Race Against Time. Christy Barritt

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       Something about what Madison told him nagged at Brody. As he left her hospital room, he mentally replayed the conversation with her, trying to pinpoint whatever it was that seemed to be clamoring at him to take notice. Whatever it was remained on the edge of his rationing, taunting him.

       Brody waited in the hospital hallway until a deputy showed up to guard the door to Madison’s room before he went home to shower and dress. Most likely the killer wouldn’t be foolish enough to come to the hospital and finish what he’d started, but Brody wanted to be safe. Until they had a profile of this man, he’d take every precaution necessary.

       He needed to get to the station and talk to the sheriff, but first he needed to change out of his shorts and T-shirt. He gripped the steering wheel of his sedan as he turned off the highway and onto a more rural road leading toward his home. The glaring sun, unhindered by his visor, only further served to agitate him. What was it about Madison’s story that nagged at him?

       As he pulled into his driveway, he saw that the emergency crew was gone from Madison’s. Looking at her home now, one would never have guessed the tragedy that had almost transpired there. Inside would certainly be a different story. He intended on reviewing the evidence inside her home himself after he checked in with the sheriff.

       He quickly showered and changed into khakis and a blue, button-up shirt. Twenty minutes later he arrived at the neat, two-story station, his car crunching the gravel in the parking lot. As he looked at the brick-fronted building, he shook his head. What a change this place was compared to the precinct he worked at in Brooklyn.

       “The sheriff in yet?” he asked Miranda, the deputy working the front desk.

       She glanced up over the red frames perched on her nose. “Not yet. They’re finishing up that accident on the highway. Should be back anytime now.”

       “Thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing a cup of stale coffee on the way past.

       He nodded an aloof greeting to his colleagues before reaching his office. Once in his well-used swivel chair, he stared at his desk a moment. Where to start on this one? With typing up the police report, he supposed. Then he’d have to check in with the crime-scene crew to see what they’d found. Hopefully any additional evidence hadn’t been trampled.

       Halfway through typing his report, he stopped. There’d been two other suicides in York County in the past few months. York County wasn’t a huge place. What was the probability that the area had had two suicides within a four-month period?

       He wanted to look through those files again. They’d seemed open-and-closed enough at the time. But what if there was more to those cases than they’d first assumed? Brody found the reports he needed and began reviewing the information.

       The first suicide had happened in May. The man, Willie Fisher, was a mechanic. He worked for a local auto repair shop off Route 17, the main highway through York County. Two weeks before his death, Willie had been fired from his job for supposedly stealing money from the company. He’d claimed his innocence, but his reputation had taken a beating. He’d even gone to the doctor and been prescribed medicine for depression only three days before his life ended through carbon-monoxide poisoning.

       The second suicide was a young sheriff’s deputy named Victor Hanson who’d died in June. He’d just graduated from the academy a year earlier and seemed to have a promising career within the department. His wife had left him prior to his death. Victor’s suicide note alluded to the pain of her rejection being too much to take. He’d taken a gun to his head.

       Brody had actually bought his truck from Willie and he’d seen the man on occasion at the gym he frequented off Route 17. And, of course, he knew Victor from the Sheriff’s Department. Brody marveled how connected everyone was in a small town. This place was so much different than New York.

       He stared at the reports. Was there something here that he was missing? Could these deaths have been more than suicides? Could those men have been murdered? And, if so, what was the tie between their murders and the attempted murder of Madison?

       He couldn’t get the agonized look she’d had out of his mind. She’d handled the situation well and drawn from a deep strength within herself, one that impressed him. Even as she’d recalled the horrid details of what had happened, she’d seemed to have a peace about her. The woman, even in her battered state, was certainly beautiful. She was the type of woman who could turn heads and not even realize it. Petite and trim with blue eyes that matched the bay. Not that he’d noticed, he told himself.

       “How’s Madison doing?” Sheriff Carl appeared behind him, his brow still damp with sweat from being in the stifling heat outside. Brody often marveled that Sheriff Carl looked exactly like Andy Griffith from his later years on the TV show Matlock.

       Brody swiveled in his chair and decided not to mince words. “Sheriff, this wasn’t a suicide like we first assumed. Madison said a man attacked her and forced her to write that suicide note before attempting to murder her.”

       The sheriff’s eyes widened, as if in shock, before he slowly nodded. “I knew she wasn’t capable of suicide, especially not with that boy of hers. He means everything to her. She wouldn’t leave him.”

       “This crime was calculated, Sheriff. Every last detail was planned, all the way down to using her egg timer to count down the minutes until he attacked her. He had a suicide note already written and the noose stocked under her bed. The only thing he didn’t plan on was that I’d be jogging and hear Madison scream.”

       Sheriff Carl, a man whom Brody had come to respect because of his even temperament and measured wisdom, nodded again, obviously soaking in all of the information Brody threw at him.

       “Do you usually jog at the same time every day?”

       “No, sir. I usually jog as the sun comes up. But since today was officially my day off, I decided to sleep in.” Not to mention that he couldn’t sleep last night because he’d had nightmares of Lindsey, about his old life back in New York. And like every nightmare he’d beaten himself up through, the ending was always the same. He’d woken up covered in sweat, laden with guilt and uncertain of his ability to ever change into a better man.

       “So your routine was off. The suspect was probably counting on you jogging this morning as you always do.”

       “Sounds accurate to me.”

       “Madison’s a sweet girl. I hate to think of her going through this. Her husband was a good man, a true patriot. For someone to target a widow with a young child is just beyond me. Of course, sometimes I think this whole world has gone mad.”

       “Sometimes it feels like it has, sir.”

       Sheriff Carl glanced at the papers and files covering Brody’s desk. “What are you looking at?”

       “Those other two suicides we’ve had here in York County recently.”

       “You think there’s a connection?”

       “I need to investigate the cases, Sheriff. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

       “You’ve got a good instinct. Go with it. I have to say, I hope you’re wrong. If you’re not, that means there’s a serial killer on the loose here in York County.” He sighed heavily. “The whole county will go crazy if that leaks out. Let’s not say anything until we know for sure.”

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