In still waters

In still waters
Natalie Shpet

Years ago, in a high school in the quiet town of Austin, Minnesota, a tragic incident occurred. A classmate attacked a boy, slashing his face with a sharp object and leaving a deep scar on his cheek. Years later, a series of horrific murders shakes the peaceful community. One by one, seemingly unconnected individuals fall victim to a mysterious killer dressed in black, their face hidden beneath a hood. How does this shadowy figure manage to evade the police, leaving no trace behind? What connection do they have to a gang of arms dealers operating in the shadows? As the investigation unfolds, detectives make a chilling discovery – three of the victims attended the same high school years ago…

This novel is crafted for aficionados of suspenseful detective fiction.

Natalie Shpet

In still waters

Dedicated to Jonathan and Jake.

Austin, a tranquil town where most residents know each other by name. It's a place where secrets are hard to keep.

Many say that Austin has still waters…

Part One. The Outcast

The high school doors burst open as a teenage boy staggers out, his agonized screams piercing the air. His hands clutch at his face as he stumbles onto the rain-slicked grass, slipping and falling. A crowd of stunned classmates surge out after him, forming a circle around his writhing form. The teen lies on his back, his cries of pain echoing across the schoolyard. Slowly, he lowers his hands, revealing a horrifying sight to the onlookers – his face is a mask of blood, streaming down his cheeks and neck…

"Who did this to you?" someone in the crowd cries out, their voice quavering with fear and shock.

The injured boy's screams subside as he stares up at the turbulent sky, rain mingling with the blood on his face. After a moment of eerie silence, he utters in a low, haunting voice:

"It was him… The Outcast…"

Chapter 1

The doors of the Green Vault bar swing open, spilling a cacophony of music, voices, and laughter into the quiet street. A petite brunette emerges, her shoulder-length hair damp from the misty air. She wipes tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her red turtleneck as she sets off down the sidewalk, passing by streetlights that cast long shadows across modest middle-class homes. The road ahead stretches out, deserted and dark. Suddenly, a taxi's horn blares, startling her. Without turning, she steps aside, allowing it to pass. Lost in thought, she trudges on through the drizzle, oblivious to the figure that has begun to follow her. It's only when she glances back that she notices – a tall silhouette in black, face obscured by a hood. Her pace quickens; the shadowy pursuer matches it. Heart racing, she looks back once more, realizing with growing dread that her follower is a man. For a moment, she hesitates, nearly stopping in her tracks. Then, with a burst of desperate energy, she breaks into a run. Without looking back, she veers into an unpaved alley, hoping to lose her pursuer in the darkness.

Her hopes are dashed as she finds herself facing a dead end. Panic rising in her chest, she presses herself against the rough bark of an oak tree, willing herself to disappear into its shadows. She doesn't understand what this stranger wants, but her mind races with terrifying possibilities. She strains to listen, hearing only the soft patter of rain on leaves. Then, barely a few steps away, a twig snaps. Her heart pounds so loudly she fears it might give her away. Sweat mingles with raindrops on her palms. A paralyzing fear grips her, choking off any chance of screaming for help. In this moment of terror, her life seems to flash before her eyes. She can sense the stranger nearby, searching, closing in. Suddenly, the silence is shattered by the shrill ring of her cellphone. With trembling hands, she fumbles in her jeans pocket – it's her mom calling. The phone slips from her rigid fingers, clattering to the ground as it continues to ring. Realizing the sound has betrayed her location, she makes a desperate dash into the unknown. But in her haste, she loses her footing on the slick ground and falls hard. Fear escalates to blind panic as her throat constricts, stealing her breath away. She can't scream, can't call for help – she's trapped.

As she struggles to her feet, she feels rather than sees the man in black looming behind her. She whirls around, horror etched on her face as his silhouette fills her vision. With deliberate slowness, he pulls a length of rope from his sweatshirt pocket. Before she can react, he loops it around her neck and begins to tighten his grip. She claws at the rope, gasping and choking, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against the wet ground as she tries to crawl away. But it's futile. As the life drains from her body, all coherent thoughts flee, leaving only the cold certainty of her impending death. The killer, sensing her last breath leave her body, melts back into the rainy night, leaving no trace behind.

By morning, the rain has ceased, but ominous clouds still hang low in the sky, as if nature itself is mourning the night's tragic events.

The grim discovery is made in the early hours by a janitor on his way to work. With shaking hands, he immediately dials 911.

Word spreads quickly through the small town. Residents from nearby houses and curious passersby begin to gather, forming a somber crowd around the cordoned-off area. Horror and disbelief are etched on their faces as they whisper among themselves.

"What happened here? Is she really dead? How long has she been lying there? Does anyone know who she is?" The questions ripple through the growing throng, each person seeking answers but finding only more questions.

Within half an hour, the wail of sirens cuts through the morning air as three patrol cars arrive on the scene. Senior Detective Nick Larsen takes charge, his authoritative voice rising above the murmurs of the crowd as he directs them to step back. With practiced efficiency, he orders his team to secure the crime scene, allowing the investigative unit to begin their grim task.

As Larsen approaches the body, a sense of dread settles in the pit of his stomach. With growing horror, he realizes he recognizes the victim.

The deceased is identified as thirty-six-year-old Rose Saltano, daughter of the local sheriff, Jeffrey Saltano. Rose had been an only child, and by all accounts, had led a respectable life. There was nothing particularly remarkable about her appearance – she was petite with short dark hair and light eyes. Yet now, in death, she has become the center of a mystery that threatens to shake their quiet town to its core.

Nick Larsen finds himself struggling to process the scene before him. How could something like this happen in their peaceful community? Despite his years of experience in law enforcement, the forty-three-year-old detective is shaken to his core. Nick had always prided himself on staying ahead of trouble, on keeping his hometown safe. With his tall stature, medium build, and kind blue eyes framed by stylishly cut dark blond hair, Nick was a familiar and respected figure in Austin. Residents looked up to him, not just as a competent detective, but as a decent man and an exemplary family man. Now, faced with this brutal crime, he feels the weight of their trust more heavily than ever.

With a heavy heart, Nick Larsen makes the call he's been dreading – to inform Sheriff Jeffrey Saltano of his daughter's fate.

The Saltano residence isn't far, and it's not long before the roar of an engine announces the sheriff's arrival. Jeffrey Saltano bursts onto the scene, leaping from his black pickup truck still dressed in his home clothes and slippers. He pushes through the crowd with frantic energy, falling to his knees beside his daughter's body.

"Who did this to my little girl?" he cries out, his voice raw with anguish. "Why? She was so young… she had her whole life ahead of her!" His eyes, wild with grief, search the overcast sky as if demanding answers from a silent universe. His hands clench and unclench, trembling with a mix of sorrow and rage.

Larsen moves to help Jeffrey, who seems to have lost all sense of his surroundings in his grief. As he supports the distraught father, Nick can't help but reflect on his complicated feelings towards the sheriff. Like many in town, Nick had never particularly warmed to Jeffrey. At fifty-eight, Jeffrey Saltano cut a rather unsightly figure – short and stout, with swarthy skin, a round face dominated by a bulbous nose, and thinning dark hair peppered with gray at the temples. His personality was as rough as his appearance – ignorant and rude, selfish and stubborn, known for achieving his goals by any means necessary. Rumors of bribery and covering up petty crimes had dogged Jeffrey for years. He seemed to have no real friends, and even his relationship with his wife Mary was notoriously strained.

But in this moment, Nick pushes aside his personal feelings. Watching Jeffrey break down, he's struck by a wave of genuine sympathy. The loss of a child is a pain Nick can scarcely imagine, despite being a father himself to nine-year-old Gina and seven-year-old Edward. In this moment of raw grief, Jeffrey isn't the difficult sheriff – he's simply a devastated father.

"Jeffrey," Nick says gently, placing a steadying hand on the man's shoulder, "I know how hard this is, but we need you to try and pull yourself together. We have to take Rose's body for an autopsy. It's necessary for the investigation."

Jeffrey looks up at Nick, his face a mask of pain. The thought of his only child's body being further violated is almost too much to bear, but somewhere in the haze of his grief, he understands the grim necessity.

"Do what you have to," he growls, his voice hoarse. "Just find the bastard who did this. Whatever it takes." He pauses, running a shaking hand over his face as he stares up at the gray sky once more. "Last night… Rose didn't answer when Mary called. She didn't come home." A bitter laugh escapes him. "It wasn't the first time she'd spent the night away. We didn't think… who could have imagined…" His voice trails off before rising again in a heated shout, "Find them! You hear me? Find whoever did this!"

"We'll do everything in our power," Nick assures him, his voice steady despite the turmoil he feels. "Go home to Mary now. You need each other. I'll call as soon as we have the autopsy report."

As he walks Jeffrey back to his car, Nick keeps his assumptions about the cause of death to himself. He wants solid evidence from the medical examiner before jumping to conclusions. Despite the brutality of the crime, a part of him still hopes they'll find some clue, some piece of evidence that will lead them to Rose's killer.

Once Jeffrey's truck disappears around the corner, Nick turns his attention back to the crime scene. Rose's body is carefully loaded into the coroner's van and taken away. The crowd of onlookers begins to disperse, an air of shocked disbelief hanging over them. Nick's thirty-four-year-old assistant, Christian Basher, approaches him with a grim expression.

Christian is a good man, having worked under Larsen's command for nearly three years now. Nick often jokes that Christian looks like he stepped out of an old detective movie with his tall, thin frame and slight stoop. His features are pleasant enough – a neat nose, thin but defined lips, and eyes the color of a calm sea, though they're usually hidden behind his glasses. His short, sparse blonde hair completes the picture of a classic gumshoe.

Despite his best efforts to maintain a professional demeanor, Christian can't quite hide his horror at the scene they've witnessed. Still, for someone as peace-loving and generally mild-mannered as Christian, he's holding up admirably.

"What do you make of all this?" Christian asks in a low voice, his eyes darting around as if the killer might still be lurking nearby. "The victim's clothes aren't torn, so it doesn't look like an attempted rape. No obvious signs of a beating either. And her jewelry – gold earrings, a bracelet – it's all still there. What was the killer after?"

Nick nods, having been pondering the same questions. Could someone have interrupted the killer? Or was the perpetrator simply afraid of being seen?

"I don't know, Christian," Nick admits with a sigh. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us to figure this out. Let's wait for the autopsy results. Hopefully, that will give us a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."

Chapter 2

The Saltano residence stands at the heart of town, a sprawling two-story Victorian that seems to lord over its neighbors. The house had come to Jeffrey's wife, Mary, as an inheritance from her parents – a fact that had always been a point of contention. Mr. and Mrs. Grace had never approved of their son-in-law, viewing the match with barely concealed disdain from the start. Unlike his wife, Jeffrey came from humble beginnings – the son of an alcoholic father and a mother who worked herself to the bone, paying little attention to her child. Both had died relatively young, leaving Jeffrey to forge his own path.

Jeffrey had met Mary just after college, and their whirlwind romance had resulted in a hasty marriage when Mary found herself pregnant. The birth of Rose had forced Mary's parents to grudgingly accept their daughter's choice, but the tension had never truly dissipated. Physically, Mary and Rose had been near mirror images of each other – both petite and slender, with dark hair and light eyes that seemed to hold secrets.

Behind the imposing fa?ade of their home, the Saltano marriage had long since cooled. Love and understanding had given way to a sort of uneasy coexistence – two people living side by side but worlds apart. Mary had never quite settled into the role of housewife. She disliked cooking and found cleaning tedious, often hiring help when the dust and clutter became too much to bear. The house itself was a testament to their discordant lives – expensive furniture arranged with more concern for appearance than comfort, the overall effect both tasteless and oddly vulgar.

The living room walls were papered in an aggressive shade of red, offset by black carpets that seemed to attract dust like magnets. Sofas and armchairs upholstered in dark burgundy suede surrounded a glass coffee table, the centerpiece of a room that felt more like a stage set than a home. Heavy burgundy curtains, their vibrancy dulled by a film of dust, framed the windows. The kitchen, done up in harsh tones of red and black, boasted the house's only large window – a constant source of neighborhood gossip for those inclined to eavesdrop.

The second floor housed three bedrooms. The master bedroom, shared by Jeffrey and Mary, echoed the garish tones of the living room below. Next was Rose's room, a stark contrast with its pink wallpaper, fluffy white carpet, and oversized bed. It was the only truly clean space in the house, meticulously maintained by Rose herself. Finally, there was a half-empty guest room, its large wardrobe bursting with clothes, and a bed where Jeffrey often found himself sleeping after yet another argument with Mary.

As Jeffrey entered the house, the air felt thick with grief. After Larsen's call, he had broken the devastating news to his wife, but Mary couldn't find the strength to accompany him to the crime scene. A chill permeated the house, all the windows thrown open as if trying to air out the suffocating sorrow. Mary, still clad in her purple pajamas, sat huddled on the living room floor, her back against the sofa as she cried, hugging her knees to her chest. At the sound of Jeffrey's entrance, she looked up, her face a mask of anguish.

"You have to find who did this," she cried out, her voice raw and breaking. "You have to find that bastard, or I'll never forgive you!" In a surge of emotion, she launched herself at Jeffrey, her fists pounding against his chest as sobs wracked her body.

"Pull yourself together, Mary," Jeffrey snapped, his voice rising as he grabbed her wrists to stop the onslaught. "This hysteria won't help anything. I already know what needs to be done!"