Chapter Seventeen #2
I've seen it during our interactions, I've caught glimpses when he thought no one was watching.
There is a calculated restraint behind his casual demeanor, a tension that never fully dissipates.
The way he watches everyone, assessing and filing away information for future use.
The careful control he maintains over every situation, every conversation, like a chess player always three moves ahead.
His witty comments and one-liners serve as perfect distractions, deflections that keep people from looking too closely at what might be hiding beneath the surface.
It isn't just the profile that fits all too perfectly, or the subtle behaviors I've picked up on during our time working together that have raised my suspicions.
After the forensic report came back from the crime scene with shit to go on, except confirming that the charred remains inside the steel box belonged to Pastor Pearson, we found ourselves back at square one with absolutely no viable leads.
Another dead end in a case that seemed determined to remain unsolved.
That night, I decided to stay late at the station, long after the day shift officers had gone home.
Under the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights, I began digging through boxes of dusty old case files stacked in forgotten corners of the records room.
My hope was that there might be unsolved cases that had been overlooked.
Maybe patterns or connections that nobody had made to the Reaper killings but might give us some direction, some thread to pull on.
I decided to go back fifteen years and start my search there, meticulously combing through each folder.
That timeframe would include when Ryan went missing, so maybe I could simultaneously stumble across cases that might connect me to some leads on my brother as well.
Killing two birds with one stone. I flipped through file after file but every unsolved case I came across was a bust. That was until I came across a name on a file that was tucked into the bottom of the first box that immediately caught my attention. Sheriff Derron S. Voss .
Derron S. Voss- Unsolved Homicide- 01-05-12 D.O.A .
The incoming 9-1-1 call was made at 3:02 p.m. from the Voss residence by the victim's son, Silas Voss, 18 years of age. Upon returning from school, the caller found his father unresponsive on the kitchen floor and immediately made the call to emergency services.
The caller was described as distraught, voice cracking, breathing erratic, as he stated it appeared someone had broken into the home and assaulted his father.
Caller stated there was too much blood and he couldn't determine what type of injury the victim had.
Caller was unsure if the victim was still alive when asked if the victim was still breathing, stating he could not detect any chest movement and was unable to find a pulse despite multiple attempts.
The emergency services dispatcher instructed the caller on how to perform CPR.
Caller complied and performed chest compressions until first responders arrived on scene at 3:14 p.m. Deputy Sheriff Campbell, the first responding deputy on scene, stated there were clear signs of forced entry through a rear window, but no evidence of a struggle.
The victim was shot once, execution style, in the kitchen while kneeling, the bullet entering through the back of the skull.
Forensics had recovered partial boot prints at the scene near the victim, men's size 11, that didn't match any residents of the home.
A flash of movement catches my eye. The front door opens and Silas emerges, but not alone as I expected.
There's a young woman trailing behind him out the door.
She's pretty, slender, dark-haired but there is no one close to Voss that I've come across during my investigation.
Silas checks his watch and then locks the door before they both head toward his truck.
I sink lower in my seat as their headlights sweep across the interior of my car. I watch as he pulls out of the driveway, the truck's engine a low rumble, then turns down the road heading in the opposite direction from where I'm parked .
This is it, the window of opportunity I've been waiting for. If I'm right about Voss, I'll find something in that house. Something that will validate all my suspicions.
I watch the red taillights of his truck become smaller and smaller before disappearing entirely down the road. I grab a pair of black latex gloves and double check my lock-picking tools. With one final glance around the quiet area, I take a deep breath and exit the car.
I'll have to be quick. In and out, this isn't protocol. If anyone found out I am conducting an unauthorized search, my career would be over. But some criminals require extraordinary measures to catch them. That brings me to my second problem. When I do catch him, I don’t know whether I should be putting cuffs on him or shaking his hand to congratulate him on a job well done.
The lock on the back door takes only a few seconds to pick.
Inside, sterile order greets me. Not a single dish in the sink, not one item out of place.
The home has an almost sterile, hospital-like feel.
Inside the fridge, containers are lined up and arranged in perfect rows, evenly spaced, as though some obsessive-compulsive nutjob actually took the time to measure each gap with a ruler.
I decide to screw with Voss a little. I shift the mustard bottle in the refrigerator door about one inch to the left.
Then the eggs inside a clear plastic container catches my attention.
Their arrangement is just as meticulous as everything else.
White eggs are positioned in the front row, brown in the row behind them.
I swap one white egg from the front row with a brown egg from the back, quietly snickering to myself the entire time.
I move silently through the house, noting how every surface shines, how every object sits at perfect angles.
His bedroom's sparse, a bed made with military corners.
Two nightstands with exactly one lamp on each, positioned perfectly in the center.
No personal photos, no clutter, nothing that reveals any details about who lives here .
But when I open the closet door, I freeze.
Neat rows of button-down dress shirts and slacks greet me, but it's not just organization—it's pathological.
Everything is sorted by clothing type and then arranged by color in a perfect spectrum, transitioning from lightest to darkest. The hangers are spaced exactly, and I mean exactly, the same distance apart.
This fucker probably did use a ruler to space out the containers in his fridge, and then he brought it in here to measure the exact distance between his pants, to the millimeter.
A normal person doesn't live like this. Normal people have a sock out of place, a crooked hanger, something.
Killer or not, he's fucking insane. And in my experience, this degree of perfectionism typically indicates an individual desperate to manage every aspect of their life because they either never had the ability to control any part of their life from the beginning, or that control was stripped away from them at some point.
The rest of the file offered no more clarity than dozens of others I read, just the impersonal documentation of a life ending and an investigation petering out to nothing. But something gnaws at me about the details.
I carefully checked the dates again. January 5th, 2012 was Silas's birthday. The day he turned eighteen. What are the odds that someone would break into the sheriff's home and execute him on the exact day his son became a legal adult?
I flipped through more pages, finding interviews with neighbors who reported no suspicious activity, no strange vehicles. No murder weapon was ever recovered. No suspects were ever identified. The case simply... went cold.
Then I went over the crime scene photos.
One in particular showed Sheriff Voss face-down on the kitchen floor, a dark pool spread beneath his head.
The position was deliberate, execution style, just as the report stated.
This wasn't a robbery gone wrong or a crime of passion. This was calculated. Personal.
And then I saw it. In the upper righthand corner of the crime scene photo.
The one small detail that most people would miss but is make or break in cases like this.
Sitting on the kitchen table is a vase of white roses.
Fresh and free of imperfections, like they were just bought that day, and I knew I just found my thread.
One little tug and everything unravels for Silas Voss.
Sheriff Derron Voss was the White Reaper’s first kill, but this kill was different from the rest, it was personal—just for him.
I glance at my watch. I've been in Voss's house for nearly ten minutes. I need to wrap this up and get out before he returns. But something pulls me toward the basement door I spotted earlier.
The wooden stairs creak softly under my weight as I descend, the beam from my flashlight cutting through the darkness.
Unlike the rest of the house, the basement seems ordinary at first glance.
Washer, dryer, storage boxes neatly labeled, but the far wall catches my attention.
It's covered by a large bookshelf that seems out of place.
I run my fingers along the edge and feel a slight draft. Gently, I pull at the side of the bookcase, and it swings outward with surprising ease, revealing a hidden room behind it.
The space is small, one wall is covered with newspaper clippings, photographs, and notes, all connected by red string.
Many of the photos have red X's drawn through them, faces I now recognize as previous Reaper victims. Some I recognize as members of the trafficking network I've been investigating.
Some I don't recognize at all. Which means there are a lot more victims than we even know about.
There is a table sitting in the center of the room with a small black box sitting on top.
I open the box and find a collection of polaroids inside.
My heart sinks as soon as my eyes land on the photos.
I know exactly what these are. They are what people use within the network to display the "merchandise" available for purchase.
The photos are passed around from buyer to buyer until a deal is made.
No digital footprint, and unable to be traced to any one person.
Looking through the photos, I notice Voss has made notes on the back of some of them. He's started to identify the men and children in the photos. Not all of them, but it's a start. Killer or not, Voss is a damn good detective.
I flip through a few more, then my blood runs cold and I feel like the floor just dropped out from underneath me.
I blink in disbelief, but it's still there in my hand every time I open my eyes.
It's Ryan, his tiny, terrified face looking back at me from the photo.
He looks older in the photo than the last time I saw him, but he was only six.
It's been so long, maybe I don't really know anymore.
When my eyes land on Ryan's thigh, all the emotions coursing through my body instantly turn into pure rage.
A man's hand is on his thigh. His face isn't in the picture, just his hand and forearm. I quickly flip the polaroid over and see Voss's handwriting scrawled across the back. Deputy Brooks- dead man walking. Boy- unknown.
I stare at the photo, my vision blurring with tears of rage and heartache. Everything I've been searching for, every sleepless night, every lead that went nowhere. It all led here, to Silas Voss.
My hands shake as I carefully place the polaroid back inside the black box. I need to process all of this and what this means so I can figure out my next move, but not now. Right now, I need to get out before Voss returns home.
I quickly scan the rest of the room, taking pictures with my phone, memorizing details, faces, connections. Voss is systematically eliminating people involved in something much bigger than either of us realized.
I slip out of the basement and up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, making sure to lock it behind me.
By the time I make it back to my rental car, my mind is spinning out of control with conflicting emotions.
Voss is a killer—but he's hunting the monsters who took my brother.
The man I came to catch might be the only one who can help me find the answers I've spent fifteen years searching for.
This changes everything.
But it's not just what I discovered inside Voss's home that has me leaving with more questions than answers.
As I drive down the winding road past Voss's secluded property back towards the station, the headlights of my rental cut through the darkness, illuminating the dense trees that line either side.
Something catches my eye, a dark sedan parked just off the road about fifty yards ahead.
It's obscured from the road by overgrown brush, but it's positioned in such a way, someone inside would have a clear view of Voss's driveway.
I slow down and flip my high beams on for a better look.
That's when I see it, a sudden movement inside the car, someone ducking down quickly to avoid being seen.
But they weren't quite fast enough. For a split second, my headlights catch the unmistakable flash of light reflecting off a camera lens.
I drive past, careful not to show that I've noticed anything unusual. In my rearview mirror, I can just make out the shadowy figure rising slightly, resuming their surveillance position.
It appears I'm not the only one wondering what Silas Voss has been up to. The question is who else is watching him, and why? Another law enforcement agency or someone far more dangerous?