Beneath the Surface

The rain had turned the windshield almost opaque, locking me in with my thoughts. I’d killed the power. No more heat. No more wipers. Just the patter of the rain as I waited. That’s what most of the job is—waiting. But this wasn’t just another case. This one had crawled under my skin and stayed there. Six dead girls—that we knew of. They were waiting for me to find them. Buried out there somewhere. The windshield fogged with each breath. It was suffocating.

My cigarette burned down towards my nicotine-stained fingers, just in case the air wasn’t thick enough. A styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee was in my other hand. I hadn’t slept in three days, not really. But none of that mattered. Not now.

The sixth victim finally gave us a break. A witness, unreliable, but it was all we had to go on. Gave us a license plate that pointed us towards Turner. A quick dig in the system told us he had previous for harassment and sexual assault. He had to be our guy. 

I went at him hard. Fifteen hours in that interrogation room. He gave us nothing. 

“Make it easier on yourself.” 

“Tell me where you buried them.” 

“Think of their families.”

All fell on deaf ears. He answered every question the same way—soft, careful, never more than he had to. That same patient smile never left his face—not even when I raised my voice. It sat there, calm and fixed, like he had all the time in the world. By the end of it, I wanted nothing more than to reach across that table and beat him to death. 

A knock on the window jolted me out of the memory. A uniformed cop in a poncho. I rolled down the window. 

“No news yet, sir.” I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. I let it hang in the air. He took the hint and trudged back over to where the rest of the uniformed team were waiting. 

I looked back at the house. It looked so ordinary. Clean. Well maintained. Baby blue paint. All the curtains were closed. If we didn’t find them here, I didn’t know where else to look.

I growled low and flicked the stub of my cigarette out of the open window and threw the car door open. I stomped my feet to get some circulation going and headed over to the forensic van that was idling nearby. 

“You’re lucky you’re a detective, otherwise one of them could do you for littering.”

I grunted back. 

I liked Steve Uldon—he was a good man. Meticulous, but quick when he needed to be. He understood what we were doing better than most. Steve knew we were solving crimes.

“How much longer do you think it will be?” he asked.

I looked back at the house. “Who knows?”

Steve nodded, like he was already adjusting to the answer.

“Lawn doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed.”

I gritted my teeth. Of course it didn’t.

It was always like this. Not Steve—he was just doing his job, looking for evidence—but the rest of it. The damn bureaucracy dragging its feet. They wanted certainty, like it came wrapped up and labelled. All we had was a witness who kept changing their mind and a man who knew how to keep his hands clean.

Turner never slipped. That was the problem. Every answer measured. Every silence controlled. I didn’t need a confession to know what that meant. Maybe not proof—but enough. We just needed to get in there and prove what I already knew.

The smell of the rain and damp grass mingled in the air. It was oppressive. My jaw was clenched—fists curled in the pockets of my overcoat. I was wound tighter than the spring in my sidearm—desperate to fire. 

It was always about the suspect—what if we were wrong? That’s all they cared about. What about the victims? Their families. Shouldn’t they be our priority? I wanted to scream. 

Laughter rolled over the sound of the rain and distant traffic. The construction crew I had ordered for the yard. They were grouped around the equipment they had brought, smoking, laughing. I didn’t begrudge them it. They weren’t part of what we were doing. They didn’t understand.

A cough announced the same uniformed officer—standing behind me. 

“Excuse me, sir. Some of us were wondering how much longer…” He trailed off. Must have been the look on my face. 

Before I had the chance to reply, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I yanked it out—grateful just to uncurl my fists. 

The air seemed to tighten. Rain ticked on the roof like a clock running out. My jaw unclenched just enough to bark into the phone: “Bishop.”

I listened to the voice drone on. Even now—taking forever to get to the damn point. Just tell me yes or no. 

I snapped the phone shut without answering. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. 

I could hear the creak of boots on wet gravel, the murmur of radios, and the faint crackle of my own breath in the cold. For a moment, the whole world seemed to hold its breath with me.

“Alright, everyone. We have the warrant.”

A dozen heads swung toward me.

“I want that door down in the next 60 seconds. Full sweep. I want everything documented. And for God’s sake, nobody touches a thing before Steve and I get a look.”

Uniform sprang into action. Boots thudded on wet gravel. Officers hefted the ram that had been casually propped against one of the patrol cars, moving fast now.

I turned to Steve. “Start on the yard.”

He nodded once, and gave the order. The van doors swung open—his team manhandling a ground-penetrating radar unit.

A bang rattled the front door as the team breached.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked softly, like he wanted me to say no. “If you’re wrong…”

I didn’t turn. My voice came out low. “We can’t be.”