Avello flipped open the briefcase, found the tweezers, and placed them in Cameron’s hand.
With great care, the sheriff moved the implement toward the victim, mindful not to disturb the dried blood, debris, or scratch marks on the skin. He pinched something, then held it up to the light.
Resting between the tweezers was what appeared to be a tiny gemstone fragment, black, and no bigger than the tip of a ballpoint pen. Cameron wiped it clean on his pant leg, then tilted it back and forth, watching it twinkle in the reflected morning sunlight.
“
Evidence bag,” he said, loudly, to no one in particular.
Avello reached inside the briefcase, producing a clear plastic bag. He handed it to Cameron who lowered the chip inside, then sealed it.
Avello glanced up at him.
Cameron said, “Looks like our killer left us a little surprise.”
Chapter
Three
City Morgue
Faith, New Mexico
A chill cut through Cameron’s body, making goose bumps swell along his arm. He shivered and rubbed a palm against his skin, wondering if his reaction was from the room’s coldness or because he was standing over Bradley Witherspoon’s remains.
Cameron’s boss, Sheriff Frank Donato, did not appear cold at all—he’d come dressed appropriately, wrapped in a cloak of despair. As Cameron’s shock began to fade, Frank’s had just begun. He looked up from the body toward Cameron, trying to gauge his reaction, then let out a heavy sigh, one that seemed to express what he could not say. The sheriff’s department was a family, and a close one. They’d just lost a brother in the most violent, brutal way imaginable … and that wasn’t all.
Also gone was the sense of security they’d once enjoyed while protecting and serving their community. There had never been much reason to worry about their safety before—not in a town as small as Faith; it just wasn’t a concern. The deputies knew they faced potential dangers on the job, but that possibility seemed remote. Now Bradley Witherspoon’s murder had changed that.
As for the locals, the word
homicide
might as well have been part of some foreign dialect. The only murders any of them had ever witnessed were the kind they watched on television. Things like this happened in other places. Not in Faith. Theirs was a peaceful, close-knit community, the kind where everybody seemed to know one another, if not on a first-name basis, then certainly by sight, where a trip to the local diner felt more like a social event than a meal. The victim being a sheriff’s deputy made matters even worse. After all, if the person who was supposed to protect them wasn’t safe, where did that leave
them
?
Earlier that morning, Frank had to perform a duty he hoped he’d never have to do: tell a family member their loved one was killed on the job. As soon as Bradley’s wife opened the door and saw Frank’s expression, she knew something horrible had happened. He watched her cheeks go from rosy-red to lily-white within seconds, her expression turn blank. She collapsed into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder, and letting out an agonizing wail.
For Frank, it all brought back memories of Bradley as a rookie—so young, so green; but Frank had watched him develop into a man, one of the most competent, dependable deputies the department ever had. Not only did he see him grow as a deputy, he also saw Bradley mature in his personal life too, as a husband, and then a father to two great children.
So much to live for
, Frank thought.
All of it gone. Just like that.
The most tragic irony of all: Witherspoon was murdered during the last few hours of his shift—one he wasn’t even supposed to be working. Another deputy had called-in sick at the last minute that evening, and Witherspoon had offered to take up the slack. That was typical. He was always trying to help out wherever he could. Sadly, the reward he’d gotten for his generosity, at least in this case, was death.
The corpse lay on a flimsy stretcher covered by a thin, white sheet. Frank stared at the shapeless form for several minutes, preparing to view what was just beneath it. He grabbed the cloth; it felt cold against his clammy palm, as thick and heavy as a wet blanket. Then, he pulled the sheet back, revealing the head and upper torso. He cringed.
Witherspoon’s face looked so disfigured that Frank barely recognized it. The upper lip was busted open, a gash running vertically toward the nose, much like one sees in photos of children with cleft palates. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His left cheek was torn as well, leaving a large flap of skin hanging beneath it. As a result, the entire inside of his mouth was visible from the side, leaving, in effect, half his face missing—just teeth and jaw exposed.
Frank yanked the sheet back over the body and looked away toward the opposite wall.
Cameron didn’t say anything. He knew what Frank was feeling. He’d experienced the same thing earlier that morning when he first saw Witherspoon hanging from that shed, a strange combination of sadness and revulsion twisting inside him. The two emotions had not mixed well for Cameron, and judging by the look on Frank’s face, were not sitting well with him, either. This murder was so disturbing, so senseless, but most of all, so infuriating.
“
What’s the timeline?” It wasn’t a question as much as a demand.
“
Last time anyone heard from him was just before midnight,” Cameron replied. “They started looking for him around five when he didn’t answer his radio … found him around five forty-five. That’s all we have.”
Frank pursed his lips and nodded, expression stoic, eyes fixed back on the body. The way he folded his arms looked awkward, as if he didn’t know where to put them. “Got any theories?”
Cameron looked at his boss, then up toward the ceiling. His eyes appeared wet, and Frank couldn’t tell if it was from sorrow or exhaustion. He decided it was probably both. “I just don’t know, Frank. This goes so far beyond anything we’ve
ever seen …” He paused, started to speak again, then shook his head in frustration.
Frank nodded toward the body. “There’s some kind of pathology at work here, you know.”
“
The way he was put on display
,
” Cameron agreed, the last word sounding as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Like the killer was proud of himself, showing off. Strung him up like some kind of prized catch.”
Frank looked up at Cameron. “The thrill of the hunt. A textbook case of sociopathic showmanship.”
“
Yeah, but something else.”
“
What’s that?”
“
The weapon.”
“
The hooks?”
“
It shows he improvised, grabbed whatever was handy,” Cameron said.
“
A disorganized kill.”
“
Has all the earmarks.”
Frank lowered his gaze at Cameron, then furrowed a brow. “I see where you’re heading, and I don’t like it.”
“
I’m not saying we could have the start of serial killer, but I will say one thing—there’s something about this that bothers me, Frank, really bothers me.”
“
Well, yeah, judging by the way he was left—”
“
More than that, even. It’s the killer’s motivation.”
“
Motivation?”
“
I’m willing to bet this wasn’t just about murder.”
Frank looked back down at Witherspoon’s body, then up at Cameron. “What else is there?”
Cameron paused for a moment. “I think he was sending out a message … and loving every minute of it.”
Filbert Train Station
Faith, New Mexico
The old brown pickup sat parked along the tracks near the intersection of Quincy and Baseline Roads. That’s where it was most Friday evenings around this time, and that’s where you could find Jet Stevens—planted right behind the wheel.
He liked to watch the trains go by, had been doing it for as long as anyone could remember. Said it helped him wind down. As for those who knew him, most would have agreed: if he were any more relaxed, he’d probably be fast asleep.
Jet and his family were as firmly rooted in Faith’s historic landscape as the trees that stretched across its dusty plains. His great-grandfather, Samuel Stevens, was one of the original settlers. After the war in 1846, railroad companies began laying tracks across the state, and the cattle industry boomed. Sam Stevens got in on the ground floor and cashed in big, becoming one of New Mexico’s wealthiest cattle barons. The family had owned the Saddleback Ranch ever since, and ever since, the money had been flowing.
But you wouldn’t know that by looking at Jet—he’d been driving the same beat-up Dodge for as long as anyone could remember, still wore the same tattered cowboy hat that looked as if the truck itself had backed over it a few times.
Six feet tall and about 165 pounds, Jet had rough-and-tumble good looks combined with dark skin, dark eyes, and even darker hair. Rumor had it he was part Apache, but nobody dared approach the subject with him; it was dangerous territory, strictly off-limits. Jet’s dad, it seemed, had trouble in the sexual discretion department—he was presently working on his fifth marriage—and his escapades in and around Faith were legendary. It was suspected by some, common knowledge to others, that Jet himself was the product of one of those romps. Many figured it was also the reason he and his father did not get along.
Cameron pulled alongside the truck, got out of his car, then slid up into the passenger seat. Once inside, he stared out through the windshield. Jet didn’t bother looking at Cameron; he was too busy watching the tracks, his only visible movement a toothpick shifting from side to side in his mouth.
The sound of clanking glass finally broke the silence as Jet reached into his cooler and produced two frosty bottles of beer. Gazing off into the distance, he dangled them in the air, toothpick still sliding back and forth.
Cameron grabbed one. He screwed his face into a tight grimace, struggling to keep the bottle from slipping in one hand, while twisting off the top with the other. Once removed, he held the cap up, turning it around, studying it, and said, “Figured you’d be here.”
Jet was still watching the tracks. He reached for the toothpick, gave it a few turns, then extracted the mangled end from between his lips and replied, “If my name is Jet and it’s Friday night—then you know I’m here.”
Cameron acknowledged the comment with the slightest grin, then looked down at his bottle and started peeling the label.
Jet said, “Keepin’ busy these days, I see.”
“
Busy ...” Cameron replied, shaking his head, staring at the floorboard. “Busy doesn’t begin to describe what I am. Crazy—now that’s more like it.”
Jet brought the bottle to his mouth, but instead of taking a sip, produced a combination nod and shrug, as if confirming his own thought. “Got a murdered deputy … people runnin’ around, lookin’ as nervous as bastards at a family reunion. That’ll make you crazy.”
“
So to speak,” Cameron said.
“
Weird, though, huh?”
“
What’s that?”
“
The whole thing … what happened.”
“
Weirder than weird,” Cameron said, watching a car drive past. The reflected sunlight cast an orange glow across his face. “And right there on your ranch.”
Jet was mid-gulp when he stopped, squeezed his eyes tight, then shook his head, looking as if he’d just swallowed vinegar. “Mmm. Not my ranch—my daddy’s ranch. Ain’t mine.”
Cameron studied Jet for a few seconds, thinking before speaking. “Didn’t happen to see anything that night there, did you?”
“
Anything, like what?”
“
You know, anything unusual … out of the ordinary. See anyone walking around? Anyone who shouldn’t’ve been there?”
Jet looked at Cameron briefly, then out his side window, slowly shaking his head. “Naw. Ain’t nobody goes up that road, ‘cept for the deputies. No need to. Doesn’t go nowhere. Everybody knows that.”
A train finally rolled past, just a few freight cars and a flatbed heading out of town. Jet watched with mild interest, following them until they moved out of sight, then tossed his empty bottle into the back seat where it clanked against a number of others.
“
Well, somebody found reason to be there that night,” Cameron said, “and that reason was to kill Witherspoon.”
“
Uh-huh. That’s for damn sure … figure someone had a score to settle … wanted to even things up.”
Cameron was about to take a sip but stopped, eying Jet with interest. “Why you say that?”
“
Nothin’ special,” Jet said, attempting a casual shrug. “Just guessing, is all.”
Cameron relaxed slightly: Jet didn’t have any concrete information. He put his bottle in the cup holder, spinning it around a few times, staring at it. “Jet, I know you said you didn’t actually see anyone hanging around there that night, but did you see
anything …
anything
at all
?”
“
Anything at all …” Jet said, repeating Cameron’s words as if it would somehow give them more meaning.
“
Maybe see something unusual later on that seemed out of place, like it didn’t fit … didn’t belong? Something like that?”