Excerpt of Landry's Law by Kelsey Roberts

Snow crunched beneath the boots as Sheriff Seth Landry cautiously made his way down the steep bank to the crime scene. Flurries still swirled in the air as he greeted his deputy, J.D. Lindsey.

“Has the coroner been called?”

J.D. nodded, then blew warm breath into his cupped hands. “As far as I know, no one has touched a thing.”

“Who called it in?”

J.D. pointed toward the Mountainview Inn, “One of the guests. Ken Updyke.”

Seth regarded the scene. The snowstorm had pretty much obliterated the area around the body. He stepped forward and knelt to get a better look at the victim. Judging from the small entrance wound at the back of the guy’s head, Seth figured the weapon was a .22.

He also noted the guy’s clothing wasn’t right. He was wearing a suit beneath a camouflage down jacket but didn’t have any gloves on. He made a mental note of that inconsistency.

“Looks just like the last one,” J.D. remarked.

Seth’s gut knotted at the mere suggestion. Jasper, Montana was a small, out-of-the-way town where everyone knew everyone else. Tourists passed through to visit some of the quaint shops and historic markers in the area. To date, none of them had turned out to be serial killers. If he actually had a serial killer on his hands.

The notion that there might be a deranged killer running loose in his town distracted Seth. He pulled out his notepad and started making some observations and listing possibilities.

By the time the coroner had arrived, done his thing and was ready to have the officers turn the body over, the ambulance crew and at least a dozen others gawkers had arrived. Seth silently hoped that when it came, his death would be much more private. Not some public spectacle like poor Harvey’s.

J.D. took the feet, the ambulance guys the midsection, and Seth took the head. With practiced precision, they turned Harvey over so he could be bagged, placed on the stretcher, then whisked away from the prying, curious eyes.

“What’s that?” Seth asked, pointing to Harvey’s left palm.

They all moved in for a closer look. The frigid water from the creek had washed away the writing until it was very faint.

“Savannah, 9-1-2,”” Seth read aloud.

“Looks like part of a phone number. Maybe an area code?” J.D. theorized, excitedly.

Seth was puzzled. If he recalled correctly, Harvey was from someplace in the east, which had 200, 300, and 400 area codes. He breathed a little easier. There had been no writing on the hand of the first victim. Maybe the two cases weren’t connected.

“I don’t think that’s a phone number,” came a voice from the crowd.

Seth turned and looked in the direction of the voice. It was a man in his early thirties. He had the dress and manner of a yuppie tourist. Seth went over to the man.

“Why not?”

The yuppie shrugged. “I saw him last night in the bar.”

“And?”

“He was staring at the clock.”

“When was this?” Seth asked.

“Maybe ten after nine, or so.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

The yuppie insisted that it was.

“How can you be so sure? You aren’t a local.”

“I remember because of the babe who showed up to meet him. I mean, no offense to the dead and all, but that guy isn’t exactly GQ material and he managed to snag the prettiest woman in the place.”

“What did she look like?’

“Pretty brown hair, incredible green eyes, a body to die for – sorry, poor choice of words – I mean – “

“Did you happen to hear him call her by name?”

The yuppie nodded with enthusiasm. “That’s why I don’t think that writing on his hand is a phone number.”

“Because?” Seth prodded.

“Because he called the woman Savannah.”

Seth swallowed, hard. Savannah Wyatt.