Page 126 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

My boots sank slightly into the soft gravel as I started toward the tape. Mason climbed out behind me without saying a word. Derek rounded the front of the truck, still holding his coffee, until his eyes found the scene. The paper cup slipped from his fingers. Coffee splashed across the gravel, soaking into the dirt without either of us noticing.

"Jesus Christ..."

The words barely left his mouth. His free hand settled instinctively over the retention strap of his Glock. No grin. No smart-ass comment. Nothing. His blue eyes went completely flat beneath the silver bar through his eyebrow as he stared ahead. Whatever was waiting beyond that tape… It had managed to shut Derek Harper up. That alone told me it was going to be fucking bad.

The victim had been dumped in a shallow drainage ditch beside the abandoned logging spur, half-hidden beneath storm-felled branches, pine needles, and the kind of careless camouflage that only worked from a distance.

This...

This wasn't one of our women. It was a man. Or what remained of one. I stopped at the edge of the ditch, letting my eyes work before my feet did. Rule number one. Slow down. Rushing gets detectives killed. Rushing blinds you to the details that matter.

The morning air was cold enough to sting my lungs, but it couldn't cut through the smell. Burnt chemicals. Blood. Wet earth. Something sweet underneath it all the unmistakable scent of early decomposition beginning its slow, relentless work.

I climbed carefully into the ditch, my boots sinking into the damp soil. The first thing I noticed wasn't the wounds. It was the precision. Nothing here felt chaotic. Nothing felt rushed. The offender hadn't simply killed him. They'd erased him.

His face… There wasn't one. Not hacked apart in blind rage. Not shredded by an animal. The skin, muscle and cartilage had been removed with patient, methodical precision until only the pale architecture of the skull remained. Whoever had done this hadn't lost control. They'd had complete control.

Hours of it.

I let my gaze travel lower. His hands had suffered the same fate. Every finger had been destroyed. Not severed. Crushed. Repeated impacts from something broad and heavy had reduced the bones to fragments buried beneath torn flesh and coagulated blood.

Fuck well there goes fingerprints. Whoever had done this hadn't wanted us to identify him the easy way. The clothing told another story. What remained of the shirt and trousers had melted into the wounds themselves. The fabric had been soaked in some kind of industrial solvent before being burned, leaving synthetic fibres fused directly into blistered skin. Separating clothing from tissue would be a nightmare for the lab.

No wallet. No watch. No chain around the neck. No wedding band. Nothing. Not even an impression where one might have rested. I crouched beside him, sliding two gloved fingers beneath the jaw. The skin felt cold. Heavy. I eased the mouth open.

Empty.

Every tooth had been removed. Not broken. Not scattered across the scene. Extracted. One by one. Deliberately. I released the jaw, letting it settle back into place with a dull, wet sound.

"This wasn't a panic murder."

My voice barely carried above the trees. Neither Mason nor Derek answered. They didn't need to. I already knew they were thinking the same thing. This wasn't overkill. This wasn't rage. This was a procedure. I stood slowly, looking across the ditch, then back toward the surrounding forest.

The women… They'd been trophies.

This man wasn't. He was evidence someone wanted to destroy. The killer wasn't trying to hide a body anymore. They were trying to erase an identity. Keep us trapped inside a forensic lab for days, maybe weeks. Trying to answer one simple question. Who the hell was lying in that fucking ditch? Because every hour we spent chasing a name...was another hour they had to take someone else.

The scene dissolved into controlled chaos.

Flashbulbs burst through the fog every few seconds. Camera shutters clicked in rapid succession while the state forensic team moved carefully around the ditch in white Tyvek suits, their figures drifting through the amber floodlights like restless ghosts.

Evidence flags multiplied across the muddy ground.

One.

Three.

Seven.

Twelve.

Each one marked something the rest of the world would never notice—a broken twig, a partial boot impression, a cigarette filter swollen by the dew, a smear on a rock that might have been blood... or rust. A pair of headlights cut through the trees. Sheriff Walker's cruiser came to an abrupt stop near the perimeter tape, gravel spitting beneath the tyres.

He climbed out before the dust had settled, tie hanging loose around his neck, shirt already sticking to the sweat across his shoulders despite the morning cold. Deputy Collins climbed out behind him. His hands were hooked lazily through his duty belt as though he'd wandered into a parade instead of a homicide.

My eyes followed him automatically. Something about him had been bothering me for fucking days. Most deputies arrived at scenes looking everywhere. Collins didn't. He wasn't studying the tyre marks. He wasn't watching the forensic photographers. He wasn't checking the tree line. He was watching the victim. Not with shock. Not with curiosity. Recognition.

It lasted less than a second.