CHAPTER THREE
Jake slipped under the yellow tape that roped off an area between two abandoned mill buildings.
The body lay sprawled on cracked pavement, surrounded by a cluster of uniformed officers.
Even from a distance, Jake could see the strange red material wrapped around the victim’s limbs—yarn, it looked like, vivid against the pale skin and dark clothing.
“Morning, Deputy,” the officer guarding the crime scene perimeter said as he stepped aside.
Jake nodded, scanning the scene more closely.
The victim lay face-up, arms splayed at unnatural angles.
Derek Sullivan. The man’s face was frozen in an expression of wide-eyed surprise, as if death had come unexpectedly despite the obvious violence of his final moments.
Red yarn wound around his neck, his wrists, his ankles, crisscrossing his torso in an elaborate pattern that reminded Jake of a spider’s web.
A thin man in his sixties stood off to one side, clutching a leash attached to an anxious border collie. The man shifted from foot to foot, his eyes darting between the body and the ground, clearly uncomfortable with his role in this macabre discovery.
Jake approached him first. “You found the body?” he asked.
The man nodded, swallowing hard. “Out walking Buddy here, like I do every morning. Six-thirty sharp.” He gestured toward the dog, who whined softly.
“Buddy started acting strange, pulling at the leash. Then he just took off toward... toward him.” He couldn’t seem to look directly at the body anymore.
“Thought he was a drunk at first, sleeping it off. But then I saw the... the red stuff.”
“Did you touch anything?” Jake asked.
“No, sir. Called 911 right away. Stayed put like they told me.”
“Did you see anyone else in the area? Anyone leaving, maybe?”
The man shook his head. “Not a soul. Place was quiet as a tomb.” He winced at his own choice of words. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright,” Jake assured him. “I’ll need your contact information. We might have more questions later.”
As the man fumbled for his wallet to retrieve a business card, Jake noticed Dr. Melissa Stark, the county coroner, kneeling beside the body.
Her team worked methodically around her, photographing the scene, collecting trace evidence, measuring distances.
Jake had always appreciated Stark’s efficiency—no wasted movements, no unnecessary words.
After taking the dog walker’s information and instructing an officer to get a formal statement from him, Jake made his way to Stark’s side. The coroner looked up at his approach, her expression serious beneath her protective face shield.
“Deputy Hawkins,” she greeted him, her voice carrying the slight rasp of someone who’d spent a lifetime in morgues and laboratories. “Quite the spectacle we have here.”
Jake crouched beside her, careful not to disturb the evidence markers placed around the body. “What can you tell me, Melissa?”
She gestured to the yarn wrapping Derek’s body. “Never seen anything like this before. The pattern appears deliberate, almost ritualistic. But it was placed postmortem.” She pointed to the man’s neck. “Cause of death is asphyxiation. Ligature strangulation, to be precise.”
Jake leaned closer, seeing the deep bruising beneath the decorative yarn. “The yarn wasn’t the murder weapon?”
“No. It’s too soft, too thick. The marks indicate something thinner and tougher.” She gently moved the yarn at Derek’s throat. “Some kind of cord, I think.”
“Time of death?”
“Preliminary estimate, between 1:30 and 3:30 a.m. Rigor is consistent with that timeline.” Stark gestured to the victim’s clothing.
“His attire suggests he was out for the evening. And the smell—” She didn’t need to finish.
The sour stench of alcohol emanated from the body, noticeable even among the other odors of death.
“He was probably at the Centaur’s Den last night,” Jake said, remembering Derek’s history of bar fights and public disturbances. “He could have been walking home from there when he was attacked.”
Stark nodded. “He was heavily inebriated. Blood alcohol content will tell us exactly how much, but it was substantial. Would have impaired his reaction time, made him vulnerable.” She lifted one of Derek’s hands.
“Defensive wounds are minimal. Either he didn’t see the attack coming, or he was too drunk to put up much of a fight. ”
As Stark continued her examination, Jake stood and surveyed the scene again.
The old mill district was a perfect location for an ambush—poorly lit, largely abandoned at night, buildings blocking lines of sight from the main streets.
But this felt different from a simple mugging gone wrong.
The yarn, carefully wrapped around the body, spoke of planning, of ritual.
“What do you make of this?” Jake asked, gesturing to the red decoration.
Stark frowned. “It’s... deliberate. Someone took time with this. See how the yarn forms this pattern across the chest?” She shook her head. “This wasn’t done in haste. Whoever did this spent time with the body afterward, arranging it.”
“A signature,” Jake muttered. “A calling card.”
Stark met his eyes, her expression grim. “If that’s the case, you might want to prepare for the possibility that this isn’t a one-time event.”
He understood her meaning. A killer with a signature was rarely satisfied with a single victim.
Stark clicked her tongue and added, “I guess it goes without saying, things keep getting stranger here in Trentville.”
Jake didn’t argue. It was all too true—and the rising tide of violence during the last few months was a matter of great concern to him and Sheriff Jenna Graves.
“We’ll transport the body to the morgue now,” Stark said, motioning to her team. “I’ll have preliminary findings for you by late afternoon, full report tomorrow morning.”
Jake stepped back, watching as they carefully lifted Derek’s body onto a gurney. The red yarn looked almost festive trailing out of the black body bag—a grotesque parody of gift wrapping. Jake’s phone felt heavy in his pocket; Jenna needed to know about this. But not yet.
He checked his watch. Jenna would have gone to the hospital by now to bring Piper home after twenty years of searching for her.
That reunion deserved to happen without the shadow of a new murder investigation looming over it.
He could manage the initial steps alone, give Jenna these few precious hours before pulling her back into Trentville’s darkness.
The decision made, Jake turned toward Main Street. The Centaur’s Den was only a fifteen-minute walk from here. Aaron Hopper would be preparing to open for the day, and Jake needed to know what had happened in those final hours before Derek Sullivan met his killer.
As he walked, Jake’s mind worked through the details they’d gathered so far.
Derek Sullivan, local handyman, yard-worker, and all-around troublemaker, strangled to death in the early morning hours after leaving the bar.
Body decorated postmortem with red yarn in an elaborate pattern.
No obvious robbery—Derek’s wallet had still been in his back pocket, cash intact.
This wasn’t about money. It was about... what?
The Centaur’s Den came into view, its windows dark, CLOSED sign still hanging on the door. Jake knocked firmly, knowing Aaron would be inside preparing for the day’s business. After a moment, he heard footsteps approaching, and the lock clicked open.
Aaron Hopper stood in the doorway, his massive frame nearly filling it. Despite the early hour, he was already dressed in the bar’s unofficial uniform—black t-shirt, dark jeans. Recognition flickered across his face.
“Deputy Hawkins. Little early for a drink, isn’t it?” His attempt at humor fell flat as he registered Jake’s expression. “What’s happened?”
“Need to talk to you about Derek Sullivan,” Jake said. “Mind if I come in?”
Aaron stepped back, holding the door wider. “Sure.” He led Jake into the dim interior. A single light illuminated the bar area, where a rack of glasses stood half-filled.
“Derek was in here last night?” Jake asked, though he was already sure of the answer.
Aaron nodded, leaning against the bar. “Yeah. Regular customer, though not always a welcome one.” He crossed his thick arms over his chest. “What’s he done now?”
“He’s dead, Aaron. Murdered sometime after leaving here.”
Aaron’s arms dropped to his sides, genuine shock widening his eyes. “Murdered? How?”
“Strangled. Found this morning in the mill district.” Jake watched Aaron’s reaction carefully. “When did he leave last night?”
“Jesus,” Aaron muttered. “Around 1:45, maybe 1:50. We close at 1:30, but he wouldn’t clear out. Had to... encourage him to leave.”
“Encourage him how?”
Aaron sighed. "I threw him out. Literally, he was drunk, belligerent, knocked over some glasses when I cut him off.
He took a swing at me, so I escorted him to the parking lot.
" At Jake's raised eyebrow, he added, "Look, I didn't hurt him.
Just removed him from the premises. It's not the first time. "
“Anyone see this happen?”
“Just the last few customers leaving. Maybe three people still around at that point. Bar was mostly empty.” Aaron shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s dead. I mean, Derek was a pain in the ass, but...”
“Did he have problems with anyone else last night? Arguments, threats?”
Aaron snorted, a sound without humor. “Derek had problems with everyone. It’d be easier to list who he didn’t piss off.
” He moved behind the bar, absently wiping down the already clean surface.
“But yeah, there was one guy. Wearing a blue shirt, didn’t catch his name.
Derek was mouthing off about something to Blue Shirt, trying to pick a fight. I stepped in before it escalated.”
Jake pulled out a small notebook, jotting this down. “You remember what they were arguing about?”
Aaron shrugged. “Not really. Derek was slurring by that point. Something about the guy looking at him wrong. And it wasn’t much of an argument, just Derek mouthing off, as I said.
The guy looked more puzzled than angry.” He paused, remembering something.
“But there was something else you probably should know. Brenda Drummond also came in last night.”
Jake looked up sharply. “The retired teacher? The one who runs that community message board?”
“TownCircle, yeah. She doesn’t drink, just comes in sometimes to gather gossip for her little online empire.” Aaron’s distaste was evident. “Last night she made a beeline for Derek. Pulled him into a booth for a private chat.”
“You heard what they talked about?”
“No, but it wasn’t friendly. She had that look she gets—like she’s got dirt on someone and can’t wait to spread it around. After she left, Derek downed three shots in a row. Seemed anxious.”
Jake made another note. Brenda Drummond was Trentville’s self-appointed moral guardian, documenting every perceived slight or community violation on TownCircle. If she’d had something on Derek, it might hold a clue to someone’s motive for murder.
“What time was Brenda here?”
“Around midnight. Stayed maybe fifteen minutes.”
“And the guy in the blue shirt?”
“Earlier. Nine-thirty, ten o’clock.”
Jake closed his notebook. "Thanks, Aaron. If you think of anything else—anything at all—call me." He gave her his card, though Aaron certainly already had his number.
“Sure thing. And Deputy?” Aaron’s expression was somber. “Derek was a troublemaker, but he didn’t deserve that. Whoever did this...”
“We’ll find them,” Jake assured him, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke.
Outside, the morning had warmed, the sun climbing higher in a cloudless sky. As Jake stepped into the street, he saw the coroner’s van driving slowly past, carrying Derek Sullivan on his final journey to the morgue. He watched it until it disappeared around a corner, then pulled out his phone.
He needed to locate Brenda Drummond, find out what she and Derek had discussed. He needed to identify the man in the blue shirt. He needed to canvass the neighborhood around the crime scene, hoping someone had seen or heard something useful. And eventually, he needed to tell Jenna about all of it.
But first, he needed to understand what he was dealing with. The red yarn, the careful arrangement of the body. Almost like a message.
Jake had seen his share of violence when he’d been a cop in Kansas City, but this felt different. Calculated. Theatrical, even. As if the killer wanted an audience. This one was much more like the very strange cases that kept turning up here in Genesius County.
As he scrolled through his contacts for Brenda Drummond’s number, Jake couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the opening act of something larger—and darker—than a simple murder.
Derek Sullivan might be the first victim, but Jake doubted he would be the last.