Chapter 4: Mob Justice

People in the town tend to be direct and impulsive.

It’s a place where grudges last generations but tempers flare fast. Folks speak their minds, and sometimes the line between justice and vengeance gets blurry—especially when tragedy strikes so close to home.

After Rachel Greene’s parents returned home, they quickly took her to the county hospital for an examination.

The family had been working in Kentucky—Rachel’s mom doing shifts at a meatpacking plant, her dad on a roofing crew. They’d rushed back the moment they heard, all red eyes and short tempers, desperate for answers. The hospital trip happened barely twelve hours after they got home.

The results were bad: her hymen had long since been ruptured.

There was no way to soften the blow. The doctor’s words were clinical, but the pain behind them was raw. Rachel’s parents clutched each other, faces drained of color, as reality set in.

Under the pressure of her parents’ anger, Rachel named someone.

It was a moment that seemed to hang in the sterile hospital air: Rachel, trembling, eyes wide, finally whispering a name. Not just to her parents, but to the world.

Ben Thompson—the old bachelor who ran the small store.

The accusation was like gasoline on a bonfire. In an instant, years of community suspicion and unease about Ben came roaring to the surface.

In an instant, the entire town erupted.

Phones rang off the hook. Neighbors poured into the street, voices raised. By the time Jason and I got the call, half the county was headed toward Ben’s store, pitchforks replaced by angry words and cell phone cameras.

By the time we got the news and rushed over, townsfolk had already surrounded the store.

It was a chaotic scene—pickup trucks blocking the entrance, men yelling, women clutching their children, everyone buzzing with rumor and rage. The air crackled with the kind of mob energy you only see when fear and anger collide.

If we’d been any later, Ben Thompson might have been beaten to death.

There was already a dent in the door, and a few younger men were shouting for Ben to "come out and face what he’d done." Jason flashed his badge, pushing through the crowd, and I followed, hoping we weren’t too late.

Rachel’s parents were furious, cursing Ben Thompson to his face, while Rachel clung to her mother’s leg, head bowed, sobbing.

Rachel looked tiny next to her mother, her cries lost in the roar of the crowd. Her father spat words at Ben that would make a sailor blush, his anger barely held in check by the hands of neighbors holding him back.

As for Ben Thompson, he was nearly in tears from anxiety, repeatedly insisting in his trembling voice that he had never done such a thing.

Ben’s face was a mess of confusion and terror. His hands shook so bad he dropped his keys, and nobody stooped to help. His voice cracked as he begged them to believe him, but in that moment, no one wanted to listen. He kept wiping his eyes with shaking hands, the weight of years of loneliness pressing down on him.

But the townsfolk were seething with righteous anger.

There’s nothing more dangerous than a community convinced of its own moral cause. Even the ones who didn’t know Rachel personally joined the fray, eager to see someone punished. In a town this small, justice could turn ugly fast.

We didn’t know what Ben Thompson was usually like, but his status as an old bachelor put him in grave danger now.

There’s always been a certain wariness around old bachelors in rural towns—odd habits, rumors, stories whispered behind closed doors. Ben’s solitary life made him the perfect target, whether he deserved it or not.

No one wanted to believe him, and while many people were just there for the spectacle, they were happy to see an old bachelor labeled a monster.

Some people thrive on drama, and a scandal like this was more exciting than anything that had happened in years. They watched with hungry eyes, eager for the next twist.

We quickly restored order and brought everyone involved back to the station for questioning.

It took every bit of authority we had to break up the mob. Jason stayed behind to calm the crowd, while I ushered Ben, Rachel, and her parents into the squad car. The drive to the station was tense—Rachel’s mother sobbing quietly, Ben silent and shaking.

Rachel trembled throughout, while her parents kept cursing.

Even in the safety of the station, Rachel couldn’t stop shaking. Her parents hurled accusations at anyone within earshot, their grief transformed into raw, unfocused rage. I couldn’t blame them.

However, since Rachel had said nothing when we visited the day before, we still had doubts.

I remembered the way she’d stared at the floor, too scared to speak. The abruptness of her accusation gnawed at me—why now, and why Ben?

Unfortunately, we couldn’t separate her from her parents for individual questioning.

Ohio law and procedure demanded we respect parental rights, but it made our job nearly impossible. Every question was filtered through her mother’s glare, every answer stilted and uncertain.

She only stammered that Ben Thompson had lured them into the back room of his store with snacks and pocket money, then molested and raped them.

Her words came out haltingly, as if reciting a lesson learned by heart. “He gave us candy… said it was a secret… made us go in the back room.” Her voice trailed off, and she clung tighter to her mother.

When we asked why she hadn’t said so earlier, she explained fearfully that she didn’t know those things could lead to pregnancy.

Her mother answered for her half the time, filling in the gaps with angry explanations. Rachel just nodded along, looking at the floor, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear.

Logically, it made sense.

Kids her age barely understood the implications, especially in places where sex education was patchy at best. But something about the exchange still felt off—the story too neat, the timing too convenient.

But at present, there was no physical evidence proving Ben Thompson assaulted Rachel.

No fingerprints, no witnesses, no camera footage—nothing but the word of a terrified child and the fury of her family. In the eyes of the law, it wasn’t enough.

Ben Thompson himself vehemently denied it, even breaking down in tears, insisting he was being wronged. At his age, to be slandered like this was unbearable…

He sobbed openly, begging us to believe him, swearing on his mother’s grave. The humiliation was crushing—he’d spent his life carving out a quiet existence, only to have it shattered in a single night.

The only thing we could rely on was the DNA test.

Science had become our only anchor. I collected the samples myself, conscious of the eyes watching from the station lobby—every move scrutinized, every decision weighed against public outcry.

We immediately arranged for samples from Ben Thompson and Emily’s baby, but even with our own lab, results would not be ready until the next day.

It was the longest night of my career. I barely slept, the weight of what might happen if we were wrong settling in my gut like cold lead.

For various reasons, we couldn’t detain Ben Thompson, and could only warn Rachel’s family, who were demanding answers, not to take any further action until we contacted them.

We tried to explain, but no one was listening. As they left the station, I caught a look in Rachel’s father’s eyes—a dangerous, simmering anger I knew wouldn’t be quelled by promises alone.

But that night, something happened.

I awoke to my phone ringing at 5 a.m., a sinking feeling already twisting my stomach. I knew before I even answered that things had taken a turn for the worse.