by L T Ryan
Hatch picked up the Jeep Grand Cherokee from the rental company and began making the forty-minute drive east to Jericho Falls. The last rays of light silhouetted the Nashville skyline as she drove toward the impending darkness.
Nine
Savage decided not to call before stopping by the house. A light rain began to fall as he stood outside. Knocking at the door, he waited. He heard movement from inside that sounded like a chair creaking, soft footsteps, and then the lock turning. The door opened a crack and half the face of an old woman peered at him through wire-rimmed glasses. She looked like she could've been cast in a Grandma’s Cookies advertisement. There was a sweetness to her, hidden behind timid eyes. A dark sadness hung over her like a storm cloud, as she welcomed Savage in, her voice hollow and her eyes vacant.
The state police had done a good job of keeping the media away from Glenn Miller’s wife, Sue. Undoubtedly, however, she had seen the countless broadcasts and endless 24-hour news stations loop, re-sensationalizing the event as any little breadcrumb dropped from the state police's public affairs officer. She saw Savage's badge first and then recognized his face.
On many occasions passing through town he had met Sue Miller, but never had much of a conversation. Just friendly waves.
"Oh, Sheriff. I’m sorry, I didn't realize it was you. There’s been a revolving door of men with badges since—" She let the sentence trail off. Her tired eyes met his. "I just put on the kettle for some tea if you'd like."
He tapped the thermos in his hand that contained his daily batch of Jasmine’s special brew. There was a hint of cinnamon today. "I’m all set for now, but thanks for the offer, Mrs. Miller."
"Sue’s fine. Please, Sheriff, won't you come on in."
Savage followed the widow inside, taking off the Stetson he wore as he crossed the threshold. He spotted an open peg on the nearby coat rack, conveniently available.
The kettle whistled from the kitchen just beyond the quaint living room space in the modest ranch style house. "Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll be getting myself that cup of tea."
"I won’t take much of your time. I just—"
She gestured for Savage to have a seat at a small table in the kitchen. A moment later, with the tea bag steeping in a mug, Sue Miller took the chair across from him. Her eyes were still damp with tears. She was sad and broken. Savage recognized both immediately, something he'd seen time and again in countless other victims over the years, and sometimes in his own mirrored reflection.
"I’m just here to clear up loose ends on the Hawk's Landing side of the case. The state police are running the investigation and have already questioned you, but I’d like to follow up. I know that this is an extremely difficult time. "
"If you're going to ask me why that abomination killed my Glenn, I'll tell you what I told them. I don't know." Anger peeked out from the darkness shrouding her like a cloak. "Glenn helped children for a living. Problematic children, like that Billy Graver." Her voice grew quieter as the embers of rage surrendered to the sadness. "I don't understand. Why?"
"That’s why I'm here, Sue. This is what I’m trying to figure out."
"I remember what happened to that boy's sister, Amanda. Horrible story. First, the disappearance put everybody on edge. Then, the tragedy. I remember seeing Billy's picture in the newspaper after he was found a week later, covered in his sister's blood. They never recovered the girl's body, and Billy hasn’t spoken about it since. But everybody knows what happened."
"And what is it that everybody believes happened?"
"Billy Graver killed his sister just like he killed my Glenn."
"And you believe this to be the truth?" Savage asked.
"Oh, I don't believe. I know." Sue Miller took a sip of her tea and stiffened her back. "Billy killed her."
"And how do you know this?"
"Because Glenn was his psychologist, and he told me so. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Glenn shouldn't be talking about his clients. Patient-doctor privileges and all that HIPPA stuff. But working with Billy really had an impact on my husband."
"How so?"
"As soon as he took him on as a patient, Glenn became obsessed. He claimed he could truly heal the boy. I've never seen him like that, not in the years prior, nor after."
"I read your husband testified in a hearing that resulted in Billy Graver being sent to a mental hospital in Denver. Did he say anything specific about Billy?"
"He said he should've realized that Billy was unteachable."
"Unteachable? Don’t you mean unreachable? Right?"
"No. I meant what I said. Glenn looked at his therapy sessions more as lessons in how to train the brain. He always thought of himself as more a mentor or guide than a counselor."
Savage was quiet for a moment. "How long were you two married?"
"Not long enough." She sighed. "We came into each other's lives late. I was born and raised right here in Hawk's Landing. But my husband didn't move into town until a little over ten years ago. "
"Where did he live before coming here?"
"Glenn lived a life before ours. He kept those two worlds separate and never talked about anything before us. As if he materialized out of thin air."
"Did you find that odd, the fact that he didn't discuss his past with you?"
"Everybody's got skeletons in their closet. I'm sure you have some of your own. As do I." She shrugged. "But if I'm being honest. At first it bothered me. But I figured he'd talk about it if he wanted. He never did, and my curiosity faded. We built our life together by focusing less on the past and more on the present."
Savage noticed a long walking staff set against the wall near the rack where he'd hung his hat. The wood was etched from top to bottom in an overlapping series of serpentine figure eights of varying sizes. "Are you a hiker?"
"Me? Gosh no." She dunked the tea bag up and down and then squeezed the tea pouch against the spoon, draining the remnants into her cup. Sue Miller stirred in a spoonful of honey and added a dash of milk before taking a sip. She followed Savage's gaze over to the walking stick. "Oh that. It was Glenn's. The only thing he brought with him from his past."
"Did it hold sentimental value for your husband?"
She nodded. "I'm afraid, like his past, Glenn never spoke of it. When I first asked him about it, he said, every good shepherd needs a staff." Her face was partially hidden by the mug she held, both hands clasped tight around the porcelain. "I guess that's how my husband saw himself. A shepherd to the lost sheep he saved during those countless hours of counseling he provided the broken souls who sought his wisdom."
Savage scanned the room, looking for any other clue that might shed light on the truth about Glenn Miller and the cause of the deadly rampage by his former patient. Looking into the quaint family room, he noticed a fishing rod above the fireplace with a large bass on display above it on a placard. "Was Mr. Miller a fisherman?"
"Oh, that thing? Funny story on that." Sue Miller's face brightened. "Glenn picked that up at the local thrift store, some unwanted hand-me-down, I guess. Bought it for two dollars and that ugly thing went up above our mantle."
"What about the rod and reel?"
"Sure, used it. Every day, in fact. Glenn would take that fishing rod out with him every morning at sunrise." She chuckled softly to herself as if somebody had whispered a joke in her ear meant only for her. "You know, he’s never caught a fish? None that I ever saw at least."
"Did he take you with him?"
"No. Not once." Finishing the last bit of tea, she set the mug on the plate. "I never felt it was my place to go, anyway. Come to think of it, he picked up the fishing rod right after the Graver boy killed his sister. Her death really impacted him. I think he blamed himself for failing to reach the boy." A tear fell from Sue Miller's eyes and she wiped at it. The drop rolled down her cheek and dropped into her empty teacup.
"Thank you for your time. I know this has been hard. I just needed a snapshot into your husband’s life to see if there
were any dots to connect."
"And did I help?"
"More than you know. If you haven't shared this information with the state police, then I'll take care of it."
Savage stood, and Sue rose with him. "Please don’t bother.” Savage said. “I'll let myself out. If you think of anything else, or if there's anything I can do for you, you know how to reach me."
"Thank you for stopping by. It was nice to get a chance to talk about my Glenn with you."
Savage went to the door. Picking up his hat, he then looked over at the rod. "Do you mind telling me where his fishing hole was? Hard to find from here?"
"Impossible not to find. He walked that trail so much, it’s worn down. When you get off the porch, just bend left. Look for the break in the trees, and the path is just beyond."
"Thanks again, and however this turns out, I think it’s important you talk to somebody. These things can be hard. Trust me, I know." At that moment, Savage thought of Somers and he thought it odd. Usually at these times, he thought of Hatch.
The light rain had increased to a torrential downpour. In a rain parka, Savage overlooked the dig site where a state police forensics team worked around Glenn Miller’s fishing hole.
It hadn’t taken long to secure a search and seizure warrant for the grounds. Although a slow and daunting process, Savage didn’t want to leave, even though he'd been given the opportunity to dry off and warm-up in the command center RV parked about a mile away.
The area they were working in was covered by a tent, but it didn’t stop all the rain rolling downhill, turning a lot of their grid work into mud. Rain was every homicide cop’s enemy. The natural washing eradicated much of the evidence, and he was worried that would be the case today, but the difference was, they were excavating, and the water had turned the dirt into mud.
They'd been at it for close to six hours and were reaching a point where darkness would cause them to break, at least while they set up the lights.
Sinclair arrived with a thermos of coffee, not Jasmine Hatch's, of course, but anything warm would be welcomed.
"Sheriff, thought you might need this." She handed over a thermos.
"You didn't have to go to the trouble of making me coffee."
"I didn’t. Jasmine Hatch called into the station. When I told her you were out there in the rain watching the scene, she brought this by for you. Said there's more for you back at the house if you need."
Savage tipped his hat, took the thermos, and took a grateful gulp of the hot coffee. As the warm liquid made its way down the back of his throat, it worked to alleviate some of the cold that had risen through his bones. The rain continued to patter against the thin waterproof hood.
"Sheriff, don't you think you should take a break? Could be weeks."
"Yeah, I know. But I just like to see the first day's work complete. Gives me something, a bit of satisfaction. I don't know. It’s always good to take a moment and take in your scene. Remember that Becky, because this won't be your last."
A sad statement. Even in small town Hawk’s Landing, Savage knew it was only a matter of time until another body would fall. No place on earth could escape the evil of some men’s hearts. Wind caught up-river and sent an icy blast of cold rain into Savage’s face. He turned away as the last tendrils of light gripped the sky before fading.
"I guess that’s it," he said to Sinclair, taking another long pull from the thermos. "First day in the books. Maybe tomorrow will bring something else." He was turning back towards his suburban when he heard a voice call out from one of the crime scene techs.
"I found something. It’s human."
Savage turned and hurried to the edge of the excavation site, not crossing the "do not cross" tape. Even as a sheriff, he couldn’t access that without signing in through the proper channels.
He impatiently waited for more details from the Tyvek suit-wearing technician squatted in a hunch over section C37—three rows across, thirty-seven squares away. The photographer went over and began snapping shots of the section, getting different angles, different proximity, different levels of zoom and flash, compensating for the darkness and the falling rain.
Slowly, bit by bit, the remains were removed after being photographed in place. Buried in the ground beside the small skeletal frame was a friendship bracelet with colorful trinkets and lettered beads that spelled, "Mandy."
Ten
Rain began to fall, then subsequently tapered off as Hatch exited I-40 following the signs south to Jericho Falls. The lights on the highway were lost among the trees. Ten minutes later, she passed a wooden sign that said, "Jericho Falls, Population 1,236." Smaller than Hawk’s Landing. But Hatch knew better than most the secrets that a small town could hold. The trajectory her life had taken since her homecoming after running from her past for fifteen years had put her on the path she was on now, the one that brought her here.
Hatch followed her phone’s GPS to the only inn within twenty miles of the town. Turning off the main road, she followed a winding path lined with trees. The motel sat on a low hill.
The motel itself was a strip of eight rows with an oversized parking lot, ideal for 18-wheelers taking respite from their long haul. Aside from the black Ford pickup parked in front of the office, there were no other vehicles in the lot.
Her Jeep's tires crackled and popped over the lot’s crushed stone surface. She pulled to a stop next to the truck, got out, and went inside the motel office. The door chimed as she entered, and she heard a man grunt from the room behind the main desk.
She heard the scrape of a chair, and a moment later, a man wearing a trucker cap and a denim shirt with the nametag “Harlin” above his left breast pocket approached from the other side of the counter. Eying Hatch he gave a tip of his cap.
"How can I help you this evening?"
"Looking for a room."
He looked back at the rack of keys. Every room key hung from their hook with their respective room number above. The key to room one was missing. Harlin grabbed the key for room three and set it on the counter between them.
"How long you plannin' on stayin'?"
"Depends." Hatch offered a shrug. "Definitely tonight. I'll have to see after that."
He was quiet for a moment as he sized her up. She knew the look, having seen it before. Hatch was an outsider. Harlin, being the only motel manager within twenty miles of the town, served as a gatekeeper of sorts, giving him first look at any visitors.
He gave a barely noticeable nod of his head, Hatch having passed whatever silent evaluation he'd given, and said, "It's sixty for the night. I'm going to need a driver's license and credit card. You won't be charged until you check out."
Hatch laid the license Jordan Tracy had made for her on the countertop. Harlin picked it up and then looked up at Hatch.
"You only live forty minutes away from here. Why do you need to put up in my motel?" His guardedness returned in the tone with which he asked the question.
Hatch produced the other ID, the one showing her employment as an investigative reporter with The Blaze.
"A reporter, eh? Working on anything big?" Harlin asked, dropping the judgement from his voice.
"Never know until I get there."
"Don't know there's much to say about our quiet old town. What're you plannin' to write about here in little ole Jericho Falls?"
"I'm doing a story on the Eternal Light."
"I was wondering when those dress-wearing holy rollers would get themselves the attention of the media. Only a matter of time, I guess."
"And why's that?" Hatch asked.
"Because, to put it bluntly, they're just plain strange."
"Strange how?"
"Well, you’re smack dab in the Bible belt. People round here love themselves some Jesus. They sure do." Harlin paused to slip a toothpick into the corner of his mouth, toggling the small splinter of wood into position with his tongue. "They wear those long dress-like clothes, handmade sandals, the works."
"And
that bothers you?"
"I'm as much a believer as the next guy. Just don't see no need to go flauntin' it around." He flicked the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "Guess it just rubs me the wrong way. But don't go gettin' me wrong. I'm not saying they're bad. Just is, they're different. And around here, sometimes that's one and the same. If you catch my drift?"
"Have you had much in the way of interaction, personally, with them?"
"As much as anybody, I guess. No doubt you'll see them around town, but I wouldn't bother tryin' to interview them for your story."
"Why is that?"
"They don't take kindly to outsiders or even to us townsfolk asking about their business. Heck, I'm pretty sure they consider us outsiders. And I've lived here my entire life."
"What's your take on them?"
Harlin started shaking his head from side to side before speaking, took a step back, and raised both hands.
"No ma'am. You're not going to get me quoted in no paper, no how. Won't catch me being the town gossip."
"I don't cite my sources to anyone. Ever."
"Be that as it may, I am a good Christian man and I do not like to speak about other people who are not in my presence."
Hatch opened her mouth to speak.
"But," Harlin continued. "I will tell you this. I've got no problem with them, personally. In my opinion, I think this world needs more God-fearing folk. I don't see them doing no harm. Heck, when those tornadoes ripped through here last year, half the town got torn up."
"I wasn't in Nashville then, but I heard it was pretty bad." Hatch using what she'd gathered from JB during the final few minutes of her flight.
"But when the winds died down, it was The Shepherd and his flock who showed up the morning after to help rebuild. Part of my gosh dang roof got ripped off during that storm that caught us off-guard in the first week of March. And you know who fixed it? They did. The whole bunch came through town, even the young'uns helped in any way they could. Rebuilt my roof and asked for nothing in return."