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“What the hell?” she asked herself.
She moved closer, inspecting some of the documents. A forensic psychology textbook called The Methods of Monsters. A newspaper article on the Eliza Matthews murder. A drawing of a diagram with the names of the recent murder victims at the center.
“Good God,” she said.
Just above the desk, pinned to a board, were around fifty pages of handwritten notes. At a quick glance, she saw talk of the recent murders and how they were the work of a misunderstood genius. She saw descriptions of the crimes in detail – much more than the average newspaper-reader would be aware of.
This was evidence. More than enough. Chuck Pierce was their killer.
Suddenly, orange light bathed the room. Ella turned to see her partner at the threshold.
“He’s not here,” she shouted. “He’s slipped out. How the hell has he done that?”
“Back door?” asked Ella.
“Nothing. Only one way in or out. I’ll call Cromwell and get backup over here. What the hell is this?” Ripley asked as she scanned the desk.
“Obsession. Narcissism. He’s collected newspaper clippings. He’s written about the murders at length. This is our man.” Ella picked up a few of the papers and read them through. It was more of the same long-winded ramblings he’d sent in his letter to the police. Discussions of murder, drawing parallels between religion, politics, poetry, literature, history.
Then Ella reached a page that made her stop, think, and recall something from that morning.
At the center of the page was a circle, and inside the circle were the words: THE CRAWLER.
The page was something of a brainstorming session, with various notes stemming from the circle. Ella crumpled it and put it in her pocket for now.
“Forget this. We need to find this guy. He can’t have gone far.”
They moved to the front door. Ripley stayed guard while Ella did another tour of the house. No other exits. No open windows. It was just a kitchen and a small trophy room with a few hanging rifles.
“He has to be in here,” Ripley called out.
“Chuck Pierce, you’re under arrest,” Ella shouted.
No response.
She opened the cupboard doors one by one. She checked the floor for secret compartments. She searched for any kind of basement.
Something about this setup reminded her of Ed Gein, the grave-robbing ghoul from Wisconsin. He too had lived in an isolated, decaying farmhouse, and she remembered that, in order to hide the human materials he later used to fashion clothes and cutlery, he’d built his own secret compartment.
All it took was a false wall rested against a corner, thus creating a triangle shape and a secret, enclosed space that looked like part of the house’s original foundation. You could then slip the wall back, hide things inside and then return the cover.
In Chuck Pierce’s trophy room, Ella spotted such a creation. One of the corners – the one next to his rifle collection – wasn’t a perfect ninety-degree angle. The wall had a mounted stag’s head at its peak.
She drew her pistol, edged closer and listened for any signs of life. She couldn’t sense anything, so she had to go all in. She grabbed the false wall and hurled it away.
Suddenly, there was a figure upon her, consuming her vision. Something sharp hacked her shoulder and Ella recoiled in pain, knocking her back and disorienting her. She quickly composed herself but was unable to get a target lock on the suspect. The figure rushed past her, out into the room, out of her vision.
“Ripley!” Ella shouted. “He’s coming.”
BANG.
A deafening blast shook the cabin on its foundations, like a mini earthquake had hit Hicksberg. Ella raced towards the front door, and there she saw Ripley guarding the doorway, her Glock 17 smoking like a chimney. Chuck Pierce lay at her feet, clutching his thigh, his mouth open but no sound coming out.
Ella had expected a long chase, a hard-hitting battle, a near-death experience.
Ripley clearly had other ideas.
“I know you like the chase Dark but I’m old and tired. Let’s get this guy to the cells and wrap this one up.”
