The Keeper of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

“Is there really somebody dead in there?”

  The deputy’s skepticism wasn’t hard to understand. Al Pittman spent more time in the jail than he did wandering the streets. The man’s reputation was less than spotless.

  Gray Hollow was a quiet town, largely without violence. This was one reason why her department was so small. With all the cutbacks made by the city council due to the recession, Jezebel was one of only three county officers.

  She retrieved a pen from her pocket and jotted down the license plate number of the unfamiliar Ford. As she stared at the passenger side windowpane, Jezebel could barely make out a figure inside. Something stained the window.

  My God, she thought. It was all blood.

  “Get Pittman down here right away,” she said into her handheld radio.

  “You got it, Sheriff,” the deputy replied.

  When Jezebel stared again into the truck, for a moment, she felt as if she were being watched.

  Get a grip on yourself, she thought. Jezebel tucked her bangs behind her ears. While on duty, she wore her sandy blond hair tied securely in a bun.

  The forest was eerily quiet, as silent as the motionless figure inside the truck. She opened the front door, which creaked slightly when her fingers gripped the handle. It was obvious the truck hadn’t been in particularly good condition before the collision. She quickly scanned the point of impact, where the front of the truck was bent and disfigured against the trunk of the massive oak tree.

  How did this happen? She tried to visualize the truck’s path into the forest. The bend in the road could be treacherous in the dark, especially if the man had been speeding or drinking. Even so, she could not remember an accident of such magnitude in this part of the county since she took over as sheriff four years ago.

  If the road was more dangerous than she remembered, it might be prudent to do something about it. There were many places in rural Gray Hollow that had fallen into disrepair over the decades, and the county was in desperate need of funding for new infrastructure.

  She battled her gag reflex as she pulled the door open. The sheriff stepped back and exhaled into the breeze. The smell of death filled the air.

  “That’s strange,” Jezebel muttered before returning to the truck. The odor was stronger than she expected, especially since it appeared that the wreck took place within at least a day. The corpse was out of the sun and in the cool fall air, which should have slowed down the process of decomposition.

  The victim’s body was leaning back against the front seat, which also struck her as odd.

  Wouldn’t the body have been thrown up against the steering wheel?

  “Pittman,” she whispered. Had the homeless man moved the body? Now that she was certain there was a dead body on her hands, she needed to treat it seriously. Her gaze shifted, traveling down the man’s corpse.

  There were minor abrasions covering the visible portions of his skin, and his clothes were ripped and torn. His hands and face were covered in dried blood, some of which had clearly gushed down from a wide wound across his neck. Jezebel carefully reached in the pockets of his leather jacket before searching for a wallet or some type of identifying information.

  Nothing, she thought. She studied the man. He looked a few years older than she was, perhaps in his late thirties.

  “Who were you?” she asked. The sheriff gazed into the body’s vacant eyes. There were empty cans on the floorboard of the truck, which strongly suggested he had been drinking. It no longer mattered. She doubted the man inflicted the neck wound on himself, which meant she was now likely in the middle of a murder investigation.

  Jezebel braced herself for the task at hand. She hadn’t encountered a single murder case in all her time as sheriff. Jezebel was thirty-six years old and had lived in Gray Hollow practically her entire life. After graduating from Hollow High, she obtained a bachelor of science in administration of justice from the University of Louisville and went on to pursue a master’s degree in criminology before returning to join the Gray Hollow Sheriff’s Department. Later, Jezebel would complete a degree in forensics with online and correspondence courses, but she never regretted the decision to return to her hometown.

  Even from a young age, Jezebel instinctually reached out to protect those who were picked on, which deepened into a desire to pursue a career in law enforcement. In high school, she was impacted by a special-needs student who was routinely bullied by some of his older classmates. When he went missing, she blamed herself for all the times she stood by and watched.

  Jezebel was so wrapped up in thought that she failed to hear the sound of footsteps behind her. As she looked down, a shadow crept over the ground below.

  A hand gripped her shoulder.

  She whirled around, pulling her gun.

  “Whoa,” Thomas Brooks said. The reporter’s eyes grew wide when he saw the weapon in her hands.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” Jezebel demanded.

  “I’m a journalist, remember? Mind putting that away?” he said, looking nervously at the gun. The sheriff holstered the gun.

  “Don’t sneak up on me next time,” she said.

  “A little jumpy today, Sheriff?”

  “This is a crime scene, Mr. Brooks. Didn’t you see the yellow tape?”

  Thomas made a show of looking around.

  “What yellow tape?” he asked. “I don’t see any around here.”

  Jezebel narrowed her gaze. She’d only left one line of tape at the top of the hill, where the truck had gone over the edge.

  “I haven’t had time to go over the whole area,” she said. “Like I told you, this is a crime scene. Someone died here.”

  “So you’re confirming it’s a murder?” he replied, as he recorded the quote in his notebook.

  “That’s not what I said.” Jezebel instantly regretted giving out the information. Brooks was a far more competent reporter than she was used to dealing with. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Brooks. Something very serious took place here, and I don’t want you standing over my shoulder while I try to piece everything together.”

  “Right,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Like I haven’t heard that before. Listen, I’m writing this story. You can either include me, and I’ll try to be as fair as possible to you, or—”

  “You were the one who said you were a journalist,” she cut him off. “How do you think it would look if you spent time in jail for interfering with my investigation?”

  The two faced each other in the silent forest, with only the wind between them. Thomas watched her carefully. Jezebel Woods was certainly attractive, but that was probably less intimidating to the locals than her sharp intellect. Thomas, on the other hand, was from the city, and he had dealt with strong willed women on a regular basis. He wasn’t about to let her cut him out of this story—he needed it too much.

  “What will it be?” she asked, waiting for him to reply. “I’m not sure your reputation would be able to handle a short incarceration.”

  That made him flinch.

  “Call me Thomas,” he said, offering a smile. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes. And whatever you believe about me, I promise you I didn’t get into this business to practice sensational journalism.” She pursed her lips. Thomas was mostly telling the truth, but he knew she had every reason to be skeptical. “The fact is, I’ve been around many crime scenes before, and even though you’re obviously a very skilled sheriff, I have experience with these types of investigations. I can help.”

  Jezebel looked into his eyes and searched for the truth. This was the first time she had encountered Thomas Brooks in person. He seemed sincere enough. Besides, with his background, the journalist might have access to resources she didn’t. But at the end of the day, rules were rules.

  “If you think you have something constructive to add to this investigation, make an appointment. Even if I were willing to collaborate with you o
n this investigation, it would jeopardize this entire investigation if anyone knew you were here. I don’t know what you’re used to getting away with in New York, but here in Kentucky, we follow the rules.”

  She knows, Thomas thought. He raced to formulate a response and found himself at a rare loss for words. Luckily, she spoke again and spared him the trouble.

  “By the way, how did you find out about this?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

  “The same way I suspect you did. Al Pittman told me,” he answered quickly. At least he hadn’t withheld the source from her, but he could tell her trust wouldn’t come easily—especially if she knew about New York.

  “I’ll deal with Al later,” Jezebel muttered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an investigation to get back to. I trust you know how to find your way back to the road.”

  She turned back around and opened the door, and Thomas caught a glimpse of the carnage inside the truck. The body was covered in blood, just like Pittman said. He made a quick note about the cans on the floorboard.

  His throat was cut, he thought, but by what?

  Then Thomas noticed the windshield.

  “Did you see this?” he asked her, pointing to the smashed glass.

  Jezebel glanced up.

  “What are you still doing here?” she asked, narrowing her gaze. “I told you to leave.”

  “Take at look at this,” he said, gesturing at the front of the vehicle.

  The windshield was barely intact, very nearly shattered in several places. Jezebel had noted the damage when walking down the hill but ascribed it to the collision. Instead, the cracks were caused by something else entirely. There were several birds partially embedded in the cracked glass. Blood from their dead bodies smeared the windshield. Jezebel kicked herself internally for missing something so obvious, although in her defense she hadn’t had ample time to inspect the crime scene.

  Thomas knelt down next to the tree and stared at the front of the hood.

  “There are more over here,” he said, careful to avoid touching the birds and contaminating the crime scene. “Do you think these could have caused him to wreck?”

  She didn’t answer. Jezebel leaned over the seat and picked up one of the loose black feathers with a gloved hand.

  “Crows,” she whispered curiously. She could think of no reason that would explain why the dead birds would be encased in the windshield.

  It’s almost as if they flew directly into the glass, she thought.

  “His throat was probably cut before he got in the truck,” Thomas added.

  “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”

  “See the blood smeared across the outside handle? He was bleeding when he got in, and I don’t see any wounds on his hands. Just blood.”

  “You’ve got a point,” she said. Jezebel checked for blood on the inside handles. “You have done this before, haven’t you?” she asked, impressed.

  His knowledge surprised her. If she was going to be working with him, it might be a good idea to research the journalist. There was certainly enough information out there, if her guess was correct. She’d heard stories about what happened in New York.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “A few times, in fact.”

  Before she could reply, Jezebel noticed something on the corpse’s pant legs.

  “What do you make of this?” she asked, deciding to test him. She lifted one of the pieces of hay with her fingers. After placing the straw in a sealed plastic bag, she held it up for him to see.

  “Maybe he was a farmer,” he said after a pause. “Half this town is covered in hay bales.” Jezebel heard a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “Do you have something against small town farmers?” she asked, glaring at him.

  “Not at all,” Thomas said, realizing too late he might have offended her.

  “Good,” she replied curtly. “Although I doubt this man was one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “If he was a farmer, don’t you think there would be more hay in the truck other than just on his pants?”

  “So you think he may have visited a farm recently. What’s with all the smaller wounds?” he asked. “It looks like he was scratched with barbed wire.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, concluding her search for any trace of identifying information. She’d found nothing to ID the victim.

  “Do you think he could have been attacked before the wreck? Maybe he picked up a hitchhiker or something.”

  “I don’t think so. If there were someone with him in the car, they probably would have been injured along with him in the impact. But until we have an ID, it’s impossible to determine what might have motivated someone to kill him, assuming we’re dealing with murder here.”

  Twigs snapped on the hill behind them. The pair watched two men walk downhill in their direction.

  Jezebel swore. “This is exactly what I was afraid of,” she said.

  Thomas recognized the profile of Al Pittman as rays of sunlight peeked through the trees. The other man was a muscular officer who had apparently been given the duty of returning Al Pittman to the scene.

  “Sorry for not radioing, Sheriff,” the officer said. He held his hand over his hat, as if he was worried it would fall off as he neared the base of the hill. “I wasn’t aware you had company.” He eyed Thomas suspiciously. “What’s he doing here?”

  Thomas tucked his notepad back inside the duffel bag. The officer sounded polite, but Thomas couldn’t help noticing a trace of bitterness betrayed by his tone. He wondered if he was the source of the hostility or if there was already tension between the two.

  “This is Thomas Brooks from Hollow Happenings,” Jezebel said. “Thomas, this is Deputy Logan Randall.”

  Thomas offered his hand, which Deputy Randall ignored.

  “What’s a reporter doing at the crime scene?” he demanded.

  Jezebel frowned. “Mr. Brooks offered to help,” she said. “I explained that if he wanted to collaborate on this investigation, he would have to make an appointment. He was just leaving.”

  They both looked at Thomas for confirmation, and he nodded quickly.

  “Are you sure it’s wise to bring an outsider into this investigation?”

  “I haven’t made any decision yet, but I’ll determine what’s wise and what’s not, Deputy.” She stared him down. Randall was five years her senior on the force, and clearly resented the fact that he served under her. Unfortunately for her, despite his gruffness, Gray Hollow needed all the officers it could get. She could barely manage everything as it was. With a murder investigation on her plate, she would have to try to keep things peaceful. Jezebel was suddenly glad she made the spontaneous decision to allow Thomas Brooks to stay. He might prove easier to work with than the irritable deputy.

  “Thanks,” Thomas said to Jezebel. “Sorry for any confusion I might have caused,” he added for the deputy’s benefit. “I’ll be in touch.”

  He used the opportunity to slip a wad of money into Al Pittman’s pocket as thanks for the tip. He had the feeling the sheriff was watching him out of the corner of her vision, but she offered no protest.

  “Looks like someone took a nasty spill,” the deputy said, looking over at the truck as Thomas started up the hill. “I guess this wasn’t a murder after all.”

  “Wrong,” Jezebel replied. “His throat’s been cut. Go see for yourself.”

  While the deputy went over to inspect the truck, Jezebel called to Thomas before he could leave. “One minute, Mr. Brooks.” As Thomas made his way back down the hill, she took the opportunity to address Al Pittman.

  “Mr. Pittman, if you don’t mind, there are some more questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “I thought I answered over the phone.”

  “You did, but there are some other things I’m curious about after having a chance to inspect the vehicle.”

  “OK,” Al replied reluctantly. He looked uncomfortable to be back at the crime scene. Thomas wond
ered why Al was so unsettled and was curious if the sheriff picked up on it as well.

  Then Jezebel pulled Thomas aside.

  “You aren’t planning on running the story yet, are you?” she whispered.

  “Why?” he asked hesitantly, resisting the inclination to frown.

  “I’m afraid the public might panic if they think there’s some crazed killer on the loose. We aren’t even completely sure what we’re dealing with at this point.”

  Thomas paused. The police had the power to keep him out of a crime scene, but short of a court order they had no authority to censor the press. In the old days, he wouldn’t have hesitated to run the story. Now he was stuck in Gray Hollow, where everything was different. There was a new set of rules to follow. The town was so small, and Jezebel Woods was the source at this point. He couldn’t afford to alienate her after she went out on a limb for him. Besides that, something about the driven sheriff he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “OK,” he finally said. “Here’s my number.” Thomas passed her a business card. “So are you going to let me in on this?”

  “We’ll see,” Jezebel said. “If you find anything else that’s useful, I’ll give it some serious thought.”

  As he turned, leaving her at the foot of the hill, Thomas felt the distinct impression that he had been dismissed.

  “All right, Mr. Pittman, where were we?” Jezebel asked.

  Before he could answer, she spotted something over his shoulder and stopped cold.

  “Is something wrong?” Al asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, her eyes on the truck. One of the dead crows’ black eyes was open, as if staring at her. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have troubled her, if not for the fact that she was almost positive its eyes were closed only a few minutes ago.

  Chapter Two

  The rusty hinges of the old barn door screeched as if the door itself were reluctant to give way. A strong arm pried the wooden door halfway open. Slowly, light from the outside spilled into the dark room.

  Gary tugged at the door and swore when he discovered it would budge no farther. He brushed away a cobweb and stepped onto the dirt floor inside the barn. Particles of lint floated in suspension, dancing in air like they were assembled for a autumn ball.