CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Spelling approached their vehicle as they stepped out. “I’ve been here five minutes. No movement inside that I can detect.”
“Could he be off at work somewhere?” Jake asked, adjusting his holster beneath his jacket.
“According to what I pulled up, he’s unemployed,” Spelling replied. “No job since Ozark State University fired him. Lives on savings and occasional commissions for his artwork.”
As the three of them moved toward the house, Jenna scanned for signs of occupancy—recent mail, tire tracks in the gravel driveway, condensation on windows. Nothing suggested someone had come or gone recently.
“Approaching the front door might trigger him if he’s inside,” she cautioned.
“Agreed, but we need to confirm if he’s home,” Spelling said. “Standard procedure. Announce ourselves, request entry.”
They stepped up onto the porch and positioned themselves on either side of the front door—Spelling and Jake to the left, Jenna to the right. Spelling nodded at Jake, who rapped his knuckles firmly against the door.
“Daniel Greenwich? This is the police. We need to speak with you.” Jake’s voice carried authority without aggression.
Silence answered them.
Jake knocked again, louder this time. “Mr. Greenwich? The Missouri State Highway Patrol is also here. Please open the door.”
The house remained still, the drawn curtains revealing nothing. The air felt charged, as if the house itself were holding its breath.
“I’ll check the windows,” Jake said after another moment of silence. He crossed the porch toward the nearest window. “There’s a gap in the curtains here,” he reported. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he pressed close to the glass.
“We should secure a warrant,” Spelling said, his voice low. “If he’s not home, we need to do this by the book.”
“A warrant will take time we might not have,” Jenna replied. “If Greenwich is preparing for another victim—”
“I can see something,” Jake interrupted, his posture stiffening. “A mannequin.”
“That’s exigent circumstances,” Jenna said to Spelling.
“Agreed,” Spelling replied without hesitation. “Step back from the door, both of you.”
Jake rejoined them, and Spelling positioned himself directly in front of the door. He delivered a powerful kick just beside the lock. The wood splintered but held. A second kick broke through, the door swinging inward with a groan of protesting hinges.
The smell hit them first—chemical and sharp—antiseptic mingled with the acrid tang of solvents and adhesives.
They entered with weapons drawn, moving through the small foyer into a living room that showed minimal signs of actual living.
A futon couch with a rumpled blanket, a coffee table stacked with philosophy texts, a single mug crusted with the remains of old coffee.
The mannequin Jake had seen was seated in a chair, as if it were a houseguest. Still faceless and not clothed, it nevertheless had an unnerving presence.
“Clear,” Jake called after checking behind the couch and in a small adjoining kitchen.
“Bedroom’s clear,” Spelling reported from a hallway to their right.
Jenna moved toward another door on the opposite side of the living room—slightly ajar, spilling harsh fluorescent light into the dimness. She pushed it open with her foot, her weapon raised and ready.
“I’ve found his workshop,” she called.
Jake and Spelling joined her at the threshold of what must have once been a dining room.
Greenwich had transformed it into a meticulously organized studio.
Three mannequins stood in a corner, naked and faceless, their articulated joints positioned in eerily human stances.
Shelves lined the walls, holding jars of pigments, brushes of various sizes, and tools that looked more appropriate for surgery than art.
A large workbench dominated the center of the room, its surface cluttered with precision instruments, small containers of silicone in varying flesh tones, a life-sized head shaped from clay, and two pieces of a mold that had been made from the head.
Beside all this lay reference photographs—a young woman with striking features, captured from multiple angles.
“He’s completed another one,” Jake said, holstering his weapon as he approached the workbench.
“But he’s not here,” Spelling observed, his gaze sweeping the room. “Which means he could be with his next victim already.”
Jenna felt a cold dread as she moved deeper into the workshop.
On the far wall, a bulletin board had been mounted, covered with photographs, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes.
The same young woman from the workbench photos appeared in most of the images—candid shots showing her entering a coffee shop, walking down a street, sitting in a park with headphones on.
Some appeared to be screenshots from video footage, others taken with a telephoto lens from a distance.
But most were taken from media that was readily available to the public.
“She must be his next victim,” she muttered. “We have to identify her.”
Pinned up among the photos was a newspaper clipping. “Sarah Fleming,” Jenna read aloud. “‘Local Podcaster Lands Major Network Deal.’ That’s why she looks familiar. She hosts that popular show about small-town mysteries.”
“True Tales of the Heartland,” Jake confirmed, stepping beside her to examine the board. “My neighbor’s teenage daughter is obsessed with it. Fleming went viral a few months back with an episode about that old abandoned sanatorium outside of town.”
“And now she’s Greenwich’s next target,” Spelling said, his voice grim. “The network deal represents her peak—her moment of greatest professional success.”
“Just like the others,” Jenna agreed, scanning the rest of the board. Her eyes caught on a printed schedule taped to one corner. “Look at this. He’s been tracking her movements. The times she leaves her house, when she records, her regular coffee runs.”
“We need to find her,” Jake said. “Now.”
Jenna pulled out her phone and dialed the Trentville Police Department. When the dispatcher answered, she identified herself and requested Sarah Fleming’s contact information, explaining the urgency of the situation.
“Sarah Fleming,” she repeated. “F-L-E-M-I-N-G. Yes, it’s an emergency situation.
We have reason to believe she’s in immediate danger.
” She jotted down the information as the dispatcher provided it.
“Thank you. And send backup to her address, but tell them to approach without sirens, and to maintain a distance of a block from the premises.”
She ended the call and immediately dialed Sarah’s number.
Eventually, a cheerful voicemail greeting played: “You’ve reached Sarah Fleming of True Tales of the Heartland!
I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m probably chasing down another fascinating story.
Leave me a message, or better yet, send a text—I’m way more likely to respond quickly.
Thanks, and remember: every town has its secrets! ”
The beep sounded, and Jenna spoke quickly.
“Sarah, this is Sheriff Jenna Graves from Genesius County. If you receive this message, please call me back immediately. Do not open your door to anyone, especially if they claim to be interested in your podcast. This is an emergency situation.” She left her number and ended the call.
“Voicemail,” she reported to the others. “Not necessarily concerning—influencers often screen their calls—but given the circumstances.” She tapped on her phone, repeating her call in a text message.
“We can’t wait to see if she calls back,” Spelling stated, already moving toward the door. “Her address?”
“1437 Wildflower Court,” Jenna read from her notes. “That’s in the new development on the east side of town.”
“About fifteen minutes from here,” Jake added.
Spelling paused at the workshop doorway, surveying the room one last time. “We need to approach carefully. If Greenwich is already there, we could have a hostage situation.”
Jenna nodded, her mind racing through tactical options. “We’ll park a short distance from the house and approach on foot. No sirens, no flashers. I’ve already requested backup, but told them to maintain their distance.”
“If we’re lucky, we’ll get there before he takes her,” Jake said, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe it.
Jenna took one last look at the clay head and thought about the mask that had already been made from it. A shiver worked its way down her spine as she imagined Greenwich carefully planning exactly how to position her body once her life had been extinguished.
“If he’s following his previous pattern,” she said as they moved back through the house, “he’ll want to get her alone. He’ll approach her, maybe pretending to be a fan of her podcast.”
“Then he’ll use the muscle relaxant to incapacitate her,” Jake continued, “take her to his van, and suffocate her with helium.”
“He’s been watching her, studying her schedule.” Jenna said, quickening her pace toward her cruiser. “He might be planning to strike at this very moment.”
They reached their vehicles, the urgency of the situation evident in their movements. Spelling unlocked his SUV with a beep that seemed too mundane for the gravity of the moment.
“I’ll take my vehicle,” he said. “We’ll establish a perimeter and assess before making contact.”
Jenna nodded, already sliding into the driver’s seat of her cruiser. Jake took his place beside her, radioing dispatch to coordinate the backup units’ approach.
The engine roared to life, and Jenna pulled away from the curb, her hands tight on the steering wheel.
In her mind, she could see the mannequins they’d found—Marjory Powell at her kitchen table, Kevin Torres on his weight bench, Dean Alcox at his typewriter.
Each in a moment of success, preserved by a twisted mind that saw death as a kindness.
She pressed harder on the accelerator, the street signs blurring as they passed.
Somewhere in Trentville, Sarah Fleming was going about her day, unaware that a man with a needle full of muscle relaxant and a philosophical justification for murder was probably watching her right now, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver his twisted gift of eternal preservation.