The Shepherd by Ethan Cross Page A

murderer he had helped to identify. With nothing to lose, the killer had decided to go after the families of his pursuers. The man raped and murdered Kathleen and then the lead investigator’s wife and stepdaughter.
    For him, losing Kathleen wasn’t the worst part. He had dealt with death every day and knew that losing a loved one didn’t require the intervention of a serial killer. Disease, a fall down the stairs, a car accident; all were constant possibilities.
    But the hardest thing to stomach was the fact that he had killed her, that his work had been the catalyst to her demise. Even worse than that was the realization that he hadn’t appreciated her while she was still alive.
    He stumbled into the stairwell that led down to the kitchen and slumped against the sidewall. He thought of Kathleen. He thought of Ackerman. Then, he thought of Marcus. He straightened, wiped away the tears, and collected himself. He had a job to do.
    ~~*~~
    Marcus laid out the story in detail. The Sheriff listened, letting it unfold in its entirety. Now and again, the Sheriff would ask a question, in order to clarify some small detail, but then ask him to continue. The Sheriff’s chief deputy, Lewis Foster, also listened, taking notes on a small pad of paper.
    Foster was a young man, late twenties or early thirties. The deputy wore a snug fitting, tan uniform, and Marcus could see that the man spent too much time in the weight room. Foster watched with accusing eyes. He could tell that the deputy’s preferred method of questioning was a thick phone book and a locked room. He knew the type—the scrawny kid who got bullied before discovering steroids. Then, Foster became the bully.
    Unlike Foster, the Sheriff exuded confidence and competence, and the man’s face showed no accusatory expressions or doubt.
    “Quite a story,” Foster said with an edge to his voice.
    “Yes, a senseless tragedy,” the Sheriff said. “Before I forget, Marcus, we’re gonna need to borrow your shoes.”
    “My shoes?”
    “Yes, we’ll need to get a casting and a sample to compare with any footprints that we may find.”
    He nodded and removed his shoes. The Sheriff walked them over to a young man who disappeared with them.
    The Sheriff returned and said, “So you didn’t actually see anyone in the house or on the property?”
    “No, whoever did this was long gone by the time I got here.”
    “Or they never left,” Foster said.
    The statement caught him off guard, and his eyes narrowed at the deputy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I don’t know. Just seems a little funny to me that a new guy moves in, and within two days, he’s put a couple guys in the hospital and conveniently stumbled upon a homicide. Guess you’re just unlucky, right?”
    “I’m sitting here talking to an inbred moron, so things could be better.”
    “If it was up to me, we’d be doin’ more than just talking.”
    “Sorry. I don’t kiss on the first date.”
    “You cocky little—”
    “Lewis, that’s enough,” the Sheriff said.
    “It’s alright, Sheriff. Let him keep talking. Someday, he’s bound to say something intelligent. Kinda like the deal where they theorize that a bunch of monkeys in a room full of typewriters will eventually write Shakespeare.”
    Foster moved closer. “Next time, you’re gonna find yourself all alone with me in a dark room. You won’t be so funny then.”
    He cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck. When he spoke, his voice was calm and modulated. “You try that with me, and they’ll take you outta that room on a stretcher.”
    “You threatening me?”
    “No. I don’t make threats. Just stating facts.”
    Foster made a move toward him, but the Sheriff put an arm out and stopped his advance. “Why don’t you go help the boys upstairs, Lewis?”
    Foster stared with fire in his eyes for a few seconds before turning and walking away.
    Turning back to Marcus, the Sheriff said, “Not very good at making friends, are