Before He Feels. Блейк Пирс

the room. It reminded Mackenzie very much of a child in the midst of a tantrum.

      After a few seconds, Sheriff Clarke leaned forward with a sigh. “And now you see what I’ve been having to deal with. That boy thinks the sun rises and sets around his spoiled ass. And he can go on and on about losing his mother all he wants. All he’s worried about is the media in bigger cities finding out that he dumped her in a home…even if it is a nice one. He’s worried about his own image more than anything else.”

      “Yeah, I got that same feeling,” Ellington said.

      “Do you think we can expect any more interference from him?” Mackenzie asked.

      “I don’t know. He’s unpredictable. He’ll do whatever he thinks might improve his chances of getting public attention which will later turn to votes for whatever tainted sea he guns for.”

      “Well then, Sheriff,” Mackenzie said, “if you have a few minutes, why don’t we sit down and go over what we know?”

      “That won’t take long,” he said. “Because there ain’t much.”

      “That’s better than nothing,” Ellington said.

      Clarke nodded and got to his feet. “Come on back to my office, then,” he said.

      As they made their way down the small hallway, both Mackenzie and Ellington jumped a bit when Clarke shouted, “Hey, Frances! Put on a pot of coffee, would you, darlin’?”

      Mackenzie and Ellington exchanged a bewildered look. She was starting to get a very good feel for Sheriff Clarke and the way he ran things. And while they might be a bit rustic, she was finding that she liked him quite a bit – foul language and unintentional sexism aside.

      With the evening inching closer to night, Mackenzie and Ellington huddled around Clarke’s desk and went over the existing material on the case.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Shortly before Frances brought in the coffee, Officer Lambert returned. Now that he was not texting on his phone, Mackenzie saw that he was a younger man, in his early thirties. She found it odd that an officer was serving as Clarke’s right-hand man rather than a deputy but didn’t think much of it.

      Small town, she thought.

      The four of them sat around Clarke’s desk, going over the material. Clarke seemed to be more than happy to let Mackenzie run with it. She was happy to see that he appeared to be coming around quickly…accepting her as more than an equal.

      “So let’s start with the most recent,” she said. “Ellis Ridgeway. Fifty-seven years old. As I’m beginning to learn, she has a very arrogant and self-important son. Other than the fact that she was obviously blind, what else can you tell me about her?”

      “That’s about it, really,” Clarke said. “She was a sweet lady. From what I can gather, everyone at the home loved her. What scares me about this whole situation is that the killer has to be familiar with her, right? They had to have known she had left the home to target her in such a way.”

      “My brain wanted to go there, too,” Mackenzie said. “But if these deaths are connected – and it certainly seems they are – that means that for someone local who knows her to have done it, there would have been a lot of traveling involved. The other death was what…two and a half hours away?”

      “Almost three,” Clarke said.

      “Exactly,” Mackenzie said. “You know, I even wondered for a while if it could have been another resident, but I got it on good authority from Randall Jones that no one followed her yesterday. There’s apparently video evidence of this which we haven’t seen yet, thanks to Langston Ridgeway’s interference. And in terms of residents or employees leaving the home when Mrs. Ridgeway was absent, there is no evidence to support anyone else leaving during that time – not residents, not employees, no one.”

      “And then, going back to that first murder,” Ellington said, “we’ll need to head over to speak to family members soon. What can you tell us about the first victim, Sheriff?”

      “Well, it was at another home for the blind,” he said. “And all I know about it is in that same file you have, I’m sure. Like I said, it’s almost three hours from here, nearly up in West Virginia. A rundown sort of place from what I gather. Not really a home, but like a school, I think.”

      He slid a sheet of paper over to her and she saw the brief police report from the first scene. It was in a city called Treston, about twenty-five miles away from Bluefield, West Virginia. Thirty-eight-year-old Kenneth Able had been strangled to death. There were slight abrasions around his eyes. He’d been discovered stashed in the closet of the room he stayed in most of the time within the home.

      The facts were very robotic, with no details. While there were notes about the investigation being ongoing, Mackenzie doubted it was anything serious.

      I bet it is now, though, she thought.

      This new death was too explicit to deny. The victims were far too similar, as were the signs of abuse on the bodies.

      “I’ve got Randall Jones compiling a list of employees or others associated with the home that could be even the least bit possible,” Mackenzie said. “I think our next best bet is to speak with this place in Treston to see if there are any links at all.”

      “The downside here is that Treston is so damned far away,” Ellington pointed out. “Even if this turns out to be a cakewalk, there will be some travel involved. Seems we might not get it all buttoned up as quickly as the illustrious Mr. Ridgeway would like.”

      “When will a full forensics workup be done on Mrs. Ridgeway?” Mackenzie asked.

      “I’m expecting to hear something within a few hours,” Clarke said. “A preliminary investigation showed nothing obvious, though. No fingerprints, no visible hairs or other materials left behind.”

      Mackenzie nodded and looked back to the case files. As she had just started to properly dig into it, her cell phone rang. She snatched it up and answered: “This is Agent White.”

      “It’s Randall Jones. I have a list of names for you, like you asked. It’s short and I’m pretty sure they’ll all check out, though.”

      “Who are they?”

      “There’s a guy on the maintenance crew that isn’t very reliable. He worked all day yesterday, clocking out just after five. I’ve asked around and no one ever saw him come back in. There’s another man that works for a special outlet of social services. He comes in and plays board games sometimes. Sort of just hangs out and jokes around with them. He’ll do some volunteer stuff like cleaning or moving furniture from time to time.”

      “Can you text me their names and any contact information you have?”

      “Sure thing,” Jones said, clearly not happy to even be considering either of the men as suspects.

      Mackenzie ended the call and looked back to the three men in the room. “That was Jones with two possible candidates. A maintenance worker and someone that comes in to volunteer and hang out with the residents. Sheriff, he’s going to text me the names any moment now. Could you look them over and – ”

      Her phone dinged as she received the text in question. She showed Sheriff Clarke the names and he shrugged, defeated.

      “The first name, Mike Crews, is the maintenance guy,” he said. “I know for a fact he wasn’t killing anyone after hours last night because I had a beer with him down at Rock’s Bar. That’s after he went by Mildred Cann’s house to fix her air conditioner for free. I can tell you right now that Mike Crews is not your man.”

      “And what about the second name?” Ellington asked.

      “Robbie Huston,” he said. “I’ve only ever seen him in passing. I’m pretty sure he’s sent by some sort of social services outlet out of Lynchburg. But from what I understand, he’s like a saint up at the home. Reads to the residents, is really friendly. Like I said, he’s out of Lynchburg. That’s about an hour and