CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The sheriff's department interview room felt too small for the weight of what they'd uncovered.
Crime scene photos covered one wall—Kane, Mitchell, and Harper in their ceremonial robes, arranged in chambers of ice and stone.
The opposite wall held images from Whitman's cabin: shelves of anthropological texts, detailed maps of cave systems, and notebooks filled with careful documentation of mineral content and temperature readings.
Discovering his cabin hadn't been easy. After finding a gas station receipt in his pocket, they'd accessed the camera footage from the gas station, which showed him heading west on Sheen Street.
Just down the road from the gas station was a bank, but Whitman didn't reach the bank until several hours later, which suggested he may have stopped at a property between those two locations.
There were only a few options, among them an off-grid cabin set well back from the road—a cabin that had been rented out to someone matching Whitman's description.
"The delusion appears to have started three years ago," Dr. Helen Kravitz said, arranging her case notes on the table.
The department's consulting psychiatrist had just finished her initial evaluation of Whitman.
Beyond the room's windows, the late night had become early morning, though none of them felt ready for sleep.
"He was already unstable—isolated, obsessive, prone to finding patterns that weren't there.
The high altitude, thin air, and extended solitude in the caves created perfect conditions for a psychotic break. "
"And the frozen body he found?" Sheila asked. She still wore the clothes from their confrontation in the cave, though she'd wrapped herself in a borrowed sheriff's department jacket to ward off lingering cold.
"A real archaeological discovery," Finn said from where he stood examining a map of cave systems. "We found his original documentation. An Ice Age hunter, perfectly preserved in a mineral-rich chamber. But the voice Whitman heard?" He shook his head. "That's where reality ended and delusion began."
"His background gave him the perfect framework for the delusion," Kravitz added. "Decades studying preservation techniques, specializing in how ancient cultures maintained their traditions through time. When he found that frozen body, his mind created a narrative that matched his obsessions."
Sarah Neville entered, carrying a stack of files they'd found in Whitman's cabin. "These go back thirty years," she said, spreading them across the table. "Journal articles about mineral preservation, indigenous ceremonies, cave archaeology. He was building toward this long before he snapped."
"The robes were key," Finn said, picking up one of the files. "We found Vale's complete records in that storage unit. Whitman spent years tracking down pieces of the Window Rock collection, studying their mineral content. He believed they were specially treated to help preserve consciousness."
Sheila moved to examine the crime scene photos, seeing them with new understanding. "So when he found that frozen body..."
"Everything aligned," Kravitz finished. "His research into preservation, his obsession with maintaining ancient wisdom, his isolation in the caves—it created a perfect storm. The delusion gave him a mission: preserve minds he deemed worthy of surviving through time."
"We found his criteria," Neville added, holding up a notebook filled with Whitman's handwriting. "He monitored academic publications, looking for researchers studying cultural preservation. People who understood the importance of maintaining traditional knowledge."
"Kane was first," Finn said, touching the earliest crime scene photo. "He found something in Whitman's caves—probably evidence of the original frozen body. But instead of seeing it as the archaeological discovery it was..."
"Whitman saw him as the first mind worthy of preservation," Sheila finished. "Then Mitchell, documenting sacred sites. And finally Harper, studying how isolated communities maintain their traditions."
"The ceremonial arrangement, the temperature control, the attention to mineral content—it was all part of his mission," Kravitz said. "In his mind, he wasn't killing them. He was ensuring their wisdom would survive unchanged through centuries."
Neville picked up another file. "We found his research notes from Berkeley. Before he vanished in 2021, he was already showing signs of instability. Obsessing over preservation techniques, convinced that modern society was losing crucial knowledge."
"Then he found that frozen body," Finn said quietly. "And everything he'd been thinking crystallized into certainty."
The room fell silent as they absorbed the weight of it all. Outside, the first hint of dawn began to lighten the sky, though true morning still felt distant.
"What about the caves where we found Kane and Mitchell?" Sheila asked. "How long had he been using them?"
"Years," Neville said, consulting another file. "He mapped the entire system, studied mineral content and temperature variations. Created perfect preservation chambers." She paused. "We found more preparations in other cave systems. He was planning for decades of work."
"A library of consciousness," Kravitz said. "That's how he saw it. Each victim carefully chosen, perfectly preserved, waiting to share their wisdom with future generations."
Sheila stared at the photos, at faces forever frozen in chambers of ice and stone. They had their answers now—the how and why of Whitman's descent into murderous delusion. But those answers couldn't bring back the lives he'd taken in his twisted mission of preservation.
"What happens to him now?" she asked quietly.
"Psychiatric evaluation," Kravitz replied. "Treatment. He'll likely never be free again, but maybe we can help him find his way back to reality."
Light began to seep through the windows, painting the crime scene photos in shades of dawn. Somewhere in a secure facility, James Whitman waited in darkness, his mission of preservation ended in a chamber that would hold neither his body nor his madness.
As the others finally went home, leaving case files and crime scene photos scattered across the interview room like fragments of a nightmare, Sheila stood at the window, watching dawn paint the mountains in shades of promise and threat.
Behind her, Finn gathered empty coffee cups—evidence of their long night of piecing together Whitman's descent into murderous delusion.
"You should get some rest," he said softly.
"So should you." She turned from the window, weary to the bone. The fight with Whitman in the cave seemed like days ago rather than hours. "I can't believe we actually caught him."
"We did." Finn moved closer, his presence steady and grounding. "It's over."
But even as he said it, something nagged at Sheila's tired mind. A memory surfaced through layers of exhaustion—the strange phone call she'd received about her father.
"My father," she said suddenly. "That call I got—someone claiming to be his friend."
She pulled out her cell phone again, trying her father's number. It rang several times before going to voicemail. The familiar gruffness of his recorded voice sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with lingering cold from the cave.
"He's not picking up." She looked at Finn, worry cutting through her exhaustion. "Something's wrong. Dad always answers, or at least calls back quickly."
"Even this early?"
"He's an early riser. This isn't like him."
"When was the last time you spoke to him?"
"Yesterday morning, I think?" She ran a hand through her hair, thinking. "He was going to keep digging into Carlton Vance, see if he could track him down."
Finn straightened, fatigue falling away as he caught her concern. "You want to check his house?"
"Yeah." She was already moving, gathering her jacket. "I know we're both exhausted, but..."
"But it's your father," Finn finished. "Come on. I'll drive."
The sun had fully cleared the mountains as they headed for Gabriel's house. Sheila stared out the window, her mind racing with possibilities she didn't want to consider.
"Tell me about the call again," Finn said as they turned onto the road leading to her father's place. "The one from his supposed friend."
"He wouldn't give his name. Said he had information, but couldn't discuss it over the phone." She rubbed her tired eyes. "Gave me an address—some abandoned farmhouse on the edge of the county."
"Sounds like a setup."
"Yeah." She watched familiar landmarks slide past, each one bringing them closer to answers she wasn't sure she wanted. "But for what?"
Gabriel's house sat silently, the mountains rising behind it like weathered guardians.
His truck stood in the gravel drive exactly where it always did, and nothing seemed immediately out of place.
But something about the stillness felt wrong to Sheila—a silence too complete for a house that should have held her father's presence.
"His truck's here," Finn said quietly, drawing his weapon as they approached the front door.
"And his gym bag's on the porch," Sheila added, unholstering her own gun. The worn duffel sat propped against the wall where Gabriel always left it after training. "He made it home at some point."
The door was unlocked. It swung open at her touch, revealing the familiar interior wrapped in morning shadows. Everything looked normal at first—Gabriel's boots by the door, yesterday's coffee cup on the kitchen counter, his reading glasses folded beside the morning paper.
Then she saw it. The chair is lying on its side in the living room. The lamp knocked off the side table, its shade cracked. Most telling of all—the faint scuff marks on the hardwood floor, like someone had been dragged.
"Sheila." Finn's voice was tight with controlled tension.
"Over here." He stood by the overturned chair, his flashlight beam illuminating a harsh truth—a smear of blood on the wall.
Not enough blood to suggest a fatal wound, but enough to confirm their fears: Gabriel had been taken, and he hadn't gone quietly.
Her world narrowed to that small stain of red, everything else fading to background noise. She forced herself to focus, to think like a sheriff rather than a daughter. "Check the rest of the house," she managed.
They moved through the rooms carefully, but she already knew they wouldn't find him.
Gabriel was gone. Only signs of struggle remained—a broken glass in the kitchen, papers scattered across his desk, a picture frame knocked askew.
The photo within showed a younger Gabriel teaching a teenage Sheila proper kickboxing stance, both of them grinning at the camera.
"His phone's here," Finn called from the kitchen. "And his wallet. Keys too."
Sheila stood in her father's living room, sunlight streaming through windows that had witnessed violence just hours before. The silence felt oppressive now, heavy with implications she didn't want to face.
"The caller," she said, her voice tight. "The one who wouldn't give his name. This is why Dad wasn't answering his phone." Her hands clenched into fists. "They took him."
"We'll find him." Finn's voice carried quiet certainty as he pulled out his phone to call it in.
But Sheila barely heard him. She was staring at the blood on the wall, at the signs of her father's struggle against unknown attackers. Gabriel Stone was one of the toughest men she knew. It would have taken several people to subdue him.
And somewhere out there, those same people were holding him for reasons she could guess all too well. Her father was missing, taken by people who wanted to stop their investigation into her mother's murder.
And Sheila knew exactly where they were waiting for her.