All That Remains - R.J. Scott Page 0,3

wanted to know where you stood.”

“Ready to help with whatever you need.”

He paused a moment, and I wondered if he’d had issues with the FBI in a past case because he looked suspicious. I was having a hard time judging him as he glanced over his shoulder to where the other cop stood.

Hennessy, according to his name badge, began to explain. “A dog who belonged to Adam Gray, one of the town’s fringe residents, a survivalist, has turned up and dropped remains on the ground.” He faltered a moment, and like Officer Beiler, he acted as if someone had taken a bag of cement and belted him around the head.

“More remains from the sinkhole?” It wasn't unheard of for animals to retrieve parts or eat them, or other horrible ends to what used to be human.

“No, this is…” He cleared his throat and then made a visible effort to pull himself together. “Unconfirmed, but we have reason to believe, from tattoos, that the remains belong to the survivalist. To Adam Gray.”

I’d seen a case like this before. A man had died in his apartment and hadn’t been found for two months and had been half-eaten by his pets, not a scene I ever wanted to witness again.

“Have you ascertained—?”

“We found the dog and the hand ten minutes ago,” Sawyer interrupted whatever I was about to ask, and I blinked at him. “The dog wouldn’t let anyone near it, apart from Officer Hennessy. Animal control is on their way, but we’ve managed to leash it.”

I fixed on one thing. “I’m sorry. Did you say ten minutes?” My head spun. “You should be shutting down the—”

“We’ve photographed the remains, the…” He stopped talking and stepped aside, so I got my first look at the hand, expecting it to be chewed and raw. I crouched down, and the sleeping dog who now didn't seem all that bothered by anyone’s presence lifted his head and panted. His muzzle was bloody, and his fur matted with both blood and dirt.

“Nothing to worry about,” someone said loudly behind me, and I saw Sawyer’s jaw tense.

“Mr. Sandoval,” Sawyer snapped. “I’d ask that you leave the scene.”

I didn’t turn. Former Captain Peter Sandoval wasn’t on my to-do list just yet. I heard Sandoval muttered a curse under his breath, but he stayed quiet, or left the scene, and I returned my attention to the hand.

This hand hadn’t been bitten and chewed on. It was nearly a surgical cut and horror washed over me—was this a fresh murder? Was it connected to the sinkhole remains? God. If it was, and this was a new murder, then we were facing a whole different ball game in the potential serial murder stakes.

There’s nothing to suggest there is a connection. There might never be a connection. This could be some random ax murderer. And since when was that an option I was pinning hopes on? A current murder, linked to historical deaths, and we’d arrived slap bang into the realm of copycats or even a resurgence of a dormant perpetrator.

“What the hell is going on?” A strident voice broke into our quiet assessment, and I turned to see an older man, all bluster and swagger, in a golf shirt that was way too tight across his stomach and checked trousers that made my eyes water. “Let me through!” the man demanded.

I was closest to him, blocking his way. “You have to stay behind the tape, sir.”

“And you are?”

“Special Agent Lucas Beaumont.” I held up my badge.

“Do you know who I am?” the man snapped. “I’m the mayor of Lancaster Falls, Gerald Stokes.”

He stepped toward the cordon, staring at the hand and the dog and the police. I pressed a hand to his chest. “Stay that side of the tape, sir.”

“I could have your badge for this disrespect.”

I doubt that, you pompous prick. “You can speak to my field office to register any complaints.”

He huffed a little, but behind me, Sawyer was issuing orders “Heather, you have the scene. The coroner will be here in thirty, animal control in ten. Logan, you’re with me." He turned to me then. “Mayor.” He acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath. “Agent, we're heading to Adam’s property. Are you armed? We don’t know what we’re facing.” He didn't wait for me to say whether I was going with them, and I wasn’t there to take over what was happening in town. I wasn’t the big guns. I was the scout, the liaison, the logistics expert. I