CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The tires of Riley’s vehicle hugged the curves of the narrow country road as she followed Chief Peckham’s patrol car.
In the passenger seat, Ann Marie sat with her tablet open, scrolling through Cable Morris’s delivery records.
Behind them in the back seat, Captain Hodge maintained a contemplative silence, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape of rural Springcrest County.
The road narrowed as they left the main highway behind, trees pressing closer on either side. Riley found herself cataloging details—how isolated these stretches were, how easy it would be to intercept someone, how few witnesses might be around.
Peckham’s brake lights flashed red ahead, and Riley slowed as the chief’s vehicle pulled onto a gravel shoulder beside a nondescript stretch of road.
Nothing marked it as significant—no roadside memorial, no visible damage to the surrounding vegetation.
Yet as they stepped out of their vehicles, Riley noticed a remnant of police tape caught on a branch, fluttering in the light breeze.
“This is it?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Chief Peckham’s expression was grim beneath the brim of his department-issue cap. “Cable’s truck was right here,” he said, pointing to an empty patch of gravel. “Facing that direction, engine still running, driver’s door open.”
The scene was unremarkable now. Even the light traffic out here had obscured any tire marks or footprints that might be specific to the crime scene.
But as Riley scanned the area, taking in the tall grass along the roadside, the dense trees beyond, the way the road curved just enough to limit visibility from either direction, she began to get a sense of what had happened here.
“The bicycle was there,” Peckham continued, pointing to a spot in the road about fifteen feet from where they stood. “Child’s bike, small, red, with tassels on the handlebars.”
Peckham pulled out his phone, tapped the screen several times, then handed it to Ann Marie. “These are the crime scene photos I showed you back at the station. Figured you’d want to make comparisons.”
Ann Marie scrolled through the images carefully and Riley moved to look at them too. The photos showed Cable’s delivery truck, a FleetRush Logistics vehicle, parked at an angle as if he’d pulled over quickly. The driver’s door gaped open, and a small bicycle lay on its side in the road nearby.
“You mentioned his keys were in the ignition and his phone was still in the car,” Ann Marie said. “Was anything missing? Personal effects, packages?”
“Nothing we could determine,” Peckham replied. “His wallet was still in the truck, along with his lunch box. Three packages remained undelivered.”
Ann Marie continued scrolling through the images. “And the bicycle—was it reported missing from anywhere locally?”
“No reports matching its description. We canvassed homes within five miles. Nothing.”
Ann Marie handed the phone back to Peckham and pulled out a small notebook. “Would you walk me through it? Show me exactly where everything was?”
As Peckham led Ann Marie around the perimeter of the scene, Captain Hodge followed along with them.
Riley stepped away, drawn to the spot where the bicycle had been found.
She closed her eyes briefly, letting the sounds of the countryside wash over her—birds chirping in the trees, the occasional vehicle passing on a distant road, the soft murmur of Ann Marie’s voice as she questioned Peckham.
Riley tried to reconstruct the sequence of events in her mind.
Cable driving his route, seeing the bicycle, pulling over to check if a child was in trouble.
The moment he stepped from his vehicle, he would have been vulnerable.
No witnesses. No help nearby. Just a man doing the decent thing, walking into a trap.
She opened her eyes and scanned the tree line, looking for signs of disturbance, trying to determine from which direction the attacker might have come.
This was planned, not a crime of opportunity.
The unsub had selected this spot with care—remote enough to work unobserved, but accessible by vehicle.
They’d brought the bicycle as a lure, knowing it would be effective.
The same hollow certainty that had gripped her at Amanda Lindeen’s disappearance site settled in Riley’s mind.
Cable Morris was already dead. She felt it with the same intuitive clarity that had guided her throughout her career.
What remained was to find his body and stop the killer before they struck again.
But as before, this wasn’t something she could share with Peckham or Hodge. Another gut feeling—not evidence.
“The bicycle was clever,” she said instead. “It guaranteed the driver would stop and get out of the vehicle.”
“Different jurisdictions, different victims, but the same MO,” Hodge muttered. “Targeting delivery drivers specifically.”
“People who follow predictable routes,” Riley added. “People who are expected to stop when something seems wrong.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Peckham’s phone ringing. The police chief stepped away to answer it, his posture stiffening as he listened to the caller.
When he returned to the group, his face was grave.
“That was the station,” he said, his voice tight with tension. “Bob Montgomery—local guy, owns the hardware store in Bundydale—was out walking near the old abandoned church on the outskirts of town. Says he found what looks like a fresh grave at the edge of the churchyard.”
The air seemed to still around them.
“Did Montgomery disturb anything?” Hodge asked.
“No,” Peckham shook his head. “Said he noticed freshly turned soil that didn’t look right. Backed off and called us right away.”
“We need to get there now,” Riley said, already moving toward her vehicle. “And you’ll need to secure the scene.”
“Already dispatched two officers,” Peckham replied, matching her pace. “They should be arriving any minute.”
Riley felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with what could be a break in a case. But beneath it lay a darker current—they were likely heading toward confirmation of what she already suspected.
As they returned to their vehicles, Captain Hodge was still following along beside Peckham, asking questions. He turned and waved to Riley, saying, “I’ll ride with along with the Chief this time. You can follow us.”
“See you there,” Riley replied. The two agents got into their car and Riley started the engine, watching as Peckham’s patrol car pulled away from the shoulder with a spray of gravel. As she followed him back onto the winding road, Ann Marie fastened her seatbelt and turned to face her.
“Glad we have a chance to talk,” she told Riley, “You think it’s Cable Morris who is buried there?”
Riley kept her eyes on the road ahead. “I’m afraid so. My gut tells me he didn’t get away from here alive.”
The abandoned church appeared suddenly as they rounded a bend in the road, its steeple rising above a cluster of ancient oaks.
Riley slowed the vehicle, taking in the scene that unfolded before them—two police cruisers parked at odd angles near a rusted iron gate, their lights still flashing in silent urgency against the late afternoon shadows.
Yellow police tape had already been strung across the entrance to the churchyard, where a small group of figures stood in a loose circle, their attention fixed on something beyond Riley’s line of sight.
“That’s Bob Montgomery,” Peckham said as he exited his patrol car, pointing to a stocky man in his late twenties who stood apart from the officers, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.
Riley studied Montgomery as she approached.
His face was pale beneath a light sheen of sweat, and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the nervous energy of a man who had stumbled onto something he wished he hadn’t.
Next to him, one of Peckham’s officers was taking notes, while another secured the perimeter with additional tape.
“Mr. Montgomery,” Peckham called out as they approached. “These are the FBI agents I told you about.”
Montgomery’s gaze darted between them before settling on Riley. “I was just out walking,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. “I come here sometimes. It’s quiet, you know? But today...” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the churchyard.
“Can you show us exactly where?” Riley asked.
Montgomery swallowed visibly. “Officer Davis already knows. I didn’t—I didn’t touch anything once I realized. Just called it in right away.”
Captain Hodge stepped away from the group, phone already pressed to his ear. “I’ll get the forensics team here,” he said to Riley. “We need a controlled excavation. And I’ll let the ME know we might have a recovery situation.”
Riley turned her attention to the churchyard beyond the gate.
The old church itself sat about fifty yards away, its stone walls crumbling in places, windows long since emptied of glass.
Between their position and the church stretched rows of weathered headstones, some tilting at precarious angles, others nearly swallowed by the encroaching grass and wildflowers.
The entire scene was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.
“The disturbed area is over there,” Officer Davis said, pointing toward the far edge of the graveyard where the orderly rows of headstones gave way to overgrown wilderness. “It’s not part of the original cemetery. Looks fresh—soil’s been turned within the last day or two.”
Riley followed his gesture, noting how the location was partially obscured by a large oak tree, visible from where they stood but likely hidden from the road.
“Has anyone approached the site directly?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” Davis replied. “We secured the perimeter and waited for you all to arrive.”
Riley watched as more officers arrived and began establishing a wider security perimeter. The scene was being handled with appropriate care—officers logging identifying details, preserving the integrity of what might prove to be their first major physical evidence.
“Mr. Montgomery, we’ll need a formal statement from you,” Riley said. “But for now, I’d like you to stay here with Officer—” she glanced at the nameplate on the nearest officer’s uniform, “—Briggs while we examine the scene.”
Montgomery seemed relieved to be kept at a distance from whatever lay beyond the iron gate.
Riley ducked under the police tape and followed Ann Marie and Peckham to where Officer Davis had pointed.
Soon she could see what had caught Montgomery’s attention—a roughly rectangular area about six feet long and three feet wide where the earth had been dug up and replaced.
Unlike the rest of the graveyard, no vegetation covered this patch.
Riley’s eyes moved beyond the immediate scene to take in the entirety of the churchyard. There was something deliberate about this location—not just convenient, but chosen with some unidentified purpose.
The graveyard itself told a story. The oldest headstones, near the church, dated back to the 1800s, their engravings worn nearly smooth by time and weather.
Newer stones—though none appeared less than several decades old—formed neat rows that grew increasingly sparse toward the edges.
The maintenance had clearly ceased years ago, allowing nature to reclaim much of the space.
And yet, there was beauty here. Wildflowers bloomed between the graves.
Ancient trees spread protective limbs overhead.
Even as the sunlight faded, casting longer shadows across the scene, there was a strange tranquility to the place.
Riley could understand why locals might find it appealing—remote enough to feel secret, old enough to feel significant.
She moved slowly along the perimeter of the graveyard, observing how the killer would have approached.
No houses within sight. The church itself blocking the view from the main road.
Trees providing cover from casual observation.
It was isolated, but accessible—a perfect location for someone who knew the area well.
The shallow grave’s position struck her as oddly reverent. It was set apart from the oldest graves, yet clearly within the boundaries of the churchyard. Not hidden in the woods beyond, not casually disposed of, but placed with what seemed like deliberation at the edge of consecrated ground.
Riley’ intuition began to crystallize. This wasn’t just a convenient dumping ground. The killer hadn’t selected this spot by chance or mere practicality.
In the distance, she heard Hodge confirming that the forensics team was en route, their estimated arrival time thirty minutes. Ann Marie was methodically photographing the scene with her phone, creating a preliminary record until the specialists arrived with their equipment.
Riley continued her slow circuit of the graveyard, letting the atmosphere of the place seep into her awareness. There was history here—not just in the headstones and crumbling church, but in the very soil beneath her feet. History that meant something to someone.
She stopped at a point where she could see both the grave site and the abandoned church in a single glance. For a moment, she could almost see it as it must have been—a place of community, of significance.
And in that moment, she understood.
The placement of the body, the choice of location—it wasn’t just practical. It was personal. Intimate, even. The killer hadn’t just found a convenient spot to hide evidence of murder. He had brought the victim to a place of meaning, a place that held memories, a place that mattered.
Riley felt the certainty settle within her, heavy and cold.
The killer loved this place.