“You sure about this, Rory?” Evan asked, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and excitement as Rory’s truck rumbled down the quiet streets of Bearclaw, the headlights cutting through the darkness. “Showing up at Hamelin’s house in the middle of the night…it’s not exactly by the book.”
Rory’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Nothing about this case is by the book, Evan. If Hamelin’s involved, we can’t give him time to cover his tracks. And if he’s not…” She trailed off, the unspoken possibility hanging in the air between them.
They turned onto Maple Street, a row of modest suburban homes stretching before them. Rory slowed the truck, scanning the house numbers. “There,” she said, pointing to a well-maintained Craftsman-style home. “Twelve-forty-two. That’s Hamelin’s place.”
As they pulled up to the curb, Rory noticed the lights were all off—no surprise there. A hybrid sedan sat in the driveway, an odd sight compared to the pickup trucks that dominated Bearclaw’s roads. Everything about the scene screamed normalcy, and for a moment, Rory second-guessed her impulsive decision.
“Last chance to turn back,” Evan said, reading her hesitation.
Rory shook her head, steeling herself. “No, we’re doing this. Come on.”
They made their way across the well-manicured front lawn to the door. Rory took a deep breath, then pressed the doorbell. Its cheerful chime seemed almost obscene in the dead of night.
Silence.
“Probably can’t even hear it,” Evan said, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
Rory rang the doorbell again.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then a light flickered on upstairs, followed by the sound of muffled voices and footsteps. Rory straightened, adopting her professional demeanor as the porch light blinked on.
The door opened to reveal a disheveled man in his late forties, sleep still clouding his eyes. Victor Hamelin looked nothing like the polished banker from his employee photo. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at odd angles, and his rumpled pajamas were a far cry from the crisp suits he wore at the bank.
“Wha—what’s going on?” Hamelin mumbled, squinting against the porch light. His eyes widened as he registered their uniforms. “Officers? Is everything alright?”
Rory stepped forward, her badge catching the light. “Mr. Hamelin? I’m Assistant Sheriff Wood, and this is Deputy Tate. We apologize for the late hour, but we need to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”
Hamelin blinked, confusion giving way to nervousness. “Questions? About what? It’s the middle of the night!”
“Victor?” a woman called from inside. “Who is it?” A moment later, Mrs. Hamelin appeared, wrapping a robe tightly around herself.
“It’s the police, dear,” Hamelin replied, his voice strained. He turned back to Rory and Evan, hesitating for a moment before stepping aside. “I suppose you’d better come in.”
As they entered the house, Rory’s trained eye took in every detail. Family photos lined the walls, showing Hamelin, his wife, and two college-aged kids. A half-finished puzzle sat on the coffee table, surrounded by mugs and a bowl of popcorn kernels. Everything spoke of a normal, comfortable family life.
Mrs. Hamelin, her face etched with worry, gestured to the living room. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”
Evan opened his mouth, likely to accept, but Rory cut him off with a subtle shake of her head. “No, thank you, ma’am. This shouldn’t take long.”
They settled into the plush sofas, the Hamelins perched nervously across from them. Victor ran a hand through his disheveled hair, attempting to regain some composure. “What’s this about, Officers? Has something happened?” He suddenly looked panicked. “Oh my god, is it one of the kids?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Rory assured him. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Mr. Hamelin, we’re investigating the murders of Clayton Harrow and Talia Montero. I believe you knew them both?”
Hamelin’s face paled, his eyes darting between Rory and Evan. “Knew them? I… I mean, yes, they were clients at the bank. But murdered? When? How?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Evan said. “We understand you denied both Mr. Harrow and Mrs. Montero loans recently. Can you tell us about that?”
Hamelin’s nervousness increased, a bead of sweat forming on his brow despite the coolness of the house. He glanced at his wife, then back at the officers. “I… I’m not comfortable discussing client information without proper authorization. That would be a breach of bank policy and possibly illegal.”
Rory’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Hamelin, we’re investigating multiple homicides. Surely you understand the gravity of the situation.”
Hamelin wavered, conflict clear on his face. “I… I want to help, truly. But I need to protect myself, too. Can you come back with a warrant or subpoena? That would allow me to speak freely without risking my position.”
Rory leaned forward, her voice low and urgent. “Mr. Hamelin, we don’t have time for that. Ranchers are dying. Right now, someone else could be in danger. Whatever you know, however small it might seem, could save a life. Can you live with yourself if another person dies because you were worried about bank policy?”
The room fell silent, the weight of Rory’s words hanging heavy in the air. Mrs. Hamelin looked at her husband, concern etched on her face.
Hamelin closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging in defeat. When he opened them again, there was a mix of fear and resignation in his gaze. “Alright,” he said softly. “Alright. I’ll tell you what I know. But please, you have to understand…I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
Rory nodded encouragingly. “Just tell us the truth, Mr. Hamelin. Start from the beginning.”
Hamelin took a deep breath, then began to speak. “The truth is…I did deny their loans. And yes, it was more personal than it should have been.”
Rory and Evan exchanged a quick glance. This was the break they’d been looking for, but something about Hamelin’s demeanor didn’t fit with their theory of a cold-blooded killer.
“Go on,” Rory said, keeping her voice neutral.
Hamelin sighed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You have to understand, I’ve spent my whole career watching these wealthy ranchers throw their weight around. They come into the bank, expecting preferential treatment, acting like they own the place. Harrow, Montero…they were the worst of them. So entitled, so sure they’d get whatever they wanted.”
He stood, pacing the room as he continued. “When I saw their loan applications, something in me just…snapped. I knew their expansion plans were solid. The loans should have been approved. But I couldn’t bear the thought of them getting even richer, even more powerful. So I denied them.”
The room fell silent as the implications of Hamelin’s confession sank in. Mrs. Hamelin looked shocked, her hand covering her mouth. Evan was scribbling furiously in his notepad. Rory remained stoic, reassessing everything they thought they knew about the case.
“Mr. Hamelin,” she said slowly, “you understand that what you’ve just admitted to is a serious breach of your professional duties, possibly even fraud?”
Hamelin nodded miserably. “I know. God, I know. I’ve been sick about it ever since. But I never…I never imagined it would lead to this. To murder. You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”
The raw fear in his voice was genuine, Rory was sure of it. But they couldn’t afford to make assumptions. “Where were you on the nights of October fifteenth and seventeenth?”
Hamelin’s brow furrowed in concentration. “The fifteenth…that was last Thursday, right? I was at my daughter’s college parents’ weekend in Laramie. We drove down Thursday evening and came back Sunday afternoon.”
“Can anyone confirm that?” Evan asked.
Mrs. Hamelin spoke up, her voice steady despite the turmoil of the night. “I was with him the whole time. So was our daughter, Sarah. The whole dorm floor can vouch for Victor’s karaoke performance at the parents’ mixer.” A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “It was memorable, to say the least.”
“And Sunday night?” Rory pressed.
“I was here, at home. We had our weekly dinner with the Petersons from next door. Stayed up late playing bridge.” Hamelin looked at his wife for confirmation, and she nodded.
Rory sat back, her mind whirling. Hamelin’s alibi seemed solid, easily verifiable. And his confession, while damning in its own right, didn’t fit with the brutal nature of the murders. They were back to square one.
“Mr. Hamelin,” she said, standing up, “I’m going to be blunt. What you’ve admitted to tonight is a serious matter. There will be consequences. But right now, our priority is solving these murders. Is there anything else you can tell us about Harrow or Montero? Any conflicts they might have had, any suspicious behavior you noticed?”
Hamelin shook his head, looking thoroughly deflated. “Nothing beyond the usual small-town politics. They were both pushing for changes that ruffled some feathers, but nothing that seemed…murderous.”
As they prepared to leave, Rory noticed a framed photo on the mantel. It showed a younger Hamelin standing proudly in front of a small bank, much more modest than the Bearclaw County Bank. “Is that you in Cheyenne?” she asked, recalling the scandal they’d uncovered earlier.
Hamelin followed her gaze, a wistful expression crossing his face. “No, that’s from my first job out of college. Tiny bank in Sheridan County. Feels like a lifetime ago.”
Rory froze her hand on the doorknob. Sheridan County. The same place where… She shook off the thought. It was a coincidence, nothing more. This case had nothing to do with her past.
Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and sage. Rory and Evan walked to the truck in silence, both lost in thought. It wasn’t until they were back on the road that Evan spoke.
“So, not our killer,” he said, his voice tinged with disappointment.
Rory nodded, her eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “No, but definitely hiding something. Those loan denials, the pattern we found…there’s more to this story.”
“You think he’s working with someone? Part of a larger conspiracy?”
“I don’t know,” Rory admitted. “But I do know we’re missing something big. The murders, the symbol, the strange deposits in Harrow’s and Montero’s accounts…it all has to connect somehow.”
As they drove through the sleeping town, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of time. Somewhere out there, a killer was watching, planning their next move. And now, with Hamelin’s revelation, the case had taken on a new dimension of complexity.
“What’s our next move?” Evan asked as they pulled into the sheriff’s office parking lot.
Rory killed the engine, sitting for a moment in the darkness. “We need to dig deeper into Harrow’s and Montero’s backgrounds. Find out where those deposits came from, who might have had a motive to want them both dead. And we need to look into any other big ranch sales or development plans in the area. If this is about land, we need to know who stands to benefit.”
“We follow the money trail,” Evan said, nodding.
“Exactly. This case seems far too personal to be just about money…but I’ll bet money’s involved somehow. It almost always is. And if there’s a paper trail, we’re going to follow it—no matter where it leads.”