Hanging By A Thread: Book One: Agent Finn Series, page 1
HANGING BY A THREAD
AGENT FINN SERIES
BOOK ONE
WILLARD B. GRAVES
SILVER STONES PUBLISHING
CONTENTS
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
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Copyright © 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of (Willard B. Graves), except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book either are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or location is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offense to the content as it is fiction.
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CHAPTER 1
“Agent Finn, I need you to go to Eastcliff.”
I stared at the clock hanging on the wall behind my superior’s chair. It was positioned ever so slightly to the left and had me wondering if my superior’s expert eye hadn’t noticed it just yet.
Supervisory Special Agent Clarice King placed two cups of black coffee on her desk—one for her, and one for me. We shared a love for a good cup of coffee. Bitter and dark.
Clarice King was a woman who always carried a look of wariness. For as long as I could remember, it had been present in her piercing blue eyes. She was a tall woman in her early fifties, always well-kempt, regardless of the time of day or night.
She settled down on her chair before me, running her hand through her short, platinum blonde hair.
The clock marked seven hours since my return from California; seven hours since my superior had asked to see me at the FBI quarters. I had arrived back home on a late-night flight, barely having any time to put my bags down and unpack in my single-bedroom apartment before I’d received a call that I was needed in the office.
First thing in the morning.
I knew my superior well enough to be able to tell by the tone of her voice that something was up. I’d heard it many times before, before many different investigations.
Right now, however, I didn’t expect it to be another transfer so soon.
Still, in my line of work, there was nothing I could ever truly expect. I had seen things I never thought I would see. I had heard things that were beyond any comprehensible imagination. I had witnessed things that remained embedded deep inside my mind.
Late phone calls seemed to be the last of my concerns lately.
“Of course. What’s happening in Eastcliff?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. I reached for my cup of coffee, taking a sip and allowing the bitter liquid to roll down my throat, awakening all of my senses. I saw that my lipstick had stained the white mug as I placed it back on the desk.
It was my first time hearing of the town’s name, meaning it was likely small and secluded, yet I knew there would be another long flight ahead of me.
My superior placed a file in front of me, neatly labeled as “Eastcliff Hangings.” She then made a swift motion with her hand, indicating for me to open it.
Opening the file, I was met with a list of four names on the first page.
Carl Surley
James Leevy
William Smith
Liam Miller
Before I had the chance to flip through the rest of the pages, my superior spoke up, her hands placed on the hard wood of her desk. “A friend of mine—Sheriff Lopez—asked for my help. I’ve known him for years, and I know he wouldn’t ask for help if he didn’t desperately need it. His station has been dealing with an unusual situation, to put it lightly.” She leaned back in her chair, her lips pressed together in a tight line. The look on her face was one I was acquainted with quite well—she thought something was up; something worth investigating. And she thought I was the best fit for the job.
Unusual situation.
It was a loose term for me. Not many things were considered unusual in my head after ten years of this job. The perception of the word was extremely different from the one that a sheriff in a small town would use.
“Town’s crime rate is low,” my superior continued talking. “It’s your usual small town in the middle of nowhere—they get a few robberies here and there, maybe a forced entry or two. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing they can’t deal with. Nothing like this.”
I flipped the list of names, finding a few photographs underneath. I moved my finger between them, focused on the eerily similar sight I was met with on each of the photographs.
Lifeless bodies of middle-aged men with a noose around their necks. Each hanging took place in what looked like a forest at a first glance. My first instinct was to check if it was the same tree, same branch even, but with the way these photos were taken, it was impossible to tell.
“Take Carl Surley, for example. He battled clinical depression for years. Barely ever left his house, never spoke to any of his friends. His family confirmed that he had been prescribed more antidepressants than they could count, but nothing seemed to help with his mental health issues. Every day was a struggle. He tried to take his life more than once. Each time, he failed and was admitted to a mental hospital. After a few weeks spent there, the circle would repeat.
“He died two years ago when he hanged himself in the woods next to the town. Naturally, no one suspected a thing. Everyone thought it was just a suicide,” my superior told me.
It seemed like the sheriff had fully updated her on the whole situation. I wondered how close the two of them were, where they met, but it wasn’t any of my business. A long time ago, I had learned to differentiate my own curiosity from the one that came with my work.
“Makes sense.” I nodded. It sounded like there was nothing odd there. “What about James Leevy?”
“Another hanging that was palmed off as a suicide. Happened one year ago, after his divorce. Sheriff said he led a happy, picture-perfect family life until his wife found out he had an affair with a man. She asked for divorce, took his kids away from him … left the city for a while. It’s a small town we’re talking about here—the word spread like a wildfire, and everyone knew about his affair. His neighbors didn’t take it well, either.
“Two months later, a hiker found his body. In the same woods. Again, it made sense to think he hanged himself. He had gone through a traumatic event; sought comfort in alcohol. Sheriff said he was more drunk than sober in those two months. No one thought twice to question whether it was a suicide or not.”
I listened to her while simultaneously examining the papers that had been presented to me. They contained details about Carl’s and James’ life. It was obvious that, at one point, someone had thought that there might be a connection and had decided to try to put somewhat of a profile together to help with the investigation. They did a good job, too.
Another flip brought me to the third name—William Smith.
My superior remained watchful over me, following my progress as I overlooked the file.
“William Smith. Hanged himself six months ago. Again, his lifestyle didn’t raise any doubts. Addicted to painkillers. A gambler. He struggled with money; stole from his family. They ended up disowning him and kicking him out. He had been out on the streets since then. Arrested twice for robbery. Again, there was nothing to make anyone think it was anything other than another suicide that seemed to grow more prevalent over the years.”
This far, it truly did seem like just an unfortunate series of events in a small town. Three unfortunate guys, leading highly different lives, but with one thing in common—they were all outcasts from the rest of the society, in one way or another. The way they chose to end their lives was the same, and that was the only oddity I could find for now.
“Were there any other cases of suicide? Not by hanging?” I asked.
My superior shook her head.
Odd. I would have expected for at least one of them to choose to kill themselves in a different way. Hanging was a torturous way to end one’s life. One not many would anticipate.
“Sheriff Lopez called for your help after Liam Miller, didn’t he? What changed?” I asked, curious to know what made the sheriff think this was no longer just a series of hangings. There had to be something different about Liam Miller.
“Yes. Liam Miller was a stable man. No history of substance use or any sort of addiction. He had a good job. Recently got married. His wife and he ha
“And there was no autopsy performed on the previous bodies?” I raised an eyebrow.
My superior shook her head, her short, blonde locks moving with the motion. “No. No one thought there was any reason to do an autopsy—they all led lives that drove them away from their loved ones—and no one thought that there was anything else going on, aside from a tragic way to end their lives. After Miller’s death, the sheriff asked his deputies to go back and check the place they were found. They had no luck, especially with the rain they have been dealing with for the past few days,” she responded. Her eyes locked with mine, and even without her saying anything, I knew she was silently asking for my opinion … asking me for what my gut was telling me.
I still lacked more information than I needed, but something felt off. Really off. I couldn’t quite decipher what it was just yet. I didn’t tell her that, but my suspicions showed in more questions I felt the need to ask.
“Any suicide notes? Changes in their will? Mentions of suicide?”
“No, the sheriff said there were none. Not even with James Leevy or Liam Miller, who both had kids—or, well, a kid on the way. It was one of the things that stood out to the sheriff. He thought that at least one of them would have left a note for their loved ones, but they couldn’t find any.”
I could see why the sheriff’s suspicions had been arisen now. Four separate hangings, all done in the forest, with no note left behind. From what I was seeing, the rope seemed similar in each photograph, too. I was certain there were more details that the sheriff’s department had likely missed when they had written the incidents off as suicides; details that could have been the key to solving this and understanding whether they were, indeed, just a series of unconnected hangings.
“Do we have anything that links them together?”
“The only thing that they have in common is going to the same university … but they lived in a small town. The four of them, as well as half the people their age who live there, went to the same university. They can’t find any other connection for now.”
I took another sip of coffee before I neatly returned all the papers back to the “Eastcliff Hangings” file. It had been my intention to take some days off after my stay in California, but there was no way I could do that now. Not when there was a new case on my hands.
I stood up with the file neatly tucked in my hand as I gazed down at my superior. “I’ll fly out to Eastcliff today.” I went through the automatic motion of planning my moves from the moment I landed—places to visit, people to question. It was something that I was trained to do and unable to escape, even on my days off. “See what I can find. I’ll keep you updated, as always.”
The two of us had a well-developed way of collaboration and communication. Coming to the FBI at the age of twenty-five, I had known that the job wasn’t going to be easy. A boss like her, however, certainly did make it easier. I had learned to count my blessings a long time ago, and she was one of them.
“I’ll notify Sheriff Lopez about your arrival. He’ll assure you have everything you need for your investigation.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. We exchanged another silent moment before I headed for the door.
“Agent Finn?” she called, causing me to stop in my tracks and turn back to face her once again. “What are your thoughts on the hangings thus far?”
I fell silent for a moment. Then I started the saying that was often quoted between the two of us. “Once is luck, twice is coincidence—”
“And three times is a pattern,” she finished, as if she was agreeing with it, too.
“I do know one thing,” I stated firmly, reaching for the metal handle of the glass door. “If there is a killer on the loose, their cooling period has shortened. They’re going to strike again soon.”
CHAPTER 2
I arrived at Eastcliff at eleven a.m. the next morning.
The drive in my rental car from the airport took a good three hours, with a single short break to get much-needed coffee.
It was surprisingly warm for early summer. The morning sun shone relentlessly, showering the road ahead of me with golden rays of sunshine.
Eastcliff was exactly what I imagined it to be—a small, secluded town that was surrounded by endless woods. A church tower rose above all the other buildings, standing tall and proud, announcing the town’s collective mindset. It was a small town where everyone knew everyone. Everyone prayed for everyone.
Across the streets, small shops were scattered, offering everything and anything a person could need in a tiny town like this.
As I drove, I watched people smiling as they greeted each other, cheerfully chirping about the smallest details of their days. For most of them, the thought of a murderer walking amongst them would be unfathomable. I hoped there would be no need for me to shatter their reality and implant that fear in their minds.
The sheriff’s station was a small, beige building that was positioned between the post office and a butcher’s shop. It showed signs of wear and tear from over the years, but it still served as a symbol of authority in the town.
I parked my car in front of the building, taking a good look at it before I headed toward the door. This would be my workspace for hopefully not longer than the next few days.
The inside was oddly vacant in comparison to what I was used to back at FBI headquarters. In Washington D.C., things were always chaotic, and it felt like we could rarely ever get a single moment of peace. Something was always going on, prompting us in and out, never leaving us stagnant.
The walls inside were a shade lighter than the beige shade of the building’s exterior. From the moment I stepped inside, it was obvious that not much of the town’s budget went into ensuring its law enforcement had everything they needed.
There was a water dispenser in the corner of the room, with a bulletin board hanging right next to it. It was meant to hold up posters of missing people or wanted fugitives, but this one contained a poster about a missing dog.
That alone spoke volumes to me.
A few outdated metal chairs were scattered against the wall, but I found it hard to believe they were ever all used at once. And across from me was a door with a big sign that announced it was Sheriff Lopez’s office, with two desks placed on each side of the door in the huge area that acted as a hall, waiting room, and office for his deputy sheriffs, all at once.
One of the desks was vacant, while the only other person in there worked at the other. He was a tall man who I assumed was in his mid-thirties. Short, black hair framed the sharp lines of his face that were partially hidden by his short stubble that was in the process of growing out. A few barely visible freckles were scattered across his nose, drawing my attention away from his dark eyes.
The moment they set on me, he stood up. The name tag on his desk read, “Deputy Sheriff Oliver Carter.”
“Agent Lydia Finn,” I introduced myself straight away, the loud sound of my shoes clicking against the linoleum floor, echoing throughout the mainly empty room. “I believe Sheriff Lopez is expecting me.”
“Agent Finn, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” the officer responded, extending his hand toward mine. Our firm grips met, exchanging a shake. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Oliver Carter. I will be working closely with you on these … God, I don’t even know what to call them. Cases?”
“I look forward to working with you, Deputy Carter. Of course, I do wish the circumstances were different.” I glanced toward the office door. “Is Sheriff Lopez here?”
