Page 20 of Fatal Fame
Noah grabbed his badge and service weapon, his mind already working through the implications. A suspicious death involving someone connected to a case that an outside investigator was actively pursuing—that was the kind of scenario that required careful handling and thorough documentation.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Make sure nobody disturbs anything until I arrive."
The drive through High Peaks in the early morning felt like traveling through a postcard of small-town tranquility. Mist rose from the lake, and the mountains emerged from shadow with the kind of majestic beauty that brought tourists from hundreds of miles away. But Noah's mind was focused on darker possibilities—the ways that apparent suicides could mask murders, the pressure that outside attention could put on people with secrets to protect.
Pine Ridge Road wound through a neighborhood of modest homes built for working families rather than wealthy retirees or summer visitors. The houses sat on generous lots carved from what had once been forest, with mature trees providing privacyand the illusion that civilization hadn't completely conquered the wilderness.
Noah spotted the scene before he reached the address—three police cruisers, the coroner's van, and enough yellow tape to secure a small crime scene. He parked behind the coroner's vehicle and took a moment to observe the layout: a single-story house with an attached garage, the kind of property that suggested someone who valued privacy and didn't much care about impressing the neighbors.
Detective McKenzie approached as Noah climbed out of his truck. McKenzie was a veteran investigator with the Adirondack County Sheriff's Office, a burly Scotsman whose dry humor often surfaced at the most inappropriate moments. His graying hair and weathered face spoke to decades of dealing with the worst humanity had to offer, usually with a sardonic comment that somehow made the darkness more bearable.
"Well, well, Sutherland," McKenzie said. "Another lovely morning in paradise, eh? Nothing like a wee bit of carbon monoxide to start the day."
"What do we have?"
“He was found dead in his car. Engine was running, garage door closed, windows up tight as a drum. Classic carbon monoxide suicide setup, though I've seen cleaner operations at a church bake sale."
"Any note?"
"Aye, found one on the kitchen table. Short but interesting. He claims he knows who killed Rebecca and Jacob Hale but can’t live with keeping the secret anymore. Also left a list of names, locals who supposedly know the truth but won't talk."
Noah felt his pulse quicken. A suicide note mentioning the Hale murders and naming local conspirators, coming just days after Landry had started asking questions around town, that was either remarkable timing or something more sinister.
"Can I see it?"
McKenzie led him into the house, which showed signs of someone who'd been struggling with depression or substance abuse. Dishes piled in the sink, empty beer bottles on counters, mail stacked unopened on a coffee table that hadn't been cleared in weeks. The kind of domestic chaos that suggested someone who'd stopped caring about basic maintenance of his living space.
"Charming décor," Noah observed.
“Yeah, nothing says 'mental health crisis' like three weeks of dirty dishes and a recycling bin that's become a beer bottle museum,” McKenzie added.
The note lay on the kitchen table, written in blue ink on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook:
I know who killed Rebecca and Jacob but I can't prove it. There are others who know too but they won't talk. Here are their names: Mike Torres, Danny Walsh, Carl Peterson, Rita Morrison, Frank Kellerman. Maybe when I'm gone someone will finally tell the truth.
“Odd letter,” Noah said.
“Sure is. If he was leaving this world, why not just say who he thought did it.”
“Maybe he already had told someone.”
The handwriting was shaky but legible, the kind of script that suggested either emotional distress or physical impairment. Noah studied it carefully, noting the word choices and phrasing that might provide clues about the writer's state of mind.
"Has this been photographed?"
"Multiple angles, plus we'll bag it for handwriting analysis," McKenzie said. "Though if this is a forgery, it's a damn good one. Looks consistent with samples of Dwyer's writing we found around the house."
Noah made his way to the garage, where the real evidence would be found. The space was exactly what he'd expected—cluttered with tools and equipment, boxes of belongings that suggested someone who'd never quite settled anywhere permanently. A blue Nissan sat in the center of the space, its engine silent now but still warm to the touch.
Ozzy Westborough crouched beside the driver's side door, examining the body in a way that had made him one of the most respected coroners in the region. Ozzy was an anomaly in rural law enforcement—a death investigator who looked like he belonged at a heavy metal concert rather than a crime scene. Shoulder-length curly black hair framed a face that would have been at home on an album cover, and his distinctive style extended to red Doc Martens that had become his professional trademark.
"Ozzy," Noah said by way of greeting. "What's the preliminary assessment?"
Ozzy looked up, pulling out earbuds that had probably been playing something by Slayer or Black Sabbath. "Classic carbon monoxide presentation," Ozzy said, gesturing toward the body slumped over the steering wheel. "Cherry-red skin discoloration, position consistent with gradual loss of consciousness. No obvious signs of trauma or struggle."
"Time of death?"
"Best estimate puts it between midnight and 2 AM, which matches the neighbor's report about hearing the engine. Lividity patterns are consistent with the body position, no indication he was moved after death."
