CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As she drove out of Trentville, Jenna’s mind was still sorting through the disturbing details of the case.
Marjory Powell’s body, arranged so carefully in the gully.
The mannequin with her face sitting at the victim’s kitchen table.
And now another mannequin, another missing person, another carefully constructed face.
It was a pattern with horrifying clarity, even as the motivation behind it remained obscure.
One thing seemed certain—Rebecca Ashcroft had one hell of an alibi, at least for whatever had happened to Kevin Torres.
She was in St. Louis torching her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s car.
And if she had nothing to do with this latest incident, Jenna was sure she had nothing to do with Marjory Powell’s murder either.
During the drive, Jenna called headquarters ordering an alert to the public of danger—a request to beware of unusual or suspicious contacts.
“I keep coming back to how precise it all is,” Jake said, breaking the contemplative silence that had settled between them. “The body arranged like it was being presented. Even the method of killing—if Dr. Stark is right about the inert gas—it’s all so...” He searched for the right word. “Clean.”
Jenna nodded, eyes fixed on the road. “No blood, no struggle, no signs of rage or hatred.”
“Exactly,” Jake shifted in his seat to face her better. “It’s almost as if the killer didn’t feel any hostility toward the victim. Like death isn’t the point—it’s just a step in whatever process he’s carrying out.”
“A means to an end, perhaps,” Jenna murmured.
“But what are we supposed to make of the mannequins?” Jake continued. “Are they mockeries? Some kind of sick joke? Or are they—” he hesitated, “—tributes, in his mind? Preserving the victims in some way?”
Jenna considered this as they passed a weathered barn, its red paint faded to the color of dried blood. The question had been circling in her own mind since they’d discovered Marjory’s body. What was the purpose of creating such perfect replicas, of placing them where the real person should be?
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But whoever’s doing this, they’re putting enormous effort into these mannequins. The level of detail, the positioning—it feels like there’s meaning behind it. We’re just not seeing it yet.”
They drove in silence for several minutes, the landscape gradually shifting to the well-developed approach to Pinecrest. Unlike Trentville with its classic small-town charm, Pinecrest had grown more rapidly in recent decades, sprouting strip malls and housing developments to accommodate the university population.
As they entered the town limits, the streets widened, trees lined the medians, and signs for Ozark State University appeared with increasing frequency.
Students moved along the sidewalks despite the early hour, backpacks slung over their shoulders, coffee cups in hand, oblivious to the darker currents flowing beneath the surface of their college town.
Jenna and Jake been here just over a week ago for another case—one that had caused considerable resentment toward her from Pinecrest Police Chief Rudy Morgan. He didn’t welcome anyone outside his own jurisdiction.
The case still lingered in Jenna’s mind as she turned onto Main Street, following the GPS directions to Torres Fitness Studio.
The gym occupied a converted storefront in a newer commercial district, its large windows now concealed behind blinds.
Yellow crime scene tape created a perimeter around the building, and several police vehicles sat parked at odd angles, suggesting they had arrived in haste.
Uniformed officers moved between the building and the parking lot, while a small crowd of onlookers had gathered across the street, held back by more tape.
Jenna parked the cruiser behind a Pinecrest Police Department SUV and cut the engine. As she and Jake stepped out into the crisp morning air, she spotted Colonel Spelling and Chief Morgan standing near the entrance to the gym, deep in conversation.
Morgan’s stance was defensive—shoulders squared, arms crossed over his chest, chin jutting slightly forward as he listened to whatever Spelling was saying. He looked every bit as unwelcoming as Jenna had expected.
“Showtime,” Jake muttered beside her as they approached.
Chief Morgan spotted them first, his expression hardening as his gaze locked onto Jenna. He was a stocky man with close-cropped gray hair and the permanent tan of someone who spent considerable time outdoors. His eyes were sharp, assessing, and hostile.
“Sheriff Graves,” he greeted her, his tone just this side of civil. “Seems like you can’t stay out of my jurisdiction for more than a week.”
“Chief Morgan,” Jenna replied evenly. “I wish the circumstances were different.”
Colonel Spelling intervened before the tension could escalate. “I was just bringing the Chief up to speed on the Powell case,” he explained, his tall figure serving as a buffer between them. “The similarities are too striking to ignore.”
“Mannequins,” Morgan said, his skepticism evident in the curl of his lip. “More the kind of thing that goes on in your jurisdiction than mine.”
Jenna bit back a sharp retort. Morgan’s territorial nature made collaboration difficult at best, but antagonizing him would only make things worse.
She understood his frustration—having another jurisdiction’s law enforcement descend on his crime scene couldn’t be easy.
But the killer wasn’t respecting jurisdictional boundaries, and neither could they.
“Have your people found anything yet?” she asked instead, deliberately softening her tone.
Morgan seemed to make an effort to match her professionalism. “Not much. No signs of forced entry. No obvious disturbance inside beyond the mannequin itself.”
Spelling held up his phone, scrolling through a series of crime scene photos. “I was just showing Chief Morgan the photos from the Powell residence and the discovery site.”
Jenna watched as Morgan studied the images on Spelling’s phone—first the mannequin sitting at the Powells’ kitchen table, then Marjory’s body laid out in the gully, sheet pulled back to reveal her peaceful face. His expression shifted from skepticism to grim recognition.
“So you think Torres has met the same fate?” Morgan asked, looking up from the phone.
“That’s our working theory,” Jenna confirmed. “The cases are too similar to assume otherwise.”
Morgan nodded, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Torres’s silver Jeep is still here,” he said, pointing to a vehicle parked behind the building. “Been there since yesterday evening, according to witnesses.”
Jenna studied the Jeep—clean, well-maintained, a testament to its owner’s attention to detail. Above it, mounted on the corner of the building, a security camera pointed down at the parking area.
“Security cameras,” she noted. “Covering the entrance and parking lot.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got issues with the security footage,” Morgan replied. “Come on, I’ll show you what we’re dealing with inside.”
He led them toward the gym entrance, ducking under the crime scene tape. As they approached the door, an officer held it open, and they stepped into the climate-controlled interior.
The gym was smaller than Jenna had expected—a converted retail space with free weights to one side, cardio equipment to the other, and a central area with mats for floor exercises.
The walls were lined with mirrors, making the space feel larger and brighter under the fluorescent lighting.
Everything was meticulously organized, each piece of equipment in its place.
The only jarring element was the mannequin sitting on a weight bench in the center of the room.
Just as with Marjory Powell, the likeness was uncanny.
The mannequin wore workout clothes—a fitted tracksuit that covered most of its body—but the face was unmistakably that of a man in his thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and a small scar above the left eyebrow.
The figure sat perfectly upright on the bench, hands resting on its knees, facing the mirror as if admiring its own reflection.
“That’s exactly how the witness found him,” Morgan explained, gesturing toward the mannequin.
“Beth Williams, Torres’s client. She arrived for her 7:30 a.m. session, found the door unlocked, came in, and discovered.
.. this.” He shook his head. “Poor woman nearly had a breakdown when she realized what it meant.”
Jenna circled the mannequin, studying it from different angles.
The craftsmanship was as exceptional as it had been with Marjory’s replica—the same attention to detail, the same lifelike quality that made it all the more disturbing.
She noticed more security cameras mounted in the corners of the gym, their lenses trained on various areas of the space.
“What about any other security footage?” she asked, pointing toward one of the cameras. “With this many cameras, there must be something.”
Morgan’s expression shifted slightly, a hint of satisfaction breaking through his professional demeanor. “We did get some footage, but it cuts off at a critical moment. I’ll show you.”
He led them to a small office at the back of the gym.
Unlike the orderly workout space, the office was cluttered with paperwork, protein bar wrappers, and fitness magazines.
A desk dominated the room, holding a computer monitor that displayed a paused security feed.
A corkboard on the wall was pinned with before-and-after photos of clients, their transformations displayed proudly alongside Kevin’s various fitness certifications.
“The system wasn’t difficult to access,” Morgan explained, moving behind the desk. “Password was written right here.” He tapped a yellow post-it note stuck to the edge of the monitor. “Torres wasn’t exactly security-conscious.”
“So our perpetrator likely had no trouble accessing the system either,” Jake observed.
“Exactly,” Morgan nodded. “Here’s what we have.”
He clicked play on the footage. The timestamp showed 9:55 p.m. the previous night.
On screen, Kevin Torres stood near the front entrance, saying goodbye to two people—a young man and woman in workout clothes who appeared to be staff members.
He was wearing exactly the same clothes that the mannequin was wearing right now.
Kevin locked the door behind them, then turned and walked back into the gym, moving out of the camera’s view. Then, abruptly, the screen went black.
“That’s it?” Jenna asked.
Morgan nodded. “Nothing after that. No footage of anyone entering, no sign of Torres being abducted, nothing.”
“So the perpetrator takes Torres,” Jake theorized, “brings in the mannequin, positions it, then comes in here and deletes the footage that would show the entire incident.”
“And finally shuts down the whole surveillance system before leaving,” Morgan added. “Clean, efficient, leaving us with nothing.”
The methodical nature of it all struck Jenna anew. This wasn’t a crime of passion or opportunity. This was calculated, planned to the smallest detail.
As Morgan and Spelling continued discussing the timeline, something on the desk caught Jenna’s attention—a glossy magazine with a familiar face on the cover.
She picked it up, examining the title: PowerCore Magazine.
Kevin Torres smiled back at her from the cover, dressed in workout gear similar to what the mannequin was wearing, his pose confident and professional.
"The latest issue," Morgan explained, noticing her interest. "Apparently, Torres was featured in a big spread. Was very proud of it, according to his staff. Had copies all over the gym."
Jenna flipped through the magazine, finding the feature article: "Torres Technique: Transforming Bodies and Lives in Small-Town America.
" The spread included multiple high-quality photographs of Kevin—close-ups of his face as he demonstrated proper form, full-body shots showing his athletic build, and detail shots of his hands adjusting weights.
Professional photography, capturing him from various angles, in perfect lighting.
Something clicked in Jenna’s mind. She remembered what Liza had told her yesterday about creating the mannequin’s face: “You can create a reasonable facsimile from photographs, especially if you have them from multiple angles.”
These photos would provide exactly that—multiple angles, high resolution, professional quality.
Jenna’s pulse quickened as connections began forming. The magazine in her hands suddenly felt heavier, more significant. She turned back to the cover, studying Kevin’s smile, the lighting that highlighted every detail of his features.
A theory began to take shape in her mind—not yet fully formed, but gaining coherence. There was something here, something important about how the killer selected and studied his victims.
“Jenna?” Jake’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “You look like you’ve just had a revelation.”
She glanced up, aware that Morgan, Spelling, and Jake were all watching her with varying degrees of curiosity. The idea forming in her mind wasn’t ready to be shared, not yet—it needed more clarity, more connections.
“Maybe,” she said carefully, holding up the magazine. “I think this might be important.”
Morgan frowned. “The magazine? How?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted, tucking it under her arm. “But I’d like to take this copy with me, if that’s alright.”
Morgan looked as if he might object, but Spelling intervened. “I think we should give Sheriff Graves some latitude here,” he said. “Her insight has proven valuable in the past.”
Jenna caught the slight narrowing of Morgan’s eyes, the hint of suspicion there. He didn’t trust her methods, never had. But with Spelling backing her, he merely shrugged.
“Fine. Take it. Just keep me in the loop if you find anything relevant.”
“Of course,” Jenna agreed, her mind already connecting dots that had been scattered before but were now beginning to align into a pattern she could almost see. The idea wasn’t fully formed yet, just a theory taking shape in her mind.
Jenna and her colleagues stepped out of the office into the gym.
As Morgan and Spelling began to confer with other members of the team.
With Jake at her side, Jenna walked over to the mannequin sitting on the weight bench.
She stared again at the mannequin, its glassy eyes staring into the mirror.
Jenna felt that she might be getting a glimpse of the mind behind this meticulously crafted horror.
And her idea of who their killer might be began to come into clearer focus.