The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

With great care, the sheriff moved the implement toward the victim, mindful not to disturb the dried blood, debris, or scratch marks on the skin. He pinched something, then held it up to the light.

Resting between the tweezers was what appeared to be a tiny gemstone fragment, black, and no bigger than the tip of a ballpoint pen. Cameron wiped it clean on his pant leg, then tilted it back and forth, watching it twinkle in the reflected morning sunlight.

“Evidence bag,” he said, loudly, to no one in particular.

Avello reached inside the briefcase, producing a clear plastic bag. He handed it to Cameron who lowered the chip inside, then sealed it.

Avello glanced up at him.

Cameron said, “Looks like our killer left us a little surprise.”

Chapter Three

City Morgue

Faith, New Mexico

A chill cut through Cameron’s body, making goose bumps swell along his arm. He shivered and rubbed a palm against his skin, wondering if his reaction was from the room’s coldness or because he was standing over Bradley Witherspoon’s remains.

Cameron’s boss, Sheriff Frank Donato, did not appear cold at all—he’d come dressed appropriately, wrapped in a cloak of despair. As Cameron’s shock began to fade, Frank’s had just begun. He looked up from the body toward Cameron, trying to gauge his reaction, then let out a heavy sigh, one that seemed to express what he could not say. The sheriff’s department was a family, and a close one. They’d just lost a brother in the most violent, brutal way imaginable … and that wasn’t all.

Also gone was the sense of security they’d once enjoyed while protecting and serving their community. There had never been much reason to worry about their safety before—not in a town as small as Faith; it just wasn’t a concern. The deputies knew they faced potential dangers on the job, but that possibility seemed remote. Now Bradley Witherspoon’s murder had changed that.

As for the locals, the word homicide might as well have been part of some foreign dialect. The only murders any of them had ever witnessed were the kind they watched on television. Things like this happened in other places. Not in Faith. Theirs was a peaceful, close-knit community, the kind where everybody seemed to know one another, if not on a first-name basis, then certainly by sight, where a trip to the local diner felt more like a social event than a meal. The victim being a sheriff’s deputy made matters even worse. After all, if the person who was supposed to protect them wasn’t safe, where did that leave them?

Earlier that morning, Frank had to perform a duty he hoped he’d never have to do: tell a family member their loved one was killed on the job. As soon as Bradley’s wife opened the door and saw Frank’s expression, she knew something horrible had happened. He watched her cheeks go from rosy-red to lily-white within seconds, her expression turn blank. She collapsed into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder, and letting out an agonizing wail.

For Frank, it all brought back memories of Bradley as a rookie—so young, so green; but Frank had watched him develop into a man, one of the most competent, dependable deputies the department ever had. Not only did he see him grow as a deputy, he also saw Bradley mature in his personal life too, as a husband, and then a father to two great children.

So much to live for, Frank thought. All of it gone. Just like that.

The most tragic irony of all: Witherspoon was murdered during the last few hours of his shift—one he wasn’t even supposed to be working. Another deputy had called-in sick at the last minute that evening, and Witherspoon had offered to take up the slack. That was typical. He was always trying to help out wherever he could. Sadly, the reward he’d gotten for his generosity, at least in this case, was death.

The corpse lay on a flimsy stretcher covered by a thin, white sheet. Frank stared at the shapeless form for several minutes, preparing to view what was just beneath it. He grabbed the cloth; it felt cold against his clammy palm, as thick and heavy as a wet blanket. Then, he pulled the sheet back, revealing the head and upper torso. He cringed.

Witherspoon’s face looked so disfigured that Frank barely recognized it. The upper lip was busted open, a gash running vertically toward the nose, much like one sees in photos of children with cleft palates. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His left cheek was torn as well, leaving a large flap of skin hanging beneath it. As a result, the entire inside of his mouth was visible from the side, leaving, in effect, half his face missing—just teeth and jaw exposed.

Frank yanked the sheet back over the body and looked away toward the opposite wall.

Cameron didn’t say anything. He knew what Frank was feeling. He’d experienced the same thing earlier that morning when he first saw Witherspoon hanging from that shed, a strange combination of sadness and revulsion twisting inside him. The two emotions had not mixed well for Cameron, and judging by the look on Frank’s face, were not sitting well with him, either. This murder was so disturbing, so senseless, but most of all, so infuriating.

“What’s the timeline?” It wasn’t a question as much as a demand.

“Last time anyone heard from him was just before midnight,” Cameron replied. “They started looking for him around five when he didn’t answer his radio … found him around five forty-five. That’s all we have.”

Frank pursed his lips and nodded, expression stoic, eyes fixed back on the body. The way he folded his arms looked awkward, as if he didn’t know where to put them. “Got any theories?”

Cameron looked at his boss, then up toward the ceiling. His eyes appeared wet, and Frank couldn’t tell if it was from sorrow or exhaustion. He decided it was probably both. “I just don’t know, Frank. This goes so far beyond anything we’ve ever seen …” He paused, started to speak again, then shook his head in frustration.

Frank nodded toward the body. “There’s some kind of pathology at work here, you know.”

“The way he was put on display,” Cameron agreed, the last word sounding as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Like the killer was proud of himself, showing off. Strung him up like some kind of prized catch.”

Frank looked up at Cameron. “The thrill of the hunt. A textbook case of sociopathic showmanship.”

“Yeah, but something else.”

“What’s that?”

“The weapon.”

“The hooks?”

“It shows he improvised, grabbed whatever was handy,” Cameron said.

“A disorganized kill.”

“Has all the earmarks.”

Frank lowered his gaze at Cameron, then furrowed a brow. “I see where you’re heading, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m not saying we could have the start of serial killer, but I will say one thing—there’s something about this that bothers me, Frank, really bothers me.”

“Well, yeah, judging by the way he was left—”

“More than that, even. It’s the killer’s motivation.”

“Motivation?”

“I’m willing to bet this wasn’t just about murder.”

Frank looked back down at Witherspoon’s body, then up at Cameron. “What else is there?”

Cameron paused for a moment. “I think he was sending out a message … and loving every minute of it.”

While The Savage Sleeps is available in the Amazon Kindle Store:

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