Chapter Text
Matthew turned off his rental and leaned back in his seat. For a long, silent minute, he just sat, eyes unfocused.
It was too quiet. All he could hear was the metallic ticking as the car's engine began to cool after the long drive from the Phoenix airport. That drive had been just as uncomfortably quiet, where normally the trip would have been filled with the usual back-and-forth chatter with Talbot about their destination and their upcoming case.
But Talbot wasn't here. He was on his own for this one.
He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to focus on why he was here. Trying not to think about the very real possibility that he'd worked his last case with Talbot, that maybe this would be his last case with the FBI.
That maybe his time as Matthew McCormick was coming to an end.
It was too soon to be sure about anything. He hadn't even spoken to Talbot since she'd taken her unexpected leave—since the day she'd seen him die and revive—and he couldn't know yet what she'd think or do. All he could do was take it a day at a time, and try to focus on the case he'd traveled here to investigate.
He let his hands fall into his lap and leaned forward, peering out at the collection of worn buildings surrounding the tiny lot where he'd parked.
The town of Wagon Stop's police precinct was directly in front of him, a small building with only a narrow sidewalk running between that and a larger, unmarked structure beside it. The post office was on the other side of a postage stamp of a courtyard, and the courthouse just across the quiet, two-lane street.
Maybe it was better Talbot wasn't here for this one, he thought wearily. This place was reminiscent enough of Moss Grove to pull up uncomfortable memories. After the disturbing case and unfriendly reception they'd faced there, he wondered if this place might make her nervous. She hadn't had a good time in Moss Grove even before the town's attitude had turned against them, and they'd found themselves being chased through the woods by an angry mob.
He sighed and got out of the car. It was quite a bit warmer here than in DC, and the air was almost uncomfortably thin and dry. His drive up from Phoenix had taken him through increasingly alpine surroundings and endless tracts of evergreen forest that had done little to diminish the intense sunlight and unseasonable heat. Especially here in town, the warmth radiated up off the dusty asphalt, and sweat began to prickle his skin beneath his clothes.
On principle, he was actually fond of towns like this. He'd spent a great many very happy years in similar places, especially in his last lifetime with Judy and Sam. This town reminded him a little of his home with them, in truth. They'd been in New Mexico, not so far from here at all, and close enough to the Rockies that the gray-and-tawny stone and the towering evergreens of the region were familiar. He was nearly certain he could detect the smell of ponderosa even now.
Realistically, though, he was a stranger here, and he'd gotten a very pointed reminder of just how volatile a situation that could be in Moss Grove. They hadn't dealt much with the local cops then, but it would be different here, and he knew the sort of law enforcement places like this tended to produce.
He was going to have to tread carefully here, especially given he was on his own for the moment. The local police had deliberately called the Bureau for help, so he hoped that would smooth at least a few ruffled feathers, but he didn't want to inadvertently step on any toes if he could avoid it. He wasn't here to make waves.
At least, he consoled himself as he approached the little precinct, this case was nothing at all like what they'd seen in Moss Grove. No mysterious heads in jars, no sinister discoveries in abandoned houses. Just a handful of straightforward murders by firearm, spread out over the course of almost a year. Long enough that it hadn't even been designated as a serial case, until recently.
Not that that was technically any better than what they'd found in Moss Grove, but the public attitude would be wildly different. It felt a great deal less like he was walking into a scene from a horror movie, this time.
He tugged his jacket straight as he approached the precinct, raking his hair back absently with his fingers. He'd been on a plane for a couple of hours, and in the car for a couple more, and whatever first impression he made with the local police was going to stick to him like glue for the rest of his time here. Best he look reasonably put together, no matter how distracted he was by the last few weeks.
He stepped through the main door and, not for the first time, found himself thinking that officers seemed to get younger and younger every year. The one sitting behind the desk—A. Ocasio, according to his gleaming brass name tag—looked about fifteen to Matthew's eye, though he must have actually been closer to twenty. He couldn't help but compare Ocasio to those young troopers he'd encountered at Emery's office, all those weekends he'd been there hunting for Keller.
He stamped hard on that thought, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. Keller was out of reach for now, and whatever sort of limbo Matthew was existing in now as a result of that hunt, he still had a job to do here. He needed to keep his mind on that.
"Good afternoon," he said to Ocasio, forcing himself to speak politely. "I'm Agent Matthew McCormick, with the FBI."
Ocasio stared at him blankly for a minute. "Oh," he finally said, and then, "Oh! Right! You're here to consult about the. . . right, yeah, if you'll, uh. . ."
Despite his black mood, Matthew had to suppress a smile at the young officer's awkwardness, only waiting in polite silence as Ocasio visibly pulled himself together. "If you'll come with me, sir, I can introduce you to our detective on the case," he said formally, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing down a hall that led off the entryway. He was maybe an inch or so taller than Matthew, sharp-faced and dark-haired, and his motions still had a gangly sort of air that made him seem even younger.
Matthew gave a grave nod of his own, his expression carefully calm as he followed, working not to show his amusement too openly. He appreciated Ocasio's energy, as clearly off-balance as he was. It was a welcome distraction from Matthew's own thoughts.
They made their way through a set of double doors and into what amounted to the precinct's bullpen. It contained a whole four desks, and at least one of them was clearly not in regular use. There were a couple of uniforms present, and a couple of folks he couldn't immediately place in any particular role, and the whole space had an sleepy sort of air.
His entry drew some looks, but aside from offering a polite nod Matthew ignored them in favor of following his guide. Ocasio made a beeline for one of the occupied desks, stopping smartly next to it and nodding to the man who sat behind it when he looked up to see what was going on. "Sir," he said, speaking formally "This is Agent McCormick, with the FBI. Agent, this is Detective Gary Morris."
Detective Morris was almost exactly what Matthew would have expected. Middle-aged, with a build and an economy of motion that indicated he knew how to handle himself, but he was not aging gracefully. What little hair he had was a patchy mix of sandy and gray, and clipped close in what Matthew guessed was an effort to hide just how thin it was getting. Nothing much would work to hide the beginnings of pouchy jowls or the thickening gut, but such was age.
For most, anyway.
Morris rose to his feet, shooting Ocasio a somewhat exasperated look. "Nice to meet you," he said, swinging his hand around in a wide arc to shake Matthew's. "Most people call me Smoke, actually, I prefer that." He fixed Ocasio something just a little shy of a glare, but then grinned at Matthew's raised eyebrow. "Nickname from the good ol' high school football days, ya know? Just kinda stuck."
Matthew gave a vaguely pleasant smile and a noncommittal nod. The detective's hand was large and rough, and his handshake was just a little too aggressive, a little too tight. Between that and the slightly forced, overly toothy grin, he could make a guess as to the detective's attitude.
Morris was not thrilled that the FBI was nosing around his territory.
Matthew had encountered that sort of attitude before, the false cheer veiling subtle attempts at intimidation. It happened a lot, especially in insular precincts like this, used to their own people and their own way of doing things. He wasn't surprised to find it here, and he suppressed a sigh. The last thing he needed was for this to turn into some kind of competition, and he suspected there was a chance the detective would try to do just that if he felt like he had something to prove. It wouldn't be the first time Matthew had been forced to contend with that.
At least Morris was making the effort to be polite.
Matthew kept his own handshake firm but polite, his own smile close-lipped. "Pleasure's mine."
The detective gave a nod and glanced at the officer. "Anything else, Ocasio?" he asked, a clipped edge to his tone.
Ocasio came to attention, something that might have made Matthew smile if it hadn't been for Morris' clear irritability. He murmured his thanks the Ocasio when the young officer retreated, but kept his eyes on Morris, watching him sidelong. No, Morris wasn't thrilled about this situation, even if he was putting on a—mostly—polite face about it. He wondered if Morris' attitude toward Ocasio was entirely based in resentment that he'd been the one to introduce Matthew, or if there was some sort of history there.
"Well," Morris said once Ocasio had vanished, clapping his hands together and facing Matthew directly, doing his best to draw himself up as tall as he could despite the couple of inches Matthew had on him, "Guess we should get into it. Let me dig up my files."
Despite Matthew's misgivings, Morris was more or less a professional when it came to the case, if not exactly a creative thinker. Even just from their brief acquaintance Matthew didn't much like him—he was a little too loud, a little too conceited, a little too ready to brag and exaggerate his own prowess—but he'd worked with people he didn't like plenty of times in the past. And even if Morris wasn't the most inspired detective he'd ever encountered, he did seem to know what he was doing. He had files set aside for each of the victims in the current case, with his own notes added in.
Matthew had tried to get himself as up to date as he could on the case before his arrival, but he hadn't had a lot of warning before being flown out. It had been only a few days since Keller had escaped him, since Talbot had taken her leave. He'd looked over the brief the Bureau had received on the case, but it had been difficult to focus on it. Forcing the matters of Keller and Talbot's discovery of his Immortality to the back of his mind was one of the harder exercises in mental control he'd had to undertake in some time.
The brief only covered so much, anyway, and Morris' files were much more comprehensive. It was still hard to focus, and he kept reflexively wanting to ask Talbot's opinion on some personal connection, some piece of physical evidence. She had a skill for noting intersecting details, for spotting patterns that he might have missed. Again and again he forced his thoughts to putting together his own notes on the case instead, hunting for any connections between the murders, any small details in the files that Morris might have missed. It would have been easier with Talbot, but he'd done work like this on his own for centuries. It was just a matter of settling back into it without the assistance of a partner, he told himself.
There were five victims so far, all shot, all with different weapons. It partially explained why it had taken so long for them to be recognized as serial murders. That, and the fact that the first couple had been spaced out over the course of months.
So many murders in such a small town was already suspicious, though, and there were other similarities. All the victims had been moved after they'd been killed, and no primary crime scene had yet been discovered. Somebody knew what they were doing, when it came to concealing evidence.
"The acceleration is disturbing," Matthew told Morris as the day crept on into evening. "Almost a year ago, for the first murder; months between that and the second; and then these last three happened much more quickly. The spacing between them has been steadily diminishing. That seems like cause for concern." He rubbed his mouth, staring down at the files. "Do we know for sure that first murder is truly the first one? Is it possible an earlier one was missed?"
Morris, for all that he'd been more patient than Matthew might have expected in going over case files he likely already knew well, shrugged listlessly, propping his chin in his hand and resting his elbow on the desk. "We're pretty sure, but I guess it's possible. We've been going through older cases. There's a couple others that could be related, I guess, but they're all far enough back that it's hard to know for sure. Multiple years. And they don't fit the other specifics, either. Bodies weren't moved, for one." He straightened up and leaned back in his chair, making it creak under him. "I don't think they're worth looking at. Just a couple of isolated deaths, nothing to do with this."
"I'll want to see those files, as well, anyway," Matthew murmured, staring down at the spread of papers laid across the desk between them. In this case, at least, he was inclined to believe Morris, but he wanted to be certain. Serial murderers were certainly capable of evolving their strategies, and he didn't want to miss something by not being thorough. "Speaking of, I'd hoped to see more on the autopsy findings. I assume your medical examiner has his own notes on everything? I'm not seeing more than bare-bones autopsy reports included here."
Another shrug, and he didn't miss Morris' slightly sour expression. "Yeah, but we've got all the important stuff here. Don't know what else he could tell you that you haven't already seen."
Matthew narrowed his eyes slightly. Was Morris just tired, or did he for some reason want to keep Matthew from speaking to the medical examiner?
Or maybe Matthew was just being paranoid. These last few months, it had been harder and harder for him to tell when he was over-analyzing a reaction like Morris'. His ordeal at Lamar's hands and the lack if breathing room he'd had since made that paranoia even more automatic than normal.
As with the older cases, though, he wanted to make sure he was being as thorough as possible, and autopsy reports were a vital part of any investigation. "Even so," he began with a hint of hardness in his voice, "I'd like to speak to him."
Morris' mouth twitched in the beginnings of a scowl. "Now?"
Matthew glanced at the clock on the wall. It was getting fairly late, but. . . "If he's still available for the day, that would be ideal, yes."
Enough people had died here already. The more he could put together now, the more comprehensive a start he could get on this, the better.
Besides, he wasn't keen on going to his hotel and staring at the ceiling while the events of the past few weeks circled through his head over and over again.
Morris glanced at the clock as well, giving a long, unhappy sigh. "Should be," he said, sounding almost petulant as he pushed himself stiffly to his feet. "Guy doesn't have a life. He's either here or out playing with his camera. Doesn't socialize, so I can't imagine he's got anywhere else to be." He started gathering up files, his irritation clear in his sharp, careless movements. Matthew moved to help him, watching him subtly.
Perhaps Morris' reluctance to go see the medical examiner stemmed merely from personal dislike. His comment made it clear enough that there was no love lost between them.
Morris didn't seem to have terribly kind feelings toward a number of his fellows, though Matthew's sample size was admittedly small. Ocasio, the medical examiner. . .
He gave a quiet sigh of his own as he followed Morris out of the room. He did not want to land in the middle of contentious office politics while he was here. Between Keller's escape, Talbot's discovery, and the lingering uncertainty about Lamar's background, he was dealing with enough uncertainty in his life as it was.