Chapter 8
Of Strange Moon Rising
Previously: Riley has a rare death-dreaming—Trisitian Kozlovsky is going to die in a fire, and she’s got three days to figure out how to prevent it.
Tristian would die at home. The death-dreaming, unfocused as it was, proved that. You don’t move around a space blind with that kind of confidence unless you’ve spent years of your life there. Now, how to get his address? Greg would have it, but Riley would need a reasonable excuse to ask after it. Pull him over and copy it off his license? Again, she’d need a reasonable excuse, but it might work. A general search online was the safest route—you could pretty much get anyone’s address with enough identifying information. The Doe case file should have the correct spelling of his name, too, which would cut down the research time. Riley figured if she couldn’t get his address today, she’d resort to another option tomorrow. The vice around her chest loosened with the firming of a plan. She refocused on the conversation she’d been ignoring in the bullpen, tuning in to hear Ross ask, “Anyone willing to volunteer for uniformed patrol?”
Brand rapped his knuckles on his desk. “I’ll take it.”
Andy tossed his keys to him. “Take the cruiser. I’m canvasing the area around the motel.”
Ross nodded. “Red, you’re with me. We’ll leave in five.”
“Got it.” It sure sounded confident, like she absolutely knew where they were going and why.
Ross returned to his office and Kellen headed for the locker room to change for patrol.
The pen Riley’d thrown at Andy earlier clattered back onto her desk. “You didn’t hear a word about the Craft Fair, did you?”
She eyed him. “Craft Fair?”
“That’s where you’re going. For community presence—with the ulterior motive of asking around about the John Doe, of course.”
“Oh,” Riley nodded and covered a yawn, “sure. I can do community relations.”
“You get enough sleep?”
“Not really used to the new place.” It was partly true.
“Ah, creaks and howling wind, huh?”
She snorted. “Yeah, more like howling wolves.”
Riley stowed any lingering death-dreaming anxieties on the drive to the Town Square’s Green. By the time her boots hit the grass, she’d layered on a professional demeanor like a shield. Cop compartmentalization at it’s weirdest.
Ross surveyed the lawn dotted with colorful booths and tents. “Introduce yourself, shake some hands, and let ‘em talk. This lot will be all too happy to offer their opinions on the case, even with what little they’ve gotten through the grapevine.”
They split off and merged into the throng. Riley made it a couple yards before a woman flagged her down, nearly toppling a tower of pastel yarn balls in her enthusiasm. The woman ignored her outstretched hand and engulfed her in a tight hug.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” She drew back and sniffled. “Your grandma talked about you all the time—”
Ah, there goes a layer of professional separation.
Two hours of countless hugs, condolences, and recounting of fond memories had stripped Riley to the brink of blubbering. She’d been reduced to taking shelter behind a coffee cart. Inhaling the steam from the paper cup warming her fingers, Riley acknowledged her canvasing had been shot to shit. The snip-its of case-related commentary were, at best, vague and speculative.
“Y’a know, Clark always was an odd sort of fellow.”
Sure, one with an airtight alibi.
“Bet’chu it’s Hunter’s Bane. You heard of the critter, yet? Nasty piece of work—nearly got me this one time….”
Why go boring with Bigfoot when you could make up your own local legend?
“I heard the park rangers all keep pet wolves.”
Uh-huh, okay.
“With the po-lice runnin’ all o’er the place, ya’d think they’d’ve caught the guy already.”
Oy vey.
“Hi, there.”
Riley stymied a wince when she met the stranger’s eyes. Sympathy simmered there, and her emotional tank was too low for another heart-to-heart.
The woman sat down and offered a hand. “I’m Candice.”
“Officer Riley MacIntyre.” It came out as more of a sigh than she’d intended.
Candice tittered. “I’m sure you’ve heard it too much today, but Old Mooney was so special. I really am sorry for your loss. We were part of the same ancestry club. Did she ever mention that?”
“I’m sure she had fun trying to fit all the aunts, uncles, and cousins on a single piece of paper.”
“Beautiful tree—the envy of the whole club. If you stumble upon her research, we meet in the library every other Thursday, in the evenings. No pressure, but we’re a close bunch, and we’d love to help if you had questions, or if you’re interested in picking up where she left off.”
Riley blinked. “Oh, uh, yeah.” Eloquent. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.” Better. “I’m still unpacking my own stuff, so it might take me some time to find it.”
“Of course, of course. I hope you’re settling in. Well, as much as you can with a death fresh off the gate, I s’pose. We’re in good hands with you and the Logan boys on it. I just know ya’ll catch ‘em right quick.”
Aside from the odd vote of confidence, the implication peaked Riley’s interest. “You assume a suspect is still in town, maybe a local? Have you heard or seen anything you think might help the investigation?”
Candice fluttered her hands. “I don’t know about that. They might not be, but I’ve just got this feeling, like the danger’s still here, you know?”
Actually, Riley did know. The signature she’d gotten off the corpse appearing in her death-dreaming all but guaranteed it. The same person who’d done John Doe was gunning for Tristian. The most logical reason for why? He might have heard something. The killer didn’t want to take any chances. Why, then, would they wait for him to get home? Why wouldn’t they attack Tristian at the motel, same as the Doe? She’d bet on it being too risky with the increased attention in the area. The scene was still sealed, shiny yellow tape and all.
Candice shook her out of her musing with, “I’ll let you get a moment of peace before you’re discovered again.” She chuckled at the shift in Riley’s expression and hoisted herself up and away.
Ross sought her out a couple hours later as the festivities wound down. They compared their lack-luster notes on the way back to the station.
She had just slumped into her chair when Andy and Brand arrived, Shauna on their heels.
Andy headed to the locker room with his uniform slung over his arm.
Shauna perched on the edge Riley’s desk, hands full of slim folders. “You okay?”
“Everyone had a few words to say about Old Mooney at the Craft Fair.”
She winced in sympathy. “You need anything?”
Riley shook her head.
Shauna handed her one of the folders she carried. “Autopsy report.”
“Already?”
“Only body this week. Digital version’s already in your email. Should get the labs back in four to five days, if we’re lucky. Time of death was as expected—Monday, between three and four in the morning. Fingerprints didn’t match in the usual databases. Dental is the next best bet.”
“We’d have to request dental records from a specific practice to get a match.” Riley frowned as she scanned over the report. “I’ve checked missing persons for matching descriptions. Nothing. Did the guy have a family? Was this a work trip? There’s nothing in his personal effects that gives us anything to go on. No ID, no medications, no laptop or phone—probably tossed. We need a name.”
“I did recover some fibers from deep in the throat wound. We’ll know more when we get the labs, but those are the most promising at the moment.”
Riley shoved the folder in her top desk drawer. “So, we wait.”
Shauna nodded and pulled her buzzing phone from her back pocket. She stepped away to answer, bumping into a returning Andy fighting with his twisted radio wire.
“I’m on in five. You heading home?” Andy asked Brand.
“In a minute.” He hovered at his desk, typing in staccato bursts.
A humorless laugh drew her attention to Shauna. “Bad news?”
“That was Ben Kipts—he’s the local Forest Service officer I asked to give an opinion on John Doe’s wounds. One of Sheriff Walton’s deputies let him into the morgue. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve said a body can’t be examined without my supervision.” She shook her head and delivered the rest of her folders. “Too late now. Just more paperwork for me. Why don’t you come with me tonight? I’m meeting with Ben at Rosie’s Diner around seven. Know where that is?”
Riley flashed back to Tristian and Greg’s conversation that morning. “I’ve heard of it. I’ll see you then.”
Ross emerged from his office and paused beside Riley’s desk as the office emptied. “Get your uniform order in?”
“Should be here next week.”
“Your lateral transfer came through.”
She wiped her brow in mock relief. “I won’t have to be deputized after all.” With her transfer in, she’d expected to feel lighter. The death-dreaming hanging over her head made it a moot point.
“I’m going to check your car now, if that’s okay. Steering issue, yeah?”
“Fights me on turns and squeaks like a dying door hinge.” Riley tossed him her keys and watched him skip to the front door. No, not really, but there was an extra bounce in his step.
She clicked over to the shared server and attached the autopsy report to John Doe’s case file. Greg’s notes contained Tristian’s full name, and as it happened, Woodrun only had one Kozlovsky. Riley saved his address to her phone and stared at her calendar. Nightly stakeouts would begin Monday. She was on the night shift Tuesday—nice to get paid at the same time. Any longer and Riley’d have to get creative. Here’s hoping the arsonist had a tight schedule.
Tip Jar:
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. Canva Pro image used in background.
Glad you’re feeling better!