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Jenna stood motionless, waiting to hear the Genesius County Coroner’s theory. Kneeling beside the corpse, Melissa Stark stared up at Jenna, her face drawn and pale within the confines of her protective hood. Jenna wondered why she was hesitating.

Then Melissa Stark got to her feet, her hazmat suit crinkling with every slight movement. Pushing off the hood and keeping her voice low, she spoke to Jenna and Jake.

“Based on the lack of other injuries and the expression...” Melissa’s voice trailed off as she gestured to the contorted features frozen on the victim’s face. Jenna looked back at the man’s face again. The corners of his mouth were pulled back in a rictus grimace, his eyes wide with a horror that seemed to transcend death itself.

“I think he likely died from the sheer pain and terror,” Melissa continued, her professional calm fraying at the edges.

Jenna felt a cold shiver course through her despite the morning sun warming her back. It was a chilling assessment, one that drew a dark line between this moment and the countless crime scenes she had overseen in her four years as sheriff.

“Pain and terror,” Jenna echoed, glancing at the expression on Jake’s face. His features reflected little of what he might be feeling at that moment, but he reached out to steady her arm.

Jenna turned her attention to the darkened brand that marred the man’s chest—a twisted tree design etched into his flesh.

Staring down at the brand, she again noted the way each branch tapered to a fine point and how the roots interlaced in an almost ritualistic pattern. This wasn’t the mark of some hastily improvised tool; the branding iron had been custom-made. It revealed a level of premeditation that transformed this act of violence into something even more sinister, something methodical. Whoever did this had planned it, had designed their mark with a specific purpose in mind, and had left it in the most permanent and painful way imaginable.

“Any idea on the meaning of the tree design?” she asked Melissa.

“It doesn’t connect with anything we’ve found so far,” the coroner replied.

Jenna watched as Melissa Stark kneeled by the body again, she and her team working with grim efficiency, marking evidence and taking photographs.

“Symbolic, or maybe a calling card,” Jake Hawkins mused. “Either way, it’s distinctive. If there have been any similar cases, we should be able to find them.”

The coroner’s words still echoed in Jenna’s ears, painting a visceral picture of the victim’s final moments. “Sheer pain and terror” as a murder weapon was something new to her. She could almost feel the pervasive fear that must have clutched at the victim’s heart, a fear so intense it killed as effectively as any blade. A calling card—a concept both terrifying and vital. If this was indeed a message, what was it intended to convey? And to whom?

“Melissa,” Jenna said, her resolve hardening, “I’ll need a full tox screen. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

“You’ll get anything you need,” Melissa said. “Once we get the body to the autopsy room, it’ll get a full workup.”

Jenna followed the coroner’s movements, her eyes tracking the precise collection of samples. She stepped closer to the marked earth where the body lay, careful not to disturb the scene. Her gaze drifted once more to the grotesque mark seared into the flesh.

“And I want a detailed analysis of that brand,” she added to Melissa. “The material used, depth of the burn, anything that might tell us about the tool used or the person wielding it.”

Melissa glanced up and nodded, already instructing her team to collect additional swabs and measurements.

Jenna stood still for a moment, the chaos of forensic activity buzzing around her. She watched as the team, with practiced efficiency, swarmed over the area, collecting samples, photographing evidence, measuring distances. Jenna trusted the coroner’s expertise implicitly. She knew she would get all the information that their current science could provide.

She wondered if she would also get information from other voices—those of the dead who sometimes visited her in her dreams. But she couldn’t control those visitations. Here, in the waking world, she relied on her keen intuition and analytical prowess to make sense of the horrors that humanity was capable of. And right now, every fiber of her being was telling her that this case would unravel into something deeply complex and disturbing.

Beyond this flurry of motion over the corpse lay the vast expanse of the pasture—an idyllic setting marred by the macabre scene at its heart. The contrasting images were jarring; the tranquil serenity of the countryside clashed with the calculated brutality inflicted upon the victim.

As the team set to work on the new directives, Jenna allowed herself a moment to lock eyes with Jake, sharing a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of their task. His gaze was steady, betraying none of the revulsion they all felt, but Jenna caught a flicker of tension in his eyes. It was more than just professional concern; it was personal. This brutality had invaded their jurisdiction, a stark reminder that even in the most bucolic settings, darkness festered.

“Jake,” she said, “let’s talk to the ranch hand who found the body.”

Jake nodded and led the way to a lone figure standing by the fence line. The ranch hand seemed frozen in time, his features etched with shock and horror at what he had stumbled upon this morning. His weather-beaten face was creased with worry, and his eyes were filled with sorrow.

He seemed to embody the very essence of Genesius County, wrought with sorrow and shock. There was no escaping the gravity of what lay beyond the tranquil facade of rural life—a stark reminder that evil did not discriminate by geography.

As they got closer, Jenna took note of the man’s sturdy build and calloused hands, signs of hard work and dedication to his job.

“Mr. Rodriguez,” Jake said, consulting his notebook. “This is Sheriff Jenna Graves, and I’m Deputy Jake Hawkins. We appreciate your willingness to help us understand what has happened here.”

Jake’s words pulled the ranch hand from his reverie, his gaze moving back and forth and then settling on Jenna with a bit of trepidation.

“Miguel,” he said in a thick accent. “Just Miguel.”

Jenna saw that the man before her was marked by years under the sun, his skin like leather, creased from time and toil. “Miguel,” she said, “I know it has been a difficult morning. Please tell us how you happened to find the body.”

“I was out early, checking on the cattle,” Miguel’s voice wavered. “Thought I saw something by the fence.” His eyes flickered away, as though the mere memory was a force he could not face head-on. “Figured it was a calf that got stuck or something. But then...” He trailed off, his gaze lost somewhere in the vast expanse of green.

Jenna took a step closer. She knew the importance of gentle guidance through the fog of trauma. “What did you see, Miguel?” Her voice was soft, though it carried the weight of authority.

Miguel’s eyes met Jenna’s, then words stumbled from his lips, heavy with the burden of his experience. “It was...a person.” His shoulders tensed as he recounted the realization, the shift from routine to nightmare. “And then I saw...it was Clyde Simmons.”

Jenna listened intently, noting each inflection in his voice, the nuance of his expression. Encouragement was her best tool, wielded with precision and care. “It’s okay, Miguel. Take your time,” she urged, her voice soothing. She understood that for those who stumbled upon scenes of violence, the aftermath was a wound that time struggled to heal.

“I’ve known Clyde for years,” Miguel continued, shaking his head as if to negate the reality before him. “He could be a hard man, but this...” His voice cracked, the facade of composure giving way to raw anguish. “Nobody deserves this.”

Jenna absorbed his words, the image of the man forming in her mind not as a mere victim, but as a person whose life had woven through the fabric of this community. A man who, despite his flaws, was part of the intricate web that held this county together. And now, cut tragically from that life, he had left a void filled only by questions. Clyde Simmons, once a pillar of the community, had been reduced to a name whispered in horror and disbelief.

“Did you see any vehicles when you arrived?” Jenna asked Miguel.

“No, ma’am. Just Clyde,” Miguel replied, his hands clenched as if he could still feel the morning’s grim discovery. “But it looked like a truck was here earlier.”

Jake spoke up, “There are tire tracks leading away from the scene. And of course the killer would need to move his … equipment.”

“That’s right,” Miguel agreed.

“We should follow those tracks now,” Jenna added. “Try to get an idea of the truck’s path through the pasture. Before they get obliterated by all this other traffic.”

“I’ll show you,” Miguel said. He turned away and walked toward the line of tracks they had noted, ones that led away from the scene in a different direction from those that had recently arrived.

Their strides fell in sync as they traced the path marked by the imprints, a physical manifestation of the intruder’s path. Jenna’s keen eyes examined the depth and tread pattern, noting their consistency with a vehicle that had departed in haste. Miguel led the way, and Jake kept pace, his presence a quiet reassurance beside her.

Those tire tracks led with apparently ominous intent toward an altered boundary. Miguel’s stoic figure loomed stopped and turned toward them, pointing to a fence line where once sturdy wires now dangled, cleanly severed.

“Precision,” Jenna thought, crouching down to examine the evidence. The incision was made with confidence and purpose, not the desperate sawing of a hurried trespasser. “This was well planned,” she murmured, running a gloved finger along the exposed edge of the wire. It spoke volumes without uttering a single word; the intruder knew the Hartleys’ property as if it were their own.

The three of them stepped carefully across the line and followed the tracks to where the line of trees marked the end of the pasture and the beginning of wilder terrain. The tracks there swerved through the underbrush, then reached a country gravel road. And there they faded away.

“There should be some sign of which way the truck turned,” Jake observed. He scanned the road beyond the tree line, the forest standing guard over its secrets.

“I don’t think so,” Miguel commented. “They knew exactly how to cover their trail. They stopped and brushed away their tracks going onto the road.”

Jenna’s mind churned—methodical, calculating—the pieces of this malignant puzzle beginning to take terrifying shape. She cast a glance at Miguel, who had crossed his arms, his brow furrowed under the weight of the morning’s grim revelations.

“Thank you, Miguel,” Jenna said, her gratitude genuine. “You’ve been a great help.” She offered him a reassuring touch on the shoulder, a silent promise that his ordeal in bearing witness would not be in vain. “You should go home and rest now.”

“We may want to talk to you again later,” Jake added.

“Thank you,” Miguel replied. “But I’ve got other duties … and no one else is doing my job.” With a few parting words and an offer to help however he could, Miguel took his leave.

Jenna prepared to delve into the difficult conversations that lay ahead. “Let’s walk back,” she suggested. “We need to talk to the family that lives on this farm.”

As they retraced their steps across the pasture, Jake asked, “What do you think about Miguel?”

“I don’t think he killed the man,” Jenna replied. “At least I don’t see any sign in him that would favor a method like branding to dispatch an enemy. To kill with fear and pain must require a special mentality. Or a lack of some ordinary human quality.”

“Agreed,” Jake replied. “Do you think he’s told us everything he knows?”

“At this point, I can’t be sure about that,” Jenna mused. “But we have way too many questions: Why here? Why now? And why Clyde Simmons?”

“And is there going to be another one like this?” Jake added.