(12:51 p.m.)
They pulled up to the edge of Ravenholt Park, past the barricades and blinking squad cars, the hush of the scene broken only by the occasional squawk of a radio and the low murmur of uniforms holding the curious back.
Rick stepped out of the SUV, the wind flapping his tie as his new black coat flared around his legs. He barely had time to shower and threw on fresh clothes before rushing out the door. But he looked the part again.
A patrolman from the local precinct approached. Young. Pale. Eyes a little too wide for someone who’d seen more than one corpse. “Detectives Slade and Burton?”
Rick nodded.
“This way.”
Frank fell in beside him, saying nothing. The kid led them along a narrow paved path veined with cracks and mottled with wet leaves. Tree limbs clawed the sky above them, half-bare and brittle, creaking softly in the breeze. The midday air was sharp, rusty, Calgrave caught in that suspended October gloom where time felt stalled and color had drained from the world. Rain hadn’t come yet, but it hung above them like a threat.
They ducked under the yellow tape and strode down the slope. The bridge came into view—a squat, moss-furred span of old stone arching over a trickle of brackish water. Ivy curled up one side, reaching, alive, feeding on rot. Beneath it, floodlights blasted the shadows into submission, throwing everything into harsh relief.
The site was busier here, clustered with uniforms and crime scene techs, the air thick with the chatter of radios and the soft clicks of camera shutters. Officers were marking possible evidence with numbered placards, kneeling to examine footprints in the muddy grass, while another knelt near the creek’s edge, collecting a sample.
The body lay just off the path, crumpled at the base of the stone arch, placed there with the same horrifying reverence as the others before it. Male, mid-twenties. Lean build. Hands spread out like a crucifix. The face was gone. Stripped so clean it seemed unreal—no torn flesh, no bloodied pulp, nothing but smooth, glistening bone where features should have been. That kind of care spoke of ritual, not rage. As if the killer had not ripped it, butharvestedit.
Frank let out a slow exhale. “That’s one sick motherfucker.”
Rick studied the red smear glistening on the low stone above the corpse: the same jagged, looping glyph. It pulsed at the edge of his vision, lines sliding sideways in his brain if he stared too long.
He looked away.
“So there you are,” Gloria’s voice came from behind him. He turned just in time to see the coroner pulling off her gloves with a rubbery snap, one eyebrow raised, every inch the aging star retreating from the spotlight while her crew scurried to keep up. “How nice of you to finally grace us with your presence.”
Frank grinned. “Had to let you warm up the stage for us.”
Rick grunted. “What’ve we got?”
She drew a cigarette from her coat pocket, slid it into a long holder, and flicked a lighter to the tip, smoke curling as she exhaled. “No signs of struggle,” she said. “No defensive wounds, except for the usual stun gun mark. MO consistent with the Sculptor’s previous victims. That’s all I can say before the full autopsy.”
“ID?” Rick asked.
She exhaled a plume of smoke and called for her assistant. “Gordon!”
Gordon emerged behind a tree, half-running, half-stumbling, his too-big glasses sliding down his nose. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Give the boys the prelim, darling,” Gloria declared, tapping her cigarette and gliding toward the vans with a languid wave, her exit timed to the beat of invisible applause.
The young man scanned his clipboard, licking his lips. “The vic’s name is Sean Burns,” he said, not glancing up. “Twenty-three. Popped for a DUI four years ago. Prints matched immediately. Nothing else on record.”
Just a kid.
Rick glanced at the corpse again, stared at the exposed skull, the way the skin had been lifted with grotesque elegance. Sean lay naked, discarded, a broken toy, an echo of a life suddenly and violently erased.
Gordon flipped another page. “We also recovered a cigarette butt approximately three meters from the body, ground into the mud. Looks fresh—no degradation from weather. It’s been bagged and tagged for analysis.”
Rick’s head snapped up. “Where exactly?”
Gordon pointed toward a small yellow placard near the base of the bridge, partially obscured by overgrown weeds. “There. Just off the main path.”
“Could be a jogger,” Frank said, but his tone suggested he didn’t believe it.
“Not many joggers smoke,” Rick muttered. He walked over to the marked spot, crouched low, studying the compressed earth. The butt had been pressed into the soft ground, twisted, like someone grinding it out with the toe of a shoe. His gut tightened. “Bag everything within a two-meter radius of that spot. Footprints, soil samples, anything.”
Gordon nodded, scribbling notes. “Already coordinating with CSU.”
