Unraveled by Cynthia St. Aubin

Author:Cynthia St. Aubin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cynthia St. Aubin
Published: 2016-12-20T16:46:02+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

I had my four o’clock cancellation to thank for what started as a terrible idea and quickly evolved into a terrible plan. With an unallocated block of time on my hands, I cracked open my laptop, determined to find out as much as I could about the Dude Bro Strangler.

Dr. Wolfe’s brief summary had been pretty close to accurate. Eight victims so far. One a month, every month, always on the same date. All blond, blue-eyed and built like extras from Gladiator. All found in gyms. All strangled with some sort of garrote. All had names like Trevor, Todd, Preston, Chase or Brock.

Brock Peterson’s murder had been the one Dr. Wolfe referred to when he’d said the last one had happened in my own back yard. According to the ongoing coverage, a friend had found Brock’s body slumped on a deadlifting bench earlier this morning.

I punched up the local news website and clicked on the first video I found.

In it, a man with feathers of bleached blond hair sticking out of his backward ball cap found creative ways to flex while addressing the attractive reporter. The caption beneath his sleeveless Swole Patrol t-shirt read “Brodie Billings, Longtime Friend and Training Partner of Brock Peterson.”

“B-Rock was a real stand-up guy,” Billings said. “I’ve never seen anyone hit the circuit like that. Never skipped a rep.” Here, Billings’s voice choked up and he cleared his throat, his neck tendons popping with the effort. “It really makes you think about your life, you know? You never know which squat thrust could be your last. I mean, strangling B-Rock on leg day? Whoever this guy is, he’s more gnarly than an anal prolapse.”

I recognized the broad brick wall behind Brodie as belonging to the Powerhouse Gym just at the border of historic downtown Plattsburgh.

Six minutes would see me there.

Before I could second-guess myself, I shoved everything into my laptop bag and clicked off the many lamps on my way out the door.

“Heading home early?” Julie had stayed later than usual, a calculated move to make up for her earlier absence, or so I suspected.

“I think I will.” I breezed by her without stopping, not quite ready to make nice. “Have a good night.”

Eight minutes later, I pulled into the Powerhouse Gym parking lot and killed the engine. The area closest to the building was choked with police cruisers and cordoned off with garlands of yellow crime scene tape. A solemn gathering of mourning dude bros congregated just beyond it, pressing for entry to the parts of the building the cops weren’t using. Impassioned pleas of “Brock would have wanted it this way!” and “We need to dead lift, man! We owe it to his memory!” fell on deaf ears.

“They’re brave,” I said, sidling up to the greenest-looking patrol cop in the bunch.

He stood up straighter when he saw me, squaring his shoulders as if newly reminded of his duty. “Miss?”

A triumphant thrill skittered through me at being addressed as a “miss” rather than a “ma’am” or even a doctor.

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