“Who’s there?” a woman called from inside.
“Agent Walter Smudgeon. You called me.” His voice rose just enough to carry.
The door opened a few inches, but the chain remained latched. A young woman peered out. She looked to be in her early twenties, with long red hair and pale blue eyes. “Badge?”
Walter frowned slightly but reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Here.” He slid it through the gap, the door held tight by the chain.
She took her time examining it. The door shut again, followed by the metallic rattle of the chain being unhooked. A moment later, she fully opened it. “Hi. Come in. I haven’t touched anything.”
Walter stepped inside first. “You’re Sandra?”
“Yes. Sandra Plankton. Thank you for coming.” The redhead pushed back a strand of her hair.
Laurel followed, her boots leaving a faint trail of water on the entry tile.
The apartment measured under eight hundred square feet and showed signs of violence. A living room led to a kitchen, separated only by a bar with two overturned stools. The leather sofa had been cut along a central seam, and its internal padding had been pulled out and scattered across the floor. One lamp was broken. A second had been knocked over but remained intact. A large television lay flattened with a fractured screen and visible impact points along the lower edge.
Walter stiffened. “You’re sure no one else is here?”
“I’m sure,” Sandra said. “I checked every room.”
Laurel glanced at Sandra again. She showed no visible injuries. Her pale green sweater had a small snag at the hem, and the denim of her jeans showed patterning from repeated wear. The braid over her shoulder lacked tension and consistency, indicating it had been secured without the use of a mirror. She wore no makeup or visible jewelry. Her appearance suggested minimal preparation rather than deliberate presentation.
Laurel walked through the space with measured steps, hands in her coat pockets. “The scene shows signs of both a fight and a methodical search.”
“Shit,” Walter muttered.
Laurel stepped into the hallway. The carpet underfoot suffered from long-term wear, especially in the center. A bathroom stood at the end, door open, and she moved that way. “Sandra? Did you go through anything in here?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
“No,” Sandra said from just behind her. “I looked in, but I didn’t touch anything.”
The medicine cabinet door hung open. The mirror had been shattered, with jagged remnants still clinging to the edges. A few shards had fallen into the sink and across the counter. All three vanity drawers had been removed and placed on the floor near the tub. The contents—personal items, toiletries, over-the-counter medications—had been dumped into the sink basin. A plastic cup lay on its side near the faucet.
The toilet tank lid had been removed and set on the floor beside the base. The shower curtain had been torn free from most of its hooks and now sagged, half inside the tub. A damp towel lay balled up in the corner.
Walter stepped into the doorway. “Whoever did this took their time.”
Laurel said nothing. The evidence didn’t suggest panic or urgency. The sequence had a rhythm. Methodical, not chaotic.
She exited the bathroom and entered the bedroom to the left. The mattress had been removed from the frame and now leaned against the far wall with the gray and blue bedspread crumpled beneath it. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and placed in a row on the floor. Clothing had been thrown about. The closet door stood open. Only one bent hanger remained, twisted sideways on the rod.
“Can you tell if anything is missing?” Laurel looked back at Sandra.
“No,” Sandra whispered, her face pale. “I mean, I don’t think so. Not from his bedroom.”
No female clothing. “You don’t live together?” Laurel asked. Sandra shook her head. “No. We have keys to each other’s apartments, though.”
Across the hall, Laurel stepped into a smaller room. Foam acoustic panels covered most of the walls, though a few had been peeled off and now leaned against the baseboard. A condenser microphone lay on the floor beside a detached boom arm, and a metal-framed desk had been cleared. A desktop tower sat open, side panel removed. Several internal components were missing, but the remaining ones looked undamaged. A monitor leaned against the far wall, unplugged but intact.
The red vinyl chair sat pulled back slightly from the desk. No overturned furniture. No broken glass. No clutter on the floor.
She crouched and scanned beneath the desk. Dust marked where the tower had originally sat. No debris, no scattered screws.
Walter stood near the door. “I take it we’re missing items here?”
“Yeah,” Sandra said. “His hard drive obviously. Also, he keeps notebooks near his computer with his research. Three of them, and they’re all gone.”
Laurel studied the room.
