John

On the security monitor, I watch the mechanic with the soulful brown eyes huddle miserably in the corner of his cell. It's freezing in there, he's barefoot and his clothes are wet, so I don't blame him for shivering.

Not that I sympathize.

He didn't put up a fight — didn't say anything, in fact — until we got back to the station and took his belongings for safekeeping. He handed over his wallet and phone without a second thought, but when we tried to take his jewelry, he flipped. Begged us to let him keep his mama's crucifix, or some shit.

No can do, bucko.

Weirdly, he seemed terrified.

Guilty conscience, probably.

I was hoping I was wrong about him, hoping he wouldn't be the one who showed up under that bridge, but that's just my luck. The pretty ones are all crazy.

I don't usually go for long hair on guys, either — I like just enough length to grab hold of — but it suits him. Too bad he's a murderer.

The fact is Kyle Peters wasn't found under the highway overpass. He was found under the bridge, and nobody but the fly-fisher who found him, the cops, and his killer knew that.

I'd acted on a hunch. Something about the way the body was laid out so carefully, like a banquet ready to be served, made me think the killer was the sort who would like to revisit the scene — especially while it was still fresh. All that weird occult graffiti must have taken hours to paint, and it can't have been easy reaching the underside of the bridge like that. Even so, I hadn't expected to get lucky so quickly.

I wanted eyes on that bridge twenty-four seven for at least the next two weeks. I never ask my team to do something I'm not willing to do myself, so I'd intended to take the first overnight shift. I'd barely arrived and got myself in position before this fool wandered up and sprang the trap.

All the better, I suppose. It'll be an open and shut case. Justice will be served, and they'll be one less crack-pot murderer on the loose. Everyone wins.

Well, except for the poor kid who got strung up and gutted like a fish. I've seen a lot of shit in my time, but that was something else.

"You ready for this?"

I turn to my partner. With her matronly hips, her hair in long braids and her purple nails dotted with sequins, Latoya McKenzie doesn't fit the stereotypical idea of a cop, but like everyone else under Chief Laura Coleridge's command, she's earned her place.

When this position opened (after the last guy left the force to become a private investigator, for whatever reason) Coleridge lured me here with an unusual proposition. I could choose my partner from among a pool of willing officers. The catch was, I couldn't know who was who.

The day I arrived she handed me a stack of dossiers with all identifying info removed. Credentials only. I picked the one I felt was most qualified, and that turned out to be Latoya.

Best partner I've ever had.

"Yeah. Put him in room one."

"You want company?"

"Nah. You observe."

"All right."

Latoya shrugs and leaves the room, keys jingling. A moment later she appears on the monitor screen, unlocking the cell and beckoning for the suspect to exit and walk in front of her down the hall to interrogation. He obeys meekly, and I shake my head.

He can play innocent and confused all he wants. I'll get the truth out him. If I'm lucky, I'll have a signed confession on the Chief's desk first thing in the morning.

Not bad for my first case in Spring Lakes.

~ ★ ~

"Please state your name for the record."

"Carlos Martinez."

"Your full name, please."

The suspect pushes a lock of dark brown hair behind his ear with a shaking hand and leans towards the recording device — a.k.a. my phone — a second time.

"Carlos Ángel Martinez."

"Angel?" I raise a brow at him. "That's ironic."

"It's pronounced AHNG-hehl. And I'm not a murderer. You got the wrong guy."

"Uh huh. Mr. Martinez, you have no alibi for the night of Kyle Peters' death, we have evidence linking you to the crime, and now you show up at the scene, the location of which was deliberately kept secret. The sooner you come clean, the easier it will be for you."

"What evidence?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said you have evidence linking me to the crime. What evidence?"

I twist the wedding ring on my finger. Don't know why I still wear the thing, except it saves me some unwanted attention. Women find me attractive. Men of a certain variety find me attractive, too, and as the suspect's eyes flick to the symbolic jewelry, I wonder if he might be counted among the latter sort.

"Look," he says, leaning forward to rest his chained hands on the table. "You're making a mistake. I'm a friend of Dane Hunter. Well, a friend of a friend, anyway. I'm a friend of the Chief, too. Well, a friend of a friend of a friend, in that case. Anyway, I get a phone call, right? Lemme call someone. I'll prove it."

I frown. Hunter is the guy I replaced, but as I've discovered, everyone knows someone in this town.

"Prove what?"

The suspect swallows visibly, a cartoon-style gulp.

"I... I see dead people," he says.

Internally, I burst out laughing. This is gonna go great in court. Externally, I frown.

"Yeah? You gonna tell me my grandma's favorite color, or some shit?"

Oddly, the suspect's expression remains entirely earnest, though borderline desperate.

"Look, you don't understand," he says. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not some TV charlatan. Kyle... he led me to that bridge. He wants me to help him."

"Help him?" I lift my brows.

There's a tan folder lying on the table. It contains a set of photographs. I push it towards the suspect without breaking eye contact.

"I think Kyle's beyond help, at this point."

Brows pinched with consternation, the suspect picks up the envelop, extracts the contents, and examines the photographs. I purposely didn't warn him, hoping to glean something from his reaction, but his reaction isn't what I expect.

Clearly horrified, he drops the stack of pictures, leans over the side of his chair, and pukes all over the floor.

"Shit." I slide the trashcan towards him under the desk. "Aim for that, will you?"

Then I bolt to my feet and stride to the door, throw it open and snap at the officer stations outside.

"Paper towels and a cup of water. Now."

The officer scurries off and I turn back to my suspect as he coughs and retches again. And begins to cry.

"Holy shit. Oh fucking shit," he moans. "Is that really...? Is that really him?"

"That's how we found him, yeah."

He risks another glance at the pictures, then shuts his eyes. "Fucking shit."

"That about sums it up," I say, and scoop the pictures, which thankfully escaped the vomit splatter, back into the envelope.

But not without accidentally glancing at them myself.

According to the coroner, Kyle Peters was alive too long.

He was alive when someone chained him to the underside of the bridge, his head, arms and legs aligned to the points of a pentacle.

He was alive when someone cut him open, extracting his intestines and stringing them around him like a strand of Christmas lights.

He was alive when someone cut off his tongue, his nose, his ears, and burned out his eyes with cigarettes.

He was alive until he bled out, or until whoever removed his organs, one by one, got to his heart and lungs.

I thought I'd got that someone in front of me, and I was ready to strap him to the electric chair myself (not that they do that in this state, anymore) but a reaction like that can't be faked.

This isn't my guy.

Which begs the question of why he was—

The door of the interrogation room bangs open, startling both me and Martinez, who looks about to faint. At this point, I'll be lucky if he doesn't need a trip to the ER, and luckier if he doesn't sue.

Chief Coleridge glares at me, hands on her hips. Behind her, Latoya makes a 'don't blame me,' sort of gesture.

"Turner. What the hell is going on?"

"I'm interrogating a suspect," I say, gesturing at Martinez, who shivers unhelpfully, dark eyes wide.

"Interrogating, or torturing?"

"I thought he was my guy."

"Well, clearly he's not. Cut him loose."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She gives her attention to the suspect. "Martinez. You okay?"

He nods. "I will be."

"Good. You onto something?"

"Yeah. I think so."

Chief Coleridge turns to me. "Congratulations, Turner. You found your guy. Just not in the way you thought. Martinez is your new partner."

She turns and exits the room.

I blink, as stunned as if she'd thrown a drink in my face, and trail after her, leaving someone else to free Martinez.

"What? Hey, Chief, hold up! What do mean he's my new partner?"

She waves a hand over her shoulder at me. "This town is weird. You'll get used to it, Turner. Welcome to Spring Lakes."