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He laughs without humor. “Yeah, that’s what all the cops say, man. Right before you get popped.”
I lean my head down further to try and catch his eyes. When I do, I look for any signs of drugs. His eyes are slightly dilated, but that could be explained from the fear. It looks like he has a few sores on his face, but his face all-around looks like it’s been through the wringer. He’s not tweaking at the moment, but I’m not ruling out drug use completely.
“Mr. Davis, would you be willing to testify against the murderers when caught?”
He stops fidgeting and looks up at me, his eyes dilating further.
“What if they send someone after me?”
Likely to happen.
“We’ll make sure you’re safe. Put you in witness protection.”
The man looks down, seemingly to contemplate it. “There’s a serious killer on the loose, Mr. Davis. Which means he could come after anyone next,” I say, emphasizing my point. If the Ghost Killer doesn’t get put away, the man before me could be killed, too. Especially if he is involved with drugs.
“Alright,” he concedes. “I’d feel more comfortable with a lawyer, though.”
As much as I want to recommend my father, I know whose hands this is going to inevitably end up in. “I know someone who can help you.”
That hurt coming out of my mouth.
THE GHOST KILLER’S VICTIMS primarily originate from Shallow Hill, though anybody could’ve fucking guessed that one. The worst of the worst reside in Shallow Hill. It’s an absolute miracle someone like River was born and raised there and came out the other side as a decent human being.
Mind blowing shit right there.
Amar and I went over the footage of Greg Barker and Linda Franklin walking into the Harper Motel together, and then leaving separately about twenty minutes later.
Didn’t take them very long.
When Greg left, the outside camera caught a snippet of an old blue Ford Mustang with a missing side mirror picking up the kid, and then racing off. The license plate was just out of shot, but a missing side mirror on that type of car is pretty recognizable. If we can find it.
Even though it was pointless, we looked at any claims within the past twenty years for car accidents involving a Ford Mustang. Nothing matched. People from Shallow Hill don’t make claims with their car insurance when getting in a wreck.
It was Greg Barker’s mother, Cindy, who gave us a lead. It was the first time we could get her to help with the investigation since her son’s murder—too lost in grief and anger to give a shit about finding justice for her son in the beginning. Now, when we had asked if she recognized a Ford Mustang with a missing mirror driving around, she was all too happy to give up information. Snitching in Shallow Hill is a surefire way to end up dead, but I think the way she sees it, the drugs will kill her soon anyway now that she no longer has a child to live for.
Brian Gill, a forty-two-year-old man with an eagle tattoo covering the entire back of his shiny bald head. Asshole spent ten years locked up for burglary and second-degree murder. Got out early for good behavior.
Cindy also told us Brian’s favorite hangout spot was the bar in downtown Shallow Hill. It’s a seedy place with sex workers lining the street, ripe for the pickin’, and at least four drug deals within a block radius happening at any given time.
Amar and I park along the street opposite of the bar, in an Oldsmobile that smells like stale cigarette smoke. We borrowed the car from a friend of Amar’s considering anything newer than a ’05 car would be marked as suspicious. You don’t drive nice cars in this town unless you’re a visitor or you own the town. Last thing we need is anyone realizing we’re visitors.
A flicker of metal grinding against metal, a bright flame and then a burst of smoke steaming off a bright cherry. “You really gotta do that now?” I complain, looking over at Amar with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Figured you would’ve accepted the fact that you’re going home smelling like smoke.”
“Last time I checked, you’re the one going home to someone who hates it,” I grumble, mashing the control to roll down his window. I leave it cracked and watch all the smoke begin to filter out.
“She doesn’t mind so much when I’m staking out a suspect. I get stressed,” he says lightly before dragging in another mouthful of cancer.
My reply is interrupted by a commotion from the bar across the street. Our suspect is being roughly pushed out of the bar by another man, the latter screaming in the former’s face as if he’s deaf. A scuffle breaks out, the two swinging punches like they’re in grade school.
I groan, my hand drifting towards the handle to break up the damn fight. Before I can even wrap my hand around the handle, the man pushing Brian whips out a gun from the back of his pants and aims it at Brian’s head.
Amar and I both spring forward simultaneously, scrambling to open our doors.
Pop. Pop.
My head snaps towards the scene, my body halfway out of the car. Amar and I both freeze, absolutely stunned from how quickly everything just went to shit.
