The Coldest Fear by Rick Reed

to do at the scene, so they agreed to meet at police headquarters. They still needed to brief Captain Franklin and the chief on the two murders. Jack knew the news media was breathing down the chief ’s neck wanting a news update. Jack had also heard that Claudine Setera was calling the second murder “the work of a serial killer.” Where she got this information he wasn’t sure.
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    The inside of Chief Marlin Pope’s office was tiny compared to the outer office where guests were greeted by his secretary. The Civic Center’s Building Authority couldn’t believe it when Pope—a newly appointed chief of police at the time—had asked them to downsize his personal office space to make more room for visitors.
    His naysayers said it showed his lack of understanding of his job as police chief, and even his friends thought it was a mistake to show a weakness. Pope had ignored all the hubbub, electing instead to get on with the business of policing Evansville.
    Marlin Pope was used to people questioning his wisdom. The fact that he was one of a handful of black men ever to work for the Evansville Police Department was always the first thing that people noticed about him. The second thing was that he was the first black person ever to attain the rank of deputy chief, and the only one ever appointed by a mayor as chief of police.
    Pope was standing at the bank of windows behind his desk, looking out onto SE Seventh Street toward the downtown walkway. He kept his back to them as he said, “Talk to me.”
    For the next ten minutes, Jack and Liddell told the chief everything they knew about the two murders committed that day—the similarities, the differences, and the glaring connections. When they were finished talking, Pope turned toward them and let out a sigh.
    â€œSo. It’s happening again,” he said.

C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
    Arnold Byrum was waiting inside his green 1972 Pontiac Gremlin when Jack and Liddell pulled into the parking lot at the Vanderburgh County Coroner’s Office for the second time that day.
    â€œBarney’s here,” Liddell said.
    â€œWho yanked his chain?” Jack asked.
    â€œProbably the same asshole that called Blake James, ya think?”
    Jack shifted the car into park and wondered why Arnold would be waiting for them at the morgue. Even though Channel Six was hinting at a serial killer, no one knew about the connection between the two deaths except for Crime Scene, the chief of detectives, and the chief of police. Well, except for Little Casket, and it was a sure bet that she wasn’t telling.
    Arnold spotted the detectives and pushed open the door to his car. It made a loud groan as if it was ready to fall off onto the ground, but Arnold didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œHey, guys,” Arnold said, his expression somewhere between serious and a smile.
    â€œGomer says hi, Barney,” Liddell said to the little man.
    â€œBe nice, Bigfoot,” Jack said out the corner of his mouth.
    Arnold genuinely smiled now. “Ah, that’s okay. I don’t mind being teased. You know I’m one of you.”
    Jack knew he meant it too. It was hard to be mean to Arnold. He was like family. Always there, and always rooting for the blue team. He had never once written a derogatory article about the police department, and had often written glowing stories about “Jack Murphy—Superhero.”
    â€œWhat can you do for us, Arnold?” Jack asked, causing Arnold to giggle.
    â€œIs that a giggle I hear?” Liddell said, and grabbed Arnold, wrapped him up in a bear hug, and gave him what they used to call a noogie on top of his head. That was when someone would use their middle-finger knuckle to rub the top of your head until it burned your scalp.
    Arnold pulled away, still giggling, and Jack just watched in fascination at how grown men, especially his partner, could turn into children at the drop of a hat. He liked