Detective Robertson turned to Walter and extended his hand again. “You must be Agent Smudgeon. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He gestured to the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
Laurel sat and tracked the detective’s movements as he circled the table. He operated with the efficiency of someone used to handling emergencies, though his attention kept drifting back to Walter. Something more than professional curiosity edged his expression.
Walter lowered himself into the chair beside her. His shoulders looked tight, his posture almost rigid. “How did my brother die?”
Detective Robertson reached beneath the table and pressed a button. “I need to let you know this conversation is being recorded.”
“Understood.” Walter’s gaze didn’t waver. “How did he die?” His tone sounded harder than before, the words pressed through clenched teeth.
Detective Robertson kept his gaze steady on Walter. “Please let me do my job. I know you already spoke to Officers Diaz and Jackson, but I’d like you to walk me through the last time you saw your brother.”
Walter blew out a breath. “Three years ago. At our mother’s funeral. We didn’t speak because we’d argued the week before about his conspiracy theories. I didn’t know he’d moved to Elk Hollow. We hadn’t been in touch since.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Detective Robertson called.
The door opened, and Officer Jackson stepped inside. Her dark hair spilled around her face in loose curls. “Maisie said to come on in.” Her fingers fidgeted against the notepad in her hand.
“Yes, please have a seat.” Detective Robertson gestured to the chair next to him.
Officer Jackson threw him a quick smile and settled into the chair, her posture tense. “Agents Snow. Smudgeon.”
Detective Robertson nodded. “Jillian here is working on becoming a detective, so I asked her to help with this case. She conducted the initial interview with you both.”
“That’s fine,” Walter said. “Now, could you please tell me how my brother died? I understand it was on a highway. Was he running from somebody? What happened? Did somebody hit him on purpose?”
Detective Robertson glanced at Officer Jackson, who seemed prepared to answer. “It looks like he fell off Frostline Peak,” she said, her tone even.
Walter’s eyebrows drew together. “Excuse me?”
Officer Jackson pressed her lips together before continuing. “We have several witnesses who were driving along the river road. I’m so sorry, but Tyler’s body hit the road directly in front of them. At least two cars swerved to avoid hitting him, and another managed to brake just in time. One car ended up in a ditch. The driver called 911, and we’ve taken statements from all of them.”
Laurel tracked the way Officer Jackson’s fingers tightened around her notepad.
The officer’s gaze flicked down and then back up to Walter. “Do you know if your brother was suicidal?”
“No. Not a chance,” Walter snapped. “Tyler was obsessed with his investigations and theories. He was paranoid and restless, but he wasn’t suicidal.”
Detective Robertson maintained his neutral expression, though his focus on Walter sharpened. “You haven’t spoken to him in three years.” His voice remained calm, but the challenge threaded through it all the same.
“Maybe not, but I still knew the kid,” Walter said. “He lived for his conspiracy theories. He wouldn’t kill himself. Have you been up to the site?”
“Not yet.” Detective Robertson’s shoulders sagged slightly before he straightened. “The rain made the terrain nearly impossible to navigate, and we still don’t know where he fell from. Frostline Peak isn’t a single cliff; it’s a series of ridges, ledges, and drop-offs. Without a clear point of origin, we’re working blind.”
Walter’s jaw tightened. “Then you need to find out.”
“We plan to. The problem is how extensive the area is. If we can’t narrow down a location soon, we’ll likely need to call in help from the state to conduct a proper search of the mountain and to look for Tyler’s car.” Detective Robertson paused, his eyes on Walter. “I understand your frustration. We’re working as quickly as we can, but we’re limited by the conditions and the lack of obvious evidence.”
“Maybe somebody threw Tyler off one of those cliffs.” Walter’s voice dropped.
“That’s a possibility,” Detective Robertson acknowledged. “The coroner has your brother’s body now. They identified him through fingerprints, but the autopsy isn’t finished yet.”
“How far has the coroner gotten?” Laurel asked.
Detective Robertson turned his attention to her. “Dr. Ortega only just began. The rain delayed recovery, and he’s still working on the preliminary assessment. I know you want answers, but we don’t have them yet.”
At least the county coroner was the best Laurel had ever worked with. Dr. Ortega’s meticulousness bordered on obsession, but that obsession translated to results. If Tyler had any other injuries beyond the obvious ones from the fall, Dr. Ortega would find them.
