by Zach Lamb
The only other notes from that day were from a short interview he did with a barista named Bobby Cotton. He was the one who ran through the scene on his way to work. So far he was the only one to see the killer and give a description of him, but Greg had to keep that bit to himself. Greg wanted to go back to where they found Emily and see if he could kick anything up. The coffee shop was on the way and he could see if his guy had been back to the store since that day.
Greg sat in his car outside of the coffee shop. A steady stream of people, looking like they rolled out of bed and managed to get dressed somehow, dragged themselves through the swinging glass door. Greg wanted to get to the lake, but he wasn’t too excited to go stomping through the woods for what may turn out to be a waste of time. He patiently waited inside his car for the half dead traffic to slow down before he went inside. Bobby walked past the large open window, taking and making orders, so he knew he wasn’t wasting his time waiting for the morning rush to calm down.
It amazed him how many people came to this small shop in the morning to get their fix. He liked his coffee as much as the next person, but he preferred to have it before he left his house. That way he would be awake while driving. Leaving the house before he had his morning coffee could be dangerous for anybody who happened to be sharing the road with him. Also, it was cheaper that way. He supposed it had become part of their morning rituals, much like he had his own.
Once the horde subsided, Greg stepped from his car and stretched his stiff legs. Maybe he would go ahead and order a coffee while he was here. The small bell chimed as he walked through the door.
A disjointed voice greeted him.
“Welcome to the Daily Grind.”
Greg walked to the counter where Bobby stood, but he seemed like he didn’t recognize Greg from the previous encounter.
“Yeah, can I get a medium coffee. Black.”
“Name?” Bobby asked without looking up.
“Greg. My name is Detective Greg Burns.”
This time the barista looked up and locked eyes with Greg.
“I’m just going to put Greg on here. I think we’ll figure the rest out.”
Bobby carefully wrote Greg’s name on the side of the cup. Greg couldn’t tell if he was concentrating and trying to write it neat or if he was just tired. He didn’t seem to remember that Greg had been in the store and talked to him.
“I was just in here last week.”
“I get a lot of customers. They all run together after a while,” Bobby said, and poured the coffee.
“Yeah, except when I was in here I was questioning you about a potential suicide in the park.”
“Okay,” was the only reply Bobby gave.
“I also asked you about a customer who you had earlier that day,” Greg said, and pulled his notebook from his pocket. “You said he was about 6’2, two-hundred pounds, and had black hair and hazel eyes with a cleft chin.”
“Okay.”
Complete apathy radiated off the barista and permeated through the store. Customer service wasn’t the reason for the amount of customers he served. The coffee wasn’t that great either. It wasn’t any better than what Shelly bought at the store. If not for the hospitality or coffee, it had to convenience or ritualistic.
“You also said he had a long scar down the inside of his arm. Do you remember that guy?”
“Yeah, vaguely. The scar sticks out in my mind, though.”
“Well, have you seen that scar again since the last time we spoke?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since that day, but I don’t work every day either, so he may have come in on my day off.”
Bobby secured the lid on Greg’s coffee and slid it across the counter to him.
“Okay, thanks. I thought I would just stop by and check. Maybe I’ll stop by sometime when somebody else is here. They may remember him.”
“Maybe so. Have a good day.”
Greg walked back to his car and fell into the driver’s seat. Bobby stood at the counter, looking out the window, but not in Greg’s direction. Greg watched as he helped another customer who walked in. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like Bobby was acting too disinterested. Almost to the point, he was trying to act that way to throw any suspicion off him. Maybe he was just a weird guy, and Greg was grasping for any semblance of a lead. He backed the car out of the parking lot and turned onto Park Road, leading to the entrance of Rusted Lakes Park.
The same group of moms sat on the park benches flanking the playground, watching their young children eat sand and throw sticks at each other. They turned their heads in unison as Greg’s car crushed the gneiss gravel. He stepped from the car and their passing interested faded. The Stepfordwifeness of the scene squirmed through Greg’s thoughts as he moved past them, avoiding eye contact. No longer seen as a threat, they stopped paying attention to him like he was part of the green park backdrop.
Greg walked down a path leading into the woods. The path was well traveled and clear from most brush. He didn’t remember the trail being so easily maneuverable. After the trail cut to the right and started up the steep hill, he realized he took the wrong path. He turned in the direction he thought the lakes should be and could barely make out the rust colored water through gaps in the tree canopy below him. The hill looked steep, but he could manage the incline if he was careful. It would be faster than turning around in hopes that he’d get lucky and find the right path.
He stepped off the trail, and his dress shoe slipped on loose rocks, forcing him a few feet down the side of the hill. Too late to turn back now. He pushed off with his right leg and threw his hands in the air for balance. The slippery rocks became a jagged skating rink, and he slid down the hill. He propelled his body forward and backward to accommodate his motion so he would not fall as he skated down the hill. Sweat beaded on his brow. The forest floor appeared through the brush with the chance that he might make it to the bottom without falling.
The toe of his shoe slid across a hole and wedged in the opening. The momentum of his upper body continued downhill while his lower half stayed with the hole. Greg put his hands in front of him to brace for the inevitable collision with the ground.
Rocks cut deep gashes in his palms when he landed and ripped them as he slid to base of the hill. Greg lay at the bottom, not wanting to move. Fire burned down his wrists and shot from his fingertips. Birds that weren’t there before jumped through tree branches and chirped at once like they all released a collectively held breath.
Greg finally pushed himself up on the base of his wrists. The sun filtered through the tree branches made him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. He attempted to brush the red dirt from his suit, but it only smeared, leaving a hazy red mark on his arms and legs. The house would be his first stop after he left the park.
He pushed his way in the direction of the lakes, not caring at this point if he was going to the right spot. Limbs and briars pulled at his red dusted charcoal gray suit while he kicked his feet free from the vines and thorns that littered the forest floor. Greg decided he had gone the wrong way and was about to turn in another direction when he heard the soft sound of water lapping at its banks. With a final heave, he pushed into the small clearing he was looking for. Cloudy water enveloped his hands when he crouched beside the lake to wash them. The clay from his hands mixed seamlessly with the water, only the ripples from his hands proof that he was ever in the water.
He looked out over the lake. A cold chill ran down his back, and the hairs on his arms and neck stood on end. This was the place the monster had been standing when he talked to him. It would have been nice, and easy, if the guy had been here when Greg bounded through the foliage. Maybe he was, and Greg scared him off when he came crashing down the hill. Either way, Greg cursed his luck as he looked at the muddy bank, but only saw indiscernible shoe prints, now trampled by his own. Knowing the killer had recently been here, Greg could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He turned and faced the fallen tree
where Emily took her life. Greg had seen her driver’s license picture, and she had been a pretty girl. She had a big, friendly smile that welcomed all who crossed her path. There was a sadness in her picture as well. She may have looked happy and bubbly on the outside, but her eyes gave her away like they do for everybody. The mouth always lied. Cover the mouth on a picture and the eyes speak louder. Her eyes told the story of a haunted girl. It wouldn’t have surprised anybody who noticed the look in her eyes that she would end up the way she did. After talking to her boyfriend, Mike, he knew he was partly, if not completely, to blame for her taking her life. It was a sad situation, and Greg couldn’t help but think about his daughter and what she had been through or would go through in her life. Tears formed in his eyes for what had happened to this girl, for her to end up alone at the bottom of a hill beside a dirty lake and for the imagined suffering of his daughter.
Through blurry eyes, he could see a discoloration and the damage to the tree Emily chose as her final headboard. He wiped the tears from his eyes and ran his hands across the chopped and scared tree. Mike told them that he had carved a heart with their initials in it on a previous trip and that she was probably trying to destroy it because they were about to break up. Beside the old heart, there was another carving. The hastily carved initials D.I. stood in stark contrast, like a new lover taking the place of the previous one.
Greg hadn’t heard of there being another carving in the tree. When was it cut and who did it? Maybe it was his guy trying to tell him something, or just a game he wanted to play. It could also be some completely random person walking through the woods or somebody wanting to see where the body was found, but Greg didn’t think so. He had a feeling the killer put it there. But why?
He pulled the battered notepad from his pocket and wrote the letters down so he wouldn’t forget to remember them later. While writing, he noticed the dirt around his feet looked darker and turned over. He finished his reminder and put the notebook up. All the dirt in the surrounding area was dark brown with hints of red Georgia clay swirled in except for a large square patch in front of the tree. The dirt had been turned over recently, and black topsoil covered the space. Greg stepped back to get a better view of the area. He bit his top lip as he considered his options. He could call it in and get a crew in here to dig up the area and see if there was a body buried here and then come up with an excuse as to why he was down here in the first place. Or, he could try to dig up some of it himself and explain everything later. There may not be anything in the ground at all. The techs could have moved the dirt around when they first found Emily. But Greg thought there was a good chance somebody was under there and the carving in the tree was their headstone.
He draped his jacket over one of the branches of the fallen tree and loosened his tie. Excavation was not on his list of things to do this morning and nothing in the vicinity looked like anything he could use as a tool to dig. He walked around the area, but only came back with a few big sticks and his bare hands. The patch of Earth closer to the lake looked softer than the rest of the area.
Using his hands, he scrapped away dirt and flung it into the water behind him. Dirt pushed under his nails and into the cuts on his palms. Within a few minutes, sweat soaked through his shirt and coated his body as the hot sun attacked him from the other side of the lake. He wiped sweat from his brow and left a long smear of dirt across his face. The thought of finding a body drove him harder. Dirt flew in all directions. The deeper he dug, the more he had to use the sticks to stab at hard packed earth.
After breaking two sticks, he went back to using his hands. Over his loud breathing, he heard his cell phone ring. It was in his jacket pocket, hanging on the tree. He decided to ignore it and continue digging. The phone went silent for a moment and rang again. Greg stopped and looked at the surrounding area. The thought of the killer watching him and trying to call him was terrifying. He was an easy target in an open area surrounded by woods that could easily conceal somebody sneaking up on him. He forced himself onto his feet, leaned over to his jacket and pulled his phone out. The missed calls were from Don. This is the last thing he needed. Don would think he was sleeping on the job again. Greg prayed there wasn’t another murder. Before he could click on Don’s name, the phone lit up and rang again.
“This is Burns.”
“Greg, where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for an hour.”
Greg rolled his eyes. Always the dramatics with Don. And theatrics with the killer. Greg wasn’t sure which was worse.
“I guess I have a bad signal here. I’m just following up a few leads. What happened?”
“Have you read the paper? Your girl Morgan apparently thought it would be a good idea to get an interview with the guy we’ve been trying to catch. She even gave him a cute nickname. The Suicide Killer.”
Dramatics won this round.
“Shit. I don’t know what she was thinking.”
“I had planned on asking her that, but she hasn’t shown up at work for two days. I was about to go by her house.”
Greg stepped out of the hole. It definitely felt deeper while digging it.
“No. Don’t do that, Don. Let me do it. I’ll handle her. The whole town is going to be in a panic.”
“They already are. There have been forty-seven calls in the last hour about strange men in people’s neighborhoods. They’ve been calling about the damn lawn guys, Greg. You better get over to her house and handle this. Find out where this information came from and make sure she doesn’t print another interview whether it was him or not.”
Don hung up the phone before Greg had a chance to respond. He looked at the hole in the ground and felt foolish now that real issues were threatening again. Irrational or not, he would return later with a shovel to finish digging up whoever was buried in the ground or finish digging his grave, whichever it came to. But first, he had to go and find out who Morgan had spoken with.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After getting off the phone with Don, Greg went home to change clothes and read Morgan’s article. Now, he sat in her driveway with the newspaper riding shotgun. He wasn’t sure how he was going to approach the situation. The article had caused a minor panic. The police station and 911 were fielding calls of suspicious people. There were also calls from people stating they had seen a dark figure walking through their yard late at night, they said they hadn’t thought of calling the police until they read the paper and thought it might be the killer checking to see if they had left their doors unlocked. There were also the calls of ‘concerned’ citizens who were up in arms because the police did not warn the public earlier about the danger they were in. It was still early. As soon as the story made its way around social media, the Internet, and the networks picked it up for their leading story at midday, there would be too many calls for a regular shift to handle.
Greg decided to knock on the door and see what her reaction to him would be. She would know why he was here. If she acted apologetically and realized the issue, then he would be nicer about it. However, if she yelled and used the tired excuse that she was just doing her job, then he wouldn’t be as nice. He thought the front curtains fluttered as he stepped on the front porch, but the door didn’t open. Greg knocked on the door like a cop preparing to issue a warrant with the paper held up in hand. He was already starting to lose his temper. So much for the nice guy routine. The door finally swung open.
“What the h—”
He was unable to finish his question before the person behind the door turned and walked away. Anger rose as he stepped into the dark house and slammed the door behind him. Morgan stopped and shuddered at the sound, and then continued to the couch, dragging her baseball bat. She curled up with her legs underneath her and laid the bat beside her on the cushion.
“What the hell is this, Morgan? Do you know what kind of panic you’ve caused?”
She looked up at him, and his anger faltered. This wasn’t the same strong, fearless and annoy
ingly assertive woman he usually dealt with at crime scenes. She looked frail, like she hadn’t eaten or slept in days. Her hair a tangle of fine black threads. It was obvious that she hadn’t planned on going to work today either. Greg looked around the house, but it didn’t seem as disheveled as its owner. It looked like she may have been camping out on the couch.
“I had to,” she finally said.
“You had to do an interview with somebody who claimed they killed two women and three unknown cases?”
Greg shifted his weight to his front foot, giving the impression of a questioning father. The ‘it’s my job’ argument was just getting started, and he wanted to shut it down before it went too far.
“He said he would kill my mother if I didn’t publish the article. He said he would have threatened to kill my sister too, but somebody got to her first,” she yelled.
Tears streamed down her pale face. She brushed her hair away and revealed her bruised face.
“Damn. Did he hit you because you refused?”
Greg felt like an ass for the way that question came out and walked to the kitchen. He came back with ice wrapped in a rag.
“Here, put this on it. Your face is still pretty swollen.”
She took the rag from him and gently put it on the bruise.
“No, I didn’t refuse. I tried to stab him when he wasn’t looking, and he hit me. It pissed him off and then he left.”