse continued.
“What made you so sure?” I asked.
“I don’t think I am supposed to tell you.” I was told. I heard such words in almost every investigation. It always meant I was getting somewhere.
“You don’t have to tell me.” I said, easing up with the quickness of my speech. Then I smiled a little bit and added casually: “But you do have the freedom to say anything you want. If you just want to say a few words, without answering my questions, I won’t put anything on the record.”
“I was afraid that the child was getting worse. They had come into my office several times before, having strange symptoms. It was like the kid was doped, or something. I administered a drug test and it was inconclusive. The day I made the call, it was overwhelmingly obvious. I just didn’t know what else to do.” The school nurse said a few words off the record. I wasn’t satisfied.
“I do have one more question, not regarding anything you just said.” I decided.
“Okay, but I am not supposed to tell you anything.” The school nurse worried.
“You can tell me whether or not you tried to call the parent.” I pointed out. “You don’t have to say why you might have skipped that step. Had you called her in the past?”
“I never got through before, I always had to leave a message. The mother would get the recording and then she would come and get her kid. That day I only made one call.” The school nurse revealed to me with honesty.
“Interesting.” I couldn’t help but say. I appreciated candor, it was like getting to take a breath of fresh air outside.
I wasn’t able to reach the teacher, as the teacher had gotten ill and hadn’t come to school in over a week. I had to call the super intendant’s office and the information about the teacher was denied. I used the database I had access to and found out that there was a missing person report filed by the teacher’s neighbor. I called the local police department and was told they had not opened up an investigation yet. The police gave me the teacher’s phone number from the report.
I called and got no answer. When I was unable to make contact with the teacher, I went to my supervisor and explained that there was a missing person report on a potential witness to an official complaint I was checking into. I told my supervisor that I felt suspicion that the case probably represented a crime, although I had not found any actual evidence. I was dispatched to visit the residence of my possible witness, under the circumstance that they seemed to be missing.
The flight I had to catch was early the next morning and I slept in my car in the parking garage of the airport. When I arrived, I accepted the rental and drove to the home of the school teacher. I got out and looked around.
The autumn leaves rustled all around me and there was a strange chill in the air that penetrated my warm clothes and made me shudder in anticipation of finding something unsettling. I had developed an instinct for knowing when I was actually following a criminal’s trail. I had never felt my instinct so strongly before that day.
I looked around and noticed that the middle of the day had left the neighborhood more vacant than at night. Children were at school, people were at work, running errands or completely off guard. It was the most witching of hours, in broad daylight, except it was dark under hazy gray clouds. The cold air had everyone who was left indoors. Nobody was looking outside, they all had things to occupy them inside their homes.
I walked with impunity up to the mailbox and confirmed that the mail was not being collected. I took that as enough proof for my own satisfaction that something was wrong. I went up to the front door and rang the bell and knocked and waited and repeated. There was no response.
I tried the front door and found it locked. My next step was to walk around the house and examine all the entryways. There was no sign of any forced entry, but the back door was unlocked. I opened the door and called with my voice into the house. There was no response.
I got out my cell phone and called the house and listened inside while it rang. There was no movement inside and nobody answered. I felt a kind of slow dread building up inside of me.
Entering the house was my decision, despite the fact that it was a serious risk and that I was doing so without a warrant or permission. I could smell death from where I stood and I knew I would find a corpse. I went in and located the dead teacher.
My horror began, as I had never seen a homicide before. Not except at already established crime scenes, the body covered or in photographs. I drew my weapon from its holster and had it in one hand while my other hand covered my mouth with a handkerchief.
She was tied to the bedposts with items from around her house: a power cord, a curtain tassel, a dog leash and a belt. There was a head injury that had bled, leaving a trail to her body. Someone had hit her with a decorative vase. Whoever had attacked her had come unprepared, I presumed.
The front door was locked and had blood on it and so did the back door. The killer had tried to wash their hands in the bathroom. They had knocked her unconscious before tying her up. Then they had left her there, possibly alive. She had died where they had left her. I guessed that the head injury had resulted in her death.
I called the police and explained to them what I was doing there, trying to contact her. I lied and said that I thought I had heard her respond to my voice from the back door, but that I was mistaken. The police questioned me no further and I waited while their forensics made a crime scene.
While I sat there, I spotted a neighbor with a dog, watching the police. I got out of my car and walked over to them and asked them if they had filed a missing person report. I was told what I expected to hear, that the neighbor had indeed done so and that the dog had escaped from the open back door and wandered away.
“You closed the back door?” I asked. The neighbor admitted that they had gone around the house and discovered the back door wide open. It was obviously how the dog had gotten out. I told them to keep the dog, for the teacher was deceased.
“Was it murder?” I was asked by the neighbor. I gave no indication except to ask:
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“There was a person I saw go in the front door. A woman, she looked suspicious, or at least I thought so.” The neighbor tried to explain.
“You felt it was suspicious?” I asked.
“It was just a feeling.”
I acquired a description, although vague. There was one detail that mattered: she was dropped off by someone who had left her there. I thanked the neighbor for cooperating and insisted that the dog be continuously cared for. They agreed to keep the dog and then I went and called my supervisor.
When I explained that a visitor was dropped off and that my possible witness was dead: I was given the go ahead on pursuing the case as an active criminal investigation. I could only proceed further on the condition that I could establish a connection between the Duerius family and the teacher. I acknowledged the direction of the investigation.
Paperwork was done on the case, back at the bureau, and I went to the police department and formally gained access to the forensics of the crime scene. There was a suspect warranted for an arrest, based on the fingerprints. It was not surprising to me that Mrs. Duerius was implicated.
The police arrested her on suspicion of murder. Before they took her, however, she had sent her child to stay with someone else. The police used her phone record to narrow down the possible accomplice to just one person she had exchanged calls with recently. I acquired the information on the person who had dropped her off and picked her up from the murder scene, although the police were slow to make any further arrests.
When I was given access to Mrs. Duerius, I presented myself as a special investigator.
“Do you know what I am doing here?” I asked her warmly. She shook her head and refused to speak. I offered her a clue: “It has to do with the school. I am investigating their response to your family’s privacy. It is illegal for them to disclose unqualified presumptions to social workers.”
“They wouldn’t stay out of my business.” Mrs. Duerius said with anger.
“I understand. Is that why you went to see your child’s teacher? To reason with her?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I take it she wasn’t reasonable. She threatened you, told you it was her concern for her student?” I wondered.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Mrs. Duerius told me.
“I believe you. But you couldn’t call for help, you were in too much trouble for accidentally hurting her.” I speculated.
“I am trying to protect me family. She wanted to have my kid taken away.” Mrs. Duerius told me.
“You did what any mother would do to protect her child.” I told her. “I plan to tell the prosecution that you only wanted to do the right thing. She is dead, but you didn’t mean it.”
Mrs. Duerius looked at me and stared, trying to determine if I could be trusted or not. I just stood there and waited for her to familiarize herself with my presence. Eventually she decided I was easier to talk to than the police, while I patiently waited and then, as she spoke, I just listened.
“I just want to know if my child is safe.” She began. She hesitated, unsure if she should tell me more. I made no change in my expression nor did I ask her for more information. She slowly relaxed her guard and confided in me: “My brother took me there and came and got me. I sent my kid with him.”
I nodded. I already knew what she was telling me, or at least it is what I had presumed. When I didn’t seem surprised or worried about interfering, she felt like she needed to explain herself anyway and said:
“Going to talk to the teacher was his idea. He is really good with our kid, even though he has a problem. It’s really not his fault, none of it. Ever since my husband died, he’s become the only person I can rely on.”
I wanted to ask for every kind of clarification. Instead, I just agreed with her by letting her tell me whatever she felt like saying. When someone wanted to explain themselves, it was because they felt like they were being listened to. Mrs. Duerius had a long story to tell and she would only tell it if she didn’t feel like divulging the details would compromise her, the brother or the kid. I asked with sympathy:
“How were you able to get along when your husband died?”
“It was hard. He died during a mugging. Someone killed him for his wallet. He never knew about what had happened between me and my brother. At least he never knew that.” Mrs. Duerius told me.
“You mean your kid was also his?” I asked. She frowned and refused to answer. “It’s okay, a paternity test will be done during this investigation. I am just wondering if what happened wasn’t your brother’s fault?”
“It was an accident.” Mrs. Duerius excused the incident she had in mind. I struggled not to squirm in my chair in the interrogation room. I felt very uncomfortable trying to add the new pieces to the puzzle.
“Your husband never knew.” I confirmed. “And he was murdered by a stranger.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Duerius agreed. She seemed to believe what she was saying. I nodded.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me about your brother?” I asked. Then I added: “If he has some kind of problem, special considerations could be made for him. I think the police will arrest him for his connection to the teacher’s death.”
“He does have a problem.” Mrs. Duerius added in his defense. She hesitated to say more and I just sat while she carefully chose her words. Then she elaborated for me: “He uses a medicine to deal with the nightmares he has always had. It makes him dream while he is awake, sometimes. He doesn’t always know what he is doing.”
“What medicine?” I asked. “The hospital ran tests on your kid and found nothing. Could your kid have used the medicine?”
Mrs. Duerius started crying. She wanted to tell me everything. She felt like I understood her and sympathized with her.
“Yes.” She sighed. When she was ready, she finally admitted everything. I sat calmly while I was filled with horror. Her kid had the same unbearable nightmares as her brother and she had started to administer the medicine that he used. It was not any drug that was known to science. They had a rare flower that had existed in their family for generations. They made the drug themselves and it was the only thing that kept the awfulness away. The nightmares were of something real and terrifying, something that could enter the world through the eyes of someone seeing it in nightmares. She couldn’t describe the monster and she could see that I couldn’t accept that what she was telling me was true.
The interview was over, she wanted to say no more about it.
I looked into the police file for the murder of Mr. Duerius. I suspected it was no random killing, during a mugging. I believed she had no suspicions toward her brother. Neither the wallet, nor the murder weapon were discovered. He was killed by being stabbed twenty-eight times. Someone had made sure he died. No suspects were ever questioned or arrested.
Getting him arrested took some time, a warrant had to be approved. He was under suspicion for the murder of Mr. Duerius. I arranged for the social worker to take the kid and also got a court order for a paternity test, which would serve as evidence in the form of motivation, if the results confirmed Mrs. Duerius’ statement to me. While I waited for the slow gears of justice to turn, I was confronted by nightmares of my own.
I slept in a hotel room while I waited. I had taken some of the unknown drug into custodial evidence, from Mrs. Duerius’ home. When I fell asleep staring at the jar of ink: I dreamed of the monstrous things she had described. Utter horror gripped me and I awoke holding the jar. Something had overcome me and I had sampled the drug without realizing what I had done.
Awareness of some tangible presence felt like fear of the dark. I was panicked and paralyzed by the nearby thing. I believed it had come from my eyes as I saw it, that it had come for me, finding me in my room alone. Terror gripped me as I found and held my firearm.
“Who is there?” I asked. I slowly set the jar on the floor.
I heard a low growling and smelled something like burnt carpet. I blinked in the darkness and could make out some shapeless shade, hulking there. It extended itself upwards and outwards towards me, reaching the ceiling corner and reaching for me. I fired two shots into it as I was overcome by fear.
The bullets hit something and it hissed and retracted. It squirted a glowing ichor onto the floor and then struck the window. When the glass shattered it slithered through to the outside. I just stood there panting for breath, unable to believe what I had encountered. Their nightmare thing was real, it had come to me as she had said. How I had taken a sip from the jar I could not remember.
I staggered with shock into the bathroom and saw that it had left a dark stain on my lips. The sudden recollection of sitting in my bed and lifting it to my lips came to me. I had not chosen to drink it; something had compelled me to and I had fallen asleep and nearly forgotten what I had done.
As my breathing steadied, I accepted the horror and terror I had experienced. Whatever it was, there was surely an explanation for it. Despite my fear I went and took a sample of what it had bled when I shot it. I had to explain to the police that I was attacked in my hotel room. I did not surrender the substance because I did not believe the police would handle it any better than I had. They would not believe me that some unexplained nightmare thing had made me imbibe the medicine and dream it into existence.
Mr. Duerius’ killer turned out to be his brother-in-law. Forensic evidence implicated him and confronted with the motive: he confessed. I reported back to the bureau most of the details. My supervisor was worried that I wasn’t telling them everything. I had one last thing to do.
I arrived, trembling, at the place where they had grown the black petalled flower, a lotus growing upon a compost of dead animals. I was afraid of whatever had gotten loose, worried that it was still at-large. I waited for it, despite my fears. As time went on, I became impatient. I set about to destroy the crop, the lab where they made it into the medicine and the artwork crafted and hoarded privately by generations of Duerius ancestors.
Shaking with dread, at the extremes to which I was going, I poured gasoline on all of it. Then, feeling watched from the night, I set fire to it. As it burned, I hoped the horrors would never return. When I left I realized I had acted rashly, but I was in the grip of morbid fear. Leaving to go home helped me to let go of me dread.
I returned to my offices with the evidence of the creature’s existence: the sample of its blood. Analysis of the liquid matched nothing except the jar of inky medicine I had kept. Neither substance matched anything else, chemical or biological. I had reached a dead end.