Who killed Wanda Day? (DAY! Series Book 1)

Chapter Two - A widower, a detective and 81 serial killers

"White. Female. About forty," Detective A. G. McBride muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the crime scene. He had been summoned to the small town of Youngsville on this dreary Monday morning, tasked with investigating a murder that had left the local sheriff in over his head. The call had come in at 10:23 a.m. from the hysterical man, but it had taken Martina a good ten minutes to decipher the garbled message. "Murder in Youngsville," she had finally blurted out, interrupting McBride's fourth cup of what he referred to as 'department broth' - a murky liquid that tasted like it had been brewed in a rusty kettle and left to fester for days.

"How did she die?" Ezekiel Baxxter asked. He had only been working with the detective for six months and was still getting used to the gruesome sights that came with the job. But despite his inexperience, Baxxter had jumped at the chance to work with 'The Beast.' 

McBride was a legend in the department, with a reputation that extended far beyond the borders of Juneau and Alaska. He had earned his nickname honestly - when he took on a case, he became a force of nature, relentless in his pursuit of justice. His clearance rate was astronomical, and everyone in the precinct was in awe of him - and a little bit afraid. After all, McBride was a swirling vortex of contemporary detective skills, and no criminal could escape his grasp. Baxxter had learned to navigate McBride's gruff and domineering personality, but he still hesitated to ask too many questions. He knew that the detective already thought he was a bumbling fool, and he didn't want to give him any more ammunition. 

So when McBride turned to him with a raised eyebrow, Baxxter braced himself for the worst. "Well?" the detective grumbled, his eyes fixed on his young assistant. "I've been on the force for 23 years, but I'm no coroner. Still, I'm pretty sure the poor woman died from the knife that's still lodged in her heart. Unless she was doing some kind of avant-garde performance art, I don't think that's a normal place to keep a kitchen utensil." With those words, he rose from his crouched position and strode over to the still-sobbing sheriff of Youngsville. 

Baxxter let out a soft sigh and hurried to catch up, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that the detective was about to unleash his full fury on the poor man, and he didn't want to be caught in the crossfire. McBride's reputation for being a hard-ass was well-deserved, and Baxxter had seen him reduce grown men to tears with just a few choice words. But he also knew that the detective had a heart of gold and that he was fiercely protective of the people he cared about.

"What's the woman's name?" McBride barked at the man. 

The sheriff flinched. "Wanda... Wanda Day," he replied, his voice thick with tears as he rubbed them away. "She runs the hotel here in town... She's... Oh God, she's such a great woman. Married, three children. Little LeighAnn is only five."

McBride nodded slowly, lost in thought as he turned back to the corpse for a brief moment. Baxxter could see the gears turning in his head, as he tried to piece together the clues and make sense of the senseless crime. "Is there anyone dangerous here in town?" the detective asked. "A registered criminal or anything else? A madman? A crazy guy? Gun lover? Anything like that?"

"No," Sheriff Stewart replied promptly, shaking his head vehemently. "There haven't been any crimes here since 2005. This is a quiet place. Everyone knows everyone else. There are only occasional complaints, but nothing serious."

McBride raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "No domestic disputes? No thefts? No vandalism?"

Sheriff Stewart hesitated for a moment before answering. "Well, there have been a few minor incidents over the years," he admitted. "Mostly bored teenagers kicking trashcans. But nothing like this. Nothing violent."

The detective strode back to the body, motioning for Baxxter to follow him. "That's not surprising," he whispered to his assistant. "The sheriff is so fat, he couldn't chase a criminal for half a mile if his life depended on it." He knelt next to the dead body one last time, his eyes scanning the wounds with a practiced eye. "I promise you, ma'am, we'll find out who killed you."