Caucasian male, mid-thirties, wearing the same stained coveralls from the hangar photos. No obvious signs of trauma. He pressed two fingers to Brad's neck, finding cold skin and no pulse.
"Been dead a while," he said, straightening. "Six to eight hours based on temperature and rigor."
He bowed his head. The words came quietly, naturally. "Lord, receive Brad's soul with mercy. Forgive whatever drove him to these choices. Grant peace to those he leaves behind."
He opened his eyes to find Izzy watching him, her expression unreadable. Then, surprising him, she added softly, "And help us find the truth. Amen."
"Amen," he echoed, something shifting between them in that moment.
She cleared her throat, raising her phone again. "Overdose?"
"Looks like it." He studied the scene, that cop instinct pinging like sonar. "Alcohol and pills. Classic combination."
Something nagged at him, some detail his subconscious had caught but couldn't quite surface. He swept his light across the scene again, trying to identify the source of his unease. The cabin's log walls were decorated with old mining tools and a few moth-eaten deer heads. Everything spoke of mountain neglect.
Something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on what.
He pulled out his phone to call it in, watching Izzy work. She moved through the space like the operator she was—efficient, careful, documenting everything. When she crouched to photograph something under the coffee table, he saw her carefully extract a receipt with two fingers.
Their eyes met. He should stop her. Should preserve the scene exactly as found. Instead, he turned back to his phone call, giving her tacit permission to continue.
"Dispatch, this is Chief Fraser. I need units and the coroner at 1847 Forest View Road, old mining district. Deceased male."
While he handled the official procedures, part of his attention tracked Izzy. She laid the receipt on the corner of the coffee table and photographed it. Smart. Whatever she'd found might disappear once the scene became official.
"Backup's ten minutes out," he told her, disconnecting. "Coming up from town."
She nodded, then crouched down to set the slip of paper back where she found it.
Red and blue lights filtered through the pine trees outside. Backup had arrived.
"Show me what you found," he said quickly.
She pulled up the photo of the receipt, angling it so he could see. "Visa reload card. Five thousand dollars. Purchased in Reno two days ago."
"Blood money," Cory said grimly. "Payment for sabotage."
"Has to be." She pocketed her phone as doors slammed outside. "Think he felt guilty? Couldn't live with what he'd done?"
"Maybe." Cory looked at Brad's too-clean hands one more time. "Or maybe he celebrated too hard with his windfall."
The next hour passed in familiar routine. Local units secured the scene. The coroner arrived, making his initial assessment. Crime scene techs processed everything with professional efficiency.
"Textbook overdose," one tech announced, bagging the pill bottle. "Oxy and alcohol. See it all the time up here. Mountain isolation makes it worse."
"Tragic," the coroner agreed, zipping the body bag. "Young man, whole life ahead of him."
"Any signs of foul play?" Cory asked carefully.
"None obvious. We'll run a full toxicology panel, but this looks straightforward. Accidental overdose or suicide." The coroner shrugged. "These mountain cabins see too much of this. Isolation, substance abuse—bad combination."
They stayed until Brad's body was removed, until the scene was processed and sealed. Cory gave his statement, carefully omitting certain details. Breaking protocol to investigate. Finding the door open. Everything else exactly as they'd found it.
Finally, they were released. Walking back to his SUV through the deep snow they'd preserved, their footprints the only disturbance in the white expanse, Cory felt the weight of what they'd discovered.
Izzy grinned at him. "Look at you, building your own shadow investigation." But her teasing lacked its usual bite. "What's really bothering you about this?"
Cory pulled onto the narrow mountain road, headlights cutting through the darkness between the pines. "Brad was an amateur. Nervous at the hangar, sloppy with the sabotage at first. But my guess is he was a champ when it came to self-medication.”
