said different.
Dale continued his story. “There was a padlock on the outside of those doors.” He pointed to the barn’s main entrance, a pair of large doors that were designed to swing outward. The wood had become warped over the years, and the doors didn’t quite align anymore, leaving a three to four-inch gap between them. “Carl never used them, though. There’s a regular-sized door in the back, but Carl never kept it locked. It was like he didn’t care if anyone discovered the bodies — or maybe
wanted
them to be discovered.”
“That might not mean anything,” Joanne said. “Carl wasn’t exactly a poster boy for mental health. His mind might’ve been so far gone it never occurred to him to try to conceal his crimes.”
“But he took over Maggie’s farm after killing her and used it as his base of operations. Seems like the act of someone who wants to carry out his work undisturbed.”
“That’s not the same as wanting to avoid capture,” Joanne pointed out. “And what was left of his sanity probably degenerated pretty quickly as the bodies began to pile up.”
“Maybe,” Dale said. “But it struck me as strange back then, and it still seems that way to me now.”
They reached the barn and stopped before the warped double doors.
“The smell was really strong this close,” Dale said. “I hadn’t lived in Cross County very long at the time, but even a city boy like me could tell that we weren’t smelling moldy hay and cow shit. It was late spring, which was the only saving grace. I don’t even want to think how bad the stench would’ve been in summer.”
Joanne’s queasy stomach gurgled at the thought, and she pressed a hand against her abdomen to quiet it.
Dale inhaled through his nose. “No smell now, though. That’s a good sign, right?”
Joanne didn’t answer. The fall weather was cool enough to keep a dead body from getting too rank — especially if it was fresh. But she didn’t see a need to tell Dale that.
“I assume you and Sheriff Manchester entered through the back,” she said.
Dale nodded. “Stan didn’t want to mess with breaking the lock on the main doors. Thought it would make too much noise. ‘Better to get in as fast and quiet and you can,’ he told me later.”
“Wise man. I think we’ll do that same.”
They walked around to the rear of the barn, seeing nothing along the side of the structure but more weeds and graffiti. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the back door, save for its smooth, clean surface. Perhaps the graffiti artists hadn’t gotten around to leaving their mark on this door yet. Or maybe the thought that Carl the Cutter had once used the door made them leave it alone out of a strange sort of respect — or perhaps fear.
Dale reached for the rusty doorknob, but Joanne grabbed hold of his wrist before he could touch it.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. You’d think I’d know better by now.”
Joanne released her grip and Dale lowered his hand to his side.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Your mind’s twenty years in the past right now.”
She removed a rubber glove from her pocket and slipped it over her left hand. She wanted to keep her right uncovered in case she needed to use her 9 mm. She bent close to examine the doorknob and saw nothing special. No sign of forced entry, no sign the reddish-brown rust had been recently disturbed. She gently took hold of the knob and turned. It moved more easily than she expected, and she pushed the door open. The hinges creaked, the sound loud as a gunshot in the silence.
But not loud enough to cover the sound of something moving inside the barn.
Joanne froze, left hand still gripping the doorknob. She felt her pulse speed up, and she rested her right hand on the butt of her weapon, though she made no move to draw it yet.
“Stay back,” she whispered to Dale. She didn’t know if he’d heard the sound, but she didn’t have time to explain. Either way,
Dale continued his story. “There was a padlock on the outside of those doors.” He pointed to the barn’s main entrance, a pair of large doors that were designed to swing outward. The wood had become warped over the years, and the doors didn’t quite align anymore, leaving a three to four-inch gap between them. “Carl never used them, though. There’s a regular-sized door in the back, but Carl never kept it locked. It was like he didn’t care if anyone discovered the bodies — or maybe
wanted
them to be discovered.”
“That might not mean anything,” Joanne said. “Carl wasn’t exactly a poster boy for mental health. His mind might’ve been so far gone it never occurred to him to try to conceal his crimes.”
“But he took over Maggie’s farm after killing her and used it as his base of operations. Seems like the act of someone who wants to carry out his work undisturbed.”
“That’s not the same as wanting to avoid capture,” Joanne pointed out. “And what was left of his sanity probably degenerated pretty quickly as the bodies began to pile up.”
“Maybe,” Dale said. “But it struck me as strange back then, and it still seems that way to me now.”
They reached the barn and stopped before the warped double doors.
“The smell was really strong this close,” Dale said. “I hadn’t lived in Cross County very long at the time, but even a city boy like me could tell that we weren’t smelling moldy hay and cow shit. It was late spring, which was the only saving grace. I don’t even want to think how bad the stench would’ve been in summer.”
Joanne’s queasy stomach gurgled at the thought, and she pressed a hand against her abdomen to quiet it.
Dale inhaled through his nose. “No smell now, though. That’s a good sign, right?”
Joanne didn’t answer. The fall weather was cool enough to keep a dead body from getting too rank — especially if it was fresh. But she didn’t see a need to tell Dale that.
“I assume you and Sheriff Manchester entered through the back,” she said.
Dale nodded. “Stan didn’t want to mess with breaking the lock on the main doors. Thought it would make too much noise. ‘Better to get in as fast and quiet and you can,’ he told me later.”
“Wise man. I think we’ll do that same.”
They walked around to the rear of the barn, seeing nothing along the side of the structure but more weeds and graffiti. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the back door, save for its smooth, clean surface. Perhaps the graffiti artists hadn’t gotten around to leaving their mark on this door yet. Or maybe the thought that Carl the Cutter had once used the door made them leave it alone out of a strange sort of respect — or perhaps fear.
Dale reached for the rusty doorknob, but Joanne grabbed hold of his wrist before he could touch it.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. You’d think I’d know better by now.”
Joanne released her grip and Dale lowered his hand to his side.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Your mind’s twenty years in the past right now.”
She removed a rubber glove from her pocket and slipped it over her left hand. She wanted to keep her right uncovered in case she needed to use her 9 mm. She bent close to examine the doorknob and saw nothing special. No sign of forced entry, no sign the reddish-brown rust had been recently disturbed. She gently took hold of the knob and turned. It moved more easily than she expected, and she pushed the door open. The hinges creaked, the sound loud as a gunshot in the silence.
But not loud enough to cover the sound of something moving inside the barn.
Joanne froze, left hand still gripping the doorknob. She felt her pulse speed up, and she rested her right hand on the butt of her weapon, though she made no move to draw it yet.
“Stay back,” she whispered to Dale. She didn’t know if he’d heard the sound, but she didn’t have time to explain. Either way,
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