The Scar on His Jaw
Holt’s office smelled like burnt coffee and stale regret. I stood by his desk, the photograph from the third murder scene still wet in my hands. The chemicals hadn’t fully dried, and my fingers left faint smudges on the edges. I didn’t care.
“You’re sure about this?” Holt asked. He leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. His eyes were bloodshot, dark crescents carved beneath them. He hadn’t slept in two days.
“I saw it,” I said. “The replay. He took off the mask.”
Holt rubbed his jaw. “And you got a clear look at his face?”
“Not his whole face. But the scar was there. On his left jawline, running from his ear to his chin. Thick, like a knife wound that healed wrong.”
Holt pulled a file from his drawer. It was thick, the cardboard edges frayed. He dropped it on the desk with a thud that echoed through the empty bullpen. “I spent all night digging through old personnel records. Found something.”
He opened the file. Inside were photographs, faded and yellowed. A man in his late forties, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite. His eyes were pale, almost colorless. And on his left jawline, a scar. Thick, raised, exactly what I’d seen in the replay.
“Elias Croft,” Holt said. “Retired detective. Worked homicide for twenty-three years. Transferred to evidence processing after an incident in ‘09.”
“What kind of incident?”
Holt flipped through the pages. “Internal affairs report. A suspect died in custody. Croft was the lead interrogator. The autopsy showed blunt force trauma to the skull. Croft claimed the suspect fell. The department believed him. But they moved him to evidence anyway.”
I studied the photograph. Croft’s eyes stared back at me, flat and empty. There was something familiar about them, something I couldn’t place. “When did he retire?”
“Five years ago. Officially.” Holt pulled another sheet from the file. “But there’s a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Croft died two years ago. Car accident. His vehicle went off a cliff on the Columbia River Gorge. They found the wreckage, but the body was never recovered. Officially, he’s dead.”
I set the photograph down. “Officially.”
“Yeah.” Holt leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “I called the coroner’s office this morning. The report says the car was burned beyond recognition. They identified him through dental records. But here’s the thing—the dental records were submitted by his former partner. A detective named Frank Mullins.”
“Where’s Mullins now?”
“Retired. Lives in Arizona. I called him. He said he didn’t remember submitting any dental records. Said he was out of town when Croft died.”
I felt the pieces clicking into place, each one heavier than the last. “So someone faked Croft’s death. And they used Mullins’s name to do it.”
Holt nodded. “That’s the theory. But I need more. I need to see the original death certificate, the accident report, everything. And I need to do it without the captain finding out.”
“Why would the captain care?”
Holt’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the door, then back at me. “Because the captain signed off on Croft’s death certificate. He approved the closure of the case. If Croft is alive, the captain either made a mistake or he’s covering something up.”
I picked up the photograph of Croft again. The scar on his jaw seemed to pulse in the fluorescent light. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to go to the morgue. The city keeps records of all unidentified remains. If Croft’s body was never recovered, there might be something in the files. A detail that doesn’t match.”
“The morgue is locked down after hours. I can’t just walk in.”
Holt reached into his jacket and pulled out a keycard. “You can now. I borrowed it from the night shift supervisor. She owes me a favor.”
I took the keycard. It was warm from his body heat. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to track down Mullins. Get him to talk. If he didn’t submit those dental records, someone else did. And that someone is probably still in the department.”
I slipped the keycard into my pocket. “Meet me back here in two hours.”
“Be careful, Iris. If Croft is alive, he knows we’re getting close.”
The morgue was a concrete box on the edge of the city, surrounded by chain-link fences and dead grass. Rain fell in sheets, turning the parking lot into a shallow lake. I parked my car near the entrance and killed the engine. The silence was immediate, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof.
I swiped the keycard at the side door. The lock clicked open. I stepped inside.
The hallway was dim, lit by emergency lights that cast long shadows. The air smelled of bleach and decay, a combination that never quite left your nostrils. I walked past rows of steel doors, each one leading to a cold storage unit. The floor was polished concrete, slick under my boots.
The records room was at the end of the hall. I pushed open the door and found a small office with filing cabinets lining the walls. A computer sat on a desk, its screen dark. I turned it on and waited for it to boot up.
The system was old, running on software that had probably been installed in the early 2000s. I navigated to the death records database and searched for Elias Croft. The file came up immediately.
I scanned the details. Date of death: July 14, two years ago. Cause: blunt force trauma consistent with a high-speed collision. Location: Columbia River Gorge, mile marker 47. Body: unrecovered, presumed burned.
I clicked on the attached documents. There was the accident report, signed by a state trooper. There was the death certificate, signed by the captain. And there was the dental records submission, signed by Frank Mullins.
I zoomed in on the signature. It looked legitimate, but I wasn’t a handwriting expert. I printed the page and moved to the filing cabinets.
The cabinets were organized by year. I found the drawer for two years ago and pulled it open. The files were packed tight, each one labeled with a case number. I found Croft’s file near the back.
I pulled it out and opened it on the desk. Inside were photographs of the accident scene. The car was a black sedan, crumpled like a tin can. The fire had consumed everything, leaving only a charred skeleton. The photographs showed the interior, the seats melted, the dashboard warped. There was no body in any of the shots.
I flipped through the pages. There was a report from the forensic team, noting that the fire had reached temperatures high enough to vaporize organic matter. They had found traces of bone fragments in the driver’s seat, but not enough to confirm identity.
I stopped at a photograph of the driver’s seat. The seatbelt was still buckled. The buckle was melted, but I could see the outline of the latch. Something was wrong.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the photograph. Then I zoomed in on the latch. The buckle was in the locked position, but the strap was loose. If someone had been wearing the seatbelt during the crash, the strap would have been taut. It would have snapped or burned, but it wouldn’t have been loose.
I looked at the next photograph. It showed the steering wheel, bent and melted. The airbag had deployed, but it was deflated, hanging from the dashboard like a dead skin. I noticed something else: the steering column was intact. In a high-speed collision, the column usually crumpled. This one was straight.
I pulled out the accident report and read the details. The car had gone off a cliff at approximately sixty miles per hour. It had fallen two hundred feet before hitting the ground. The impact should have crushed the front end. But the photographs showed minimal damage to the chassis.
I set the file down and stared at the wall. The pieces were coming together, but they didn’t fit the way they should. The accident was staged. The car was planted. Croft had faked his death, and someone in the department had helped him.
I heard a noise behind me. A soft click, like a door closing. I turned around.
The door to the records room was open. I had closed it when I came in. Now it was open, a sliver of darkness beyond.
“Hello?” I said.
No answer.
I stood up slowly, my hand moving to my camera. The Leica hung around my neck, the weight familiar and reassuring. I raised it to my eye and looked through the viewfinder.
The hallway was empty. The emergency lights cast pools of yellow light on the floor. I stepped out of the records room and walked toward the main corridor.
The morgue was silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigeration units. I passed the cold storage doors, each one numbered. At the end of the hall, I saw a shadow move.
I stopped. The shadow was gone.
I walked faster, my boots echoing on the concrete. I reached the end of the hall and turned the corner. The exit door was at the far end, a rectangle of gray light. I pushed it open and stepped outside.
The rain hit me like a wall. I stood in the parking lot, my camera still in my hands. The lot was empty. My car was the only one there.
I turned around and looked at the morgue. The windows were dark. Nothing moved.
I got in my car and locked the doors. My hands were shaking. I started the engine and drove back to the station.
Holt was waiting for me in the parking garage. He stood by his car, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and cold.
“Find anything?” he asked.
I handed him the file. “The accident was staged. The car didn’t have enough damage. The seatbelt was loose. Croft wasn’t in that crash.”
Holt took the file and flipped through it. His face hardened. “This is enough to reopen the case. But I need to take it to the captain.”
“You can’t. He signed the death certificate. He’s part of it.”
Holt looked at me. His eyes were tired, but there was something else there. Determination. “I know. But I have to follow protocol. If I go around him, I’ll be suspended. And then I can’t help you.”
“Then what do we do?”
Holt dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. “We find Croft. Before he finds us.”
I looked at the photograph of Elias Croft, the scar on his jaw a dark line against his skin. Somewhere in this city, he was watching. And he knew we were getting closer.
I raised my camera and took a picture of the photograph. The shutter clicked, loud in the empty garage. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, a reminder that every image held a truth. And some truths were worth dying for.
“You’re sure about this?” Holt asked. He leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. His eyes were bloodshot, dark crescents carved beneath them. He hadn’t slept in two days.
“I saw it,” I said. “The replay. He took off the mask.”
Holt rubbed his jaw. “And you got a clear look at his face?”
“Not his whole face. But the scar was there. On his left jawline, running from his ear to his chin. Thick, like a knife wound that healed wrong.”
Holt pulled a file from his drawer. It was thick, the cardboard edges frayed. He dropped it on the desk with a thud that echoed through the empty bullpen. “I spent all night digging through old personnel records. Found something.”
He opened the file. Inside were photographs, faded and yellowed. A man in his late forties, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite. His eyes were pale, almost colorless. And on his left jawline, a scar. Thick, raised, exactly what I’d seen in the replay.
“Elias Croft,” Holt said. “Retired detective. Worked homicide for twenty-three years. Transferred to evidence processing after an incident in ‘09.”
“What kind of incident?”
Holt flipped through the pages. “Internal affairs report. A suspect died in custody. Croft was the lead interrogator. The autopsy showed blunt force trauma to the skull. Croft claimed the suspect fell. The department believed him. But they moved him to evidence anyway.”
I studied the photograph. Croft’s eyes stared back at me, flat and empty. There was something familiar about them, something I couldn’t place. “When did he retire?”
“Five years ago. Officially.” Holt pulled another sheet from the file. “But there’s a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Croft died two years ago. Car accident. His vehicle went off a cliff on the Columbia River Gorge. They found the wreckage, but the body was never recovered. Officially, he’s dead.”
I set the photograph down. “Officially.”
“Yeah.” Holt leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “I called the coroner’s office this morning. The report says the car was burned beyond recognition. They identified him through dental records. But here’s the thing—the dental records were submitted by his former partner. A detective named Frank Mullins.”
“Where’s Mullins now?”
“Retired. Lives in Arizona. I called him. He said he didn’t remember submitting any dental records. Said he was out of town when Croft died.”
I felt the pieces clicking into place, each one heavier than the last. “So someone faked Croft’s death. And they used Mullins’s name to do it.”
Holt nodded. “That’s the theory. But I need more. I need to see the original death certificate, the accident report, everything. And I need to do it without the captain finding out.”
“Why would the captain care?”
Holt’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the door, then back at me. “Because the captain signed off on Croft’s death certificate. He approved the closure of the case. If Croft is alive, the captain either made a mistake or he’s covering something up.”
I picked up the photograph of Croft again. The scar on his jaw seemed to pulse in the fluorescent light. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to go to the morgue. The city keeps records of all unidentified remains. If Croft’s body was never recovered, there might be something in the files. A detail that doesn’t match.”
“The morgue is locked down after hours. I can’t just walk in.”
Holt reached into his jacket and pulled out a keycard. “You can now. I borrowed it from the night shift supervisor. She owes me a favor.”
I took the keycard. It was warm from his body heat. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to track down Mullins. Get him to talk. If he didn’t submit those dental records, someone else did. And that someone is probably still in the department.”
I slipped the keycard into my pocket. “Meet me back here in two hours.”
“Be careful, Iris. If Croft is alive, he knows we’re getting close.”
The morgue was a concrete box on the edge of the city, surrounded by chain-link fences and dead grass. Rain fell in sheets, turning the parking lot into a shallow lake. I parked my car near the entrance and killed the engine. The silence was immediate, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof.
I swiped the keycard at the side door. The lock clicked open. I stepped inside.
The hallway was dim, lit by emergency lights that cast long shadows. The air smelled of bleach and decay, a combination that never quite left your nostrils. I walked past rows of steel doors, each one leading to a cold storage unit. The floor was polished concrete, slick under my boots.
The records room was at the end of the hall. I pushed open the door and found a small office with filing cabinets lining the walls. A computer sat on a desk, its screen dark. I turned it on and waited for it to boot up.
The system was old, running on software that had probably been installed in the early 2000s. I navigated to the death records database and searched for Elias Croft. The file came up immediately.
I scanned the details. Date of death: July 14, two years ago. Cause: blunt force trauma consistent with a high-speed collision. Location: Columbia River Gorge, mile marker 47. Body: unrecovered, presumed burned.
I clicked on the attached documents. There was the accident report, signed by a state trooper. There was the death certificate, signed by the captain. And there was the dental records submission, signed by Frank Mullins.
I zoomed in on the signature. It looked legitimate, but I wasn’t a handwriting expert. I printed the page and moved to the filing cabinets.
The cabinets were organized by year. I found the drawer for two years ago and pulled it open. The files were packed tight, each one labeled with a case number. I found Croft’s file near the back.
I pulled it out and opened it on the desk. Inside were photographs of the accident scene. The car was a black sedan, crumpled like a tin can. The fire had consumed everything, leaving only a charred skeleton. The photographs showed the interior, the seats melted, the dashboard warped. There was no body in any of the shots.
I flipped through the pages. There was a report from the forensic team, noting that the fire had reached temperatures high enough to vaporize organic matter. They had found traces of bone fragments in the driver’s seat, but not enough to confirm identity.
I stopped at a photograph of the driver’s seat. The seatbelt was still buckled. The buckle was melted, but I could see the outline of the latch. Something was wrong.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the photograph. Then I zoomed in on the latch. The buckle was in the locked position, but the strap was loose. If someone had been wearing the seatbelt during the crash, the strap would have been taut. It would have snapped or burned, but it wouldn’t have been loose.
I looked at the next photograph. It showed the steering wheel, bent and melted. The airbag had deployed, but it was deflated, hanging from the dashboard like a dead skin. I noticed something else: the steering column was intact. In a high-speed collision, the column usually crumpled. This one was straight.
I pulled out the accident report and read the details. The car had gone off a cliff at approximately sixty miles per hour. It had fallen two hundred feet before hitting the ground. The impact should have crushed the front end. But the photographs showed minimal damage to the chassis.
I set the file down and stared at the wall. The pieces were coming together, but they didn’t fit the way they should. The accident was staged. The car was planted. Croft had faked his death, and someone in the department had helped him.
I heard a noise behind me. A soft click, like a door closing. I turned around.
The door to the records room was open. I had closed it when I came in. Now it was open, a sliver of darkness beyond.
“Hello?” I said.
No answer.
I stood up slowly, my hand moving to my camera. The Leica hung around my neck, the weight familiar and reassuring. I raised it to my eye and looked through the viewfinder.
The hallway was empty. The emergency lights cast pools of yellow light on the floor. I stepped out of the records room and walked toward the main corridor.
The morgue was silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigeration units. I passed the cold storage doors, each one numbered. At the end of the hall, I saw a shadow move.
I stopped. The shadow was gone.
I walked faster, my boots echoing on the concrete. I reached the end of the hall and turned the corner. The exit door was at the far end, a rectangle of gray light. I pushed it open and stepped outside.
The rain hit me like a wall. I stood in the parking lot, my camera still in my hands. The lot was empty. My car was the only one there.
I turned around and looked at the morgue. The windows were dark. Nothing moved.
I got in my car and locked the doors. My hands were shaking. I started the engine and drove back to the station.
Holt was waiting for me in the parking garage. He stood by his car, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and cold.
“Find anything?” he asked.
I handed him the file. “The accident was staged. The car didn’t have enough damage. The seatbelt was loose. Croft wasn’t in that crash.”
Holt took the file and flipped through it. His face hardened. “This is enough to reopen the case. But I need to take it to the captain.”
“You can’t. He signed the death certificate. He’s part of it.”
Holt looked at me. His eyes were tired, but there was something else there. Determination. “I know. But I have to follow protocol. If I go around him, I’ll be suspended. And then I can’t help you.”
“Then what do we do?”
Holt dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. “We find Croft. Before he finds us.”
I looked at the photograph of Elias Croft, the scar on his jaw a dark line against his skin. Somewhere in this city, he was watching. And he knew we were getting closer.
I raised my camera and took a picture of the photograph. The shutter clicked, loud in the empty garage. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, a reminder that every image held a truth. And some truths were worth dying for.