Previously: Riley and Kellen split duties as the department is stretched thin. Ross has an odd request.
The lingering yellow tape hadn’t turned people away from Clark’s motel; aside from a familiar red Ford near the front office, four cars were scattered around the lot. Riley parked next to Luke, who leaned against the side of his truck like he’d been waiting awhile. She rounded the hood and planted herself there, filling the gap between their cars.
Luke nodded in greeting, amusement flirting with his features. “I figured you’d want to get the grilling out of the way first,” he quipped.
If he wanted to skip the pleasantries, Riley would happily oblige, even if she had spent the drive crafting her subtle leading questions. Through her clenched jaw she asked, “Mind reader, huh? Why don’t you tell me what I’m thinking.”
“That I have no business near a crime scene.”
“Got it in one.” She held up her hand and ticked off her fingers, “Lack of training, lack of relevant experience, lack of authority—I could go on.”
The smile he flashed held more teeth than mirth. “I get it.”
“What do you do for work?”
“Welding, mostly,” was all he gave her.
Riley crossed her arms. “Before that?”
“Just welding.”
“Can you see why I’m a little confused on why the chief has a welder looking over crime scenes? The sheriffs’ deputies would be better equipped to render an opinion on a scene. None of them have come through here.” She’d checked the logs back at the office to be sure.
He snorted and shook his head. “They’ve worked fewer murders than Woodrun PD.”
“Still not an explanation for why you, specifically, are here at Ross’s request.”
“Look, you’re right, I don’t have relevant training. I’m just here as a favor. He likes an unbiased opinion on weird cases and he knows he can trust me not to say anything to the locals.” Luke put his hands up don’t-shoot-the-messenger style. “Small towns, you know. Not a lot of resources.”
Regulations on withholding details to the public existed for a reason, and given Luke’s awareness of the cases’ oddities, Ross had neglected them. Why? And why for Luke, of all people? Riley pursed her lips and turned on her heel. A shopkeepers bell echoed into the empty front office. Riley retrieved a skeleton key under a stack of Woodrun Weekly newspapers, courtesy of Jeremy Clark. She’d called ahead after she’d gone over the logs, double-checking the owner hadn’t caught sight of unreported visits. He hadn’t, and she felt all the more paranoid for asking.
Riley broke the seal to the crime scene and pushed open the door. The lingering odor made her eyes water, but her gag reflex didn’t trigger. Small favors. Gloves and shoe-protectors in place—imminent scene release be damned—she led Luke into the room while she chewed over his explanation. He’d not lied once. Maybe her questions weren’t in the right vein to provoke a lie she could chase down. Riley leaned against a patch of wall devoid of blood splatter, watching as he paced around the small space.
Luke went over the room four times, getting close to furniture and dried fluids without disturbing the integrity of the remaining evidence. He’d clearly done more ‘consulting’ for Ross than she’d first assumed. Finally, he crouched where the body had been found, scrutinizing the stains on the gray carpet. After a deep breath, Luke stood. “Okay.” He walked out of the room, rolling off his gloves.
“Okay?” she parroted, following close behind. “Any insights you’d like to share?”
“Door’s intact.” He toed off his shoe protectors and tossed everything in the trash. “He might’ve known his attacker. Or he could’ve been caught by surprise by someone lying in wait, someone who knew their way around a set of lock picks.”
“Ross should’ve mentioned we’d already established that.” She gave him until she’d resealed the door and returned the key to come up with something that would make the trip worthwhile. “So, that’s it? What would you like me to tell Chief Ross? Sorry, your consultant was a bust?”
A careless shrug preceded, “Yep.”
The lie bounced around her eardrums with a headache-inducing high pitch. Riley planted herself in his way again. “You got something out of that scene.”
“Like I said—“
“I’m gonna’ call bullshit right now to save you the trouble.”
Before he could voice another excuse, Luke’s attention snapped to the left.
A man stood frozen a few yards away, gray hair twisting in the breeze the sole movement he couldn’t control, and he looked at Luke like he’d stumbled upon an eldritch horror. Around five foot ten, maybe fifty years old, with his threadbare clothing and hiking boots a few years past due for replacement, white skin a leathery never-seen-sunscreen texture, Riley took him for a hobo. He wasn’t threatening, didn’t look like someone on the top-ten most-wanted list, but his behavior screamed suspicion.
Riley glanced at Luke, who’d similarly stilled, fixated on the stranger. She set her right foot back, the tiny movement enough to startle the man, who gasped in a breath. He tipped his head, averted his eyes, and crept away like they were cobras. “Sir,” Riley tried, going for a soothing tone. It could’ve been a gunshot for how he turned and ran. She gave chase, making it a few feet before a vice clamped around her wrist.
“He’s too fast,” Luke growled, tracking the man until he disappeared into the trees.
She tugged her arm in an attempt to get out of his grasp. The effort sent her stumbling closer to him. “You’re preventing me from pursuing a suspect.”
“A suspect of what?” He remained focused on the tree-line.
“Just—he ran. That raises a flag.” Riley tried, and failed, to pry his hand off. “Let go, Mr. Singer. Now.” Riley squinted up at him, blood boiling.
He looked back levelly, eyes the color of flaming amber in the low sun.
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t.”
Her lips flattened when it rang true. She challenged his stare, like she’d lose some silly contest if she looked away first. “Sure seemed like he was more afraid of you than he was of me. And I’m the one in the uniform.”
Her radio crackled out, “23-18 available officers. Disturbance at 344 Hickory Lane. Possible trespassing,” and still, she and Luke remained in a stalemate.
“201 here,” Kellen’s voice came through. “I’ve caught a fender-bender. Can’t get out there for a while.”
Damn. Riley patted Luke’s hand where he still had hold of her wrist like she was tapping out of a fight. He flinched and let her go, breaking their stare-down as he turned away. She shook off the strange intensity of their silent battle of wills and reached for her radio. “180 responding.”
“10-4.”
Riley strode over to where Luke lingered by their cars. “You don’t ever get in the way of me attempting to do my job again, got it? I don’t care if the guy can run like Usain Bolt. Never again.”
He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. “Riley—“
“Have a nice day, Mr. Singer. I’ve got a call to get to.”
He took the dismissal to heart and climbed into his truck.
When he was out of sight, she searched up directions for the disturbance call and pulled out onto Main Street. She missed the turn for Hickory Lane. Twice.
Obligatory Legal Stuff:
This chapter is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, locals, and events are coincidental.
No generative AI used. No AI training or scraping allowed.
All rights reserved.
Chapter Title Image created in Canva. Background image from Canva Pro.
Coming along nicely