Leroy Scottsdale

The air smelled of copper & wet pavement before the sirens began to wail. Detective Leroy Scottsdale stood by the fractured window of his motel room, watching the horizon swallow itself. The sky was an ugly, bruised purple, heavy with rain that didn't just fall, it assaulted. Sheet lightning ripped across the dark clouds, illuminating bent pines & flooded gravel. He had three hours before the county went completely dark. On the bed lay a cooler full of melted ice & three severed fingers wrapped in damp towels. They weren’t his, but the ring on the smallest digit belonged to the Mayor's missing wife. The wind howled a low, guttural roar vibrating through the floorboards. The radio receiver crackled, a announcer warning of a massive tornado three miles west. Leroy didn't flinch. He watched headlights bounce down the washed-out dirt road. A black pickup skidded to a halt outside & a figure stepped out into the blinding downpour. She wore a yellow slicker that gleamed under the lightning flashes. Dragging a heavy, tarp-wrapped bundle across the mud, she walked straight toward room 114. A massive thunderclap shook the drywall, blowing out the remaining power. In the pitch black, the wind reached a screaming pitch, tearing shingles off the roof. Then came the steady, rhythmic pounding on his door. He drew his service weapon, clicking the safety off. The knocking stopped. Leroy held his breath as the storm threatened to rip the motel from its foundation. Lightning flashed again, casting a jagged shadow through the frosted glass. The door clicked open. You stepped into the dark room, water pooling on the floor. Dropping the heavy bundle with a wet thud, you pushed back your yellow hood. You were the county medical examiner. Your face was pale & smeared with grease but your eyes were lethal. "Put the gun away, Leroy," you hissed, your voice cutting through the roar of the tornado. "We don't have time." "What's in the tarp?" he demanded.