Page 58 of Obsession

It soon makes sense why we parked so far away. This place is swarming with reporters, police, and curious members of the public. Elliot has to charm his way past the very grumpy officer in the front who has spent the better part of the day keeping the public away.

I have to give it to Elliot. As insufferable as he is, he’s efficient, knowing where to squeeze in to get the best pictures. I take a few, too, with my camera, but my skills with photography are nothing to shout home about. Writing is where I shine.

“I’d like to get closer to the crime scene,” Elliot grumbles. “They’re not letting anyone get too close, but I have this…” He clicks a few buttons on his camera and shows me a picture of blood spots in the snow.

My eyebrows pull low. “Are the police aware of those?”

Elliot shrugs, already scouting out who to try to interview next. I get shouldered to the side when a forensic pushes past, dressed in white, goggles on.

“Go see if you can get that officer over there to share any information,” Elliot instructs, pointing toward a man with a mustache and a pair of aviator glasses like this is a bad cop movie.

I turn back to reply, but Elliot is already gone. Looks like I’m interviewing the man across the field.

Trudging over, I offer him my best smile, watching his mustache twitch as he sniffs. “Hi there, I’m Savannah from Atley Hill News.”

His jaw works, chewing gum like he’s trying to win an award. “Aren’t you a little young to be a reporter?”

The smile I offer him now is not quite as friendly. “Good genes. What can you tell me about the murder?”

“The same as I told the fifty reporters before you.” Pinching his glasses, he slides them down the bridge of his bumpy nose and peers at me. “Female in her early twenties. A member of the public found her head dangling from the bridge.”

I blink, then jump into action, rooting through my pockets for my notepad.

The officer looks unimpressed.

I finally pull it out, placing my pen to the creased paper, writing furiously. “And the rest of the body.”

“Still missing.”

I pause. “Missing?”

His padded coat rustles as he points a leather-gloved finger toward the bank beneath the bridge. A white tent hides it from view. “He severed the head over there. Nasty business. Lots of blood.”

My heart thuds heavily as I bring my attention back to the officer. I clear my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. “There’s snow on the ground. If he removed the body, which he obviously did if it’s not here…” I’m babbling. “Wouldn’t there be blood trails or drops or something leading away from the crime scene?”

“He most likely wrapped the rest of the body in sheeting to cover his tracks.”

“What about shoe prints leading to and from?”

“It snowed this morning before the head was discovered.” He leans in close, as if to share a secret, and I hold my breath, riveted by the look of excitement in his eyes. “We have cause to believe he’s deceiving the investigators.”

“Deceiving how?”

“Using shoes that are too big for him to make it more difficult to profile him.”

My eyes widen.

The officer slides his hand into his pocket and removes a toothpick. I almost roll my eyes at how cliché he is. But maybe I’m cliché, too? A young, naive reporter who’s out here prying for information to impress her boss.

I’m getting tired of myself.

“How can they tell that the killer is wearing shoes that are too big for him?”

“Well…” The toothpick slides left and right between his teeth before he smirks. He takes it out and says, “Because of the weight distribution on the sole print. While the snow this morning didn’t help the forensics, we still have enough to go by to compare what’s there with the shoe prints at the previous murder scenes.”

I write furiously, nodding along. “And he’s escalating, right?” I look up. “The killings are happening more frequently. Becoming more inventive.”

“That’s right.”