The drive back from McAllister’s place was a blur of streetlights and swirling thoughts. Rory’s mind raced with possibilities, McAllister’s words echoing in her head: 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.
It was late in the evening when she pulled into the sheriff’s office parking lot, but the lights were still on inside. Evan would still be there, she knew. He was as committed to this case as she was.
As she walked in, the familiar smell of stale coffee greeted her. Evan looked up from his desk, surprise and hope flickering across his exhausted face.
“Thought you’d gone home,” he said, stifling a yawn.
Rory shook her head, sliding into her chair. “Not yet. McAllister gave me some ideas. We need to look at this from a different angle.”
She quickly filled Evan in on her conversation with the former sheriff, watching as understanding dawned in his eyes.
“So we’re not just looking for someone who hates ranchers,” Evan mused, “but someone who might want what they have. Someone who lost everything.”
“Exactly,” Rory said with a nod. “Pull up the county records, will you? I want to look at foreclosures, bankruptcies, any ranches that have gone under in the last decade.”
For the next hour, they pored over digital records, cross-referencing names and dates. The clock ticked relentlessly toward morning, but Rory barely noticed, fueled by a renewed sense of purpose.
“Here’s something,” Evan said suddenly, turning his screen toward her. “Russell Brigham. Had one of the biggest spreads in the county until about five years ago. Lost everything in a bank scandal.”
Rory leaned in, scanning the article. “Says here he accused the bank of fraud, claimed other ranchers were in on it. But nothing was ever proven.”
“Yeah and look at this.” Evan scrolled down. “Quote from Brigham: ‘They think they’ve won, but this isn’t over. I’ll see justice done, one way or another.’”
A chill ran down Rory’s spine. “Any connection to our victims?”
Evan typed rapidly, pulling up more documents. “Clayton Harrow bought part of Brigham’s old property in a foreclosure auction. And Talia Montero…looks like her law firm represented the bank in the case against Brigham.”
“What about Kade?” Rory asked, feeling the pieces start to click into place.
More typing, then Evan sat back with a low whistle. “Wesley Kade was on the board of directors for the bank that foreclosed on Brigham.”
Rory stood, unable to contain her restless energy. “So we have a man who lost everything, blaming the bank and other ranchers for his downfall. And now, years later, people connected to that loss start dying.”
“It fits,” Evan agreed. “But Rory, Brigham’s been a drunk for years. Half the time he’s sleeping it off in our drunk tank. You really think he could pull off these murders?”
Rory frowned, pacing the small office. “When was the last time we brought Brigham in? Or had any calls about him?”
Evan turned back to his computer, pulling up arrest records. “Huh. That’s interesting.”
“What?”
“Nothing about him in the past two months. Not even a noise complaint.”
Rory moved to the evidence board, studying the crime scene photos with new eyes. “Brigham would know these properties, know how to move around unseen. And he was a successful rancher for years. He’d know how to handle cattle, how to agitate them.”
“But the symbol?” Evan asked. “The ritualistic nature of the killings? That doesn’t seem like Brigham’s style.”
Rory chewed her lip, thinking. “Unless…unless it’s all part of the act. McAllister said it could be a smokescreen, something to disguise his motive and make the case seem more complicated than it really is.”
She turned back to Evan. “Pull up Brigham’s file. I want to know everything about him.”
As Evan worked, Rory’s mind raced. She remembered Brigham from her early days on the force—a bitter, angry man drowning his sorrows at the local bars. She’d written him off as a harmless drunk, but now…
If there’s one thing this job has taught me, she thought, it’s that anyone is capable of just about anything.
“Here we go,” Evan said. “Russell Brigham, fifty-eight years old. Born and raised in Bearclaw County. Took over his family’s ranch at twenty-five when his father died. Expanded the operation, became one of the most successful ranchers in the area.”
“Until he lost it all,” Rory murmured.
Evan nodded. “Bank accused him of fraud, said he’d been cooking the books for years. Brigham claimed he was set up, but the evidence was pretty damning. Lost the ranch, his savings, everything.”
“What else?” Rory pressed. “Any history of violence?”
“A few bar fights over the years, nothing major. Oh, wait…” Evan leaned in, squinting at the screen. “There’s a sealed juvenile record.”
Rory’s pulse quickened. “Can you unseal it?”
Evan shook his head. “Not without a court order. But the date…Rory, this was filed the same year Brigham’s father died.”
“So something happened, something bad enough to seal the record, and then a few years later Brigham inherits the ranch,” Rory mused. “That’s…interesting.”
She moved back to the evidence board, studying the photos of their victims. Harrow, Montero, Kade. All successful ranchers, all with connections to Brigham’s downfall. And now all dead, killed in a way that seemed designed to confuse and mislead.
It was at this moment that Sheriff Harlan emerged from his office, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. “You two still here? It’s past midnight.”
Rory took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. “I think we’ve been looking at this all wrong,” she said. “We’ve been so focused on who might hate ranchers, who might have a grudge. But what if it’s not about hate at all? What if it’s about envy?”
“Go on,” Harlan said.
“The killer could be someone who lost everything and blames the ranching community for their downfall. Someone who knows the ins and outs of ranching, who would know how to agitate cattle and navigate these properties unseen.”
Harlan’s eyes narrowed, his coffee forgotten. “You have someone specific in mind, don’t you?”
Rory hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. “Russell Brigham.”
The name hung in the air, heavy with implication. Harlan’s face darkened with a mix of surprise and skepticism.
“Brigham?” Harlan repeated. “The drunk? Rory, that man can barely string two sentences together most days, let alone plan and execute three elaborate murders.”
“Hear me out,” Rory insisted. She moved to the evidence board, pointing to photos of the victims. “Brigham used to be one of the biggest ranchers in the county. Old money, generations of history. But he lost it all about five years ago.”
“I remember,” Harlan said. “There was that scandal with the bank, accusations of fraud. Brigham claimed he was set up.”
Rory nodded. “He didn’t just claim it—he shouted it from the rooftops. Blamed everyone from the bank to his fellow ranchers for not standing by him. Said the whole system was corrupt and he’d see justice done.”
“That was years ago,” Harlan said, but Rory could see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Since then, he’s been nothing but a pathetic drunk. Half the time he’s in our drunk tank, sleeping it off.”
“It’s been two months since anyone saw him,” Rory said. “What’s been going on in his head these past two months? What might he have been planning?”
A heavy silence fell over the room as the implications sank in. Harlan frowned. “It’s thin, Rory,” he warned, but she could see he was starting to consider the possibility. “Circumstantial at best.”
“I know,” Rory admitted, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “But it’s more than we had yesterday. And if I’m right, if Brigham has sobered up and is behind these killings, we need to move fast. He could be planning his next move as we speak.”
Harlan rubbed his chin, his expression thoughtful. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hum of the office equipment and the distant sound of a siren somewhere in town.
“Alright,” he said finally, his voice gruff. “It’s worth looking into. But we do this by the book. No cowboy stuff, understand?”
Rory nodded, relief washing over her. “Understood, sir. We’ll head out to Brigham’s last known address.”
“I hope you’re right about this,” Harlan said, his voice low. “Because if you’re not, if we’re chasing shadows while the real killer is out there…”
“I know,” Rory replied, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. “But my gut tells me we’re on the right track. Brigham fits, sir. He has the knowledge, the motive, and the opportunity.”
Harlan nodded slowly. “Your gut’s been right more often than not. But Rory, be careful out there. Brigham may be a drunk, but he was a hell of a rancher in his day. If he’s cornered, if he’s really behind all this…” He sighed. “All I’m saying is, keep your hand close to your holster.”