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The office looked fairly new and modern, although paintings of Dawnsonville’s history and the town as it looked in the era of horse-drawn carriages adorned the walls. A friendly middle-aged receptionist showed them into the mayor’s office.
They exchanged introductions, then the mayor gestured for them to sit. Dennis Waycross looked to be in his fifties. He had salt and pepper hair, was neatly groomed and fit, and had teeth so white they must be veneers. His smile was friendly, his demeanor confident.
“What can I do for you?” Mayor Waycross asked.
Ellie clenched her hands. “Mr. Waycross, when did you last see your son Reuben?”
Shadows of sadness passed across his face. “My son and I have been estranged for years,” he said quietly. “What is this about?”
“What happened?” Ellie asked.
“I don’t see how that’s any of the police’s business.” His curt tone held an underlying layer of pain.
Ellie and Derrick traded looks, then Derrick spoke. “Just answer the question, please.”
A muscle ticked in the man’s jaw. “My son had issues in high school, and then in college.” He leaned back, a defeated sigh escaping him. “Drugs. I forced him to go into rehab a couple of times but eventually he left. He couldn’t seem to kick the addiction. Finally, I had to cut him off financially.”
Could drugs have had something to do with his murder? “Mind sharing the details?”
“Started off with weed,” the man replied. “Gradually moved on to coke. I caught him in the house with it and threw him out.” He rubbed a hand over his chin. “It was unpleasant. My son was rebellious. He… got ugly when he was high. Did things that I couldn’t tolerate.”
Ellie folded her arms as she recalled that Reuben was a cutter. “What kinds of things?”
He leaned forward, hands steepled on his desk. “I really don’t want to talk about this. Now, tell me what this is about. Is he in trouble or something?”
Ellie inhaled deeply. “Sir, I regret having to inform you but your son is dead.”
Shock glazed the man’s eyes and he rocked back in his chair. Seconds later, something akin to acceptance registered. “An overdose?”
Ellie shook her head. “No, sir. I’m sorry to say that he was murdered.”
FIFTY-TWO
Silence lingered while Waycross processed the news. “When did he die? Who would kill Reuben?”
Perhaps a drug deal gone bad, Ellie thought. “That’s what we’re trying to determine. His body was found two days ago in Widow Lake.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Derrick asked.
“Ten years ago, the day I cut off his finances. He was furious with me.” A weariness overcame him. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Sympathy for the man welled in Ellie’s chest. “Did you have contact with him during the time he attended Widow Peak College?”
Waycross’s face looked tortured. “I visited once. I hoped he was getting his act together. But he seemed in an even darker place. Everything in his apartment was black and morbid. A couple of other guys were there. Then I saw odd things on the table.”
“What kind of odd things?”
Waycross looked away, obviously debating how much to say.
“I understand this is difficult,” Ellie said. “But we do want to find out what happened to him. Anything you can tell us about his friends could be helpful.”
He hissed. “I don’t know names, only that there were photographs of gruesome murders on the table. Bloody scenes, graphic sex scenes, mutilated bodies.”
Ellie and Derrick traded a look. “Your son took a class on criminology,” Ellie said. “That could explain the photos.” Or he was obsessed with murder and enjoyed the gruesome images.
Mr. Waycross shook his head as if to erase the images from his mind. “How did he die?”
“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head,” Derrick said.
