“Something about the case. He said there’s a piece of the puzzle you’re missing.”
Twenty-One
The backlash against the Lake Sanguis Sheriff’s Department was vicious. People all around the nation were giving one-star reviews for detaining Aaron Russo.
—Crime Hivepodcast
Russo was playing games, and I didn’t want to encourage him, but there were parts of the case that didn’t line up, and he was the only one with answers.
“This is a bad idea,” Jude said as he drove me to the sheriff’s station, gaze flicking nervously to his rearview mirror.
“He’ll be restrained,” I pointed out. “I should be perfectly safe.”
“I still don’t like it,” Jude said. He inched his white Volvo along Main Street, slower than usual, as we neared the sheriff’s station. Media satellite trucks clogged the street, and several news reporters were recording their stories with the police station as their background. A crowd of Canceled Killer fans jammed the sidewalk in front of the jail holding hastily made signs with marker and glitter.
FREE RUSSO NOW!read one.VIGILANTE HEROread another. And at least two saidMARRY ME, RUSSO!,one outlined in pink glitter paint.
I didn’t recognize any locals among them, so they were all out-of-towners. The streets, normally deserted this time of year, were lined with cars with out-of-state plates.
“Who are these fools?” Jude asked as he gripped the steering wheel.
“Fans,” I said. “See their shirts?” Most of them were wearing hoodies or tees with the three skull emojis. “The Canceled Killer had a lot of fans.”
“But he’s a murderer.” Jude looked astonished.
“Yeah, but as long as he murders people they don’t like, then they’re all fine with murder.”
“This is what’s wrong with America,” Jude said as he scowled at the cramped streets. “Bloodthirst and a complete lack of decent parking.” He nodded to the line of cars on each side of the street.
“You can just drop me.”
“I should go in with you,” Jude said.
“I’ll be okay,” I said. We exchanged a glance. Reluctantly, Jude gave me a nod. “Let me out here.”
He slowed down near the front of the station. I gingerly got out of the car and grabbed my crutches from the back seat. I slung my bag over my shoulder and hobbled toward the front door.
“Hey! That’s Ella Takeda!” one of the Russo fans shouted.
“Boooo!” someone else shouted. A chorus of more jeers followed.
“He’d be free if it weren’t for you!” another cried.
These people were in deep. Deeper, even, than before, now that they knew their killer was hot and spent six out of seven days at the gym.
One of the women asking Russo to marry her dropped her sign and stalked over to me.
“You’re a terrible person,” she shouted at me, flipping a long strand of blond hair off her shoulder.
Iwas the terrible person? Say what now?
She tried to grab one of my crutches. I tried to hang on to it, but she whisked it out of my hand. That’s when Hector Martinez, on crowd control duty, saw me and rushed over.
“Leave her alone!” he said, separating the woman from me. “Back up!” he shouted to her and a few others who seemed to want a piece of me. He swiped my crutch back from the protestor who’d taken it. “Off the grass!”
The protestors took a few steps back, frowning at him.
Hector opened the door for me, and I hobbled into the police station, where Oscar was standing near the intake counter.
