Apparently, Mrs. Little had the opposite reaction. The week after Hiram was arrested, Karl’s mother had taken her own life.
The property was overgrown with weeds, and the cornfields that had once probably supplied the family’s income had long since died. To the right of the house sat a silo, and an old barn that tilted to one side as if the ground was going to swallow it.
A mangy dog loped up to Derrick when he got out, and he leaned down to examine it. It was dirty, its skin patchy and dry, but there were no cigarette burns or scars indicating the dog had been abused.
The strong scent of moonshine filled the air as Derrick walked toward the barn, and a quick glimpse inside confirmed there was a still. Judging from the odor, Karl Little was brewing apple pie, a favorite in the mountainous, rural parts.
Before he reached the porch, the front screen door screeched open and the barrel of a shotgun poked through the opening. “Stop right there!” a gray-haired man called.
Derrick halted, raising his hand. “Don’t shoot,” he called out. “I just want to talk.”
“We got nothing to say to you. This is my land and if I want to run a still, I aim to.”
“I don’t care about the still,” Derrick shouted. “I need to talk to Karl. Is he around?”
“Sure as hell is. Passed out in the barn. Told that boy to sell the liquor, not to drink it, but he’s been on a binge ever since our daughter’s killer was found. Hasn’t left the farm.”
“I’d like to talk to him anyway.” Derrick knew better than to take the man’s word for it. Parents covered for their kids all the time.
“Sure. Knock yourself out,” the old man said, gesturing toward the dilapidated outbuilding.
Derrick turned and picked his way across the patchy grass, stepping over litter and dog crap. The stench of corn liquor brewing clogged his nostrils, and he breathed out the fumes.
As he neared the building, he kept one hand on his weapon, just in case. Easing open the barn door, he shined his flashlight inside and scanned the interior. No dog cages.
The ground was littered in hay, farm equipment, the man’s still and moonshine-lined shelves in one corner.
“Karl?” he called. “I’m Special Agent Fox, I need to talk to you.”
He inched inside, then heard a noise coming from one corner. A rumbling sound. Walking closer, he spotted a heavyset man in overalls passed out on a ratty blanket, snoring. The pungent odor of apple pie, cigarette smoke and sweat wafted toward him, and one look told him the man’s clothes hadn’t been changed in days.
Losing his mother could well have been a trigger for him to murder. But if he’d been drunk and passed out here for days on end, he wasn’t the killer they were looking for.
Which meant he’d just wasted time chasing another dead end.
Ninety
Thirty miles north of Crooked Creek – Elm Grove
Ellie felt the tension between Cord and her intensify as they parked at Finton’s Final Resting Home, which was in a small community called Elm Grove. She shuddered at the sight of the morbid exterior where Cord had once lived.
She’d seen enough death the last few weeks to last a lifetime. What exactly had he seen growing up? She’d asked him to explain on the drive and he’d completely clammed-up, becoming even more sullen.
The parking lot was empty, and on the front door of the red-brick building was a sign that read “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS”. A blue tarp covered the roof, and building supplies were dotted around. An empty mortuary would be the perfect place to hide hostages or a body until the perp was ready to dump it.
“Tell me the layout of the building,” Ellie said as she surveyed the property.
“The top floor was living quarters for Finton and his wife and however many kids he took in,” Cord said. “The ground floor houses the funeral parlor, with visitation rooms, Finton’s office and a kitchen. The cold room where bodies are stored until he can process them for burial and the prep room are downstairs, in the basement.”
Ellie cringed at the thought of what actually took place between those walls. “I take it the basement is insulated for odor and sound proofing?”
Cord nodded. “You could scream your lungs off down there and no one upstairs would come.”
She sensed he was speaking from experience and her gaze swung to his, goose bumps skating up her arms.
But he stood ramrod straight, his expression grim, a million miles away.
“Let’s search the downstairs first,” Ellie said. “If he’s holding someone here, that’s where he’d keep the bodies.”
Thinking about the Weekday Killer’s victims, she asked, “Did he ever defile the bodies he had in his care?”
Cord made a low sound in his throat. “I can’t talk about what he did, Ellie. Let’s just go.”
“No.” She reached for the doorknob, but it was locked. “If Finton is sadistic, and his son is like him, he could have escalated from prepping dead bodies to murder.” With a sigh, she went to find another way into the building. Technically she needed a search warrant, but these were exigent circumstances. “And if he is our killer, Shondra could be somewhere inside.”
Ninety-One
Ellie checked the back door of the main building, but as expected, it was locked. A quick trip to all the side doors yielded the same results. Deciding the best method of entry without drawing suspicions from any passersby would be the basement, she asked Cord to show her the way.
The exterior door was locked, and the windows were set three feet apart on either side of the door. Ellie pulled a tool from her pocket, and jimmied it between the ledge and sill, prying it until the lock snapped. Thankfully the building was old, the lock half broken and easy to trigger open. Slowly she pushed up the window while Cord kept guard. She hoisted herself inside, then dropped to the cement floor.
Darkness coated the interior, and she froze, the space closing around her with its acrid odors and memories of death clinging to the walls. Ellie swayed, haunted by an image of the countless people who’d been laid out here, their final hours before interment spent naked and cold and left in the hands of the mortician as they were prepared to be laid to rest. Suddenly she felt trapped, suffocating, locked in the dark with no way out.
“Ellie?”
The sound of Cord’s breathing echoed around her, a comfort as the cloying tentacles of fear wound around her throat.
Dragging herself from the waves of fear swirling around her, she listened for signs that someone was inside. A dripping sound echoed in the silence. Holding her breath, she inched down the hall, using her flashlight to lead her and listening closely for any sounds of a woman crying or calling out for help.
Cord pointed toward the prep rooms and the strong scent of formaldehyde and body decay permeated the air, making Ellie’s stomach twist. Tiptoeing inside, she glanced at the metal tables, but to her relief there were no bodies laid out.
“The cold room,” she whispered as she crept toward the refrigerated area where bodies were stored until they were released for viewings or burial.
Cord led the way, his jaw set in stone as he pushed open the door. Holding her breath, Ellie prayed that she didn’t see Shondra inside but braced herself for the worst.