ALTER EGO

Sirens echoed in the distance as Jack Stanwick entered the rural town of Rockfort, Virginia. Another gruesome discovery led the local boys to claim jurisdiction—but the Bureau had their own ideas and about to pull rank. After he sliced through the necessary red-tape and secured the needed sanctions, FBI Director Gordon Weaver issued an order to survey the tragedy and retrieve all remnants from Granite’s Mill.

With hardly a resident looking his way, Jack hastened through the four-way stop and hurried up Old Gulch Road. He noticed the sparse trees had turned into a dense forest that dimmed an already cloudy sky. So after a quick flick of his wrist, the headlights came on.

As the car gained speed, it careened along the crushed-stone route. The loose gravel struck the undercarriage like a hail of bullets. At the same time, the screeching cry of police horns blared louder with each impending tread. It put him on high alert. While the adrenaline surged, he sped over a hill and caught sight of the glaring flares that inflamed his path, which improved his view. The crime scene now became visible.

Jack veered off onto a dusty road and pulled ahead of the pack of scattered cars. He shut off the engine, peered out the windshield and eyed the disarray of yellow police tape that encircled the crime scene. All the grave facial expressions gave weight to what lay just ahead.

Here we go again! His mind raced.

He reached over to unlock the glove compartment and removed a mini-recording device. Once his throat cleared, he pushed the corresponding buttons and spoke in a deep and sturdy voice, “This is Special Agent Jack Stanwick. It’s Sunday, the twenty-sixth of October and the time is…” He looked at his watch then continued logging the rest of his statement. When finished, he shed the blazer and put on his FBI jacket. He shoved the gadget into a pocket and turned it back on.

Jack unbuckled his seatbelt and thrust open the door. He emerged from the car and was overtaken by a brisk wind that stiffened his face and stirred his spine. With a quick zip of his jacket, he advanced toward the group of men who had gathered around as if in a football huddle. One of the local cops approached him.

“You must be the FBI agent?” Out came a hand. “I’m Deputy Morton Talbot.”

Jack grasped it. He noticed how the gun holster hung loosely around the deputy’s waist; seemingly held up by a uniform that was one size too big.

“You got here mighty quick.”

“I drove like a banshee.” Jack turned and stuck his head between the congregated men. “Why is everybody just standing here?” He looked down at a body partially covered with leaves.

“We don’t want to touch anything until Chief McAllister gets here.”

Jack pulled his head out from the group. “Where is he?”

“The chief is on his way up from Gallagher County. He’s been visiting his brother over the weekend.” The deputy glanced at his pocket watch. “He should be here any minute.”

Jack was raised to be respectful, but also knew cops from the South played by their own set of rules. If things weren’t done their way, an investigation could come to a screeching halt and critical clues would be lost. “I take it you haven’t started processing the crime scene? His eyes narrowed. “You know crucial evidence is disintegrating.”

“Like I said before, we’re waiting for the chief.”

Realizing the jig—a name he called the dance—Jack prepared for another whirl. “Can’t you initiate things?” He wanted to plant the seed. “Aren’t you second in command?”

“Ah…yeah.”

“Where’s my CSI team?”

“Right behind you.”

Jack spun around his head and noticed some FBI vans from Quantico, Virginia.

“We’ve got our folks standing by,” Deputy Talbot said. “I told your team that.”

“C’mon people, you can at least take pictures.” He pointed down. “I need those tire marks cast.”

Nobody moved.

“Damn it!” His body wrenched. “Where’s the camera? I’ll start this investigation myself.”

“Oh no ya won’t,” bellowed a loud, crass voice. The man bustled his way through the crowd. “This here’s my case that happened in my county that happened in my state.”

Jack stood in the presence of the South’s Wyatt Earp. He was a short, portly dynamo. Stuffed in an old suit with cowboy boots, he looked like a real hellcat. “You must be Chief Denton McAllister?”

“You’d be right, son.”

“I’m FBI Special Agent Jack Stanwick.” He stuck out his hand.

The chief ignored it, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off an end, ran it under his nose then popped the blunt into his mouth and lit it. His eyes darted toward Deputy Talbot. “What’s all this excitement about?” His heavy drawl languished. “Have ya found Jimmy Hoffa?”

A sharp burst of laughter erupted from his men.

“No,” Deputy Talbot answered. “It’s more like a freak show.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Jack piped up.

The chief took a steady puff of his stogie. “I reckon I’ll be the judge of that.”

Jack gritted his teeth. These were backwoods boys and he knew nothing would get done if they weren’t treated with kid gloves. “You know by all accounts the FBI would be taking over this case once we were informed.” His voice remained calm and steady.

“I know the playbook, son.” The fiery tip of Chief McAllister’s cigar floundered with every word. “Your boss called the governor and raised a hell of a dickens.”

“I don’t know anything about that. What I do know is I’ve got to haul this body up to our medical examiner, and soon, so I need my CSI team to do their job.”

The chief blew his noxious mist into the air. “Can I at least take a gander at the body before those fellas get in my way?”

“Just don’t drop any ashes on the crime scene,” Jack countered.