Page 51 of Criminology of a Character

“I thought you guys left.” Jerry appeared from nowhere with an aggressively friendly smile, surprising both officers with his sudden appearance.

“Just admiring the photograph,” Bel lied. “But I actually had one more question.” Her heart crossed its metaphorical fingers. “Did we meet everyone, or is someone off today?”

“Nope, everyone is here,” Jerry said. “Because of the press conference, we all came in regardless of our shifts.”

“Right, thanks.” She glanced one last time at the hauntingly beautiful photo.

“Although.” Jerry stopped her from leaving. “That photographer isn’t here.” He gestured at the portrait.

“Oh?” Bel involuntarily stepped closer to the cameraman, and by the look in his eyes, she was behaving exactly like Eamon Stone’s predator.

“Jax is an award-winning freelance photographer. His work is practically famous, so I don’t know why he works here.”

“Works here?” Griffin asked, suddenly invested in Jerry’s chaotic way of speaking.

“Yeah, Jax’s been at the station for over twenty years. He’s a cameraman, but he’s also a freelance photographer. He travels the world, selling his photographs to the highest bidder. He’s unreasonably talented, but he enjoys working here. Claims it keeps him grounded.”

Bel’s stomach dropped as Jerry described the exact man they were looking for. “Why isn’t he here today?” she asked.

“He took a leave of absence,” he said. “He isn’t married, and I didn’t know he had kids, but apparently, there was an emergency with his grandson. He needed time off to deal with the issue.”

“When?” Bel stepped forward again. “After Thanksgiving?”

“Um…. Yeah.” Jerry swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he broke their eye contact for a second. “It was after Thanksgiving.”

“Does he live in Bajka?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “I don’t know where. I’ve only known him for a few months, and we weren’t exactly friends.”

“That’s no problem. We can find the address.” Griffin had his keys in his hand and his feet poised to flee the station the second Jerry answered his next question. “And does Jax have a last name?”

“Yeah.” Jerry nodded, his eyes flashing between the two officers. “It’s Frost.”

“Nice neighborhood,”Griffin said as he parked his truck in Frost’s driveway. “No one would suspect their neighbor of being a serial killer on a street like this. Doesn’t look like anyone’s home, though.” He hopped out of the vehicle and climbed the front steps to the porch, Bel hard on his heels. “Jax Frost?” he shouted as he pounded on the door. “Bajka Police Department.” He knocked again, but to no avail. The house was still.

“He took vacation time a few days ago.” Griffin jogged down the steps and rounded the side of the house. “He could be long gone by now.”

“I don’t think so.” Bel followed him, peering through the windows, but all the curtains were drawn. “He’s still in town.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The leave of absence is to cover his tracks in case he has to flee at the last second,” she explained. “Randomly not showing up for work is suspicious. If we broadcasted that we were looking for a man on the run, the station would immediately think of the absent employee, but if someone had a family emergency before we put out the alert, no one would consider him a suspect. If Frost is our killer, he’s still in town. He doesn’t know he’s a person of interest, and he wants to watch us blindly fumble. He’s probably upset about our discovery, but I also bet he's enjoying the fallout.”

“People always want someone to share their secrets with,” Griffin said. “The greater it is, the greater the burden of bearing it alone becomes. He might even be relieved we’ve uncovered it.”

“Someone who photographs suffering and war lives to broadcast the world’s pain.” Bel tested the back door, but it was locked. “I imagine seeing his work on the news satisfies that longing inside him.”

“So he’s in Bajka, but he’s not home,” Griffin said. “No car in the driveway, no sounds coming from inside. Do you think he isn’t home at the moment, or is he staying somewhere else?”

“Either.” She shrugged. “Both. We can station an unmarked car down the street to see if he returns. Chances are, Frost is just a grandfather with a grandson who needs help, but if he’s The Matchstick Girl Killer… Griffin?” Her voice froze in her throat, and she blinked her eyes, hoping her vision would clear, but no matter how many times her eyelids flashed, the damning red stared back at her.

“What’s wrong?” The sheriff grabbed her biceps, readying to pull her to safety the moment he registered the danger. “Are you all right?”

“Ladybugs,” she whispered.

“A ladybug?” Griffin gawked at her.

“Sarah Bristol was last seen wearing jeans, a sweater, and ladybug earrings,” Bel repeated the reporter’s words as she stared at the grass beside her shoes. “There was a photo of them. They were extremely distinctive.” She pointed to the red peeking out of the dirt. “They looked exactly like that.”

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