Page 64 of Fatal Fame
"We have a burner phone found in your possession, cigarettes matching those found at the crime scene, physical evidence that suggests you were injured during a struggle, and testimony that places you in conflict with the victim immediately before his disappearance." McKenzie's tone carried the professional calm of someone who'd made hundreds of arrests. "You're not being direct with us about your whereabouts, which means you don't have a verifiable alibi. You have means, motive, and opportunity. We also have reason to believe you might flee the jurisdiction of New York to avoid prosecution."
"This is insane. I'm a podcaster, not a murderer."
"Turn around," McKenzie said, producing handcuffs from his belt.
Marcus looked around the bar as if seeking help from strangers who were now openly staring at the unfolding drama. His fellow Cold Trail team members were nowhere to be seen, and the other patrons seemed more interested in witnessing the arrest than intervening on his behalf. The isolation was complete—a man whose professional life had been built on collaboration and shared purpose now facing the consequences of alleged crimes entirely alone.
"This is a mistake," Marcus said as McKenzie moved behind him and guided his hands behind his back. "You're arresting the wrong person."
“Well I guess, we’ll find out soon enough,” McKenzie replied.
The handcuffs clicked into place with the metallic finality that marked the end of freedom and the beginning of a legal process that would determine Marcus' future. Other bar patrons had stopped pretending to mind their own business, openly watching as the drama played out in their midst. Phones appeared as people began recording or photographing the arrest, ensuring that Marcus' humiliation would extend beyond the immediate audience.
"You have the right to remain silent," McKenzie began, launching into the Miranda warning with the rhythmic cadence of someone who'd recited these words so often they'd become automatic. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."
Noah gathered the evidence from the table—the receipt, the burner phone, the cigarettes—sealing each item in its respective bag while maintaining the chain of custody that would be crucial if the case went to trial. The bar had fallen silent except for McKenzie's voice delivering the constitutional protections that seemed inadequate against the weight of circumstantial evidence.
"Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?" McKenzie asked as he guided Marcus toward the exit.
"I understand that you're making a huge mistake," Marcus replied, full of anger.
The front desk staff maintained professional composure, but Noah could see the curiosity and concern in their expressions. A high-profile arrest at their establishment would generateunwanted publicity and potential complications for their business.
As McKenzie escorted Marcus through the lobby toward the exit, Noah reflected on the investigation's rapid progression from missing person to homicide to arrest. The evidence against Marcus was substantial but largely circumstantial—enough to justify an arrest and detention, but perhaps not enough to guarantee a conviction. The burner phone was particularly damning, but a skilled defense attorney would argue that anyone could have planted it in Marcus' room.
The cigarettes presented similar challenges. While the brand match was suggestive, Camel cigarettes weren't exactly rare, and establishing a definitive connection between Marcus' pack and the ones found at the crime scene would require forensic analysis that might yield inconclusive results. The neck wound was intriguing but could easily be explained as an accidental shaving cut rather than evidence of a struggle.
Most problematic was the lack of direct evidence placing Marcus at the cabin during the time frame when Pierce was murdered. The hotel's malfunctioning security cameras had created a convenient gap in surveillance that could support either Marcus' alibi or the prosecution's theory that he'd deliberately chosen that window of opportunity to commit murder.
But police work often involved building cases from incomplete evidence, connecting dots that might not form a perfect picture but suggested a compelling narrative. Marcus had motive, opportunity, and potential physical evidence linking him to the crime scene. His inability to provide a verifiable alibi and his possession of the burner phone used to lure Pierce to his death created a circumstantial case that might be sufficient for prosecution.
The arrest would also serve tactical purposes beyond removing a suspect from circulation. Marcus' detention would pressure the remaining Cold Trail team members to cooperate more fully with the investigation, potentially revealing information they'd been withholding out of loyalty or fear. Sometimes the threat of prosecution was more effective than actual charges in motivating witnesses to tell the truth.
But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, they had a suspect in custody and evidence that suggested guilt rather than innocence. Sometimes that was the best outcome police work could provide—not perfect justice, but reasonable certainty based on available facts.
23
Au Sable Forks emerged from the forest like a town that time had forgotten, its main street lined with buildings that spoke to better economic days when logging and manufacturing sustained communities throughout the Adirondacks. The architecture mixed practical nineteenth century construction with mid-twentieth century additions creating a patchwork of survival rather than planning. Hand-painted signs advertised businesses that served local needs—a hardware store, a diner, a pharmacy that doubled as the post office—while empty storefronts suggested a population that had been shrinking for decades.
Mia drove slowly through the center of town, noting the way residents moved with the unhurried pace of people who lived where everyone knew everyone else's business. An elderly man in flannel and work boots waved from his position on a bench outside the hardware store, the gesture carrying the automatic friendliness of small-town life. A woman pushing a stroller paused to chat with another woman loading groceries into a pickup truck.
The mountains loomed closer here than in High Peaks, creating a sense of enclosure that felt both protective and limiting. Pine forests pressed against the town's edges. This was the kind of place where people came to escape complications, but also where complications had a way of following them.
Walsh Mechanics occupied a converted gas station on the town's northern edge, where Route 9 curved toward the Canadian border. The building's architecture reflected its automotive heritage—wide garage doors, concrete floors designed for heavy equipment, and the kind of functionality that prioritized work over aesthetics. A hand-painted sign announced "Walsh Mechanics—Honest Work, Fair Prices" in letters that had faded but remained legible.
The lot contained the usual collection of vehicles in various stages of repair, pickup trucks with their hoods propped open, a sedan missing its front bumper, and a motorcycle partially disassembled on a workbench visible through one of the open garage doors.
Mia parked beside a blue sedan that had seen better decades and walked toward the building, noting the sounds of work in progress—the pneumatic hiss of air tools, the clang of metal on metal, and the radio playing classic rock at a volume designed to compete with mechanical noise. The afternoon sun slanted through the open garage doors, creating patches of warmth. The place stank of motor oil and gasoline.
Two vehicles were raised on lifts inside the garage, their undersides exposed for maintenance. She could make out someone working beneath one of them, blue coveralls visible in the shadows created by the vehicle above.
"Be right with you," a voice called out, followed by the sound of someone wrestling with a stubborn bolt.
A young man in his twenties emerged from beneath the vehicle, wiping oil from his hands with a rag. He possessed thekind of rugged handsomeness that came from physical work and outdoor living, with dark hair and features that clearly marked him as Danny Walsh's son. His coveralls bore the name "Connor" embroidered above the left pocket.
"Help you?" Connor asked, approaching with the courtesy of someone accustomed to dealing with strangers who might be customers, creditors, or complications.
"Connor Walsh?" Mia asked, extending her hand in greeting.
