Rory slammed her hand on the desk, sending a stack of case files tumbling to the floor.
“Damn it,” she muttered, running a hand through her disheveled hair. “We’re right back where we started.”
Across the room, Evan looked up from his computer, his face lined with fatigue and frustration. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed the long hours they’d been putting in, fueled by nothing but coffee and determination.
“Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong,” he suggested, not for the first time. His voice was hoarse from too many late-night discussions, too many dead-end leads. “We’ve chased down every lead, interviewed every person with a grudge against ranchers. What if the motive is something we haven’t considered?”
Rory shook her head, pacing the small confines of their shared office. Her boots scuffed against the worn linoleum, each step a reminder of the miles they’d covered in this investigation. “Like what? We’ve got three dead ranchers, all killed in the same bizarre manner. The symbol, the rope, the agitated cattle. It all points to someone with a vendetta against the ranching community. But who?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered. They’d pursued every angle they could think of: disgruntled former employees, animal rights activists, rival ranchers. Each lead had fizzled out, leaving them no closer to catching the killer than they’d been days ago.
Rory’s gaze fell on the evidence board, a chaotic web of photos, notes, and red string. The faces of their victims stared back at her—Clayton Harrow, Talia Montero, Wesley Kade. Three lives cut short, three families shattered. And for what? What possible reason could justify such brutality?
As the silence stretched, a thought niggled at the back of Rory’s mind. A face, weathered by time and experience, eyes still sharp with the intelligence that had made him a legendary sheriff. Frank McAllister—Old Ironsides to those who knew him well. If anyone could offer a fresh perspective on this case, it would be him.
“I need some air,” she said abruptly, grabbing her jacket. The leather was soft and worn, a comforting weight on her shoulders. “I gonna go see McAllister.”
Evan looked up, surprise evident on his face. “Frank McAllister? The old sheriff?”
Rory nodded, pausing at the door. “Yeah. He’s…he was more than just my boss, Evan. He taught me everything I know about being a good cop. If anyone can help us see what we’re missing, it’s him.”
“I’ve heard stories about Old Ironsides,” Evan said, a note of admiration in his voice. “They say he could smell a lie from a mile away.”
A small smile tugged at Rory’s lips. “That’s not far from the truth. He’s the one who encouraged me to join the force after…after what happened to my family. Said I had the instincts for it.”
Evan nodded, looking sobered by the mention of the tragedy that had befallen Rory’s family. “Want me to come with you?”
Rory shook her head. “No, you keep digging here. Maybe you’ll find something we’ve missed. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
As she turned to leave, Evan called out, “Rory?” She paused, looking back. “Whatever McAllister says…we’re going to catch this bastard. Together.”
Rory felt a surge of gratitude for her partner’s unwavering support. “Damn right we are,” she said, her voice filled with renewed determination. “This killer’s been one step ahead of us so far, but that ends now. It’s time we changed the game.”
With that, she strode out of the office, leaving Evan to his work. As she climbed into her truck, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that this visit to McAllister might be the turning point they’d been waiting for. One way or another, things had to change.
***
“…And that’s when we found the strange fibers at the Kade scene,” Rory finished, taking a sip of her now-cold coffee. “Lab’s still running tests.”
McAllister leaned back in his chair, his weathered face deep in thought. The kitchen was quiet save for the ticking of an old clock on the wall, marking the passage of time as Rory waited for her mentor’s insight.
The house was a testament to a life well-lived. Photos of McAllister’s family shared space with mementos from his long career in law enforcement. Rory’s gaze lingered on a framed newspaper clipping—her own face, much younger, receiving her badge from McAllister at her academy graduation. Had it really been that long ago?
“You know,” he said finally, his voice low and contemplative, “when I was about your age, we had a string of burglaries. Nice homes, all out in the country. Everyone thought it was some city boys coming out to rob the wealthy folks. We spent weeks chasing down every ex-con and known burglar in three counties.”
He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. Rory waited, knowing there was more to the story. McAllister had always had a knack for storytelling, for drawing out the suspense until the perfect moment.
“Turned out it was the local real estate agent. Fellow by the name of Thompson. He’d been casing the houses he was supposed to be selling, learning all about their security systems and valuables.”
Rory frowned as she tried to connect this tale to their current case. “You think our killer might be someone like that? Someone who works with ranchers?”
McAllister shook his head, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Not necessarily. But it got me thinking. We were so focused on who might want to hurt those families, we never stopped to consider who might want what they had.”
“You’re saying we should be looking at who stands to benefit from these deaths, not just who might have a grudge.”
“Exactly.” McAllister nodded, leaning forward in his chair. His eyes were alight with the spark that had made him such a formidable investigator. “In my experience, greed is a far more common motive than revenge. And it’s often the quieter one, harder to spot at first glance.”
Rory’s mind raced with the implications. They’d been so focused on the obvious suspects—those with open disdain for ranchers or the ranching lifestyle. But what if the killer’s motive was more mundane? What if this was about land, or money, or power?
“But the symbol,” she mused aloud, her brow furrowed in concentration. “The ritualistic nature of the killings. That all points to something personal, doesn’t it?”
McAllister shrugged, his expression thoughtful. “Could be. Or it could be a smokescreen designed to throw you off the real motive. Killers can be clever that way, especially the ones who’ve planned things out.”
Rory considered his words in silence.
McAllister leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “What about the cattle, Rory? You said they were agitated before each killing?”
Rory nodded, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, but we can’t figure out how the killer’s doing it. No strange substances found, no evidence of any devices used to spook them.”
“Hmm,” McAllister mused, tapping his fingers on the table. “Could be infrasound—heard of rustlers doing that to agitate herds. People can’t hear a thing, but the cattle sure do.”
Rory’s eyes widened. “Infrasound? We didn’t even consider that. I’ll have to tell Evan to look into it.”
McAllister nodded, then fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Now, about this symbol you found. You said it was left at all three crime scenes?”
Rory nodded, pulling out her notebook and sketching the intricate design. “We’ve checked databases, consulted experts…nothing.”
McAllister studied the sketch, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a long moment, he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “You know, this reminds me of something I saw years ago. Not exactly the same, mind you, but similar enough to make me wonder.”
Rory leaned in, curious. “What was it?”
“It was during a case back in the eighties,” McAllister said, his gaze distant with memory. “A string of land disputes turned ugly. One of the ranchers involved, old fella named Ezra, he had a brand that looked a bit like this. Said it was an ancient symbol of the land, passed down through his family for generations.”
“A brand?” Rory asked. “Like for cattle?”
McAllister nodded. “Among other things. Ezra was…odd. Talked a lot about the land having a will of its own, about debts that needed paying. Most folks wrote him off as a crazy old coot, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“But what?” Rory pressed.
“But there was something in his eyes when he talked about it. A conviction.” McAllister fixed Rory with a penetrating stare. “I’m not saying this is connected, mind you. But symbols like these, they often carry weight. History. Might be worth looking into the older ranching families, see if anyone recognizes it.”
Rory jotted down notes, a new avenue of investigation opening up before her. “Thanks, Frank. This could be the lead we’ve been missing.”
McAllister nodded, a hint of a smile on his weathered face. “Just remember, Rory. In cases like these, the truth is often buried deep. You gotta be willing to dig, even if you don’t like what you might uncover.”
As Rory gathered her things to leave, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. The case was still a maze of dead ends and false leads, but for the first time in days, she felt like she had a direction to guide her through it.
“Thank you, Frank,” she said as she stood to leave. “I don’t know if this will lead anywhere, but…”
McAllister cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You’ll figure it out, kid. You always do.”
She nodded, grateful for his confidence in her. “I sure hope so.”
“And get some sleep, would you? You look exhausted.”
She smiled. “When the killer sleeps, so will I.”
McAllister shook his head disapprovingly. “Never play chicken with someone who has nothing to lose.”
Rory paused to consider that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.”
As Rory walked to her truck, the night air crisp against her face, she felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She turned, scanning the darkness surrounding McAllister’s property. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw a figure standing at the edge of the tree line, watching.
But when she blinked, it was gone.