Page 52 of Murder in Calusa Cove
Chloe leaned against the cold wall in the interrogation room, arms crossed, the pressure of the case—and the suspect seated at the table—weighing on her.
Throughout her career, she’d interviewed and questioned many suspects. To a certain point, she’d become numb to the process. It was the job. The questions were carefully crafted, like a tango, with the intention of making the suspect miss a beat. To trip and screw up the dance.
But not this time. Something deep inside her screamed that this man hadn’t killed her sister. That was a dangerous voice to listen to, even if she believed it to be instinct—and she’d always trusted her gut. Her job required her to follow her intuition, as her natural inclinations were generally the right direction to take a case.
However, this wasn’t just any case, and it was personal. That changed everything.
She stiffened her spine, sitting tall, drawing on years of training. Pushing all her thoughts to a dark spot in the corner of her brain, she settled the voice that told her Cole was innocent. She’d allow the thought, but it wouldn’t be the guiding force. She needed to push beyond that tickle and be the agent that Hayes had seen. The one who could hide her emotions and deal with problems.
Cole Delaney sat hunched forward, fingers loosely linked, his long gray hair damp from the lingering humidity outside. His shoulders were broad but sagging. Not defeated—resigned. His eyes shifted back and forth, and his right leg rattled. His breathing was slow and controlled, as if he were trying to keep a sense of balance. Trying to keep himself from going over the edge.
Dawson stood behind him, off to one side—the side closer to the door. Dawson seemed to have more reservations about Cole than anyone else. Not about whether he was their killer, but whether he could be a killer.
Chloe understood that thinking. It had less to do with the dark shadows that had followed Cole out of the Marines, and more with all the unknowns and the coincidences—and cops don’t do coincidences.
Hayes sat opposite, quiet, elbows on the table, his presence steady and watchful.
But mostly, Hayes offered Cole kindness.
Something Chloe struggled to do, even if she believed Cole hadn’t killed anyone. She still found him off-putting. The man had possessed a picture of her in his cabin. That alone was creepy as hell. But there was more. She had to admit that, at first glance, he fit the profile. He was the right age. His wife had left him, possibly for another man.
However, as she continued down that train of thought, the profile broke down because whatever had happened to him in the military had fundamentally changed the way he processed information.
While her unsub was a broken human, he was still methodical and most likely could socialize like a normal person. Cole didn’t possess those skills. Not anymore.
The profile of her suspect was a man who lived in his community. He most likely had a college education, worked a decent job, and maybe even had a family. He could have some OCD tendencies. That thought made her steal a glance at Hayes.
He had one or two, but she suspected he wasn’t even aware of them. His obsessive-compulsive behaviors weren’t the kinds of actions that interrupted a person’s daily life. Hayes did things like fold his socks a specific way. He had to make the bed every morning, and his pillow cases faced inward. He would change them if she faced them in the opposite direction. Towels were always hung a certain way, and if he walked by and they weren’t, he changed them. But he didn’t get upset. He didn’t demand that others do it. It was more of a habit than a compulsion.
Most likely it came from childhood—like everything with Hayes—and she’d figured out he was more damaged from his upbringing than he even understood.
“Why don’t we get things started?” Dawson waved his hand toward Chloe. “You know this case better than I do, so why don’t you start?”
She nodded, grateful for being allowed to question Cole, but she knew she needed to tread lightly. While Dawson was the Chief of Police in Calusa Cove, he could still get in trouble for letting her anywhere near this. “You told Dawson and the guys that you found bones in multiple locations in the Everglades,” Chloe said carefully, stepping forward. “Can you be a little more specific about that?”
Cole blew out a puff of air, his gaze steady. “Six different times over the last year. The first set was eleven months ago, about fifty miles northwest of here. Solid ground near a sawgrass break. Partial skull and ribs. I reported it to the Hendry County Sheriff’s Office.”
“And?” Dawson asked.
“They sent out a wildlife officer who said it was probably animal remains. That was it. No follow-up. I know the difference between animals and humans, and what I saw was no animal. It was human.” Cole flattened his shaky hands on the table. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were narrowed in frustration.
“What happened to the bones? Did the wildlife officer take them?” Hayes asked.
“He bagged and took them, but that was it.” Cole nodded. “I never heard from or saw him again, and that was when I was living in the RV park on the outskirts of town. He knew how to reach me. I might not’ve had a cell, but he could’ve come to the park or called the office.” Cole shook his head. “But he didn’t because he didn’t care—didn’t believe me. I suppose I should’ve expected that.”
Chloe exchanged a glance with Hayes.
“And all the others?” Dawson asked, tugging his cell from his back pocket, tapping on the screen.
“I didn’t bother calling anyone when I found something,” Cole continued, his voice more even now. “But I kept a record of things myself. Took photos—marked coordinates. I didn’t go digging, didn’t touch anything. Just documented what I could. I figured if I ever found someone who gave a damn, I’d hand my notes over.”
“And what exactly were you looking for?” she asked.
Cole gave a bitter laugh. “Patterns. I’ve spent my whole life finding threats before they show up on someone else’s radar. It was my job in the Marines—recon. I knew something was wrong out there—too many scavengers in places they shouldn’t be, too many quiet patches where everything felt off. But when I found that first piece of a human skull…” He fingered his beard. “I kept thinking about how that was someone’s person. Someone was missing them and had no idea what happened to them. I thought of my daughter, her stepfather, and the torment they must be going through, not knowing what happened to my ex-wife. That ain’t right, you know.”
Dawson stuffed his phone into his pocket. “You’ve got journals. Photos. Why didn’t you bring those to us?”
“I didn’t know who to trust. People think a man like me living out in the swamp is just some cracked vet with too many ghosts and not enough meds. I tried once—with your predecessors. No one listened.” He waved his finger between Dawson and Hayes. “And we had a few run-ins. A few words. A night in one of these cells. I figured you’d be more of the same.”
