CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jenna turned back to the PowerCore Magazine in her hands and flipped through the feature article on Kevin Torres.
The missing fitness trainer smiled back at her from each professional photograph—captured in perfect form.
Something about these images nagged at her, a connection taking form in her mind.
She glanced up at the mannequin sitting on the weight bench, its glassy eyes staring blankly into the mirror, and felt the first pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.
“Jake,” she said quietly, keeping her voice low enough that Morgan and Spelling wouldn’t hear from where they conferred with the evidence techs across the gym. “Look at these photos.”
He moved closer, peering over her shoulder at the magazine spread. “Professional quality. Good lighting, multiple angles. That’s what your friend Liza said would be needed for someone to create these mannequin faces from photos.”
“Exactly.” Jenna ran her finger along the bottom of a particularly striking image of Torres demonstrating proper form for a shoulder press. “Perfect reference material.”
She flipped back to the article’s title page and pointed to the byline. “Marcus Langley, freelance writer and photographer based in Pinecrest. He wrote the text and took the photos.”
Jake pulled out his phone, already typing the name into a search engine. “Let’s see what else Mr. Langley has been up to lately.”
Jenna continued examining the magazine while Jake worked.
The article portrayed Kevin Torres as a local fitness visionary, highlighting his numerous athletic achievements—marathons completed, powerlifting records, CrossFit competitions.
The text and images worked together to present Torres at the absolute peak of his professional life.
“Jenna,” Jake’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You need to see this.”
He held out his phone, displaying the results of his search. The screen showed a professional website for Marcus Langley, featuring a portfolio of his recent work. Near the top was a startling thumbnail image—Marjory Powell, smiling confidently in her navy blue blazer.
“Coincidence?” she murmured.
Jake tapped the thumbnail, bringing up the full article. “Keys and Closing, an online real estate magazine. Feature story on Marjory Powell after she sold the Thurman estate—a property that had been on the market for over two years.”
“The commission was a career highlight,” Jenna said, remembering both Harry Powell and Darla Fenwick had said about Marjory’s recent success.
“There are plenty of photos here,” Jake observed, scrolling through the article. “A professional headshot, a couple shots of her with the sold sign in front of the property, and lots of others. They’re high quality, professionally lit, and the headshot shows a lot of facial details.”
“Enough reference material for a very skilled artist,” Jenna muttered.
Jake looked up from the phone, meeting her eyes. “So both victims were the subject of feature articles by the same journalist-photographer, both at career high points, both recreated as mannequins after their deaths.”
“And both articles appeared recently,” Jenna added, checking the publication date on the PowerCore Magazine. “Torres’s piece came out just last week. When was Marjory’s article published?”
Jake checked the website. “Three weeks ago.”
Jenna felt the connection solidifying. "Of course, anybody could have found those photos and used them. But we need to talk to Langley. Even if he's not directly involved, he's a common link between our victims."
They moved across the gym to where Spelling and Morgan stood near the entrance, deep in conversation with one of the evidence technicians. Both men looked up as they approached, Morgan’s expression still guarded, Spelling’s more open and expectant.
“Colonel, Chief,” Jenna began without preamble. “We may have found a connection between the victims.”
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted slightly, his first display of genuine interest since their arrival. “What kind of connection?”
Jenna held up the magazine. “The photographer who did this feature on Torres also did a recent article on Marjory Powell for an online real estate magazine. Both victims were featured in professional photographs shortly before they were killed.”
“The same photographer?” Spelling asked, his expression sharpening.
“Marcus Langley,” Jake confirmed, showing his phone screen. “Freelancer based here in Pinecrest. The articles portrayed both victims at career high points—Torres with his fitness achievements, Powell with a major real estate sale.”
Morgan’s skepticism seemed to waver. “You think Langley might be involved?”
“I think he needs to be questioned,” Jenna replied carefully. “Even if he’s not directly responsible, he had contact with both victims recently. He might have information that could help us identify the killer.”
“Or he might be creating the perfect references for his own mannequins,” Jake added.
Morgan considered this, then nodded toward an officer standing nearby. “Reynolds, pull up Marcus Langley’s address.”
The officer moved to a laptop set up on a folding table near the door, typing quickly. After a moment, he looked up. “Got it, Chief. Marcus Langley, 347 Oakwood Apartments, unit 5B. That’s the complex near the university.”
“Jake and I will head over there now,” Jenna said. “Colonel, would you and Chief Morgan continue overseeing the scene here?”
Spelling nodded. “Of course. We’ll finish processing the evidence and share anything relevant immediately.”
Before turning to leave, Jenna addressed Morgan directly. “Chief, have you issued a public warning yet? About unusual or suspicious contacts?”
Morgan frowned. “No, we were waiting to gather more information first.”
“I put out an alert in Trentville this morning,” Jenna told him.
“Just a warning that everyone should be alert to any suspicious contacts. Given that we’re dealing with a killer who seems to have struck in both our jurisdictions, I’d recommend doing the same here.
We don’t know who he might target next.”
Morgan nodded, some of his earlier hostility seeming to fade in the face of the concrete lead. “I’ll have dispatch issue a warning immediately.”
“Thank you,” Jenna said, then turned to Jake. “Let’s go.”
Outside, the late morning sun had climbed higher, burning away the earlier chill. Students and locals moved along the sidewalks, unaware of the darkness that had touched their community. Jenna slid behind the wheel of her cruiser, Jake settling into the passenger seat beside her.
As they pulled away from the gym, Jake voiced a question that also had been forming in Jenna’s mind. “Do you really think Langley could be behind this? He had access to both victims.”
“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted, navigating through Pinecrest’s wider streets. “The photographer angle makes sense. He’d have the perfect reference material for creating those mannequin faces—including shots that were never published. But something about this feels more... complicated.”
“How so?”
Jenna thought about the care with which both bodies had been arranged, the precision of the mannequins’ positioning. “Whoever is doing this isn’t just killing people. They’re preserving them somehow, capturing them at their peak.”
“Like taxidermy,” Jake suggested, then grimaced at his own comparison.
“In a way,” Jenna said, surprised by how apt the analogy felt. “Torres was struck in his moment of professional triumph, right after that magazine feature declared him a ‘fitness visionary.’ Marjory had just made her biggest sale, the article highlighting her success.”
“So the killer is what—freezing them in time? Preserving their ‘best selves’ through these mannequins?” Jake’s voice held a mixture of disgust and fascination.
“Maybe something like that,” Jenna said, turning onto the street that would take them to Langley’s apartment complex. “He could think that he’s honoring them somehow. Immortalizing them at their peak rather than letting them decline.”
Jake shook his head. “That’s some twisted logic.”
“Most killers have twisted logic,” Jenna replied. “They create elaborate justifications that make sense only to them.”
They drove the rest of the way in thoughtful silence, each turning over the puzzle in their minds.
The Oakwood Apartments came into view—a modern, three-story complex that catered primarily to graduate students and young professionals.
The building’s brick exterior and manicured grounds projected an air of modest respectability.
Jenna parked in a visitor space, and they made their way to unit 5B on the second floor. The hallway was quiet at this hour, most residents likely at work or in class. She knocked firmly on the door, her senses alert for any sounds of movement inside.
After a moment, the door opened to reveal a man in his early thirties with dark-rimmed glasses and a thoughtful expression.
Marcus Langley looked exactly like his website photo—slender but strong, with dark hair styled in an artful tousle and a neatly trimmed beard.
He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, both well-fitted but casual.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his gaze taking in their uniforms with mild curiosity rather than alarm.
“Marcus Langley?” Jenna asked, noting his calm demeanor as she produced her identification. “I’m Sheriff Graves from Genesius County, and this is Deputy Hawkins.”
“Sheriff Graves,” he repeated, recognition flickering across his features. “I’ve seen your name in the Tribune. What brings county law enforcement to my door?”
His response was natural, his body language open. Either he was innocent or an exceptional actor.
“May we come in?” Jenna asked. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” Langley stepped back, gesturing them inside. “Excuse the mess. I’m in the middle of editing a project.”
The apartment was part living space and part professional studio.
One half functioned as a typical bachelor apartment—kitchen opening to a small living area with comfortable but minimal furniture.
The other half had been transformed into a photography studio, with professional lighting equipment, a backdrop system, and a desk crowded with high-end computer monitors displaying photo editing software.
What caught Jenna’s attention, however, were the photographs.
Dozens of them covered one wall—candid shots of townspeople going about their daily lives.
A barista steaming milk at a local coffee shop.
An elderly man feeding pigeons in the park.
A woman with vibrant red hair laughing at an outdoor café.
Langley noticed her interest. “My ongoing project,” he explained. “Everyday Heroes of Pinecrest and Trentville. Capturing the moments people are most authentically themselves.”
The images were beautiful, intimate without feeling invasive. Each subject appeared to be caught in a moment of genuine emotion or purpose.
“You’re clearly talented,” Jake observed, examining a particularly striking shot of a firefighter silhouetted against the sunset.
“Thank you,” Langley replied, gesturing toward the small sofa. “Please, have a seat. What can I help you with?”
Jenna remained standing, studying his face as she spoke. “We’re investigating the disappearances of Kevin Torres and Marjory Powell. I believe you knew both of them.”
If she expected shock or distress, she was disappointed. Langley’s expression showed appropriate concern, but not surprise.
“Yes, I heard about Marjory on the radio this morning,” he said. “Terrible news. But Kevin too? I hadn’t heard about that.”
“You wrote feature articles about both of them recently,” Jenna stated, watching for his reaction.
“That’s right,” Langley nodded. “I photographed Marjory for Keys and Closing after her big sale of the Thurman property. And Kevin for PowerCore just last month—that issue came out last week. Is that relevant somehow?”
Instead of answering his question, Jenna shifted direction. “Where were you yesterday afternoon around 2:00 p.m., Mr. Langley?”
If the abrupt question caught him off guard, he didn’t show it.
“Am I a suspect?” he asked.
“Please just answer the question.”
“Of course. Anything to help. I was leading a photography workshop at the Pinecrest Community Center from 1:00 to 3:00 p.m.,” he replied without hesitation. “Basics of Portrait Photography for beginners. We had about fifteen participants.”
“And last night, around 10:00 p.m.?” Jake asked.
Langley smiled. “That one’s easy. I was embarrassing myself at karaoke night at The Tipsy Owl. Must have been there from about 9:00 until closing. You can ask anyone who was unfortunate enough to hear my rendition of ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’“
Jenna and Jake exchanged glances. Both alibis would be simple to verify—the workshop would have a sign-in sheet and likely a group photo, and karaoke at a popular bar meant dozens of potential witnesses.
“We’ll need to confirm those alibis,” Jenna said.
“Of course,” Langley replied easily. “The community center will have my sign-in sheet, and I actually took a group photo at the end of the workshop that I posted to my professional Instagram account. As for karaoke night, well, The Tipsy Owl was packed. The bartender, Max, will remember me—I’ve been going there for years. ”
His confidence was telling. Either Marcus Langley was innocent, or he was several steps ahead of them, with carefully constructed alibis that would be difficult to break.
Before Jenna could press further, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw Chief Morgan’s name on the screen.
“Excuse me,” she said to Langley before stepping slightly away to answer. “Sheriff Graves.”
“Graves, it’s Morgan.” The Chief’s voice crackled with unusual energy. “I know who the killer is.”