This case was not meant to be public. It was buried, sealed, and forgotten, because what we found was the sign of something much worse. The department kept it hidden for years. But now, I need the world to see the truth. This is ‘The Island Murders.’
Designed by Master DS
Disclaimer: May contain violent language for certain readers.
III. The Echo
The files led me to a name I hadn’t spoken to in years—Tom LeRoux. My old partner. The best damn detective I ever worked with… until he walked away.
Tom didn’t just retire—he disappeared. No party, no exit paperwork. He just packed up and left his badge on his desk. Last I heard, he was living out in the Cove with his wife, Judy. Sharp as a razor, she was the former DA for the city. Together, they’d found a way to fade out of the city’s reach. Most folks barely remembered Tom, but I did.
I remember the way his hands used to tremble when the wrong kind of call came in. I remember how quiet he’d get when he walked into a crime scene that didn’t feel right. And I sure as hell remember the visible terror in his eyes whenever he saw a white flower.
There was one case that did it. The one that broke him. He never spoke of it—not to me, not to anyone. I asked. God knows I asked. He never gave me more than a look. But whatever it was, it buried something deep in him.
And now here I was, staring at the same signature he ran from. I picked up the phone and called, straight to voicemail. I didn’t expect anything else. Tom knew how to disappear. So I got in the car and drove.
The Cove was two hours of humid silence and rough roads. The closer I got to the beach, the more the world seemed to slow down. Everything out here had a faded look—sun-bleached signs, peeling paint, the air thick with salt and brine. It felt like driving straight into the past.
Tom’s house sat back from the road, swallowed by a yard that hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Spanish moss hung like cobwebs from the gnarled trees, and a rusted mailbox leaned sideways like it was too tired to stand.
I killed the engine and just sat for a moment. The place looked the same as it had years ago—only older. Like him.
Before I could reach the door, it creaked open. Judy.
She stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind her reading glasses. Her fiery red hair had streaks of gray now, but her posture still held that courtroom confidence—hard, unyielding.
“Liam,” she said flatly.
“Judy.”
A long pause. Then she stepped aside.
“He’s in the back.”
I stepped inside. The air was cool and smelled like lemon wood polish. A photograph on the hallway wall caught my eye—Tom in his dress blues, younger, smiling, back when the world hadn’t crushed him.
I found him out on the screened porch, hunched over a small workbench. He didn’t turn around.
“I wondered when you’d show up,” he said, his voice rough like gravel scraping pavement.
“Still good at vanishing,” I said.
He finally turned. His eyes were sunken, lined with years of sleep he never had. But they were still sharp. Still reading every move I made. Then he spoke, voice low and certain.
“He’s back, isn’t he?” he asked.
“What was it, Tom?”
He looked past me, into the trees. The wind had picked up. A slow rustling, like whispers.
“It was no man,” he said. “This was something else. A force beyond our world. It was a message. And no one listened.”
I stepped closer, lowered my voice.
“A white camellia… what does it mean?”
His jaw tightened. Hands clenched.
“Remembrance. He wanted us to remember—even after twenty-six years. I tried to forget. Spent years trying. But it’s the same. Same flower, same red pastel ‘1‘. They buried it all.”
“You kept the files?” I asked.
He nodded slowly.
“They’re in the attic. I couldn’t throw them out.”
I turned to go, but he stopped me.
“Liam.”
“Yeah, Tom?”
He swallowed hard.
“This time… don’t let them run.”
Satchmo
Reporter