CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jenna parked at the Trentville Town Hall and cut the cruiser’s engine. The big old building was quiet when she and Jake entered. Most of the Town Hall’s staff had gone home, with just a security detail on the job. When they reached the mayor’s office Jenna rapped her knuckles against the doorframe.
Mayor Claire Simmons looked up from her computer, her hawk-like gaze instantly narrowing. She wore a tailored navy suit that seemed as unwrinkled at the end of the day as it likely had been at the beginning.
“Sheriff. Deputy. Please close the door behind you.”
Jake complied while Jenna took one of the chairs facing the mayor’s immaculate desk.
“I’ve had seventeen calls in the last two hours,” Claire began.
“The Chamber of Commerce president is threatening to file a formal complaint. Three restaurant owners have reported canceled reservations. And the Founder’s Day committee is in an uproar about potentially postponing next week’s celebration.
All because you issued a public warning without consulting me first.”
Jenna maintained eye contact. “With respect, Mayor, I didn’t need your permission to issue a public safety alert. We have a situation that warranted immediate action.”
“A ‘situation’?” Claire repeated, her voice sharp. “That’s what you call it? Your vague warning about ‘being alert to suspicious contacts’ has this town spinning conspiracy theories.”
“I apologize for not briefing you earlier,” Jenna conceded. “But we’ve been in the field since early morning, and developments have been... rapid.”
“Then enlighten me now,” Claire demanded.
“We found Marjory Powell’s body this morning on Cody Rostow’s farm. She was murdered—asphyxiated with an inert gas, according to our coroner’s preliminary findings.”
“Yes, I heard about that. That’s tragic, certainly. But is this something more than a personal issue of some kind?”
“Before we found her body, we found a mannequin with her face sitting at her kitchen table, wearing her clothes,” Jenna continued.
“A perfect replica, positioned as if she were having morning coffee. And this morning, we discovered another mannequin in Pinecrest—this one resembling Kevin Torres, a local fitness trainer who is now missing.”
Claire’s posture shifted slightly. “Two victims? Two … you said … copies of them?”
“At least two,” Jake added. “In both cases, the mannequins were crafted with extraordinary detail—museum quality, according to a sculptor we consulted. And we have reason to believe there may have been previous victims we don’t know about yet.”
“The warning was necessary,” Jenna said, her tone softening slightly. “We don’t know who the killer will target next, but we know they’re selecting people who’ve recently had some public recognition for career achievements. People who are, in a sense, at their peak.”
Claire stood abruptly, walking to the window that overlooked the town square. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge.
“This is... deeply disturbing.” She turned back to face them. “And you believe this person is still active? Still in our community?”
“We have a suspect in custody in Pinecrest,” Jenna explained. “But I’m not convinced he’s our killer. The murders were meticulous, carefully planned. Our suspect doesn’t fit that profile.”
Claire returned to her desk, sinking into her chair. “These things are happening too often. Local people becoming serial killers … a human trafficking ring … “ She shook her head. “And now a... what do you even call this? A mannequin murderer?”
Jenna recognized the burden weighing on the mayor. For all their differences, Claire Simmons cared deeply about Trentville and its people. Each incident chipped away at her vision of the safe, prosperous community she’d promised her voters.
“People are starting to talk, Sheriff,” Claire continued, her voice quieter now.
“About Genesius County. About whether there’s something wrong with this place.
Tourism is down fifteen percent from last year.
Two families backed out of home purchases last month, citing ‘safety concerns.’“ She gestured toward the window. “This town depends on its reputation.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Jenna assured her. “We’ve caught the killers in previous cases and we intend to capture this one.”
Claire’s gaze fixed on Jenna, suddenly intent and searching. “Some people say that you have a gift for these cases. That you see things others miss.” A hint of desperation crept into her voice. “That sometimes it’s almost like you know things you shouldn’t be able to know.”
“I follow the evidence,” Jenna said carefully. “And my instincts.”
“Well, I need whatever magic you possess right now, Sheriff. I need this killer caught before anyone else turns up as a... a mannequin.”
“We’ll find them,” Jake promised.
Claire nodded, then straightened her already-straight papers. “Keep me informed. Directly. No more surprises, understood?”
“Yes, Mayor,” Jenna agreed, rising to her feet.
As they turned to leave, Claire added, “And Sheriff? Be careful. I don’t want to find a mannequin with your face next.”
The statement, delivered in Claire’s usual clipped tone, nonetheless carried an undercurrent of genuine concern that surprised Jenna. She nodded in acknowledgment before following Jake into the hallway.
Outside the mayor’s office, Jake let out a low whistle. “That was almost cordial by the end. I think you might be growing on her.”
“Nothing like a serial killer to bring people together,” Jenna replied.
“We should check in on Harry Powell,” Jake suggested as they reached his car.
Jenna agreed. When they reached the Powell house, yellow crime scene tape still clung to the porch railing.
Even so, what had been a crime scene that morning—clinical, procedural, crawling with investigators—had transformed back into a home.
Officer Maria Delgado met them at the door, her usually warm features drawn with fatigue.
She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her to speak privately.
“How’s he holding up?” Jenna asked.
"As well as can be expected," Maria replied, her voice low.
"Late this morning, I went to his brother's house and broke the news to him there.
He... didn't take it well, obviously. Collapsed at first, then got angry, then just went quiet.
" She glanced back at the house. "Then he came home, and I came here with him. "
“Has Harry said anything useful?” Jake asked.
Maria shook her head. “He’s mostly been asking the same questions over and over. How did she die? Did she suffer? When can he see her body? The usual things people ask when they’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.”
“And the mannequin?” Jenna asked.
“Removed to evidence lockup, as you ordered,” Maria confirmed.
“We won’t keep him long. Just a few questions about potential connections.”
Harry Powell sat in the living room, perched on the edge of a leather recliner as if ready to bolt at any moment.
His eyes were red-rimmed and vacant, his work attire from the morning replaced by a faded Ozark State University sweatshirt and jeans.
He looked up as they entered, but made no move to stand.
“Mr. Powell,” Jenna began gently, taking a seat on the couch across from him. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I know this is an incredibly difficult time, but we have a few questions that might help us find the person who did this to Marjory.”
Harry nodded mechanically. “Anything.”
Jake remained standing, a respectful distance away, notebook in hand. “Mr. Powell, we’re trying to understand why your wife might have been targeted. We believe her killer may have also been responsible for the disappearance of a man named Kevin Torres from Pinecrest.”
A flicker of confusion crossed Harry’s face. “Torres? I don’t know that name.”
“He’s a personal trainer,” Jenna explained. “Owns Torres Fitness Studio in Pinecrest. Did Marjory ever mention him? Perhaps she worked out there, or knew him socially?”
Harry shook his head slowly. "Marjory didn't exercise much.
She always said showing houses kept her active enough.
" His voice cracked slightly on the mention of his wife's profession.
"And our social circle is mostly other real estate professionals, clients, and neighbors.
I've never heard her mention anyone named Torres. "
Jenna studied Harry’s face, finding only genuine bewilderment there. “What about the Thurman estate sale? Did she meet any new people through that transaction?”
“The buyers were from Chicago,” Harry said, seeming grateful to focus on concrete details. “Corporate executives looking for a weekend retreat.”
“Marjory was featured in an online real estate magazine recently,” Jenna continued. “Keys and Closing. Do you recall her mentioning the photographer? A Marcus Langley?”
“She was so proud of that article. Showed it to everyone.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips before vanishing. “The photographer... yes, she mentioned him. Said he was very professional, made her feel comfortable.”
“Did she maintain any contact with him after the photoshoot?” Jake asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Mr. Powell,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “is there anything unusual that happened in the weeks before Marjory’s disappearance? Any strange phone calls, unexpected visitors, someone showing unusual interest in her or her work?”
Harry stared into the middle distance, searching his memory. “Nothing stands out. She was busy—summer is always their busy season. The Thurman sale meant a lot of new interest from potential clients. Her phone was always ringing.”
They asked a few more questions, but nothing yielded any significant insights. As they prepared to leave, Harry suddenly spoke again, his voice hollow.
“The other man—Torres. Is he dead too?”
Jenna hesitated. “We don’t know yet. But we found a mannequin like the one that was left here.”
“Whoever did this... there’s something wrong with them. Not just evil. Something... broken.”
“We’ll find him,” Jenna promised, hoping she could keep her word.
Outside, the evening had deepened, the last traces of daylight fading from the western horizon. Jake waited until they were in the cruiser before speaking.
“Still no clear connection,” he said, frustration evident in his voice. “We should pay Frank a visit. Maybe he can give us some advice.
“That sounds like an idea.”
As Jenna pulled away from the curb, the question that haunted her wasn’t just who the killer would target next, but how they were selecting these particular moments in people’s lives—these perfect, crystallized instants of achievement that someone wanted to preserve in the most twisted way imaginable.
There was something about Frank Doyle’s house that had always felt like sanctuary to Jenna—perhaps because it was the one location where she never had to hide who she was or what she could do.
Before she could knock, the door swung open.
Frank’s tall frame stood as sturdy as an old oak, silhouetted against the warm light behind him.
“Jenna Marie,” he said. “Jake. You both look like you’ve been through the wringer. ”
“That obvious?” Jenna asked, stepping into the familiar embrace of his home.
“You’ve got that look—the one you get when the world’s showing you its ugly side.”
“Coffee’s fresh,” Frank said, leading them toward the kitchen. “Though you might want something stronger tonight.”
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was a testament to simpler times—sturdy wooden cabinets, a table that had hosted countless meals and conversations, copper-bottomed pots hanging from a rack overhead.
Frank poured three mugs of coffee from a percolator that had to be at least as old as Jenna.
“So,” he said, settling into his chair at the head of the table. “Tell me what’s happening.”
She and Jake took turns recounting all that had happened since Jenna had visited Frank yesterday.
“Mannequins with their faces,” Frank finally said when they finished. “In all my years wearing the badge, I never came across anything quite like that.”
“The attention to detail is disturbing,” Jake said. “And it’s like the killer wants to capture them at their perfect moment.”
Frank nodded slowly. “Sounds like someone who can’t accept the natural flow of life—the peaks and valleys, the inevitable decline. Wants to freeze people at their height.” He looked directly at Jenna. “You’re thinking Morrison isn’t your guy.”
“He has the skills,” Jenna acknowledged. “But when we found him, he could barely stand up straight. The planning, the execution of these crimes—it requires someone in complete control.”
“And your photographer? Langley?”
“His alibis sound solid,” Jake replied. “Workshop during Marjory’s estimated time of death, karaoke bar during Torres’s disappearance.”
Frank’s weathered hands turned his coffee mug in slow circles. “You’ll verify, of course.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Jenna confirmed. “But even if his alibis check out, he’s connected to both victims. He might know something he doesn’t realize is important.”
Frank leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. “Sometimes answers come when you’re not actively looking for them. When the mind can roam free.”
Jenna knew what he meant. Her dreams. The visitations. Marjory Powell had already reached out once—perhaps she would again, with more information.
“I’m counting on it,” she replied softly.
They talked a while longer, Frank sharing stories from his years as Sheriff—cases that seemed impossible until they weren't, moments of insight that broke investigations wide open.
It wasn't just reminiscence; it was his way of reminding them that darkness had touched Trentville before, and the town had survived.
That they would solve this case, as they had solved others.
When they finally rose to leave, Frank walked them to the door. He clasped Jake’s shoulder first. “Keep an eye on her,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “She pushes herself too hard.”
“Always,” Jake promised.
Frank turned to Jenna, enveloping her in a hug. “Trust yourself, Jenna Marie,” he whispered. “The answers will come.”
The drive back to town passed in comfortable silence. When she pulled up in front of Jake’s house, she told him, “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be another long one.”
Jake paused, his hand on the door handle. “You too. And Jenna—” He hesitated. “If you have any... insights overnight, call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”
She understood what he meant. “I will.”
As Jenna drove toward her own home, the prospect of sleep brought a flutter of anticipation. Would Marjory visit again? Would Kevin Torres make an appearance, confirming what they already suspected about his fate? Or would someone else entirely step from the gray void—their killer's next victim?