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Christian, eyeing Bradley's disheveled state, couldn't resist a barbed comment. "You look awful, to put it mildly. A homeless person would look more presentable."
Nick shot his partner a warning glance before turning his attention back to Bradley. "Look at me, Bradley. Tell me where you've been for the past two weeks. We have a witness who saw you with Rose at the bar on the night of her murder. It's a strange coincidence that you disappeared without a trace after that."
Bradley raised his head slowly, his bloodshot eyes darting nervously around the room as he rubbed his nose. "We were just hanging out that evening, that's all. And these past two weeks… I've been drinking. Because I found out Rose was dead. My mother told me – she saw it on the news."
Bradley's words came out in a slurred mumble, punctuated by frequent pauses to wipe away the saliva that dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
"What are you mumbling about, you freak?" Jeffrey interjected, his voice dripping with contempt. "Tell the truth! Admit that you killed Rose!"
"Jeffrey, I swear to God, if you don't shut up right now, I will have you removed from this room," Nick warned, his patience finally reaching its limit. He turned back to Bradley, forcing his voice to remain calm and steady.
"Bradley, we also know that you and Rose were arguing that evening, and then had some kind of physical altercation. After which, she left and was later found dead. How do you explain this? What happened between you two?"
Bradley's hand shook violently as he pointed an accusing finger at Jeffrey. "We fought because of him!"
"Because of me? What nonsense are you spewing, you degenerate?" Jeffrey snarled, his voice low but dripping with venom. Nick shot him a warning glance that could have frozen hell itself. Jeffrey lowered his head, and Bradley seized the opportunity to continue:
"Rose told me you'd never approve of us being together. So I lashed out, told her to go crawling back to daddy. She stormed off, and I split about two minutes later. I was a mess, so I crashed at my friend Sarah's place – her house is just a stone's throw from the bar. You can verify it with her. I'll jot down the address for you."
"We'll look into that," Nick said, his voice measured. "But until your story checks out, you're not going anywhere." He paused, studying Bradley's face with the intensity of a raptor eyeing its prey. "Now, there's one more thing I've been itching to ask… That nasty scar on your cheek – where'd you pick that up?"
Bradley's lips curled into a sneer, his hand unconsciously rubbing his nose.
"Some punk gave it to me back in high school. Ancient history."
Nick remained silent, his gaze ping-ponging between Jeffrey and Bradley, weighing their words, their body language, searching for the truth hidden beneath the layers of hostility and fear.
"Are you planning to press charges against Jeffrey Saltano for attempted murder?" Nick asked, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp.
Jeffrey glowered at Bradley, his silence more menacing than any threat.
"Nah, I'm not pressing charges. Let the old man go," Bradley said, waving his hand dismissively.
"I swear on my life, I didn't kill Rose. I loved her, man. I really did."
"Well, in that case, Jeffrey, you're free to go," Nick announced, striding to the door. He called out to the officers behind the two-way mirror, his voice clipped and professional:
"Escort Bradley back to his cell and get that address from him. I want it verified ASAP."
Christian, who had been a silent observer throughout the interrogation, stepped forward. "Jeffrey, anything else you want to get off your chest before you go?"
Jeffrey's face contorted with barely contained rage. "I've said all I'm gonna say. You deaf or something?"
"I don't buy a word of it," he spat. "My daughter would never have stooped so low. I knew her better than anyone."
With that, Jeffrey stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a finality that echoed through the room. Bradley was led away, leaving Nick and Christian alone with their thoughts and the weight of an investigation that seemed to grow more complex by the minute.
* * *
6:00 AM
Nick turned to Christian, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep but burning with determination. "We need to run down that address, see if Bradley's story holds water. If it checks out, he's got himself a rock-solid alibi."
"I'm on it," Christian nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll dispatch a couple of uniforms right now."
* * *
Two hours later
The confirmation came through like a sucker punch to the gut – Bradley's alibi was airtight. With a heavy sigh, Nick gave the order for his release. Half an hour later, he found himself standing by the window of his office, a silent sentinel watching the parking lot below. A sleek blue BMW pulled up, its engine purring like a satisfied cat. Steven Cooper emerged, his lanky frame swallowed by a baggy white hoodie. He greeted Bradley with a bear hug that spoke of relief and brotherhood, pounding his back with enthusiastic fervor. Then, amid a cacophony of whoops and laughter that seemed almost obscene in the wake of recent events, they peeled out of the lot, leaving nothing but tire marks and the acrid scent of burnt rubber in their wake.
Chapter 12
The investigation, spearheaded by Nick Larsen, had become a Sisyphean task. They chased leads that evaporated like morning mist, explored theories that led to dead ends, and questioned an endless parade of potential witnesses who seemed to know less than nothing. They even entertained the notion that an outsider might be behind the killings, despite their earlier certainty that the perpetrator was a local with intimate knowledge of the area. Every phone record, every text message, every scrap of Rose's life was put under a microscope, yielding nothing but frustration. Nick felt the weight of failure pressing down on him, threatening to crush his spirit, but he refused to give in to despair. The truth was out there, and he was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.
Jeffrey Saltano, by some miracle of bureaucratic inertia, still clung to his position as sheriff. But it was a hollow title, as meaningless as his days had become. He spent his time in a alcohol-induced haze, drowning his sorrows and his guilt in bottom of countless bottles. Bison, sensing the shifting winds, had cut all ties with his former ally, leaving Jeffrey to flounder in a sea of his own making.
The true tragedy, however, lay in the fate of Mary Saltano. Unable to bear the crushing weight of her daughter's death, she had attempted to follow Rose into the abyss. In a moment of profound despair, Mary had swallowed a lethal cocktail of sedatives and alcohol, a desperate bid to silence the screaming void in her heart. It was only by cruel twist of fate that Jeffrey had stumbled home to find his wife sprawled on the living room floor, her life hanging by a thread. The ambulance arrived in a blur of flashing lights and urgent voices, managing to snatch Mary back from the brink. A week later, still fragile and haunted, she was committed to Angels psychiatric hospital in Hayfield, Minnesota, for mandatory treatment.
The hospital, with its pristine exterior of ornamental trees and light-colored walls, wore a mask of serenity that belied the torment within. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for a high-end resort. But cross the threshold, and the illusion shattered like spun glass. The interior was a nightmare made manifest – a horror movie set brought to life. Harsh fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glare over everything, turning skin sallow and eyes feverish. Long, windowless corridors stretched into infinity, their dark blue walls seeming to close in with every step. The air was thick with the acrid stench of disinfectant and despair. Patients in straitjackets were shuttled from room to room, their anguished cries echoing off the walls. Masked doctors rushed about in a constant state of controlled panic, as if racing against some unseen clock.
Into this maelstrom of suffering stepped Dr. Tom Homsont, the psychiatrist tasked with Mary's treatment. At forty-nine, he cut a figure of calm competence – average height, bespectacled, his short light hair neatly trimmed. His appearance was meticulous: a crisp blue shirt and pressed black slacks beneath his pristine white coat. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart – keen and compassionate, they spoke of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of the human psyche. His extensive experience with suicidal patients and severe mental illnesses made him uniquely qualified to help Mary, if anyone could.
As Tom entered Mary's room, the air seemed to thicken with tension. Mary sat perched on the edge of her bed, dressed in the shapeless uniform of the hospital – long white pants and a short-sleeved shirt that seemed to emphasize her vulnerability. Her bare feet barely touched the floor, as if she were poised for flight. But it was her eyes that truly captured the doctor's attention – wild and unfocused, they darted about the room, tracking the movements of specters only she could see. As Tom approached, Mary's lips began to move, forming words meant for ears long since stilled by death. "She's here," Mary whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and longing. "Rose is sitting right beside me, whispering…" Tom's hand steady, he shone a small flashlight into Mary's eyes, checking for any physical signs of her deterioration. Mary's reaction was as sudden as it was disturbing – a rictus grin spread across her face, her teeth bared in a grotesque parody of joy. She stared through Tom, through the walls, into some middle distance where the lines between reality and delusion blurred beyond recognition. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Mary's hands flew to her head, her fingers clawing at her scalp as she began to wail, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.
"No, no, I'm not guilty!" she screamed, her voice raw and breaking. "I didn't want this, it was all him! He made me do it!"
In a burst of frenzied energy, Mary launched herself off the bed, scrambling into the corner of the room. She huddled there, knees drawn up to her chest, a picture of abject misery. Tom approached slowly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of comfort and support. But as he tried to help her to her feet, Mary lashed out, her hand connecting with his knee in a wild, uncoordinated swipe. Her screams intensified, her entire body wracked with violent tremors.
"My daughter," she gasped between sobs, "she's saying I'm guilty!"
Tom crouched down beside her, his voice low and soothing as he gently took her hand. Years of experience had taught him the importance of engaging with patients lost in the throes of delusion, of anchoring them to reality through human connection.
"Mary, look at me," he urged, his tone gentle but insistent. "What is your daughter telling you?"
Mary's shaking intensified, her teeth chattering audibly as she struggled to form words.
"She's saying… she's saying I'm hiding his 'skeleton' in the closet!" The words tumbled out in a rush, as if Mary feared they might evaporate if not spoken quickly enough. Tom knew he needed to keep her talking, to unravel the tangled threads of her psyche.
"Mary," he pressed, his voice a lifeline in the stormy sea of her mind, "what skeleton are you talking about? Tell me, I want to help you."
Mary's eyes, wide with terror, locked onto Tom's face. She shook her head violently, as if trying to dislodge the very thoughts from her mind.
"You can't help!" she wailed, her voice rising to a fever pitch. "No one can help!"
The strain proved too much for Mary's fragile psyche. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped to the floor, unconscious. Tom sprang into action, calling urgently for a nurse. They worked in tandem, their movements precise and practiced, to revive her. When Mary finally came to, her eyes were clouded with confusion. The torrent of revelations that had poured from her lips just moments ago had vanished, leaving no trace in her conscious mind.
Later, ensconced in the relative privacy of his office, Tom placed a call to Jeffrey. His voice grave, he relayed the severity of Mary's condition, explaining that her stay in the clinic was likely to be extended indefinitely. The treatment she required was intensive, the road to recovery long and fraught with obstacles. Jeffrey's response, slurred and indifferent, sent a chill down Tom's spine. In that moment, he made the decision to withhold the specifics of Mary's outburst. The references to guilt, to hidden skeletons – these were seeds of something darker, something that required further investigation before involving Jeffrey. As he hung up the phone, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that he had just glimpsed the edge of a chasm far deeper and more treacherous than he had initially suspected.
Chapter 13
The Green Vault bar disgorged its latest victims, Bradley and Steven stumbling out into the night, their arms slung around each other's shoulders in a parody of camaraderie. Riding high on a cocktail of alcohol and harder stuff, they piled into Steven's blue BMW, the engine roaring to life like some primordial beast. Steven, behind the wheel, cut a figure of casual disregard in his baggy dark athletic pants, white tee, and denim jacket. Bradley, sprawled in the passenger seat, sported a striped shirt that had seen better days and dark jeans that seemed to have molded themselves to his legs.
As they tore through the quiet streets of Austin, Bradley's hand closed around a bottle of gin nestled in the back seat like a talisman. The car stereo blared a cacophony of heavy rock, the playlist changing with the whims of Bradley's drug-addled mind. He headbanged with wild abandon, laughter spilling from his lips in a torrent of misplaced joy. The streets were a ghost town, most of the streetlights dark, as if the very city had turned its back on the pair.
Their reckless journey led them onto a road that snaked through a wooded area, plunging them into a darkness so complete it seemed to swallow the very beams of the car's headlights. Trees loomed on either side, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. Bradley raised the gin bottle to his lips, tipping it back for a healthy swig. Suddenly, his eyes widened in shock, and he choked, spraying the windshield with a fine mist of alcohol.
"Jesus Christ! Hit the brakes!" Bradley's voice cracked like a whip in the confined space of the car.
Steven, more reflex than reason, slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The BMW fishtailed, tires screaming in protest as it skidded to a halt on the shoulder. The sudden silence, as Steven killed both engine and music, was deafening. Bradley's ragged breathing filled the void, his chest heaving as if he'd run a marathon.
"What the fuck, man?" Steven snarled, his words slurring together. "You just puked all over my ride, you asshole! What's your damage?"
Bradley's face had gone chalk-white, his eyes wide and staring. "There was… there was a person lying there. In the road. I swear to God, man."
Steven scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're tripping balls, dude. There's nobody out here but us and the trees."
The certainty in Steven's voice did nothing to quell the rising tide of panic in Bradley's chest. He sank lower in his seat, his fingers digging into the leather upholstery as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"I'm telling you, there's someone out there!" Bradley's voice had taken on a plaintive, almost childlike quality.
Steven heaved a put-upon sigh. "Fine, if it'll shut you up, I'll go take a look. Gotta drain the snake anyway." He popped the door open, the interior light briefly illuminating his annoyed expression before he vanished into the darkness.
Seconds stretched into an eternity. Bradley's eyes darted frantically from shadow to shadow, his imagination populating the darkness with a thousand unseen terrors. "Steven?" he called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "You find anything?" The silence that answered him was deafening. "Shit, shit, shit!" Bradley muttered, his hand fumbling for the door handle. He managed to get one foot on the ground, his body following in a graceless lurch.
The attack, when it came, was swift and unexpected. Steven burst from the shadows, his face contorted in a mask of exaggerated terror that quickly dissolved into hysterical laughter. "Jesus, Bradley, you should've seen your face!" Steven howled, doubled over with mirth.
"You fucking asshole!" Bradley exploded, his terror transmuting instantly into rage. "I almost had a goddamn heart attack!"
Back in the car, the bottle of gin made its rounds, the liquor burning a path down their throats as they passed it back and forth. "Alright, time to roll," Steven slurred, throwing the car into reverse. "Gotta get this puke-mobile cleaned up tomorrow, thanks to you." The words had barely left his mouth when a sickening thud reverberated through the vehicle, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the asphalt.
Bradley's eyes widened in horror. "Dude, I think we hit someone!" The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his system, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. Steven, in contrast, burst into inappropriate laughter.
"Probably just a deer, man. Chill out."
"Fuck that noise. I'm checking it out." Bradley's voice was steadier now, a hint of steel beneath the fear. He stumbled out of the car, swaying like a sailor on a storm-tossed ship.
Steven killed the engine and the headlights, plunging them into darkness. Bradley approached the rear of the car, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm against his ribs. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out a figure lying face-down on the asphalt. It was unmistakably human.
With trembling hands, Bradley reached out to turn the body over. As he did, realization dawned – it was a dummy, a cruel trick of fate or something far more sinister. "What the actual fuck?" he muttered, dragging the lifeless prop to the side of the road. As he started to head back to the car, a rustling in the bushes stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned, peering into the darkness, but saw nothing. The sound came again, closer this time. Bradley felt the first tendrils of true fear wrapping around his heart.
In a burst of movement that seemed to defy the laws of physics, a figure clad entirely in black erupted from the undergrowth, lunging at Bradley with terrifying purpose.
Bradley's survival instincts kicked in. He shoved his attacker away with all his might and sprinted for the car, his voice a ragged scream of panic. "Start the fucking car! Turn on the lights! NOW!"
But Steven, still convinced this was all part of some elaborate prank, remained motionless behind the wheel, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
Bradley's legs pumped furiously, eating up the distance to the car. But in his panic, he stumbled, crashing to the unforgiving asphalt with a cry of pain and terror.
"Help me! Please, God, somebody help me!" The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate.
The attacker was on him in an instant, a length of rope materializing in gloved hands. With practiced efficiency, the assailant looped the rope around Bradley's neck and began to tighten it. Bradley clawed at the ground, at the rope, at anything within reach, his struggles growing weaker with each passing second. As the life drained from his body, his last coherent thought was a bitter realization – this was no prank, no drunken hallucination. This was death, cold and final, coming for him on a lonely stretch of road.
When Bradley's body went limp, the killer methodically removed the rope and dragged the corpse to the side of the road, movements economical and practiced.
Steven, finally sensing that something was terribly wrong, emerged from the car. The absence of Bradley's panicked voice had created a silence so profound it seemed to press against his eardrums. "Hey, man, where'd you go?" he called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Come on, quit screwing around. This isn't funny anymore." His tone had taken on a whining, frightened edge as he moved cautiously away from the car.
It didn't take long for Steven to spot Bradley's form sprawled by the roadside. He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "Shit, Bradley, you okay? Did you pass out or something? Come on, man, let's go." He leaned in close, straining to hear any sign of breathing. It was at that moment that a shadow fell across them both.
Steven's head snapped up, his eyes widening in terror as he took in the figure looming over them, rope in hand. "Oh shit, oh fuck!" The scream tore from his throat as he scrambled to his feet, making a desperate dash for the car. But the killer, with inhuman speed, cut him off, blocking his escape route.
With no other option, Steven plunged into the woods, crashing through the underbrush with the blind panic of prey fleeing a predator. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs trembled, finally collapsing behind a thick cluster of bushes. His breath came in ragged gasps as he fumbled in his pockets for his cell phone, desperate to call for help. But as he pulled it out, his heart sank – no signal. "No, no, no," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
Gathering what little courage he had left, Steven crept out from his hiding place, holding the phone aloft as he moved deeper into the forest, praying for a single bar of reception. After what felt like an eternity, a signal flickered to life. With shaking fingers, he dialed 911, his entire being focused on that tenuous connection to salvation.
"911, what's your emergency?" The dispatcher's calm voice was like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
Steven opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, a twig snapped behind him. He whirled around, his eyes wide with terror, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets. When he finally found his voice, it was a trembling whisper:
"Help me, please! Someone's after me. They killed my friend, and now they're coming for me!" The words tumbled out in a frantic rush.
"Sir, can you tell me your location? Where are you right now?"
"I'm in the f-"
Steven's words were cut off as the killer materialized behind him, the rope once again finding its mark around his throat. The phone clattered to the forest floor, the dispatcher's increasingly urgent voice a tinny, distant sound in the night air. Unlike Bradley, Steven didn't even attempt to fight back. He stood frozen, tears streaming down his face, as the life was slowly squeezed out of him. When it was over, he crumpled to the ground, just another lifeless form in the indifferent forest.
The killer, task completed, moved away with an almost leisurely gait, melting into the darkness of the woods as if they were one and the same…
Chapter 14
The call to 911 had set off a flurry of activity. Police converged on the scene as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. A light drizzle had started, nature's attempt to wash away the horrors of the night.
The entire stretch of road and surrounding forest was quickly cordoned off, a maze of yellow police tape creating a barrier between the world of the living and the scene of death. Officers with dogs combed the area, their faces grim and determined. It wasn't long before Nick and Christian arrived, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and dread as they took in the scene before them.
The victims' bodies, already zipped into black bags, lay like accusatory fingers pointing at their failure to prevent this tragedy. Nick's eyes were immediately drawn to the sleek blue BMW, a sick feeling of recognition twisting in his gut.
A colleague approached, his face ashen. "Two young men," he reported, his voice barely above a whisper. "Killed in the same manner as before." Nick nodded, a leaden weight settling in his chest. He already knew, but he had to see for himself.
"I need to see them," he said, his voice rough with emotion.
"Of course, sir."
The officer led them to the body bags, unzipping them with a sound that seemed obscenely loud in the hushed atmosphere. Nick's worst fears were confirmed as he looked down at the lifeless faces of Bradley Force and Steven Cooper. Christian, standing beside him, let out a strangled gasp.
"Dear God," he breathed, his face pale. "We're dealing with the devil himself."
"It certainly seems that way," Nick replied, his voice hollow.
