Authors: Dean Covin
“I’m staying in town rather than commuting—I prefer my car.”
“Me too,” he mumbled as he popped three Advil, swallowing them dry. “We’ll have to swap sugar—Watch the light!”
“I’m a cop. I know how to drive.” Hank lurched forward as the car made an abrupt stop, then she added, “And I know my car. I don’t have to brake from ten blocks away.”
“Technically you’re a
Fed
, not a cop.”
At a loss for words, she actually hissed at him.
“Fine. Just try not to hit the one horse in this town.”
It’s not that small, asshole.
She watched him take in the streets, the buildings, parks and trees with a keen interest. “You’ve been here before.”
He continued to scan his surroundings. “Grew up here.” He craned his neck back toward the passing city hall. He mumbled, “Long time ago,” but she caught it.
That must be why Doug assigned him. He’s a local.
“How long?”
“Still a kid—just outta high school.” He looked ahead again. “Things have changed.”
She stared at him, detecting a hint of nostalgia; but that would make him a person, so she discounted it.
Littered with posters, the small county sheriff’s office espoused everything from the merits of seat belts to admonishing drunk driving. An outdated sign promoting Cyber Safety Week 2009 barely clung to the wall—batting against the churning ceiling fan breeze. A slight woman, munching pungent microwave popcorn, sat behind the counter among cluttered papers, rapping her keyboard harder than necessary to capture the individual strokes. Otherwise the department appeared vacant.
Vicki approached the desk clerk first, but Hank beat her to the punch, just to piss her off. “Special Agents Dashel and Starr. We’re here to see Sheriff Roscoe.”
The uniformed woman scanned her screen, then nodded. “He’s waiting for you. His office is that one back there.” She pointed to a door that hung slightly ajar.
As the agents approached, Dashel stepped in front of Vicki and entered the office unannounced.
“You’re late,” the sheriff said, stuffing his mouth with a sloppy soft taco, spilling plenty of excess filling on the plate. He shot an annoyed glance at Hank as he took his seat and then stopped, midchew, as he watched Vicki step through the door. “Good God,” he mumbled through his taco. He wiped a greasy hand down his slacks and held it out to her as he swallowed his half-chewed bite down hard. “John Roscoe, town sheriff.”
She thought past the sullied hand and shook it professionally. “Special Agent Starr and this is Special Agent Dashel.”
“You
are
special—every inch of you.” He drank her in, making no attempts to hide it. He spoke to the breasts held tight in her snug blouse. “I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever been grateful to have outside help.” He scanned her head to toe. “And to think I was going to cry jurisdiction. Color me stupefied, pretty lady.”
Vicki smiled, welcoming the leverage.
Hank slouched in his chair, uninterested in the sheriff’s juvenile self-indulgences. “Can we get started?”
The sheriff turned to Hank. “You get to work with
her
everyday? You bastard. She’s the hottest cop I’ve ever seen.”
His blatant chauvinism was startling—especially before federal agents. John Roscoe’s rugged, if scruffy, Josh Brolin–esque edge could be dangerously attractive if his rude-boy arrogance didn’t get in the way.
“We met an hour ago,” Vicki said.
She was accustomed to the attention, though not usually so brazen when coming from a colleague. Vicki dressed to attract and knew her looks gave her an edge, which she employed liberally. Was it politically correct? No. Was it the way the world worked? Absolutely. Still, there were lines.
The sheriff appraised the slouching FBI man, then looked at her. “Well, if that’s the case, and you just met, this guy’s either a walking corpse”—he turned to Hank—“or gay.”
Hank offered a blasé stare. “The case? Dead girl?”
Sheriff Roscoe shook his head, grinning in disbelief. He nodded toward her new partner. “Seems he’d rather be dead, but I’m gonna go with homo.” He winked at her and pulled open a file.
The sheriff picked at a piece of bean skin in his teeth. “The body was found this morning at 7:34 a.m. by two locals The crime scene is an old abandoned barn. We’re pretty sure the victim is a local schoolteacher.”
“
Pretty sure
?” Hank didn’t hide his sarcasm. “Don’t small towns know everybody?”
He glared at Hank’s stupid question. “It’s messy.” His tone elicited the intended grimace from both agents. “We’ll be heading out to the crime scene shortly. But I warn you, expect to get reacquainted with your breakfast.”
Vicki leaned in. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Sheriff. This ain’t our first rodeo.”
This time he ignored her cleavage, his face grim. “Nor mine.”
A hard rap struck the door frame as a sturdy balding man stepped into the office, his face paralyzed. “John, is it true?”
The sheriff stood to greet the man. “I’m afraid so, Rory. We’re pretty sure it’s her.”
The man’s face sank, devastated, and then raised pink with fury. “You find out who did this, John.”
“We will.” He motioned to the agents. “These are Special Agents Starr and Dashel. They’re here to—”
Noticing them for the first time—and showing no extra interest—the distraught man interrupted, “You just make sure they do their job,” then turned.
“I will,” Roscoe said, but the man was already gone.
“Who was that?” Vicki asked.
“Mayor Travers. And if the victim is who we fear it might be, then she was his daughter’s favorite teacher.” He paused. “In fact she was probably the town’s favorite teacher.”
Hank shook his presumptuous head. “He your typical small-town mayoral doofus?”
The adolescent jest witnessed earlier was wiped clean as the sheriff turned serious. “Mayor Travers is a good man—he loves his town and its people. I suggest you not tread on him.
Do we understand each other
?”
Hank didn’t reply.
Vicki looked from Sheriff Roscoe to Agent Dashel. If Hank felt as embarrassed as he should have, he didn’t show it. “Dashel?”
“
Agent
Dashel,” he corrected.
She scoffed. “
Agent
Dashel, is this going to be a problem?”
“Oh, whatever do you mean,
Miss
Starr?” he sneered, his head still throbbing.
“Are you going to be able to represent the bureau professionally, or is being back home the source of your unacceptable attitude?”
“No,
I
am the source of my
unacceptable attitude
—and I’ll ask that you give credit where credit is due.”
Roscoe interrupted, “
Back home
? There’re no Dashels here.”
“No, there’s not,” Hank agreed. “There hasn’t been a Dashel here since the eighties.” Levity had yet to enter his tone. “Obviously before your time, Sheriff.”
The sheriff flashed a surly smile. “True enough and the town’s been better ever since.”
The mayor poked his head back in, interrupting again. “Stella’s sending out the notices. Seven until 9:00 p.m.—or so—depending on the temperature.” He wasn’t referring to room temperature.
“Okay, thanks, Rory.” Before the mayor could duck away, Roscoe added, “And, Rory…” The sheriff tried to continue but couldn’t. The two men looked at each other for a long, quiet moment—a silent condolence passing through the air. The mayor offered a gentle nod and left.
“
Notices
?” Vicki asked.
“Town assembly, tonight—about the murder.” He preempted the coming challenge. “The worst situation right now is to have limited or incorrect information floating around town. Small towns are wonderful, warm and close—but they can be dry tinder for rumor-fires once they’re lit.”
“Make sure we get one of the notices,” Vicki said. “And we’ll need to review what you intend on saying tonight.”
“I’ll make sure you’re there. There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll provide a high-level context, be light on the details, and this will be a forum, more so for the folks to ask questions and give us the ability to correct misunderstandings before they catch fire.” He looked at her. “Remember, not my first rodeo.”
His plan sounded reasonable. For such a scoundrel, the sheriff appeared to have at least a little aptitude behind that tainted gold star.
“What else can you tell us about the victim?” Hank asked, reminding them that he was still in the room.
Roscoe ignored him, handing Vicki the sparse file.
She struggled to read the scribbled preliminary. “
Schoolteacher? Ivy Turner? Twenty-seven? Caucasian. Blonde. Blue eyes
?” She looked at the sheriff. “That’s it?”
“It’s not my only case.”
His eyes betrayed him; the harsh quip had meant to deflect the anguish. This must have been a hard file for him to open. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I have my own file started. I’ll get what I need from you at the crime scene.” She paused and then offered, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Vicki lingered on the astonishing dichotomy of Sheriff John Roscoe. He could flip between genuine concern and frat-boy antics in a microsecond. Accustomed to being stared at—hungered for—Vicki marveled that John Roscoe made no attempt to feign decorum, as if he was untouchable regardless of his actions. She drew a deft skid behind his patrol car, a wash of dirt dusting her shiny hood as she parked near the barn, the scene of the crime.
Resting upon a wide blanket of turned soil, set against the dead-black wood of the tightly strangled forest, the ominous structure’s windows formed the dark shadows of sullen eyes—spying through its sun-grayed planks and weather-beaten beams, twisted and split painfully against the long torment of the relentless seasons.
Vicki had to look twice to be certain it was a building and not some thirsty barn beast watching her with hollow eyes. While at this point the details were thin, they were sufficient enough to draw out grim feelings of menace. Imagining the hateful things that had transpired deep within the back of the barn’s dusty throat spawned her shiver.
Vicki and Hank matched strides with Sheriff Roscoe as they marched across the soft earth toward the barn. Dried thatch snapped underfoot like tiny bones. As a professional, Vicki was not unsettled by murders … so why now?
A number of vehicles were parked sporadically around the yawning barn doors.
Roscoe leaned into Vicki. “If you need to hold my hand, I’m happy to oblige. I’m also good at spankings, thigh rubs—”
Her inexplicable trepidation vanished. “Charlie!” she yelled.
“Agent Starr! How are you?” A portly man in white overalls, a pair of goggles resting atop his thinning hair, started toward them, snapping off his gloves. He took her hands, and she gave him a warm peck on the cheek. “They just told me that you were assigned,” he said, and then his face shifted into uncharacteristic concern. “But I won’t be quick to congratulate you.”
Before she could ask why, something over her shoulder had caught his attention. “
Hank
?” He dropped Vicki’s hands and stepped around her with a wide smile. She watched in surprise as the two men embraced.
“It’s good to see you, Coop.”
Vicki was surprised at how different Dashel’s face looked when he smiled against the sunshine—catching a definite twinkle in his bloodshot squint.
“You too, Hank.” Charlie scrutinized the much-taller man and then took in his face for a moment. “Everything … okay?”
“One day at a time, my friend.”
“Amen, brother.”
A genuine stare passed between the two men as Vicki processed Dashel’s startling contrast.
There was scarcely a person at the bureau she respected more than Charles Cooper. A medical examiner extraordinaire, he had worked with Vicki on several cases, including her first seven and then another one this past Christmas. Beyond his medical skills, she respected him as a man—Charlie was everything her father was not. For him to show any level of respect toward the wreck of a man she had been paired up with made no sense.
“Well, you look like shit, Hank.”
“And you’re losing hair.”
Cooper laughed. He stood back waving a finger between the two agents. “You guys haven’t worked together before, have you? I’m sure I’d have known.”
“No, we just met.” Hank’s voice was different—genuine and kind. Professional.
“Well, Hank”—Coop nudged Hank’s shoulder—“don’t let her stunning good looks fool you. On the job, she’ll even give
you
a run for your money.”
Vicki flashed from humble embarrassment to shock as she realized the man she admired had just set Hank Dashel as the bar.
“Coop, this is Sheriff Roscoe. Sheriff, Charles Cooper—medical examiner.”
The sheriff shook his hand. “We spoke on the phone.”
Vicki had been so taken aback that she had missed giving the introductions. Hank hadn’t missed a beat. The transformation of the rude, disheveled man into a still-scruffy-but-authoritative presence was jarring.
Roscoe took a quick call and told Vicki that he was heading back. She caught his unsettled glance at the barn, as if he was happy not to be joining them. Agent Dashel was talking with Charlie. She moved to join them.
Vicki heard Charlie whisper to Hank, “You know, I never blamed you.”
“I know. But you’d be the only one.”
“That’s not true.”
“I just—” Realizing Vicki was behind him, Hank turned to her. “Should we go have a look?”
She nodded.
They took a step forward. Charlie’s hand met Vicki’s shoulder.
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“It’s just…”
“What, Charlie?” she repeated, frustrated that he continued to hold her back.
“I don’t think you should see this, Vicki.”
She looked at him.
“It’s, by far, the worst I’ve seen.”
Her laugh lacked levity. “Hey, this better not be a girl thing.”
He gripped both of her arms. “Yes, this time it
is
a girl thing. Vicki, it’s bad—and I’m prepared to stand by a double standard here.”
“I appreciate that, Charlie, but I’m FBI—messy’s my middle name.” She resented having to defend herself like a child. “I’ll be fine. Take us in.”
Cooper looked at her long and hard for a moment. She wasn’t going to budge. He let go and led them toward the horrid barn.
When she felt compelled to look away from the unsettling structure, Vicki braced against a sudden shiver striking through her flesh as she glanced sidelong across the field toward the forest—she didn’t like the trees.
Vicki stepped into the empty echo of the ancient structure. The warm, rolling air outside pushed the building against its tight beams and graying braces. The resultant whine bit into Vicki’s teeth with the pinching squeak of a dental drill. All added further staging to the unbearable space as the heavy thudding of old shifting wood threatened overhead, shaking dry dust from its dark, cobwebbed shadows.
Pale wormlike shapes snaked the aging floorboards, lying dead around her boots. “What’s wrong with the floor?”
“Someone sprayed it down. It’s dry now. The dust just caked in funny patterns.”
Hank turned. “This old place has running water?”
Vicki pointed at the corner. “Rain barrel.”
“Right—missed that.”
She saw him scanning the space, unsettled. “What is it, Dashel?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
† †
†
Ages had passed since the last time, and already it was back—the feeling that had always separated him from his colleagues. The frustrating knowledge that something wasn’t right but was impossible to quantify. With the intuition came that familiar coil of isolation.
Then Agent Starr’s voice shared his misgivings. “Something feels off, doesn’t it?”
He looked at her for the first time without contempt or professional restraint—an unexpected glimmer of respect.
† †
†
Vicki knew this was supposed to be a crime scene, but somehow it didn’t feel like it. Inhaling the thick musty smell, she scanned the barn’s decay. “So where’s the body?”
Charlie motioned toward the back. “This way.”
Two men in white coveralls exited their way. Something felt off with them too. They weren’t staring at her, undressing her with either fleeting glimpses or longing stares. This wasn’t arrogance on her part; most men enjoyed looking at her. Even under the most inappropriate circumstances, men tended to be men—it was the natural order of things. Vicki had grown so accustomed to the ogling that it felt far more uncomfortable when it was withheld. She confirmed it as the men moved to avoid her. They were aware of her presence but wouldn’t look at her—
couldn’t
look at her.
Entering the back, she stepped around Hank so she could see. A long stainless-steel table sat on wheels in the middle of a dim chamber tucked behind four stalls—a white sheet draped over the body. It shouldn’t have been covered yet. The agents approached, calm with professional objectivity. Unfortunately Vicki knew what to expect. She had seen her share of brutal murders.
“What?” she asked Cooper.
He stood on the far side of the table, watching them both, hesitating to expose the body.
“Come on, Charlie. Let’s see it.”
Hank shot his friend a furtive glance. Working a decade of homicides with the man, Coop had never shown a moment’s hesitation. If he was unsure, it was for good reason.
Cooper drew back the sheet. Vicki’s hand jumped to her mouth as it sucked in a short gasp of vicious death.
The file reported the brutal slaying of a young woman—that did her death no justice. This was grotesque. Wrong on every level imaginable. The killer didn’t just hate this woman—he hated
all
women, which showed in his atrocity.
“You okay, Vicki?” Charlie asked gently.
All she could muster was a quick nod as she forced her eyes forward. She was a professional, goddamn it.
“Hank?” Cooper asked.
Vicki glanced upward. Hank’s face mirrored the terrified revulsion she felt to her core. She had never witnessed such a twisted blend of horror, disgust and anguish on a sane man’s face. His lips had drained to become a sickly white—matching the pallor of his skin; only the variance in texture betrayed them as lips. Still, it was better than looking back down upon
her
.
† †
†
Hank cut his nails into his palms—pain to rupture his trance. They were here to do a job. He locked onto the safety of Coop’s eyes, while Hank secretly begged his brain to flush the image from his mind. His voice cracked, fighting to regain professional composure. “What can you tell us?”
Cooper lingered on his two friends for a long moment—his voice grave and sincere. “I’ve never seen so many different mutilations—one on top of another. Separate desecrations, again and again. This should never, ever have—” He glanced down at the defiled woman for only a second. “It’s going to take time to piece together what actually happened—and when.”
Hank barely nodded. Vicki watched his eyes swell—his mouth resisting emotion. His pocket buzzed. He quickly turned and stepped away to take the call.
Vicki tried to look detached as she scanned the body.
Charlie turned to her. “Whoever it was, is a misogynist to the extreme.”
Vicki managed a slight nod, unable to imagine the inconceivable torment these wounds would have caused the woman. Among all the visible desecrations, Vicki focused on her left leg, torn apart below the knee. All that remained was a wide, gnarled gash of gelled blood opening her shin into congealing calf muscle, leaving her damaged foot dangling—tibia gone.
“It’ll take time in the lab to be certain, but I would say, from the various injuries, that these were inflicted over the course of as much as twenty-four hours.” He glanced into Vicki’s horror-struck face. “With breaks in between.”
Her flesh turned white-cold, and all breath left her lungs as this registered. She could barely express the word. “
Alive
?” The icy steel hooks of the past night’s memories lanced her flesh and pulled, making the experience too real for her.
He frowned at the litany of dried shades of blood. “I believe so, yes.”
Twenty-four hours?
She held his gaze for only seconds before it hit her. For the first time in her career, Vicki Starr lost the contents of her stomach.
As her body made every violent attempt to expel this knowledge through futile physical means, Charlie’s warm hand rested on her back. She remained curled over, catching fleeting breaths between retching over the rank vomit between her polished leather boots.
“It’s okay. Let it out.” That hand didn’t belong to Charlie. Hank’s gentle voice was barely recognizable.
She nodded, drawing in a few more breaths, and then stood up, embarrassed.
He read her face. “Don’t be.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the corner where the old wooden rain barrel stood.
She looked at him. “You too?”
He nodded.
He had a good ten years’ worth of bureau experience on her. She suddenly didn’t feel so bad.
“Happen often?” she asked, trying to sound light as she steadied her breath.
“What, throwing up?” He shook his head. “First time.”
She took the wet wipe he offered and dabbed her mouth. Instead of hiding her face, she chose to look at him. Vicki had only known the man for a few hours, and she would have never expected to see this level of gravity in his face. Everything she thought she knew about the washed-out Hank Dashel was coming into question.
“Let’s get some air,” he said, guiding her toward the door.
She agreed. “Give us a minute, Charlie.”
“Take two.”
† †
†
Hank swiped at the sweaty, wayward hairs irritating his right eye and forced himself to walk upright.
Taking a life wasn’t enough anymore. The violence of the death needed to make a statement—too often, tremendously misogynic in nature. While this was the worst he had ever seen, in general it was not unique. These malevolent monsters managed not only to extinguish a life but also to desecrate its existence.