Earworms

Sanderson had been whistling that damned song for minutes.

“Would you shut up?” Sheriff Ed Landry snapped at him. “Don’t need that thing stuck in my head any more than it already is.”

Deputy Alex Sanderson went quiet for a moment, but then he resorted to tapping the same tune out on the desk with his fingers. Before Landry could chastise him again, they were interrupted.

“Where is he?” Robert Thomas burst into the sheriff’s station with all the force of a winter storm.

The night air followed him in, and Sheriff Landry got a chill as he rose from his seat. The station wasn’t very big, and the sheriff’s desk was painfully close to those front doors.

“DA Thomas.” Sheriff Landry held out his hands as if warding off an uncaged tiger. “Good evening . . . sir.”

A small bead of sweat appeared on the sheriff’s creased brow, just below his slicked-back hair. He didn’t often get nervous, but Robert Thomas was a man of great status. Though he had no real authority here, the Manhattan District Attorney had been summering in Ruston for decades; his family was a staple of their summer tourism boom. The Thomas family money had flowed through this town for generations. Kept the town alive. Kept sheriffs employed.

“Where’s Floyd?” Thomas growled. He was taller and leaner than the sheriff, who had added to his potbelly considerably over the holidays this year.

“He’s locked up,” Landry said. “Sanderson, get over here. Help me out.”

Alex Sanderson, a junior deputy with rusty hair and broad shoulders, sprinted over from his seat and blocked the doorway that led to the holding cell. It was a small operation, and there was only one cell. Inside that cell, Floyd Smith was lying on his back, almost catatonic.

“We just need you to remain calm,” Sanderson said.

“Remain calm?” Thomas fumed. “That son of a bitch took my daughter!”

Thomas had been so busy looking for Tiffany that he had missed the call. They had found the man who had taken her. Floyd Smith. His shoe size matched the print left at the scene. He had no alibi. What he did have was a long history of trouble with law enforcement, and a motive. The Thomas family had bought up more land in Ruston. Land that once belonged to Floyd’s family. Floyd was notorious for running his mouth at the local watering hole. He would drink too much and start bragging about all the things he’d like to do to those summer tourists. A few times, he had even mentioned the Thomas family by name.

“For all the land they own, you’d think those big city fuckers would smile more often. I’d love to carve a big smile into that Thomas prick’s leathery face.”

This was the same man who had been arrested countless times—by Landry and the old sheriff before him—for everything from petty theft to battery. But Floyd was a cat with more than nine lives. No matter how long he was put away for, he always seemed to end up back on the streets of Ruston with the same chip on his shoulder. The townsfolk knew Floyd well and kept their distance.

“He won’t talk,” Landry said. “We’ve tried.”

“Tried what?”

“Shit that we shouldn’t be telling a District Attorney,” Landry admitted. “It’s a small station, sir. No one around to hear his cries for help. Been going at him most of today.”

“Let me see him,” Thomas said. “Let me back there.”

Landry and Sanderson looked at one another, weighing their options. Saying no to a man like this wasn’t good for business.

“Just try not to kill him,” Landry said and motioned for Sanderson to stand down. “Without him, we’ll never know where Tiffany is.”

Thomas pushed through the door, and the two law men followed him. The hall was dim, but at the far end, he could just make out the shape of a man behind the bars. The man was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked gaunt, his eyes falling deep into their sockets. His arms were veiny, spotted with tattoos, and his hair was stringy, tucked behind his ears.

“Floyd, you start talking right now!” Thomas shouted.

The shadow in the cell bolted upright, startled by the voice now reverberating through the concrete space.

“Who’s this now?” Floyd asked, rising slowly and peering through his cell bars.

Thomas rushed at him, pulling away from Landry and Sanderson. Floyd leaned forwards, trying to get a look at his visitor, and by the time he realized the threat, it was too late. Thomas stuck his big arms through the cell bars and wrapped his hands around Floyd’s neck.

“Where’s my daughter?” Thomas strangled the man.

Floyd was surprisingly light, and his feet lifted off the floor.

Landry crossed his arms over his belly and watched. Floyd’s nose was already bleeding from the solid smack Landry had given him. He’d also tried a few other threats. But Floyd Smith was immune to these. There was nothing you could take away from a man who had nothing to begin with.

Floyd choked and gagged, kicking his feet to try and escape the grip. Thomas looked into his eyes, watching them slowly balloon in desperation. Thomas shook him a few more times. Then, when he was certain the man’s face wouldn’t go a darker shade of purple, he let go. Floyd crumpled to the ground, hacking and struggling for air. He reached at his throat desperately but stopped short of touching it. It was too tender.

“Where is she?” Thomas repeated.

Floyd took a few pained breaths, and when he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“Fuck you.”

Thomas reached through the cell bars again, but Floyd scurried away to the back of his cell.

“What did you do with her!?” Thomas raised his voice again. The echo was painful for all of them.

Thomas had a reputation for his stoic presence in the court room. They called him the Grim Reaper, both for his intimidating physical stature and for his consistency in putting criminals away for life. But his visage was falling away now.

This was his only daughter. This should never have happened. Tiffany would never have been here in Ruston if she hadn’t needed space, needed to get out of the big city.

“You took her right out of her home, you piece of shit,” Thomas snarled. “What did you do with her?”

Floyd glared back at him from the shadows but said nothing.

“Tried it all,” Landry clicked his tongue. “Like we said. We asked him where he was the night she went missing. He said nothing. We asked him if he’s seen Tiffany since she’s been back in town. He said nothing. We asked him why his boot print was found at your house. He said nothing.”

“He’s got to say something,” Thomas said, finally turning away from the cell. He tried to compose himself. He tried to think of this as work. There was always a solution.

“I don’t know what’s in that fucked-up head of his,” Landry said, “but he ain’t talking. Short of cracking his skull open, I don’t know what to do.”

Thomas put his hand against the cold concrete wall, needing to hold himself up as he focused on breathing. Landry may have given him an idea.

Crack open his skull.

He had been reading a story. There was a private investigator in Manhattan who had recently been hailed as some kind of hero. The investigator had gone into a room with a notorious serial killer and gotten him to spill everything. They had coaxed out of him the details of every victim, every burial, and every hidden body. Police were exhuming bodies all across the continental United States. The families they interviewed were sobbing, going on about the closure this provided for them.

The article stood out because of the headline: Opening the Mind of a Killer.

What the hell was the name? Thomas tried to recount the details of the article. He checked his phone and started scrolling through the tabs he had open in his browser. Surely, it was still there.

“What are you doing?” Landry asked.

“Finding the man who’s going to make him talk,” Thomas said. His thumb passed up over countless pages he had neglected to close.

Then, finally, there it was. A New York Times article about the superhero investigator. A picture of the man stared out at Thomas from his phone screen. The man had a charismatic smile, dark eyes, and dark hair. Oren West.

Thomas staggered away, needing to rid himself of this place. Landry and Sanderson watched him leave. Thomas began drafting messages to his staff. Oren West. He needed to get his team to find this man. This was his ticket to finding Tiffany.