down to examine it. It was dirty, its skin patchy and dry, but there were no cigarette burns or scars indicating the dog had been abused.
The strong scent of moonshine filled the air as Derrick walked toward the barn, and a quick glimpse inside confirmed there was a still. Judging from the odor, Karl Little was brewing apple pie, a favorite in the mountainous, rural parts.
Before he reached the porch, the front screen door screeched open and the barrel of a shotgun poked through the opening. “Stop right there!” a gray-haired man called.
Derrick halted, raising his hand. “Don’t shoot,” he called out. “I just want to talk.”
“We got nothing to say to you. This is my land and if I want to run a still, I aim to.”
“I don’t care about the still,” Derrick shouted. “I need to talk to Karl. Is he around?”
“Sure as hell is. Passed out in the barn. Told that boy to sell the liquor, not to drink it, but he’s been on a binge ever since our daughter’s killer was found. Hasn’t left the farm.”
“I’d like to talk to him anyway.” Derrick knew better than to take the man’s word for it. Parents covered for their kids all the time.
“Sure. Knock yourself out,” the old man said, gesturing toward the dilapidated outbuilding.
Derrick turned and picked his way across the patchy grass, stepping over litter and dog crap. The stench of corn liquor brewing clogged his nostrils, and he breathed out the fumes.
As he neared the building, he kept one hand on his weapon, just in case. Easing open the barn door, he shined his flashlight inside and scanned the interior. No dog cages.
The ground was littered in hay, farm equipment, the man’s still and moonshine-lined shelves in one corner.
“Karl?” he called. “I’m Special Agent Fox, I need to talk to you.”
He inched inside, then heard a noise coming from one corner. A rumbling sound. Walking closer, he spotted a heavyset man in overalls passed out on a ratty blanket, snoring. The pungent odor of apple pie, cigarette smoke and sweat wafted toward him, and one look told him the man’s clothes hadn’t been changed in days.
Losing his mother could well have been a trigger for him to murder. But if he’d been drunk and passed out here for days on end, he wasn’t the killer they were looking for.
Which meant he’d just wasted time chasing another dead end.
Ninety
Thirty miles north of Crooked Creek – Elm Grove
Ellie felt the tension between Cord and her intensify as they parked at Finton’s Final Resting Home, which was in a small community called Elm Grove. She shuddered at the sight of the morbid exterior where Cord had once lived.
She’d seen enough death the last few weeks to last a lifetime. What exactly had he seen growing up? She’d asked him to explain on the drive and he’d completely clammed-up, becoming even more sullen.
The parking lot was empty, and on the front door of the red-brick building was a sign that read “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS”. A blue tarp covered the roof, and building supplies were dotted around. An empty mortuary would be the perfect place to hide hostages or a body until the perp was ready to dump it.
“Tell me the layout of the building,” Ellie said as she surveyed the property.
“The top floor was living quarters for Finton and his wife and however many kids he took in,” Cord said. “The ground floor houses the funeral parlor, with visitation rooms, Finton’s office and a kitchen. The cold room where bodies are stored until he can process them for burial and the prep room are downstairs, in the basement.”
Ellie cringed at the thought of what actually took place between those walls. “I take it the basement is insulated for odor and sound proofing?”
Cord nodded. “You could scream your lungs off down there and no one upstairs would come.”
She sensed he was speaking from experience and her gaze swung to his, goose bumps skating up her arms.
But he stood ramrod straight, his expression grim, a million miles away.
“Let’s search the downstairs first,” Ellie said. “If he’s holding someone here, that’s where he’d keep the bodies.”
Thinking about the Weekday Killer’s victims, she asked, “Did he ever defile the bodies he had in his care?”
Cord made a low sound in his throat. “I can’t talk about what he did, Ellie. Let’s just go.”
“No.” She reached for the doorknob, but it was locked. “If Finton is sadistic, and his son is like him, he