Page 11 of Fatal Fame
“No."
Pierce felt the familiar tingle of narrative threads coming together. “Was there a last confirmed sighting?"
"Leaving the potluck. After that, it's speculation until her father found the bodies Monday morning." Evelyn turned to a new page, showing a detailed floor plan of the Hale house. "Best estimate puts the murders between 8:30 and 10:30 PM. Jacob was still working on algebra homework. His textbook and papers were found bloodstained on the kitchen table."
"You mentioned evidence that was missed or mishandled?"
Evelyn's expression darkened. "Where do I start? A latex glove was found in the living room with DNA inside it—no results ever reported. DNA under Jacob's fingernails from fighting back—supposedly sent for analysis but nothing came back within the promised timeframe. Mats in the living roomhadn't been lifted despite being stuck to the floor with what looked like blood. Parts of a broken picture frame were still scattered around despite the scene supposedly being processed thoroughly."
Marcus looked up from his notes. "Incompetence or cover-up?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Evelyn closed the notebook and fixed Pierce with a stare that seemed to look right through him. "The State Police took over from the county after the first day. BCI investigators who should have known better made mistakes that would embarrass a rookie. Either they were completely overwhelmed, or someone didn't want certain evidence preserved."
Pierce felt his pulse quicken. This was the kind of institutional failure that made for compelling podcasting, but more than that, it suggested the darker currents that flowed beneath small-town surfaces. "What's your theory about what really happened?"
“It’s just a theory. Someone came to the house that night with a specific purpose. Rebecca knew them. That explains why there was no forced entry. Jacob was collateral damage, wrong place at the wrong time." Evelyn paused, considering her words carefully. "But the scene was staged to look like a home invasion. Overkill, literally and figuratively. Someone wanted to send a message or cover their tracks so thoroughly that investigators would focus on random violence instead of personal motive."
"And you think the answers lie in the official files?"
“Yes, but I also think the answers lie in what's not in the official files." Evelyn leaned back in her chair, and Pierce caught a glimpse of the weariness that came from fighting systems designed to resist scrutiny. "Files get sealed, evidence gets misfiled, witnesses suddenly forget what they saw. It's amazinghow efficient small-town amnesia can be when the right people want something to disappear."
Pierce exchanged glances with his team. This was exactly the kind of story Cold Trail was built for—institutional corruption, covered-up evidence, a community conspiracy of silence. "Who should we talk to? Who would you interview if you were starting fresh?"
"Rebecca's sister, definitely. Wendy Sutton. She's remarried now but still lives in the area. Liam Hale, Rebecca's surviving son. He was away at college when it happened, but he might know things about his mother's life that never made it into police reports." Evelyn tapped her pen against the notebook. "Travis Rudd, if you can find him. The county and state investigators, though don't expect them to admit they missed anything. And..." She hesitated.
"And?"
"There were rumors about Rebecca's personal life. Multiple relationships, some of them with people who had a lot to lose if they became public. Small-town politics, you understand. Married men, men in positions of authority." Evelyn's voice dropped. "People with the connections to make problems disappear."
The room fell silent except for the distant sound of traffic on Forest Hill Avenue. Pierce felt the weight of the story settling around them like a net—threads of corruption and cover-up, personal secrets and institutional failure, all wrapped around the brutal murders of a mother and son who deserved better than a thin file and fading memories.
"Dr. Cross," Pierce said finally, "would you mind if I asked how you got into this work? What drove you to become someone who investigates the cases everyone else wants to forget?"
Evelyn's smile was sad and knowing. "Born in Savannah, Georgia. City of beautiful houses and old secrets, which probablyshaped my fascination with the things people try to hide." She looked out the window toward the mountains. "My father was a police officer. When I was twelve, he was killed in the line of duty while investigating a domestic homicide. Case never got solved—not enough evidence, witnesses who wouldn't talk, the usual obstacles that crop up when people want something buried."
She continued, her voice taking on the cadence of someone who'd told this story before but still felt its weight. "Scholarship to University of Georgia, double major in Criminal Justice and Psychology. Master's in Criminology while working patrol, eventually a PhD in Behavioral Science. Spent years working major crimes, thinking I could fix the system from the inside."
"What changed?"
"A case that broke my faith in the idea that the system wants to be fixed." Evelyn's eyes went distant. "Details don't matter, but let's just say I learned that sometimes the people you're supposed to trust are the ones making sure certain truths never see daylight."
Pierce wanted to push for more details, but something in Evelyn's expression suggested that particular door was closed for now. "So you came here to start over?"
"My daughter lives here, and, well, it's a beautiful part of the country. Peaceful, or so I thought." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Pierce, crime is everywhere. Most people just don't know how much of it there is. If they did, they'd live on islands. But for people like us, it's not a hobby, it's all we've ever known." She gestured around the converted house. “I’m an independent consultant now. I contract with law enforcement when they want an outside perspective, work with universities on cold case methodology. Small operation but specialized. People tend to see me like a modern-day female Sherlock Holmes with a lab coat and a PhD."
Pierce could see why Evelyn Cross had gravitated toward the Hale case. She understood the frustration of investigation, the way cases could be buried under bureaucratic weight. She had both the street credibility of her detective background and the academic authority to back up her conclusions.
"So why hasn't this case been solved?" Pierce asked. "Ten years, all the resources of state and county law enforcement, and nothing?"
Evelyn chuckled, but the sound carried more resignation than amusement. "Getting a few wins under your belt doesn't guarantee you can solve every case, Pierce. There are variables you can't control, uncooperative witnesses, contaminated evidence, jurisdictional politics, budget constraints. Some cases get solved in hours, others take decades, some never get solved at all. That's the nature of criminal investigation." She looked around the room, taking in the expensive equipment and the team's expectant faces. "If I had a nickel for every person who asked me why this case hasn't been solved by now, I'd be wealthy."
Pierce followed her gaze, suddenly conscious of how their setup might look to someone who'd spent years fighting for resources and recognition. "You look pretty comfortable already."
"Looks can be deceiving. So can leads, witnesses, and evidence. You'll get plenty of all three on this case, I guarantee it. But don't presume you know who's at fault, and don't make assumptions about what you're going to find. The truth is usually more complicated than the story people want to tell."
Before Pierce could respond, Theo's phone buzzed with a text message. He glanced at it and looked up. "We've got a response from that ADKLawGirl user. She’s down for meeting this afternoon at theDaily Enterprisein High Peaks. Says she can offer local access and historical context."
Pierce felt the familiar rush of momentum building. "Set it up. What's her real name?"
