Page 10 of Fatal Fame
3
The drive from Plattsburgh International Airport to Saranac Lake took Pierce through country that looked like it had been painted by someone who believed in the healing power of wilderness. Rolling hills covered in dense forest gave way to glimpses of pristine lakes, their surfaces mirror-still in the morning calm. The rental van—a white Ford Transit that screamed "media crew"—wound through valleys where mist still clung to the treeline despite the late morning sun.
Pierce gripped the steering wheel with the energy that came from knowing he was about to step into something bigger than a typical podcast investigation. In the passenger seat, Sienna scrolled through her phone, monitoring social media engagement from yesterday's WebSleuths post. Behind them, Camila reviewed her notes while Marcus and Theo tested audio levels on equipment that cost more than most people's cars.
"Engagement's through the roof," Sienna said without looking up. "The High Peaks post has more comments than our entire last season finale."
"Small towns love their secrets," Pierce replied, taking the exit for Saranac Lake. "And they hate outsiders who want to dig them up."
Camila looked up from her tablet in the back seat. "Speaking of which, we've got a potential local contact. That ADKLawGirl user wants to meet. Says she interns at the newspaper and could help with access."
Pierce felt the familiar thrill of pieces falling into place. "Set it up for this afternoon. Right now, we're meeting with our forensic expert."
The GPS guided them through Saranac Lake's downtown, past Victorian houses that had been converted into boutique shops and cafes catering to tourists who came for the mountains and stayed for the carefully cultivated small-town charm. Pierce noted the mix of genuine local businesses and the kind of artisanal coffee shops that signaled a community in transition between authentic and performative.
Forest Hill Avenue climbed gently away from the commercial district. It was lined with historic homes that spoke to the area's past as a destination for wealthy city dwellers seeking mountain air and rustic luxury. Pierce slowed as they approached number 47, a three-story Colonial Revival structure that looked like it had been transported from a more genteel era.
The sign by the front walk read "Cross Forensics" in understated letters, and Pierce could see why Evelyn Cross had chosen this place for her practice. The building commanded respect. It was substantial without being ostentatious, professional without being cold.
"This is it," Pierce said, pulling into the gravel driveway. "Remember, she's doing us a favor by talking. Let me take the lead."
The team gathered their equipment and followed Pierce up the brick walkway to a front door that looked like it had beenconstructed in the early 1900’s. Before Pierce could knock, the door opened to reveal a woman in her mid-forties with graying brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and intelligent hazel eyes that seemed to catalog everything about them in a single glance.
"Dr. Cross?" Pierce extended his hand. "Pierce Landry. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."
"Evelyn, please." Her handshake was firm, her voice carrying a slight drawl that suggested Southern origins. "Come in. I've got coffee brewing."
The interior of the house maintained its historic character while accommodating modern needs. Hardwood floors gleamed under period-appropriate fixtures, and the walls were lined with bookshelves that held an eclectic mix of forensic texts, criminology journals, and what looked like local history volumes. The smell of fresh coffee mingled with the faint chemical smell that Pierce associated with laboratories.
Evelyn led them into what had once been a formal sitting room but now served as her office. A large desk dominated one wall, covered with case files and photographs, while a conference table occupied the center of the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided natural light that revealed dust motes dancing in the air like tiny pieces of evidence waiting to be examined.
"Please, sit," Evelyn said, gesturing toward chairs around the conference table. "How do you take your coffee?"
As she poured coffee from a thermal carafe, Pierce studied Evelyn Cross with the same attention he brought to potential interview subjects. She moved with the economy of motion that came from years of work, but there was something in her posture, a slight guardedness, a way of holding herself that suggested she'd seen things that had left their mark.
"So," Evelyn said, settling into her chair with a thick notebook in front of her, "the Hale murders. Ten years I've been carrying pieces of this case around in my head."
She opened the notebook, revealing pages covered with handwritten notes, photocopied documents, and photographs that Pierce recognized from crime scene files. The organization was meticulous—tabs dividing sections, color-coded annotations, the kind of systematic approach that separated professional investigators from amateur enthusiasts.
"How did you get involved in the case?" Pierce asked, accepting the coffee mug she offered. The brew was strong and slightly bitter, the kind of coffee that suggested its maker prioritized function over pleasure.
"Rebecca's sister contacted me about six months after the murders," Evelyn said, thumbing through her notes. "Wendy Sutton. She wasn't satisfied with the investigation, felt like important questions weren't being asked. I was between cases, so I took it on."
Pierce leaned forward, sensing the weight of frustration in her voice. "And what did you find?"
"A crime scene that had been processed like a routine burglary instead of a double homicide," Evelyn said. Her words carried professional disappointment mixed with something deeper—anger, perhaps, or grief for justice deferred. "I spent days in that house, going over every inch. The physical evidence suggested a level of violence that didn't match the official narrative."
She pulled out photographs that made Camila wince despite her years covering true crime. The images showed a home that had been transformed into something out of a nightmare—overturned furniture, blood spatter patterns that spoke to desperate struggle, the kind of chaos that suggested either rage or calculated staging.
"Tell me about the timeline," Pierce said, his podcast host instincts taking over. "What happened that last day?"
Evelyn consulted her notes, but Pierce could tell she knew the timeline by heart. "Saturday, late October. Rebecca taught her weekend art class from two to four. A guy named Travis Rudd was there. He was an obsessive ex-student who'd been making her uncomfortable. She stayed late to clean up, got home around five-thirty. Fed the dog, made sure Jacob ate something, and then changed into clothes for the evening potluck with her church friends."
"The potluck was at the church?"
"Community center. She was there from 6:30 to just after 8, seen by multiple witnesses. Seemed tired but normal, mentioned to another teacher that Jacob had been moody lately but nothing serious." Evelyn's finger traced a line on her timeline. "She got a phone call around 8:15 that seemed to upset her. Left immediately after that."
“Anything learned about that call?"
