Sheriff Murkoff's lips curled into a cold smile. "Ah, Debra and I crossed paths briefly, just two years ago," he began, his eyes glinting with a hidden agenda. "She was investigating a chilling case here, a little child, Emily Wentworth gone missing in the dense woods of Hollowbrook. Poor thing wandered off during a family picnic near Lake Willowdale."

His gaze drifted off momentarily, lost in the memory of the past. "We searched for days, but the woods swallowed her whole. Debra was determined to find her, but duty called, and I had to leave for another urgent case in Millbrook- a series of bizarre incidents that gripped that town.”

Gascoigne's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. "Millbrook? That's hours away from here," he remarked, his suspicion deepening.

Sheriff Murkoff nodded solemnly. "Indeed, it was multiple gruesome murders

 that demanded my immediate attention. But Debra, she had a way of leaving an impression. Such a shame she couldn't save young Emily. Tragic, really." His words hung in the air, the unsaid implications lingering between them like a ghostly presence.

My voice trembled slightly as I mustered the courage to ask about the horrifying details of the current case. Shifting the focus.

"Sheriff Murkoff, can you tell me more about the recent incident involving Evan Skoli?" I inquired, my words catching in my throat. "I heard he was found dead, his heart ripped out, with a paper stuffed inside his chest... and writing on his heart. It's... it's deeply disturbing. Do you have any leads? Anything that could shed light on this gruesome crime?"

Sheriff Murkoff's gaze turned somber. "Ah yes.., Evan Skoli," he sighed, his expression clouded with sorrow. "A resident of our town, not so quiet of a  soul. He was discovered in the woods, his heart gruesomely ripped out, a paper shoved inside his chest cavity. The words etched onto his heart were chilling, cryptic messages that sent shivers down the spines of everyone who saw them.”

"Now, Evan Skoli, was a middle-aged man with a tarnished reputation," Sheriff Murkoff explained, his tone tinged with disdain. "He wasn't well-liked around here, to say the least. Multiple charges against him had stained his name, casting a shadow over his existence in our town."

Sheriff Murkoff continued, his voice lowering as he spoke of Evan's troubled history. "Skoli was known for his unsavory connections and questionable activities. His past was marred by allegations that had left him isolated, a pariah in our community. People kept their distance, and whispers of his misdeeds haunted his every step."

"Sheriff, we need access to the files related to the recent victims, especially Evan Skoli's case. My partner, Agent Malum, will want to examine them closely," he stated, his voice unwavering.

I nodded in agreement. He added on, "And Sheriff Murkoff, I'd appreciate it if you could provide us with more information about his sister, Debra's investigation. Any details you have, however insignificant they may seem, could be crucial."

Sheriff Murkoff directed Deputy Daniels with a simple gesture. "Take her to my office, Daniels. I've got some business to discuss with Agent Gascoigne," he said, his voice carrying an air of authority.

Deputy Daniels cast a disdainful glance my way, his words laced with a thick Southern drawl. "Y'all follow me, but mind ya don't go touchin' nothin'," he snarled, his hostility palpable in the twang of his accent.

As We entered the sheriff's department, a pungent wave of odors assaulted their senses. The air was thick with the acrid stench of stale cigarettes, lingering like a toxic fog that clung to the walls and furniture. It was a scent that clawed at their nostrils, leaving a bitter taste at the back of their throats.

Intermingled with the harsh aroma of cigarettes was the putrid stink of rotten fast food, a sickening combination of greasy fries and decaying meat. The sour tang of ketchup and spoiled pickles wafted through the air, creating a nauseating undertone that permeated the entire room.

In my mind, I recoiled at the noxious scent, my stomach churning in response. I clenched my jaw, trying to suppress the urge to gag. The combination of cigarette smoke and rancid food created an atmosphere that felt oppressive.

As we stepped further into the sheriff's department, a crackling static emanated from an old radio perched on a cluttered desk in the corner of the room. Amidst the interference, the haunting melody of "People are Strange" by The Doors seeped through, distorted and eerie, adding to the unsettling ambiance.

The melancholic notes of the song hung in the air, intertwining with the acrid scent of cigarettes and decaying fast food. The lyrics, filled with a sense of alienation and otherworldly strangeness, resonated with the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

I  couldn't shake the feeling that the music, distorted as it was, echoed the very essence of Droughmont County – a place where reality blurred into the surreal, and the line between the living and the unknown grew thin.

It was as if the town itself was trying to communicate its secrets through the crackling radio waves and the heavy, ominous air.

We treaded the dimly lit corridors of the sheriff's station, his boots echoing on the worn linoleum floor. He continued his barrage of disparaging remarks, his southern drawl accentuating his contempt. "FBI folks like you think y'all are somethin' special, don't ya? Ain't no badges gonna make you better than the rest of us," he jeered, his words heavy with scorn.