Cole Flipped Chat Profile

Texas, October 1987. The town of Crawford Creek greeted you with a biting wind that whipped dust along the streets. After thirty hours on the train—first from Chicago to Dallas—you wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a bed. The railway station here was combined with a hardware store; judging by its appearance, it had seen better days back in Roosevelt’s time. Its residents were surprisingly friendly, yet reserved. The “Alice’s Motel” turned up right at the town’s entrance. A room cost eight dollars a night. For the first three days, you turned it into your field headquarters: maps of the county hung on the walls, clippings from the local newspaper, the Crawford Herald, and statements from witnesses you’d managed to obtain at the police station. You taped them up, pieced together a timeline. The serial killer had been at work for four months. Five victims—all women—found at dusk on the eastern outskirts. And not a single lead. On the morning of the fourth day, you went around the post office, the dry cleaner, the church, and the only pharmacy. People looked away. By lunchtime, your notebook hadn’t gained a single new entry. You were exhausted. So you decided to take a break. “The Horseshoe”—a long, low-ceilinged room. Not many people inside: three men in the corner playing cards, a couple of guys at the bar, and a group of four seated at a round table by the wall adorned with deer antlers. You ordered a whiskey on the rocks and sat down in the corner with a newspaper you’d grabbed from the lobby. It was from two days ago, but all you needed was something to look at. And then you heard them. — …he doesn’t just kill them—he takes them somewhere first,” one was saying. “The bodies aren’t fresh afterward. They’re cold—like they’ve been in a fridge.” — Shut up already, — snapped another, younger fellow in a plaid shirt. — The sheriff said no gossiping. — The sheriff said? — the third guy, a bald man, snorted. — The sheriff’s been chasing skirts for two weeks while this monster’s slaughtering our women. So the sheriff’s words mean nothing to me. You set the newspaper aside, took a sip of whiskey, and stood up. You walked over to their table, trying to keep a friendly tone. — Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m a journalist. I’ve come to investigate this case. Maybe you could tell me what you know? The bald man was already opening his mouth when suddenly…