Tyler could have staged this himself for his conspiracy podcast. Maybe this mess gave him material. Maybe it fed the narrative. Or maybe it was for marketing. The visual chaos played well into his themes.
Or someone else had searched the place and taken the computer and notebooks. She wanted to interview Sandra, but this couldn’t be Laurel’s case. She lacked jurisdiction. “Sandra, how long has he been living here?”
“About six months.”
“He ever mention being worried about anyone local? Businesses? Neighbors?” Laurel asked.
Sandra shoved her hand in her pocket. “Tyler always thought people were watching. But he never mentioned names.”
Laurel looked around. “Walter, what do you think?”
“Hell if I know.”
She moved back to the hallway and paused from the new angle. “Walter?”
He stepped up beside her. “What is it?”
She pointed to the doorframe. A smear, about chest height. Dried. Red-brown in color, with irregular edges. “That looks like blood.”
Walter leaned closer. “Yeah. Could’ve come from someone reaching out, maybe holding themselves up.” He turned to Sandra, who hovered by the destroyed sofa. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
She raised both hands. “Because they won’t believe me. I know how that sounds, but I’m serious. I just saw the damage, looked around quickly, and called you. I didn’t even see that blood.” She wiped her eyes. “Seriously. I should have but just didn’t. I feel like I’m in a fog. Something bad happened to Tyler. I just know it.”
Laurel observed her speech pattern and body language. The response lacked defensiveness. Her cadence had slowed, and vocal tension had diminished. “Why do you believe the police would disregard your report?”
Sandra shifted her weight. “Tyler doesn’t trust the government. He’s had a few arguments with local officers, nothing violent, just a few conflicts. He talks about it on his podcast. They know who he is, and I think they’ve stopped taking him seriously.”
Laurel flicked through her memory. There had been an episode listed on Tyler’s site about the Elk Hollow Police Department. She’d have to listen to that later. “I think we need to call the local police, Sandra. This apartment appears as if a fight occurred either before or after a search.”
Sandra turned to Walter, her eyes wide. “You think Tyler found somebody searching his home?”
Walter glanced at Laurel. “I don’t know.”
If Tyler had interrupted a robber, where was he? Laurel watched the young woman.
Sandra paled. “Tyler said if anything ever happened to him, if he disappeared, I should call you. That’s how I had your number. He trusts you. Not them. You have to find him.”
Laurel crouched and looked closer at the gray and blue carpet. Against the scratched baseboard, a series of dried red dots disrupted the uniform pattern. “There’s more blood,” she said. “It has soaked beneath the baseboard.” She stood slowly, her gaze sweeping the space once more. No assumptions. Not yet. She cataloged what was visible, noted what wasn’t. Mainly, more blood.
Walter sucked in air. “Just drops, though. No spray.”
Sandra paled. “You’re in the FBI. You can find him, right?”
Walter blanched. “I’ll help as much as I can, but this isn’t an FBI case.” He angled his head and strode back into the living room, moving toward the door. He zeroed in on the bottom of the door. “More blood. Just drops, but definitely blood.”
Laurel nodded. “It’s time to call in the local police.”
Chapter 5
WalterSmudgeon had his fair share of regrets from this lifetime. One was probably not getting to know his kid brother any better than he had. Sure, Tyler’s dad didn’t like Walter and never had, but Walter could have made more of an effort. The fact that the kid hated the government made that even more difficult, and Walter’s job with the FBI only cemented the divide.
He stood in the rain outside the squat, gray six-plex as two local police officers conducted a quick search of Tyler’s apartment. The building looked neglected, its paint cracked and peeling, the gutters sagging under the weight of wet leaves.
Sandra hovered near Laurel, half behind the shorter woman, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. The kid looked young . . . and lost.
Laurel remained still, her gaze calm and steady, unbothered by the rain soaking into her thick hair.
Walter didn’t know what he’d do without Laurel Snow. She’d given him a second chance at life, first by offering him a place on her team, and then by refusing to let him give up after he’d gotten himself shot. His chest still ached sometimes, a dull, persistent reminder of mistakes made and lessons learned. But he was alive, and that was because of her.
