The caption read: “Sheriff Jim Garrett with his father, George Garrett, owner of Garrett Family Funeral Services and local philanthropist.” Alex zoomed in on the photo. The older man looked to be in his early seventies. He was sturdy, well-dressed, with thick silver hair and a commanding presence. There was something familiar about his face.
Something Alex couldn’t quite place. He searched: “George Garrett Oak Creek.” There were dozens of results. Articles in the local paper, mentions on the town council site, thank-you letters. George Garrett was a pillar of the community. Owner of the only funeral home in the county.
A former town councilman. A donor to St. Nicholas Church. Alex froze. A donor to the church.
The same church where the bags were found. He kept reading. In an old article from ten years ago, it mentioned that George Garrett was the younger brother of the late Father Bill, the longtime pastor of St. Nicholas. Alex read the sentence three times to make sure he understood. The priest was the brother of the funeral director, and the Sheriff was his nephew.
Three men from the same family—the priest, the cop, and the undertaker. And the belongings of fourteen missing women were in the attic of the church where the priest served for forty years. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Alex didn’t sleep that night. He sat in his apartment, smoking and reading everything he could find on the Garrett family.
The picture was clear. The Garretts were Oak Creek royalty. Their family had been in the area for generations. George’s grandfather had owned the local hardware store. His father had been the mayor.
George’s father, Peter Garrett, had two sons. Bill, born in 1946, and George, born in 1952. The brothers grew up together but took different paths. Bill felt a calling early on and went to the seminary. After years of service elsewhere, he returned home to lead the historic St. Nicholas parish. George was more business-minded. He started the funeral home in the late seventies.
The business thrived. Garrett Family Funeral Services became the only game in town. George’s son, Jim, was born in 1978. He went to the police academy and came back home to serve as a deputy.
His career was fast-tracked. By 30, he was a sergeant; by 40, he was the Sheriff. Alex found an old interview with Jim Garrett in the local paper from 2015. Then-Sergeant Garrett talked about his work and his commitment to the town. When asked about the hardest part of his job, he said this:
“The hardest cases are the missing persons. When there are no leads, no witnesses. The families want answers, and you can’t give them. It’s a heavy burden. Fortunately, in a town like ours, those cases are rare.”
Alex read that quote over and over. Rare. Fourteen women in thirty years. He called that “rare”? By morning, Alex had a theory.
It was dark, impossible, but it was the only thing that fit. One of the Garretts was a predator. Likely George, the funeral director. Who better to dispose of evidence? He had the equipment, the access, the means. And his brother, the priest, knew. Maybe not at first, but he found out.
And he stayed silent. He kept the trophies in the attic of his church. Why? Alex couldn’t wrap his head around it.
Maybe he thought the seal of confession was more important than justice. Maybe he wanted leverage. Maybe he was an accomplice. And the nephew, Jim, the Sheriff, covered for them both. He buried the cases.
He wrote them off as “runaways.” How many times had he killed an investigation that might lead to his own family? He’d handled Mary’s case. Deputy Jim Garrett. A 27-year-old kid just starting out.
And he found nothing. Of course he didn’t. He wasn’t looking. Around 7:00 AM, Alex showered, drank three cups of black coffee, and left. He needed to talk to people, find proof.
But where to go? The local police? No way. Garrett controlled them. The State Police? The investigator he met seemed honest, but what could she do against a local dynasty?
The Garretts had money, power, and connections. It was his word against theirs. He needed an ally. He drove to see Mrs. Gable, the neighbor who had been at his mother’s funeral. She was in her eighties now, but her mind was still sharp.
Mrs. Gable opened the door and squinted at him for a moment. “Alex! Alex Morris! My goodness, look at you.” “Morning, Mrs. Gable. Can I come in?”
She bustled him into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Alex looked around. The house was exactly as he remembered it—the same lace curtains, the same smell of cinnamon and old paper. “Are you back for good?” she asked, pouring tea.
“I’ve been back a year. Working construction.” “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you stop by?” “I wasn’t ready to remember things.” He paused.
“Mrs. Gable, have you heard about what they found at the church?” She turned pale. “I heard. The whole town is talking. It’s awful.”
“They found Mary’s earrings there.” The teacup in her hand rattled. “Mary’s? Your sister’s?”
“Yes. I recognized them. I bought them for her.” The old woman crossed herself. “God rest her soul. I always knew she didn’t just leave.”
“She wasn’t that kind of girl. She wouldn’t have left Nancy like that. Someone took her, didn’t they?” “It looks that way.” “Oh, Nancy… she waited for her every single day. Maybe it’s a blessing she didn’t live to see this.” Alex nodded silently. Then he asked: “Mrs. Gable, you’ve lived here forever. Tell me, did a lot of girls go missing over the years?”
She thought for a moment. “Now and then. Every few years, someone would just… vanish.”
“But you know how they explained it. They said they went to the city for work or ran off with a boyfriend. Young people, you know? They just up and leave. That’s what we were told.” “And did you believe it?”
“Sometimes. But then there was Susan Miller. Do you remember her? No, you were too young. She disappeared in the early nineties. They said she went to Philly to stay with a friend.”
“But I knew her mother, Clara. Clara never believed it. She said Susan would have called. But there was nothing. Just silence.” Susan Miller. Alex remembered. That name was on one of the IDs.
“Who else? Do you remember any others?”
