When the Devil Speaks Read online

  Owen Day

  When the Devil Speaks

  A Dylan Specter Novel

  First published by Night Rize 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by Owen Day

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  Cover art by GetCovers

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading!

  About the Author

  Epigraph

  “There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.”

  —Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

  Prologue

  Hard rain had ruined the hunting trip.

  Johnny had been sequestered in his hunting blind for only half an hour before the dreary sky let loose. What had started as a cold mist that clung to his clothes and skin gradually morphed into a steady downpour. Now, it was raining so hard that Johnny could barely see ten feet in any direction, which meant he wouldn’t be able to spot a deer even if one dared to brave the steadily worsening storm.

  For a few minutes, Johnny wavered between waiting out the rain—the forecast had said “scattered storms,” so the sky could clear up at some point—or throwing in the towel. It was the shivering that did him in. Johnny could stand being soaked to the bone, but he had never done well with cold. Too skinny for his height, his momma had said. Not enough meat to insulate his bones.

  Grumbling, Johnny slung his shotgun over his shoulder and climbed down the ladder made of boards that he’d nailed to the tree last summer. His boots squished loudly on the carpet of rotting leaves that covered the ground as he retraced his steps to the walking trail that led back to the road. His pace was glacially slow. The leafy cover was as slick as ice, and small streams of water had loosened the hard soil, creating mud patches that sucked at his boots.

  It took him twice as long to find the trail as it normally did when he returned from the blind, and the poor visibility certainly didn’t help. But once he was on the trail, the earth tightly compacted from frequent use, he sped up, power walking up the hill that descended from the ditch where he’d parked his pickup truck.

  A couple of times, he nearly lost his footing thanks to a wet leaf or a tree root, but he didn’t slow down again. He was totally drenched at this point, and his clothes felt like lead weights hanging off his limbs. His teeth chattered as the cold seeped into his skin, and he vainly wrapped his arms around himself.

  Should’ve just gone to Rob’s and spent the afternoon in front of the TV with a six-pack and a space heater, he thought. But no, I had to try and score myself another buck before the end of the season.

  At the steepest part of the hill, Johnny grabbed hold of a low-hanging tree branch that he’d used numerous times to steady himself as he clambered upward. Unfortunately for Johnny, this time turned out to be one time too many—the branch loudly snapped under his weight, and he lost his balance. He tumbled head over heels back down the hill, rolling clear off the path and into a tangle of thorny vines. The thorns nicked his face and snagged his clothing, and he thrashed about for several minutes before he managed to get free.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he stripped off his wet glove and touched his face. His fingers came back red. “Exactly what I need right now.”

  Wiping his fingers off on his pants, he tugged his glove back on and whirled around so he could return to the trail. Before he took another step, however, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. About ten feet away, right on the edge of the haze that blanketed the woods, a strange shape protruded from the side of a broad tree.

  Johnny squinted to try and make out what the object was, but the rain was coming down too hard. So he moved closer and circled around to the side of the tree from which the object hung. And finally, he saw it for what it was.

  Ice that had nothing to do with the cold flooded his veins, and a choked cry clawed its way out of his throat. “Oh my god.”

  He fumbled around in his jacket pockets for his cell phone, his half-numb fingers struggling to grab hold of it. When he finally grasped it, he unlocked the screen and immediately dialed 911. While he waited for the operator to answer, he swore under his breath. But not a single word Johnny knew could adequately describe the horror that he’d stumbled upon.

  The object on the front of the tree was the nude, mutilated body of a man. Ropes secured around the man’s neck and waist bound him to the tree trunk, but the body was starting to slip free on account of the blood and tissue oozing out of his eviscerated gut.

  Someone had taken a blade to the man’s abdomen and sliced him open from hip to hip. A tangle of intestines hung out of the incision, all the way down to the man’s knees. Even worse, the man’s eyes had been ripped out and jammed between his teeth. The eyes stared blankly at Johnny as he tried to process the gruesome scene.

  The operator picked up and asked, “911, what is your emergency?”

  Johnny staggered backward and threw up everything in his stomach, acid burning his throat. “Jesus Christ,” he stammered out between dry heaves. “There’s been a murder. There’s been a murder in Crenshaw Point.”

  Chapter One

  The rain came down in sheets all the way to Crenshaw Point, Missouri. Dylan took that as an ill omen—water destroyed forensic evidence—and made a point of stopping at a Walmart to buy a raincoat and a pair of rain boots. Two things he didn’t keep in his standard go-bag.

  It was a good thing he made that decision when he did, he later discovered, because there wasn’t a single clothing store within twenty miles of Crenshaw Point. It took him three minutes to drive from the east end of town to the west. During those minutes, he passed one lone grocery store, a bank, four bars, and a dozen boarded-up buildings left to rot.

  Clearly, the town wasn’t doing too hot.

  On the west edge of town lay the county sheriff’s office, a stand-alone brick structure with a strangely large parking lot off to one side. Dylan suspected the parking lot had belonged to a strip mall that no longer existed, but since there were no spots left
in the smaller lot in front of the sheriff’s office, he parked in the big lot anyway.

  Shutting off the growling engine of his aging Jeep Cherokee, he peered through the rain-streaked windshield and observed the activity around the sheriff’s office.

  A news van idled in the small lot, the driver taking a nap while a reporter and a cameraman waited beneath the covered entryway of the sheriff’s office, trying to get an exclusive for whatever city TV station they worked for. Two nice cars, a BMW and a Bentley, were parked next to one another amid the cars that belonged to the sheriff’s department. That meant at least two important people, perhaps town politicians, were inside discussing how to handle the first notable crime in the town’s history.

  Dylan didn’t like the press or politicians—they always tried to mythologize him in uncomfortable ways—but Sheriff Ogden had sounded like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown when he called last night. So Dylan would just have to deal with the unwanted attention. Pocketing his keys, he donned his new raincoat but left the boots in their box, and exited the car.

  On his approach to the building, the reporter spotted him and nudged her cameraman, who started recording. “Sir,” she said when he stepped onto the sidewalk, “do you have any information about the murder victim found on Hanson Road? Are there any suspects?”

  “No comment,” Dylan answered as he pushed past her, reaching for the door.

  She tried to head him off and partially blocked the door. “Are you a member of the sheriff’s department, or has Sheriff Ogden called in the—?”

  “Lady.” Dylan shot her a cold look. “I know that badgering people for information is part and parcel of your job, but I am not in the mood for pushy reporters this morning. I spent seven hours driving through the rain to get here. My back hurts. My ass hurts. And I’m really freaking hungry. So if you don’t voluntarily move out of my way in the next five seconds, I will move you myself. And you will not like the way I do it.”

  She stared at him open-mouthed for a moment then moved aside.

  Dylan entered the sheriff’s office and let the door slam shut behind him.

  The building was as quaint as he’d expected. A reception desk near the front, staffed by an older woman. A few tiny offices that belonged to the sheriff and his two deputies. A short row of holding cells, one of them substantially larger than the rest—the local drunk tank. And opposite the cells, a space recessed into the wall that served as a lounge and kitchen; it sported a minifridge, a folding table with four folding chairs, and a microwave that had seen better days.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked.

  “I’m Dylan Specter,” he replied. “Sheriff Ogden called me in.”

  “Oh yeah, the consultant.” She rolled her chair back, got up, and jogged over the office with the word “sheriff” emblazoned across the frosted glass. Knocking twice, she cracked the door open and announced Dylan’s arrival. A few hushed murmurs slipped through the crack before the receptionist looked over her shoulder and waved Dylan forward. “He’s ready for you.”

  She opened the door all the way to allow him to enter the office, revealing that the cramped room was already filled to capacity.

  Sheriff Ogden sat behind an old wooden desk that was piled high with disorganized paperwork. The two chairs in front of his desk were occupied by a middle-aged man in a nice suit and a woman about thirty dressed in a pencil skirt and a pink blouse. The sheriff’s deputies, two young men that looked like recent high school graduates, were stationed in opposite corners, leaning against the wall. One of them had clearly been to the crime scene out in the woods—his uniform was damp, and he was green around the mouth.

  “Sorry for the lack of space,” Sheriff Ogden said in a gruff tone. “Just squeeze in anywhere, Mr. Specter.”

  Dylan found a spot barely big enough to fit his slim frame in between a filing cabinet and a sagging bookshelf.

  Isn’t this cozy? he thought.

  The receptionist closed the door, shutting him into the stuffy office with five complete strangers. If Dylan hadn’t grown familiar with this situation over the past three years, he might’ve been intimidated. Especially by the unimpressed expression worn by the man in the suit or the intense inquisitive gaze of the woman in the pencil skirt.

  People were often underwhelmed when they first met Dylan Specter. The articles that popped up when you googled his name painted him as some Sherlock Holmes-type character who immediately took command of every room into which he arrogantly waltzed. The reality was less impressive.

  Dylan was shorter and slighter of build than the average man, still possessed a bit of baby fat and what some would call “doe eyes,” and behaved in a reserved way that made a lot of people think he was timid. Consequently, when the law enforcement officers or town leaders or whoever it was that hired him to consult on a difficult case finally saw him in person, a keen sense of doubt always crept in. They thought they’d made a serious mistake.

  That feeling tended to fade once they witnessed him in action.

  Clearing his throat, Sheriff Ogden said, “Mr. Headley, Dr. Grayson, this is Dylan Specter, the consultant I was telling you about. And Mr. Specter, this is Mayor Adam Headley and Dr. Linda Grayson, the county medical examiner.”

  Headley gave Dylan a once-over, snorted in disdain, and replied, “I don’t care who you ‘consult’ with, Richard. I want this mess cleaned up by the end of the week.”

  Oh boy, Dylan thought. This is going to be a fun one.

  Chapter Two

  “Here’s what we know so far,” Ogden said, pretending that he hadn’t noticed Headley’s sour mood. “About half past four yesterday afternoon, a hunter named Johnny Singleton was returning to his truck, which was parked in the ditch off Hanson Road, about four miles south of the highway. He happened upon the body of an unknown male bound to a tree.

  “The body had been mutilated in several ways. Singleton called 911, and I responded to the call myself because I was driving in the immediate area. I arrived about twelve minutes after the 911 call and found the body with Singleton’s help. The scene was…a doozy. Never seen anything like it, and I’ve been the county sheriff for eight years.”

  “I don’t care how you feel about it.” Headley tapped his fancy dress shoe impatiently against the tile floor. “Just find the bastard responsible.”

  “He’s working on it, Adam.” Dr. Grayson rolled her eyes. “And so am I. Got the autopsy scheduled right after this meeting.”

  Headley crossed his arms. “Work faster. We already have one news van parked outside. I don’t want this investigation to become a media circus.”

  Why do I get the feeling it’s an election year? Dylan asked himself.

  Ogden continued as if no one had spoken but him. “I called Dr. Grayson to come examine the body shortly after I arrived, and I set about collecting evidence from the scene. But due to the weather, I didn’t find very much. A few spots of blood diluted by the rain. A few…fleshy bits that probably came out of the body’s abdominal cavity.

  “I sent Bosco out there again this morning to give the scene another look”—he gestured to the deputy with the damp clothes—“and he found a chunk of the victim’s tongue, buried in the mud. But it doesn’t look like the perpetrator left behind any incriminating evidence.”

  Bosco the deputy suppressed a gag. He likely hadn’t anticipated finding a dead guy’s tongue, nor had he been desensitized to that kind of gore. Mutilated corpses didn’t often drop in towns like Crenshaw Point. The sum of Bosco’s work till now would’ve only included DUIs, ODs, bar fights, and the occasional domestic violence call.

  Dylan felt for the kid.

  “I’d like to go to the scene anyway,” Dylan said. “Even without forensic evidence, a dump site can tell you a lot about a killer.”

  Ogden nodded. “Deputy Mayer can accompany you out there after the autopsy.”

  The other deputy gave Dylan a halfhearted wave. “Sure can.”

  A phone
buzzed, and Headley slipped an iPhone out of the pocket of his suit jacket. He read the new text message and huffed. “Town council is calling an emergency meeting. I need to attend, or those idiots will egg each other into a senseless panic about serial killers or cartel hitmen invading the county.”

  Ogden smiled feebly. “I’ll keep you informed of any updates.”

  “Good.” Headley rose from the chair and smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit. As he marched up to the door, he side-eyed Dylan. “You better be worth what you charge, boy.”

  Irked at being called “boy,” Dylan replied, “I’m worth a whole lot more than that, old man. You’re getting the ‘desperate small town’ discount.”

  Headley’s lips pursed as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “You little…”

  His iPhone buzzed again.

  “You better check that.” Dylan pointed to the phone. “Before the council starts a witch hunt for BTK.”

  “I don’t appreciate being talked to that way,” Headley said, though he did check the new message.

  “Back at you, pal.” Dylan leaned over and opened the door. “So let’s not talk again until there’s a killer in custody.”

  Headley looked ready to punch Dylan square in the jaw but thought better of it. He stormed out of the office and yanked the door shut.

  Silence enveloped the room.

  Then Dr. Grayson burst out laughing. “You shouldn’t antagonize Adam, Mr. Specter—he likes to hold grudges—but I admit that it was really gratifying to see someone throw his BS back in his face.”

  “I’ve dealt with his type before.” Dylan dropped into the chair that Headley had vacated. “And I’m not afraid of a grudge held by a self-important busybody. There are way worse people who hold grudges against me.”

  “I bet.” Dr. Grayson grinned. “Read up on you this morning. You have an impressive resume for a guy still south of thirty.”

  “I’m sure the same applies to you.” Dylan fidgeted, trying to get comfortable in the chair. It had lumps in all the wrong places. “You’re pretty young for a medical examiner.”