“No, it was just them. When we got here it barely looked like a struggle had taken place. It was one man. A man he trusted. Trusted enough to ask him about the special place he’d helped him build. Trusted him enough to let him get close and cut his throat left to right.” Titus moved his right hand from left to right in a slicing motion. Titus walked over to the two trees and grabbed the dangling length of rope. He studied the frayed edges. He cut them down and motioned for an evidence bag. He carefully stepped around the pool of blood and walked around each tree, staring down at the ground.
“He tied him up first. Did you notice how his feet were off the ground? He incapacitated him, then strung him up, still alive. Then he cut his throat. That’s where all the blood came from. He cut his throat first, then sliced the face off, then did the bloody eagle. Cole didn’t struggle during any of that. No blood splatter on either of these trees or near the ditch. They met on the road; the killer knocked him out, then carried a two-hundred-forty-pound man into these woods and cut him up like he was butchering a calf. Pulled his lungs up so they would look like wings and then put a crown of thorns over his head. Uriel, the angel of wisdom, of knowledge. Is that because Cole knew too much?” Titus said in a low murmur.
“Is he talking to himself?” Davy whispered to Steve.
“Yeah,” Steve said.
“Kinda creepy,” Davy said.
“Yeah.”
* * *
By the time Titus got back to the station, Cole Marshall’s girlfriend, Jessica Twitchell, had called three times. Each call more frantic than the last. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d left at around eight thirty last night. She’d heard they’d found a body on Ten Devil’s Hop Road. Cole wasn’t answering his phone. Was Cole dead? Wouldn’t someone tell her if the man she loved was dead? Titus knew she wouldn’t stop calling until a man or woman with a badge eventually broke her heart for her.
“What do I tell her if she calls again?” Cam asked.
“The truth. We haven’t identified the body yet and we can’t comment any further.”
“But it’s Cole, ain’t it?” Cam asked.
“Just tell her what I said, Cam,” Titus said. He went into his office and shut the door. He fell into his chair, took off his hat and his aviators, lay back, and stared at the ceiling. The nooks and crannies of the acoustic tiles resembled the Nazca Lines in Peru. Cole Marshall was the anonymous caller. He was positive of that fact. And now Cole Marshall was dead, filleted like a trout.
Filleted.
They used fillet knives at the seafood plant. Titus made a mental note to ask the ME if they could tell him specifically what kind of knife was used to kill Cole Marshall.
Titus sat up straight.
He called Carla on her cell phone.
“Yes, sir?”
“Carla, do me a favor. Grab Steve and go by the fish house and ask around about Latrell and Cole. Find out if they were friendly or did they have any friends in common.”
“You think the connection is the fish house?”
“Well, Latrell worked there and he was involved with two killers. Cole Marshall worked there, and now he’s dead. If it ain’t a connection, I’d be mighty surprised,” Titus said.
“Okay, boss, got it.”
She hung up. As soon as Titus set his cell phone down on his desk, his landline rang.
“ME’s office, line one,” Cam said.
Titus clicked over. “Sheriff Crown.”
“Sheriff, its Dr. Kim.”
“Doctor, you must be prescient. I’m sending a body to you as we speak.”
“Another victim from the Spearman case?” Dr. Kim said.
“In a manner of speaking, I think so,” Titus said.
“Well, that’s not why I’m calling. I could have sent you an email about this, but I got the feeling you’d want to be notified personally. We identified one of the victims.”
Titus gripped the handset so tight he heard the plastic creak. “Were they in the system?”
“Yes, he was. He and his mother were convicted of shoplifting in 2015. His name was Tavaris Michaels. Was reported missing last year. He was seventeen,” Dr. Kim said. She said each word slowly and distinctly, as if fearing that just speaking them aloud could curse her own children to a similar fate.
“Do you have any contact info for the mother or father?”
“The mother is Yasmin Michaels. Last address is Baltimore, Maryland. I have a phone number too, but I don’t know if it’s still good,” Dr. Kim said.
“Give it to me,” Titus said.
“You’re going to call her to make the notification?” Dr. Kim asked.
“If I take 301 I can be in Baltimore in an hour and a half,” Titus said.
“You’re … going in person?”
“She deserves that, don’t you think?” Titus said.
Dr. Kim didn’t answer for a beat. “Yes, she does,” she said at last.
Titus hung up the phone and got up from his desk. He put his hat back on and grabbed his sunglasses. It felt good to be moving, to be acting, to be doing something instead of waiting for another brick to fall. There was a moment in every investigation when things felt like they were spiraling out of control. When a snowflake becomes an avalanche dragging the men and women who were dedicating their lives, however briefly, to the case down into a crevasse as cold and lonely as Dante’s final circle. If you were lucky, that moment passed and you found yourself on the other side of it with a suspect in custody.
Titus hoped the murder of Cole Marshall wasn’t the avalanche moment in this case. He hoped his small band of local boys and girls could find the strength to grab hold of the shadow that they were chasing and drag this killer of children and men kicking and screaming into the light.
Titus walked into the lobby of the office and found Scott Cunningham standing next to the dispatch desk talking to Cam.
“Titus, can I have a moment?” Scott said. He smiled, showing too many teeth, like a chimpanzee. Titus considered telling him to kindly fuck off, but he knew if he avoided him here, he would just come back later or, better yet, raise the issue in the next board meeting:
“Sheriff Crown keeps avoiding me, for some reason.”
Titus could see Scott in his mind, fake sincerity and concern painted on his face like he was a cheap whore as his cronies on the board nodded along in subservient unison.
Titus took his hat off and motioned to his office.
Scott sat down and crossed his legs, letting his wingtip dangle ever so slightly as he shook his foot. He exhaled long and hard before he began to speak. Titus thought maybe that was how he expelled some of his hot air.
“Titus, Titus, Titus. Word has it that you found Cole Marshall pinned to a tree like a butterfly. You care to enlighten me as to what is going on? First Mr. Spearman is murdered in front of our kids, then those poor children are found in Tank’s field, and now this? What is going on down here, Titus?”
Titus drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Do you think I work for you?” Titus asked.
“I think as the chairman of the Board of Supervisors—”
“Let me disabuse you of that idea, Scott. Let me be as clear as fucking glass. I work for the people of Charon. Every last citizen of my hometown. My job is to protect them. To make sure they feel like they can go about their lives without getting their throats cut or mourning their children. And even though you are in fact a citizen of Charon, I don’t specifically work for you. You’re a part of the collective. And every time you break off from the pack and come down here to stomp around and bitch and moan and try to piss in the corners to mark your territory, you keep me from doing the job I was elected to do. You impede my ability to do my duty. Do you understand that? Do you get that?” Titus asked. He fought with all his might the desire to make a fist.
Scott smiled again.
“Titus, do you know how we keep Charon County from becoming a ghost town? I mean, the young people can’t wait to leave. You know that firsthand. As dear as they are to my heart, it isn’t the fish house or the flag factory. Oh, they keep money in the pockets of the folks that work there, but that’s not what keeps Charon from becoming a ‘was’ on the map. No, sir, what keeps Charon trucking along is those fat and happy Northerners that come down here and wander around Main Street buying knickknacks for three times what they are worth. We get ’em drunk at the Celtic Pub and then we let them wander around Greenway Plantation so they can pretend they give a fuck about some poor ol’ dead slaves. Now, if those fat and happy Northerners think there’s a serial killer running around nailing people to trees, they’re not gonna be inclined to spend their hard-earned hipster dollars. So you can see how important it is to the people of Charon that you get a handle on this. Quickly. Unless you don’t think you can. I hate to have to make a motion for a recall or a special election. Maybe Roger can find this psycho,” Scott said. He didn’t smile this time, but Titus was sure he wanted to.