In still waters
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"Nah, I'm not pressing charges. Let the old man go," Bradley said, waving his hand dismissively.
"I swear on my life, I didn't kill Rose. I loved her, man. I really did."
"Well, in that case, Jeffrey, you're free to go," Nick announced, striding to the door. He called out to the officers behind the two-way mirror, his voice clipped and professional:
"Escort Bradley back to his cell and get that address from him. I want it verified ASAP."
Christian, who had been a silent observer throughout the interrogation, stepped forward. "Jeffrey, anything else you want to get off your chest before you go?"
Jeffrey's face contorted with barely contained rage. "I've said all I'm gonna say. You deaf or something?"
"I don't buy a word of it," he spat. "My daughter would never have stooped so low. I knew her better than anyone."
With that, Jeffrey stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a finality that echoed through the room. Bradley was led away, leaving Nick and Christian alone with their thoughts and the weight of an investigation that seemed to grow more complex by the minute.
6:00 AM
Nick turned to Christian, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep but burning with determination. "We need to run down that address, see if Bradley's story holds water. If it checks out, he's got himself a rock-solid alibi."
"I'm on it," Christian nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll dispatch a couple of uniforms right now."
Two hours later
The confirmation came through like a sucker punch to the gut – Bradley's alibi was airtight. With a heavy sigh, Nick gave the order for his release. Half an hour later, he found himself standing by the window of his office, a silent sentinel watching the parking lot below. A sleek blue BMW pulled up, its engine purring like a satisfied cat. Steven Cooper emerged, his lanky frame swallowed by a baggy white hoodie. He greeted Bradley with a bear hug that spoke of relief and brotherhood, pounding his back with enthusiastic fervor. Then, amid a cacophony of whoops and laughter that seemed almost obscene in the wake of recent events, they peeled out of the lot, leaving nothing but tire marks and the acrid scent of burnt rubber in their wake.
Chapter 12
One month later
The investigation, spearheaded by Nick Larsen, had become a Sisyphean task. They chased leads that evaporated like morning mist, explored theories that led to dead ends, and questioned an endless parade of potential witnesses who seemed to know less than nothing. They even entertained the notion that an outsider might be behind the killings, despite their earlier certainty that the perpetrator was a local with intimate knowledge of the area. Every phone record, every text message, every scrap of Rose's life was put under a microscope, yielding nothing but frustration. Nick felt the weight of failure pressing down on him, threatening to crush his spirit, but he refused to give in to despair. The truth was out there, and he was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.
Jeffrey Saltano, by some miracle of bureaucratic inertia, still clung to his position as sheriff. But it was a hollow title, as meaningless as his days had become. He spent his time in a alcohol-induced haze, drowning his sorrows and his guilt in bottom of countless bottles. Bison, sensing the shifting winds, had cut all ties with his former ally, leaving Jeffrey to flounder in a sea of his own making.
The true tragedy, however, lay in the fate of Mary Saltano. Unable to bear the crushing weight of her daughter's death, she had attempted to follow Rose into the abyss. In a moment of profound despair, Mary had swallowed a lethal cocktail of sedatives and alcohol, a desperate bid to silence the screaming void in her heart. It was only by cruel twist of fate that Jeffrey had stumbled home to find his wife sprawled on the living room floor, her life hanging by a thread. The ambulance arrived in a blur of flashing lights and urgent voices, managing to snatch Mary back from the brink. A week later, still fragile and haunted, she was committed to Angels psychiatric hospital in Hayfield, Minnesota, for mandatory treatment.
The hospital, with its pristine exterior of ornamental trees and light-colored walls, wore a mask of serenity that belied the torment within. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for a high-end resort. But cross the threshold, and the illusion shattered like spun glass. The interior was a nightmare made manifest – a horror movie set brought to life. Harsh fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glare over everything, turning skin sallow and eyes feverish. Long, windowless corridors stretched into infinity, their dark blue walls seeming to close in with every step. The air was thick with the acrid stench of disinfectant and despair. Patients in straitjackets were shuttled from room to room, their anguished cries echoing off the walls. Masked doctors rushed about in a constant state of controlled panic, as if racing against some unseen clock.
Into this maelstrom of suffering stepped Dr. Tom Homsont, the psychiatrist tasked with Mary's treatment. At forty-nine, he cut a figure of calm competence – average height, bespectacled, his short light hair neatly trimmed. His appearance was meticulous: a crisp blue shirt and pressed black slacks beneath his pristine white coat. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart – keen and compassionate, they spoke of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of the human psyche. His extensive experience with suicidal patients and severe mental illnesses made him uniquely qualified to help Mary, if anyone could.
As Tom entered Mary's room, the air seemed to thicken with tension. Mary sat perched on the edge of her bed, dressed in the shapeless uniform of the hospital – long white pants and a short-sleeved shirt that seemed to emphasize her vulnerability. Her bare feet barely touched the floor, as if she were poised for flight. But it was her eyes that truly captured the doctor's attention – wild and unfocused, they darted about the room, tracking the movements of specters only she could see. As Tom approached, Mary's lips began to move, forming words meant for ears long since stilled by death. "She's here," Mary whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and longing. "Rose is sitting right beside me, whispering…" Tom's hand steady, he shone a small flashlight into Mary's eyes, checking for any physical signs of her deterioration. Mary's reaction was as sudden as it was disturbing – a rictus grin spread across her face, her teeth bared in a grotesque parody of joy. She stared through Tom, through the walls, into some middle distance where the lines between reality and delusion blurred beyond recognition. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Mary's hands flew to her head, her fingers clawing at her scalp as she began to wail, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.
"No, no, I'm not guilty!" she screamed, her voice raw and breaking. "I didn't want this, it was all him! He made me do it!"
In a burst of frenzied energy, Mary launched herself off the bed, scrambling into the corner of the room. She huddled there, knees drawn up to her chest, a picture of abject misery. Tom approached slowly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of comfort and support. But as he tried to help her to her feet, Mary lashed out, her hand connecting with his knee in a wild, uncoordinated swipe. Her screams intensified, her entire body wracked with violent tremors.
"My daughter," she gasped between sobs, "she's saying I'm guilty!"
Tom crouched down beside her, his voice low and soothing as he gently took her hand. Years of experience had taught him the importance of engaging with patients lost in the throes of delusion, of anchoring them to reality through human connection.
"Mary, look at me," he urged, his tone gentle but insistent. "What is your daughter telling you?"
Mary's shaking intensified, her teeth chattering audibly as she struggled to form words.