“How are we supposed to get a warrant? You know who's involved in all this. The judge, the warden, some of the most powerful people in Harlan are wrapped up in The Order of Prometheus. How are we supposed to get a search warrant to prove they are responsible for what's looking like more than a dozen deaths so far? And that doesn't even include the ones involved in the initiation rituals.”
“Emma, you know this. You have to think clearly about it. You have to remember that the law works in a specific way. Just because it doesn't always fit perfectly with what's going on, and just because it's not always fair or convenient, doesn't mean we can just toss it away and make our own rules,” he says.
“Clearly, you don't know Emma Griffin very well,” Sam comments, walking past with another plastic tray filled with bits of evidence.
He has spent the last month traveling back and forth between Harlan and Sherwood so he can keep up with his responsibilities as Sheriff while also continuing to help with the investigation here. It feels like most of the time we've been able to spend together has been out in this cornfield or running around from place to place in town trying to get somebody to listen to us.
But he's here. That means everything.
“We have to be able to give them a good reason,” Noah protests. “There has to be probable cause that would give us a reasonable need to go in there. Just saying that you know what's going on and you saw suspicious things while you were illegally accessing the building isn't enough. Anything you saw is inadmissible as evidence. We’d be wasting our time and effort going that route without clear-cut evidence.”
“What about everything that Xavier has told us?” I ask. “He's being held for a crime he didn't commit, and the people that are supposed to be watching over him used his heart condition to manipulate his state of mind so that he would be less trustworthy. But he has still been able to give us specific and reliable bits of information that have proven true every single time.”
“If you can understand them,” Noah points out.
“I can!” I say. “At least, most of the time. And now that he's being more closely monitored and hasn't been getting the huge doses of sugar to trigger his anxiety and panic attacks, he's much easier to understand. It's because of him that we even knew what the temple was, or to look for the black spheres. What he's given us and what I found should be more than enough to grant him a new trial. Finding Lakyn Monroe alone should be enough.”
“Her death didn't have anything to do with Andrew Eagan's murder. Xavier has been in prison for that murder for years. The two don't look connected,” he says.
“How can you possibly say that?” I ask, following the detectives as we head over to a large yellow plastic container of water set at the edge of the section of cornfield being excavated today. “She was working with him on that very case; she had gone into the temple and taken pictures of all of the evidence and was investigating it for him then she was murdered.”
“I know what it looks like. And I know what happened. But until we're able to get a warrant, we can't go into that temple. We can't collect any evidence. The pictures that she took, the pictures that you took, your eyewitness testimony. None of it matters if we can’t nail these guys, Emma. This has to be done the right way. I'm sorry.”
Noah walks around me and goes back to the section of the grid that has been formed over the cornfield. It's the only way to organize a search of this magnitude. The sprawling space has been cut into smaller pieces and strategically placed posts hold ropes that bisect each of the rows, creating neat little squares. Each of them is thoroughly searched for any sign of a body’s having been there, or for the remnants of one that have found its way to that spot.
Technicians collect dirt samples to analyze for body fluids that have sunk down into the dirt. Bits of bone, fabric, teeth, broken electronics, jewelry. They are all carefully sifted out of the dirt and collected into plastic trays that are photographed and recorded. It's all that's left of those lives.
A car door slams a few yards away. My jaw sets, and my hands briefly curl into fists at my sides when I see him. Long, determined strides bring me across the ground until I am steps away from Creagan.
“Why haven't you interceded?” It’s all I can do to keep from shouting at him.
“Good morning, Griffin,” he starts. “Nice to see the sun out after so many days of rain, isn't it?”
“Those days of rain have made mud, that is now covering the people digging bodies out of the cornfield. Enough bones to make at least fourteen people. And I know who did it. I can't do shit about it because I can't get back into that temple. Nobody will get me a warrant. So why haven't you done anything about it?” I demand.
“We have to tread lightly on this one, Griffin," Creagan says.
"Don't give me that," I snap. "The Bureau got involved in this because I fed you the information about Lakyn Monroe. You wanted in on it, and now I am. So, do something about it. You can supersede the authority of the local judges and get us into that temple."
"And if I storm in there demanding to be given full access without justifiable cause, it's just going to make drama. It could potentially taint the investigation. We have to be careful. You need to stay calm and steady on this one. We'll figure it out. But we have to be patient."
Chapter Three
Twenty years after death …
The weight of the dirt lifted off her bit by bit.
After so long, it had compressed down from the first loose shovelfuls that landed over her into a thick layer encasing her. The raindrops that fell as the ground closed around her had long since sunken down through her and into the earth below.
They had become part of the groundwater. They brought a little of her into the streams. They evaporated back up in the summer sun and rained back down. Countless times. Over and over. Raindrops fell and seeped down through the dirt, through the cotton fabric, through her. They washed into the river, flowed through the streets. Became drinking water, filled bathtubs, streamed through sprinklers that cast rainbows, water dancing on children's skin.
Bit by bit, the weight lifted.
There were voices around her now. Cries of shock and surprise. Questions. There would be so many more of those. Those first bits of sunlight in twenty years touching the sheet that only told the very beginning of all her secrets.
It took several sets of hands to lift her out. The sheet sagged with the weight of water and mud and what was left of her inside. They tried to do it with dignity. They tried to offer her some respect as they brought her up out of the darkness and into an afternoon so much warmer than the last one she ever felt.
Placing the sheet down carefully on a blue tarp spread across the ground, they took pictures and spoke in hushed tones. It seemed as if they were buying time. For now, it was just a wet, deteriorating sheet. Once white and crisp, now dingy and fraying. It was just a sheet. Even if they could feel the drag of what was inside pulling it down. Even if they could see the discoloration on the fabric where the years and the raindrops melted her away.
Finally, there were no more pictures to take. They couldn't hesitate any longer. Gloved hands carefully unwrapped the layers to reveal her bones.