Which is oddly dull, considering the dark lore this town is steeped in.
Things have been quiet for Hollow’s Row for too long.
The town’s reputation is why my director tossed the file on my proverbial desk. That, and the fact the locals are overwhelmed and wary of the inevitable FBI invasion.
“This part of the marshland is called the killing fields,” Detective Emmons explains. “Local hunters toss the carcasses of their kills out here.” He nods down to the skeletal remains of an animal as he steps around the protruding rib cage.
I pause to inspect the sizable, sun-bleached bones. Deer, probably. A stag. Difficult to determine from a glance without the antlers. The hunters keep those as trophies.
Emmons goes to remove a fallen branch to clear our path to the scene, and I hold up my hand.
“Wait.” I move quicker to reach him. At his puzzled expression, I add in a less alarmed tone, “Please, don’t move anything. I need to keep the scene preserved for my colleagues.”
Referring to the FBI as my colleagues is a stretch, but I’m a professional, nonetheless.
Dark eyebrows pinched, he runs his tongue over his teeth, gaze narrowed. His eyes flit to the streak of white framing the left side of my face, quickly meeting my gaze again before his stare becomes rude. “All right, then.”
He starts again toward the scene which has already been marked-off by his colleagues. Yellow crime-scene tape bounces gently in the open air above the reed grass.
I don’t take offense to his questioning pause. I understand a man of his stature—both physically and large in reputation—would hesitate before taking an order from a petite woman, and a fed at that.
I give him credit, though, his hesitation was brief. He even made an attempt not to stare at my defect. I should correct him on at least one of his assumptions, though. I’m not a federal agent. The logistics are typically too complicated to explain when I’m called to a scene, however, so I let the assumption ride most of the time.
Technically, the Federal Bureau of Investigation did send me here. But as a subcontractor, I’m not on the government’s payroll. I’m a crime scene investigative criminologist with CrimeTech, one of the leading research authorities on criminal behavior and corrections in the country.
But that’s still not exactly what I do.
There’s a sub agency within the company which specializes in the more bizarre cases. The ones that make most detectives and FBI agents say: what the fuck .
Ones like the scene we’re encroaching on now.
As I take in the sight boxed-in by yellow tape, I feel the urgent buzz prickle my skin, that anxious sensation which swarms my insides like a nest of relentless hornets trying to escape.
Bizarre is what I do.
The dark and macabre underbelly of the crime-solving world.
If it can’t be explained by an investigator or your average forensic psychologist, and it’s disturbing enough to make law officials uncomfortable, then my unit’s services is requested to explain the unexplainable.
As a crime-scene profiler, I read motives and clues in what the offenders leave behind in the aftermath of their crimes. Behavior is not just observed within the person; it’s observed in the echo of their actions, in the delivery of their violence.
When others look away from a morbid scene, I look deeper.
In truth, I’m here to put people at ease, so they can sleep at night knowing their world makes sense.
What I’m staring at right this moment, however, shouldn’t be explained away, or have a label slapped on it like psychopath or mentally disturbed . We should see it for the gruesome deed it is, for the truth of its existence.
Sometimes, evil things just are.
Detective Emmons can only stomach the sight for a minute before he has to look away, his features failing to mask his repulsion. But I see what he’s trying to disguise there: fear. For most law officials, when you come face-to-face with soul-tainting evil, you fear being contaminated by it.
It’s like walking a tightrope over an abyss.
“This is just…” The large detective shakes his head, unable to articulate his thoughts. “God, it’s fucking sick, is what it is.”
I scan the site, feeling an unsettling touch coast my skin. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck lift away. I let the sensation crawl over me, consume me, because this is the reason the perpetrator went to the trouble of staging his scene. He wants to provoke a response.
As I drop my satchel in the mud, I shift my gaze to the detective. “I’ve never seen any god have a hand in things like this.”
Emmons rubs the back of his neck, measuring my comment with a kernel of disbelief in his eyes. “Seriously? You’ve seen something like this before?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’ve seen a lot.”
He drops his hand and says, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” As he passes by, he swipes the tall reeds aside, making a point of leaving.
I stare after him and watch the way the tall grass parts for his large form. Then I glance around the crime scene, taking in the techs marking evidence and snapping pictures, the fireflies blinking against the pale backdrop. The silence is loud.
Inhaling a breath laced with the swampy scent of marsh, I face the scene.
Yes, I’ve seen a lot of things—but this fact doesn’t minimize the grisliness before me.
A cropping of thin trees stretch high into the twilight, their branches bare and warped like distorted talons. The trees look dead, mangled. Like they themselves are the victims.
Affixed to the pitch-black bark of three eerie trees are the dissected eyes of thirty-three victims.
The lifeless eyes are filmed over and stare vacantly out over the wetland. The sight chills my blood.
No bodies were recovered.
The eyes have been positioned together, staged. I’d have to measure, but I’m assuming the perpetrator took the time and care to place them the exact distance apart as they were on the victims’ faces. Unless he’s over seven-feet tall, he would have needed to use a ladder or some tool to reach high enough overhead.
“I don’t understand.”
Lost in thought, I realize I’ve been standing in the same spot for too long. I adjust my stance to unlock my knees, and look over at the woman crime-scene analyst who comes to stand beside me.
“It’s so damn creepy,” she continues, “like, I feel like the eyes should be following me, like they should see me, how a doll’s eyes seem to do, you know? But they’re not looking at anything at all. Just…lifeless.”
“I wonder who they did see,” I remark
She turns toward me, her deep-brown skin amber hued in the setting sun. “Let’s find out and catch the sick bastard.”
Lips rimmed tight, I nod. “Absolutely.”
“I’m Devyn Childs, by the way,” she says. “Glad to have you here to help.”
A smile lifts the corners of my mouth despite our bleak surroundings. She’s the first person to welcome me on the case. Not even Detective Emmons offered an official welcome. “Halen St. James,” I reply, leaving off my credentials. “And thanks. I really hope I can help.”
“I typically wouldn’t welcome the feds,” she says, “but you seem harmless enough. Halen… That’s an interesting name.”
An observation I hear plenty. “My parents were big heavy metal fans in the eighties.”
She nods, but her tapered gaze conveys she’s not quite making the connection. Anyone under the age of forty rarely does. I’ve had thirty-two years of being subjected to the band Van Halen. I’ve memorized nearly every song, and know Eddie Van Halen was the “best guitarist ever” according to my father. My mother proudly touted she was first—and always would be—in love with David Lee Roth.
The surfacing memories are bittersweet, and I regret I can no longer listen to the songs.
Devyn gives me a sincere smile. “Well, I’m back at it. Let me know if you need anything while you’re with us in Hollow’s Row.”