Page 13 of Once Broken
Riley saw Hayes and Ann Marie exchange significant glances.A security chief absent the day after a high-profile murder on his watch was, at minimum, suspicious.
“The timing’s convenient,” Hayes muttered.
“I need to see his office,” Riley said to Gillian.
Gillian hesitated only briefly.“Normally I’d need to respect privacy protocols, but under the circumstances...”She turned to the guard.“We need access to Malcolm’s office.This is Detective Hayes from Atlanta PD, and these are FBI agents investigating Veronica’s death.”
The guard’s expression shifted from surprise to solemn understanding.“I don’t have a key to his private office, ma’am.It’s always locked when he’s not in.”
“I have master keys,” Gillian replied, already reaching into her pocket.“Please note in the log that we entered with proper authorization during an active investigation.”
The guard nodded, turning to his computer.“Yes, ma’am.His office is down the hall, last door on the right.”
Gillian led them through a narrow corridor lined with security monitors displaying various areas of the studio grounds.Malcolm Hartley’s office door was unmarked except for a small plaque reading “Head of Security.”
Gillian hesitated with the key in her hand.“I should mention that Malcolm has always been...particular about his privacy.In the three years he’s worked here, I’ve never actually been inside his office.”
Riley noted the subtle tension in Gillian’s voice.“Any reason for that level of privacy?”
“Not really.He’s efficient at his job, if somewhat standoffish.Keeps to himself, doesn’t socialize with the rest of the staff.But security has been excellent under his watch.”She inserted the key.“Until now, I suppose.”
The lock turned with a soft click.Gillian pushed the door open and flipped a light switch, revealing a space that initially appeared ordinary—a desk with a computer, filing cabinets along one wall, a small conference table with four chairs.Functional.Impersonal.
As they all stepped into the office, they were greeted by a large, free-standing bulletin board, its surface sparsely decorated with a handful of notices and photos.The board’s wooden frame seemed sturdy yet portable, mounted securely on four small wheels that hinted at its mobility.With a sense of curiosity, Riley extended her hand and gently spun the board completely around.Her breath caught in her throat at the first glimpse of the back, and she heard gasps from her companions as they all saw what she saw.
The back was also a cork surface, this one covered with photographs of Veronica Slate—dozens of them, spanning decades of her career.Magazine covers.Publicity stills.Candid paparazzi shots.Screenshots from films.But each image had been defaced in some way—eyes scratched out, faces slashed with red marker, obscenities scrawled across her features.Some photos had been burned around the edges, others stabbed repeatedly with what must have been a letter opener.
In the center of this disturbing collage was a publicity photo fromThe Night Walker—not of Roberta Rimes, but of Veronica at what appeared to be the film’s revival screening years ago.Across her throat, someone had drawn a red line with meticulous precision.Beneath it, in neat block letters: “LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.”
The group stood frozen in the doorway, the silence broken only by Gillian’s sharp intake of breath.Riley felt Ann Marie stiffen beside her and noticed Hayes’s hand instinctively moved toward his holstered weapon.
The bulletin board transformed the mundane office into something profoundly sinister—a shrine to obsession and hate, carefully maintained and hidden behind a locked door.The images stared back at them, Veronica’s mutilated face multiplied across the wall in a grotesque gallery that told the story of a fixation that had clearly festered for years.Now it looked like an unpleasant obsession might have culminated in murder.
What was the man who had made this ugly display doing right now?
CHAPTER FIVE
Riley’s trained eyes cataloged every scratch, burn mark, and violent annotation marring Veronica Slate’s face across dozens of images on that bulletin board.The methodical defacement—eyes meticulously scratched out, precise red lines drawn across throats—revealed the creator’s psychological state.This wasn’t random destruction; it was ritualistic, performed with the careful attention of someone nursing a profound hatred that must have festered for years.
The words “LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER” in block letters were perfectly aligned on the cork surface, as if measured with a ruler.Malcolm Hartley hadn’t just harbored an obsession with Veronica Slate—he had cultivated it.
“My God,” Gillian whispered, her hand covering her mouth.“I had no idea.”
“How long has Hartley worked here?”Riley asked, stepping closer to examine a particularly disturbing photo where Veronica’s eyes had been burned out with what appeared to be cigarette marks.
“Three years as head of security,” Gillian replied, her voice hollow with shock.“He came highly recommended.”
“What do you make of all this?”Detective Hayes asked Riley.
“It looks like it’s about vengeance,” Riley said.“Hartley believed Veronica or her mother had wronged him somehow.”
Gillian said weakly, “Last night, Veronica said she’d tell me about him later.If only I’d pressed her then...”
“We need to find him,” Riley said firmly.“Ms.Sinclair, I assume you have Hartley’s home address on file.”
Gillian nodded.“I can access it on my cellphone and send it to yours.”
Hayes gave her his cellphone number, and she sent the address immediately.
