A heavy stillness blankets the squad room. Rachel and her detectives collectively hold their breath, waiting for the thirty-year-old answer they've been chasing—the identity of the serial killer who terrorized their town for years.
After what feels like a lifetime, dying with anticipation, the sergeant impatiently asks, "Who is it, Bill?"
The forensic tech shifts his weight, offers a small smile, and says, "Angela's oldest son, Ron Muller. He was diagnosed with stage four cancer a year ago."
Jerry types in Ron Muller's name. He glances up from the computer screen and says, "I hate to burst everyone's bubble, but he died before the letters started."
"Are you sure?"
He gestures toward the screen. "I've got his obit right here."
Rachel leans over, reading the entry. With an audible sigh, she collapses into her chair. "I was so sure you'd finally solved the case."
Seeing the disappointment on the tech's face, she adds, "Thank you for trying, Bill."
"I'll let you know if I find anything else." Slumping his shoulders, he heads for the door.
"What's he so upset about?" Joe asks, watching the distraught forensic tech shuffle past as he makes his way to the detective's desks.
"He thought he had it."
"Maybe the letter will help." Joe hands the sergeant a small, standard-sized envelope.
Rachel slides the paper out from its enclosure and begins reading.
Dear Captain,
My disease seems to be progressing faster than predicted, which unfortunately means, I don't have as much time as I originally thought. I'm giving you a list of all my burial sites, along with a clue to my identity and how it all began.
My older brother Tim and I killed our father the night of our mother's death. It was nothing short of Southern justice at its finest—and the beginning of our killing spree.
Tim was sent to prison, leaving me to carry out our mission, which I did until my illness made it impossible for me to continue.
Together, Tim and I eliminated over twenty-five abusers, saving hundreds of children from a horrific fate. My only regret is that I can no longer continue to be a child advocate—something desperately needed in this world.
I've instructed my lawyer to give you a letter detailing everything once I'm laid to rest—if you haven't figured out who I am before I take my final breath. He doesn't know the contents of the sealed letter, only that he is to deliver it to you.
Take care, Captain—your lovely wife, Pipsqueak, and your adorable kids.
Rachel thinks back to the last case they solved, how the killer repeatedly called her by that nickname, knowing she loathed it, and how her team teased her for months afterward.
"I wish everyone would stop calling me pipsqueak." She mutters through gritted teeth, her fist clenched at her side.
Joe chuckles. "Will that help, Pip?" Noticing her glare, he quickly corrects himself. "Princess?"
Jerry turns away, smothering a laugh.
Rachel refocuses. "According to the letter, it was Tim and his younger sibling, which means one of Angela's kids."
Jerry taps a few keys. "Tim Muller—the one mentioned—died last week. Liver failure."
"He must have hit the bottle hard after his release. How many Muller children are still alive?"
"Three. Ray, Tracy, and Tony. Ray is the oldest. Tyler and Tracy are twins."
"Do we have addresses?"
"Ray's here in Berryville. Tracy's in Blue Eye, Arkansas. Tyler is just across the state line in Blue Eye, Missouri. Looks like they share a duplex."
"Kirk, you and Jeff talk to the twins. I'll go see Ray. Jerry, dig up everything you can on all three."
After a long drive, Rachel finally pulls up to a small wooden cabin at the end of Country Road 2462. The rich mix of light and dark timber gives it a unique, antiquated appeal—something straight out of the early 1900s. The front yard is tidy, framed by dense woods stretching on either side and behind the home.
She steps out of her car, glancing around at the breathtaking Ozark Mountains. No matter the season, they're always stunning. She sighs.
"What do you want?"
An old man stomps toward her, an aged hunting rifle in hand.
"I need to talk to you about your father." She says, eyeing the gun.
"He left us kids years ago. Haven't seen or heard from him since."
Rachel hesitates, one hand resting near her holster. "Why don't you put that down so we can talk?"
"Say what you need to say and go."
"Your father's remains were found in a storage shed off Highway Seven South."
"How and when did he die?"
"The ME suspects it was thirty years ago, but decomposition prevents us from determining the exact cause."
"That tracks—right around when we thought he left." He places the rifle on a stump beside him.
Rachel exhales. "Tell me about that time." She pulls a notebook from her pocket.
"I was in the military—enlisted to get away from him. The twins called and said Dad had vanished and Mom was dead. I flew down for the funeral. I sent the twins to live with our aunt and then flew back."
"How long were you enlisted?"
"Retired after twenty-five years. Do Tyler and Tracy know about this?"
"My detectives are notifying them now." She hands him her card. "Call me if anything comes to mind." As she turns to leave, she pauses. "I'll have someone reach out about your father's funeral arrangements."
"You can feed him to the wolves, for all I care."
Rachel flinches at his bluntness then remembers the hell the man had put them through.
With fire shooting from his eyes, he steps closer, Balling his fits tightly at his side he trembles with anger as he explains. "There's something you have to understand, sergeant. He made our lives hell from the moment we were born with his reign of terror, and his fits of drunken rage. But that wasn't enough for him, no. He beat us daily and he brutally tortured then killed our mother. So I'm not sad because he passed. My only hope is that whoever did it made him suffer to the end. And as far as final expenses go, I refuse to spend a dime on that poor excuse of a man, and I'm sure the twins will tell you the same." Turning on his heels, he storms into the house.