DNA, motherfucker, DNA.
If Bree and Matt had to investigate his death tomorrow, he’d make sure they found some evidence on his body. He reached out again and snagged a wrist and latched on to a watch band. The buckle gave and came away in his hand.
Something cracked against the backs of his knees. Todd’s legs crumpled. He crashed to the ground, the watch sailing out of his grip. As he fell, he caught sight of the baton. That’ll do it, he thought. The grass did not feel soft as his head bounced off it. The baton headed toward his face, and he wrapped his arms around his head. It struck his shoulder. The new pain barely registered on his already-battered body.
A kick to the gut bent him in half. Still covering his head with his arms, he rolled to his side and curled into a fetal position to protect his organs. Boots rained down on him, and he wished he could simultaneously protect his spine. Pain slammed through his back, his shoulders, his legs.
Someone searched his pockets, removed his phone, and crushed it under their boot. In his peripheral vision, he saw one of them pick up his gun and shove it into their pocket.
“Don’t you wish you’d stayed out of business that ain’t yours?” a male voice asked. “When you disturb a nest of rattlesnakes, eventually, you get bit.”
Todd blinked, looking for the source of the voice. It sounded familiar, but the rush of blood in his ears made it impossible to identify his attacker. His eye was swelling shut and blood dripped down his face, obscuring his vision. Blinking, Todd tried to clear his eyes. The night sky came into focus for a few seconds. Then he saw a boot headed for his face. He turned his face toward the ground and closed his arms more tightly over his skull. But he couldn’t protect his whole head and face. The heel of the boot glanced off his temple and everything went fuzzy.
Hands picked him up. Pain rocketed through Todd’s entire body as they carried him away. He vaguely heard twigs snapping. A few minutes later, they dropped him. He hit the ground with a white-hot bolt of agony.
“Don’t drop him!”
“He’s fucking heavy. I lost my grip. Anyways, I think he broke my hand.”
“Get him in the truck.”
Hands under his shoulders lifted his torso. His boots dragged a few feet in the dirt. He wanted to run, but his body refused to work. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but dangle helplessly. Someone grabbed his feet. They swung him back and forth.
“One, two, three.”
They tossed him. He hit metal. The bed of a pickup truck? Men climbed in after him. Someone threw a tarp over him. An engine turned over, and the vehicle lurched forward. They weren’t leaving him behind. They were going to dump him somewhere. Would his body be found?
He had one last conscious thought before blackness mercifully took.
You won’t survive the night.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After dropping off Kayla at the grade school, Bree arrived at the station a few minutes after eight. She grabbed coffee, settled at her desk, and began checking her email. No dick pics, but her second email called her a slut and a degenerate porn star. She felt a little sick as she opened six more just like it. Bree closed the seventh citizen complaint and checked her voice mail.
Nick West from WSNY News had left her a message asking for an update on the murder case. Bree returned his call: she had no updates at the current time, but she appreciated him sticking to the case.
She had an email from Morgan Dane with an available appointment later that morning. Bree clicked the embedded “Confirmation” button.
Marge poked her head through the doorway. “Have you finished your coffee?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Marge came in and shut the door behind her. “Reporters have been calling all morning. Paris Vickers with the Daily Grind called three times.”
Bree scowled. “What does she want?”
“She asked for an interview or a comment, but it sounded as if all she really wanted was to be able to say she contacted our office and didn’t receive a reply. Apparently, there’s a petition going around social media calling for your resignation.”
Bree rubbed her forehead. “For what?”
“Indecency.” Marge shook her head.
“But the pictures and videos are fake.” Bree didn’t know why she was shocked. The Daily Grind wasn’t a bastion of journalistic integrity—it was a tabloid rag.
“I know it’s all fake, but you have to deal with it.”
“How am I supposed to deal with it? It’s all over the internet.”
“You’ll probably need to sue the hell out of them, very publicly, and to make repeated indignant statements about the media being irresponsible.”
Bree didn’t have the time or desire to put on a show. She wasn’t an actor. Anger and anxiety churned in Bree’s gut. “I have a murder to solve.”
“You won’t solve any murders if you’re kicked out of office,” Marge said.
Damn it.
“Maybe this is the wrong job for me.” It wouldn’t be the first—or fortieth—time Bree had doubted her new career.
Marge crossed her arms. “Don’t tell me you’re going to let them win?”
“I am out of my element, Marge. I’m a cop. I have no taste for the politics required of being sheriff.”
“You’re a good sheriff, and you’re better with politics than you think. You come across as genuine.”
“I don’t want to be good at it,” Bree grumbled. “Is Todd in yet?”
Marge shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”
“He was running an errand this morning.” Bree considered how long it would take him to drive past suspects’ houses. An hour or two? “Let me know when he comes in.”
“Of course.”
Her desk phone rang. Marge reached across the desk and answered it. “Sheriff Taggert’s office.” Her frown deepened. “One moment, please.” She punched the “Hold” button and lowered the phone. “It’s that county supervisor, Madeline Jager.”
Bree extended a hand for the phone.
Marge held it out of reach. “Be careful. Madeline Jager would eat her own young for good PR.”
Bree sighed.
“Deep breath,” Marge instructed.
Bree did as she was told. Marge had worked in local government longer than anyone else. She knew everyone, and experience had given her the extraordinary ability to read and judge people. Bree exhaled, and Marge handed over the phone.
Bree pressed the button to release the hold. “Ms. Jager, what can I do for you?”
“Citizens are calling for your resignation, Sheriff.”
“Why?” Bree asked.
“You know why.”
“Explain it to me.” Bree held back the like I’m five. She thought it was likely implied.
“Moral decency is a prerequisite for public office.” Jager’s voice rang with superiority.
“Is it?” Bree asked.
Ms. Jager sputtered. “Well, it should be. You’re supposed to be a role model, particularly for young girls. How do parents explain your appearance in pornography to their children?”
“Why are parents allowing their children to view pornography?”
“That’s not the point,” Jager snapped.
Bree fought her temper. Usually, she had very good self-control, but the situation was taxing her patience. She carefully neutralized her voice. “Then what is the point?”
“The point is that your image was utilized on pornography,” Jager said, her voice ringing with a condescension she had no right to feel. “It’s indecent!”
“How does anyone control how publicly available images are utilized? We know the videos and photos are fake.”
“Do we?” Ms. Jager said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
An ache formed behind Bree’s eyes, but she refused to take the bait. She kept her voice level. “Yes. We do.”
Jager huffed. “What am I supposed to tell the citizens?”
“How about the truth?” Bree suggested. “The computer forensics techs can easily tell that the images have been manipulated. My face was superimposed over a pornographic video. Deepfakes are an increasingly common problem, particularly for female public figures. How would you feel if this happened to you?”