Cross Hairs

WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING

ABOUT JACK PATTERSON

“Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Cross Hairs. It's that good.”

-
Vincent Zandri
, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

“J.P. does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

-
Aaron Patterson
, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

“Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

-
Richard D.
, reader 

“Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn't put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 AM. .”

-
Ray F.
, reader

Dedication

For Billy Harper, the man who taught me that real newspapermen drink coffee and always print the truth

In the real world, the right thing never happens in the right place and the right time. It is the job of journalists and historians to make it appear that it has. 

- Mark Twain

CHAPTER 1

CODY MURRAY SHIFTED IN
his recliner as he flipped the pages of his favorite sports magazine. Sitting still wasn’t in his repertoire of skills on the field or off it. He lived like he played – always in constant motion.

But it was Sunday afternoon and Cody was trying to relax. He only had two vices, one of which was wasting time reading national sports magazines. The other he had enjoyed 15 minutes earlier. He knew it was wrong, but for an athlete who never stopped, it was the perfect enhancement to his workout regimen. But lately, Cody had become looser with the latter vice, sometimes partaking in it for sheer pleasure.

Cody knew steroids were bad and tough to get, especially in a rural town in southern Idaho. So, he didn’t bother trying. He wanted his impressive body of work to be his body of work – he just needed a little help, a little kick while working out. It was harmless … at first.

Cody dug his jagged fingernails into his left arm in an attempt to remedy a slight itch just above his elbow. It was an irritating distraction from reading the magazine and dreaming of being featured on the cover one day. As unlikely as it might be for the 6-foot-flat scrambling quarterback of a rural Idaho eight-man team to earn a handful of major scholarship offers, Murray had done it.
Why not the cover?
he mused.

But the thoughts abandoned him when the itching started.

At first, it felt like any other itch. Cody expected it to vanish with one quick scratch. But it didn’t; it got worse.
What’s wrong with me?
he thought, as he surveyed his arms. Red welts were forming on his arms and spreading to his chest and back. All the scratching seemed to make it worse.

In less than a minute his muscular athletic body was covered. All he could think of was getting relief from the fiery pain. Jumping up from the couch, Cody staggered through the back door, taking a giant leap off the deck and then sprinting full speed toward an Aspen tree twenty yards away.

Rational thought had deserted him. He jammed his fingernails into his chest while slamming his back against the tree and began rubbing against it, thrusting upward from a crouching position in an attempt to stop the itching. His efforts only intensified his skin’s agitation.

Frantic for relief, Cody raced back into the house, ripping off his Statenville workout shirt along the way, and headed straight for his parents’ bathroom. In his mad rush to find anything to help, Cody grabbed a tube of anti-itch cream. He emptied its white contents into his right hand and slathered it all over his bare chest and back. Still no relief. The itching increased.

Cody ran back outside to find another tree.
Maybe with my shirt off, I’ll be able to stop the itching.
Past the point of despair, he dug both hands into opposing forearms, fell to the grass and rolled and scratched, crying out in agony.

The intense itching felt like fire searing the surface of his body. Cody screamed and flailed about on the ground in sheer torture. His efforts appeared futile but he refused to give up.

His body was covered in bleeding welts as he writhed in the grass. One final spasmodic convulsion and the itching stopped. So did his breathing. Streaks of blood created eerie patterns across his chest. His body lay in the Idaho sun looking like the discarded carcass of a sadistic occult ritual.

No one would believe that Cody Murray, Statenville’s greatest football star in 50 years, had scratched himself to death.

CHAPTER 2

CAL MURPHY’S IPHONE VIBRATED
on his bed stand and Cal barely moved. He relished the idea of sleeping in every day, one of the few perks afforded underpaid reporters at a newspaper that only published once a week. But it was a luxury that all but vaporized at 8:30 on this Monday morning in the middle of August.

He fumbled for his phone with the sole purpose of discovering who would absorb his immediate wrath.
Josh Moore... why is that freak calling me so early? He knows I don’t do mornings, much less Monday mornings!

Cal pressed talk and mumbled a hello.

“Good morning, Cal!” came the cheery voice on the other end. “I thought I would call you on the way to work and see if you’ve got everything planned for my visit next weekend.”

Cal moaned.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Josh?” Cal asked, his morning voice croaked as he tried to shift to a more awake version of himself. “Have you forgotten how much I hate mornings, especially Mondays?”

Josh only smiled, hoping Cal couldn’t detect it over the phone.

“Oh, wow, look at the time. I didn’t realize it was so early. I would’ve never called if I thought about it.”

“Liar!”

“I’m just messin’ with you, Cal. But you need to get motivated to get out of that dump of a town where no real news ever happens so you can get up here to Seattle. You’re never going to escape East Bumble when your best clip is an article on the little league tournament champions just below a grip-and-grin photo. Cal – or should I say
@CalMurphy24
– you’ve got seven followers on Twitter. So, get going, OK?”

Cal stared at his vintage poster of Ken Griffey Jr. in a Mariners uniform, a relic from his high school days. He had faithfully tacked it to a wall in every living quarters he had since leaving home. It was even in the dorm room he shared with Josh at the University of Washington their freshman year. When it came to vintage Mariners, Josh preferred Randy Johnson. Quiet, calculated, and never quite living up to others astronomical expectations vs. bold, brash, and making the best use of every ounce of talent he had. Griffey vs. Johnson. Or Cal vs. Josh. The two aspiring sports columnists shared traits with their Seattle heroes of yesteryear. Cal had heard this little pep talk from Josh before. He knew it was true, but he couldn’t change his immediate situation, which served as an annoying reminder as to whose career path was already on a better trajectory. It was such a long-standing exchange between the two of them that even though not fully awake, Cal was firing back a salvo to Josh’s slight air of superiority.

“Look. Just because you’re miserable stuck in big city traffic and heading to your second job as a barista doesn’t mean you have to rob me of the little joy I do have working in this virtual ghost town. Besides, maybe I like it here.”

“Well, I’m going to find out for myself this weekend. You better show me the finest time that can be had in that cow town. I’m holding you to it.”

“OK, OK. I’ll make sure you have plenty of things to do. I’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t rule Statenville by the end of the weekend.”

“All right. Looking forward to it. See you then, bro.”

Cal hung up and rolled over. He had dreamed of covering the Mariners baseball team for the
Seattle Times
, but a general assignment reporter for
The Register
in Statenville, Idaho was the only job he could land. What self-respecting person would actually believe that working in Statenville would be a step toward a better job? Cal had no choice.

Cal valued his friendship with Josh, but a twinge of jealousy remained after Josh won the lone internship job at
The Times’
sports department straight out of college. More than three dozen college graduates hoping to become the next Mitch Albom applied—Josh somehow emerged victorious.

I hope he enjoys his day stuck in traffic and reformatting Formula One racing agate tonight.
It wasn’t a sincere hope, but in a moment of personal reflection, Cal admitted that the sting of his best friend from college beating him out for that job still smarted more than he wished. And with this thought, he pulled the covers over his head and attempted to fall back asleep.

The phone buzzed again.

“What now?” Cal shouted from his cover cave.

Emerging again into the light he discovered his editor’s name dancing across his phone’s window.
What does Guy want this early on a Monday?

“Morning, Guy.” Cal did his best to hide his irritation.

“Cal, get up and get dressed – and get down here right now! We’ve got a double murder in Statenville!”

“A double WHAT? Who?”

“Cody Murray and Riley Gold. I’ll fill you in once you get here.”

Guy hung up abruptly. Cal rubbed his eyes and began trying to imagine the circumstances for a double murder in Statenville.

Ha! Take that Josh! I’ll bet there won’t be any double murders for you to write about while stuck on the agate desk tonight!

Cal was wide awake now.

CHAPTER 3

IN THE FIVE MINUTES
it took Cal to shower and towel dry his moppy dishwater blond hair, he tried to imagine what could have happened to two of Statenville’s best football players. It didn’t take long before he dumped thinking about the cause of the murders and began fantasizing over receiving a Pulitzer for his award-winning coverage of the mysterious Statenville serial killer.

Known for his trademark tardiness and sloppy appearance, Cal wasn’t interested in propagating any false ideas that he was big time and the people of Statenville weren’t. If anything, Josh was right – Cal needed motivation. He really wanted to be big time, but he was too depressed at the disappointing direction journalism had taken him. Writing for a weekly was never in his plans, but that is what he had been doing for almost a year now, pounding out articles on garden club meetings and school board decisions. He wanted to be writing about pro athletes and NFL lockouts. This was like being a superstar on the worst team in the league – what’s the point?

Cal gave up on trying to impress anyone in Statenville. The townspeople held such a low image of The Register reporters that it didn’t matter what he wore. If it doesn’t matter, why not be comfortable. But wearing a tie on any day other than Sunday resulted in an endless line of questioning, such as, “What’s the special occasion?” or “You sure do look nice. What’s her name?”

But today felt different for Cal.
A double murder is a serious story and I need to be more serious looking.