The heater clunked heavily, forcing warmth through the too-quiet office. While billowing snow smashed against the windows, the storm had forced the wind to take a break for a while. Silence surrounded her, eerie in its intensity. Setting the folders aside, the Hank Osprey case file caught her eye. Adrenaline warmed her blood, and her spine straightened. Finally.
She pulled the rickety chair back, wincing as it scraped loudly across the dirty floor. The sound grated in the quiet. Shivering, she sat and opened the manila file folder. Notes lined several pages, the script neat and factual, the print masculine and sure, the ink heavy on the page.
Cause of death was listed as shotgun spray to the torso that injured the heart, followed by drowning, based on the amount of liquid found in his lungs. So, somebody shot Hank in the chest and he fell back into the water, just filling his lungs enough to drown. The shot would’ve killed him anyway. In addition, he sustained lacerations on his head from some sort of blunt-force trauma, probably from falling into the rock-filled water.
She scanned the remaining pages, finding a map and diagram of the stream he’d fallen into but no pictures.
Why had no photographs been taken? All of Blazerton’s other case files included photographs—especially of crime scenes. She sat back, pursing her lips. Had Blazerton neglected to document the scene? Or had the pictures somehow disappeared? She scanned the hallway outside the room. The office held two exterior doors, several windows, and no alarm. Anybody could’ve gained entrance to the building and stolen pictures.
She flipped up papers to reach a piece of yellow legal paper, which held more notes from the sheriff. Hank’s four charges, Brock, Ace, Christian, and Damian, had all been in town at the time of his death. That, alone, was odd, especially since their career paths were so varied. All four men had gone into the Navy like Hank had, but they’d pursued different avenues once there. Ace became a fighter pilot, Brock a SEAL, Christian a special operative with innuendo of being a sniper, and Damian an intelligence officer of some sort.
Fascinating. Hopefully her request for their complete military records would be approved soon.
Unfortunately, the fact that the four warriors didn’t want to discover who’d killed the guardian they supposedly loved put them all at the top of the suspect list. Period.
The interview notes appeared short and to the point. All four men denied knowing anything about Hank’s death, and noneadmitted to being around Crocker’s Creek at that time. She got lost in the file, reading quickly.
It was the first case file where the sheriff hadn’t made personal notes or given his opinion throughout. The last notation, scrawled in rough handwriting, declared the death to be accidental.
She swallowed and sat back, frowning at the file that created more questions than answers.
“Um, hello?” A male voice wound through the silence.
She jumped up, tipping the chair over and yanking her gun free. “Who’s there?” Relaxing her arms, leading with her weapon, she swung into the hallway and aimed for the voice.
An older man wearing a bow tie, eyes wide, jumped and immediately launched himself back through a doorway that she’d assumed covered a closet. The door slammed shut, a lock sliding loudly into place.
Adrenaline flooded her, and she crept toward the door. “Come out with your hands visible,” she barked in full agent style. No sound came from beyond the door. She lowered the weapon and took point where she could see if he twisted the knob. “This is the FBI. Come out. Now!”
A thunk sounded and then several more. Something hitting the door? She leaned in to hear better.
“No, no, no. No FBI. No, nuh-uh. No FBI.” More thunking echoed. “Gun. Saw a gun. Was a gun. Barrel of a gun.” Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The outside door opened, and she set her back to the wall, keeping the entire floor in sight.
“It’s me, city girl,” Brock called out, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.
She relaxed—marginally.
Brock came into view and froze, his gaze on her weapon. A reddish-purple bruise on his cheek looked new. “What are youdoing?” Before she could answer, his focus swung to the closed door. “Ah, shit.” He moved between her and the door, placing his hand on the worn wood. “Amos? It’s Brock. You’re okay.”
The thunking stopped. “Brock?” The sound came through muffled.
Brock leaned toward the door. “It’s Brock Osprey, Amos.”
“Gun. There was a gun. Big gun. Barrel of a gun,” Amos said, his voice sounding softer as if he’d retreated away from the door. “You know I hate guns. Everybody should.”
“Sorry. The pretty lady made a mistake,” Brock said. “Put the gun away,” he mouthed to her.
She blinked and then slid the weapon into the back of her waist.
Brock turned to the door. “Amos? There’s a nice lady out here named Ophelia. She doesn’t have the gun any longer. Would you like to meet her?”
“No.” Very faint footsteps echoed and then disappeared.
Brock turned, his jaw hard, his eyes blazing. “What did you just do?”
She couldn’t back up with the wall behind her. “Me? If somebody lived in that closet, you should’ve told me before leaving.”
