“Yes.” Laurel pushed open her door and jogged through the rain to the entrance. Walter followed, ducking his head against the rain.
Inside, they made their way down the antiseptic-smelling corridor to Dr. Ortega’s office. He stepped out of the autopsy room as they approached, his white coat already discarded, leaving him in gray slacks and a light green polo shirt. His dark eyes took them in.
“Special Agent Snow. Agent Smudgeon.” Ortega’s voice was clipped but not unfriendly. He gestured them into his office.
Laurel followed him in, eyeing the neatly aligned photographs lining the walls in perfect symmetry. Ortega’s tendency toward precision bordered on compulsive, but that attention to detail most likely made him excel.
“We’re hoping you can give us information on Tyler Griggs’s autopsy,” Laurel said.
Dr. Ortega’s eyebrows rose. “This is an Elk Hollow City case, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Laurel admitted. “But Tyler was Walter’s brother.”
Understanding flickered in Dr. Ortega’s eyes. “Ah. Well, I can share what I’ve found so far, unofficially. But you know the locals have to request federal involvement. The fact that Walter is Tyler’s brother complicates that even more.”
“We understand,” Laurel said.
Dr. Ortega leaned back, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. “The cause of death wasn’t the fall. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
Walter’s fingers tightened against the chair’s arms. “What killed him?”
“That’s where things get . . . uncertain.” Dr. Ortega’s gaze sharpened. “There are lesions on his brain. Microscopic but extensive. Clusters of neural degradation.”
“What kind of lesions?” Laurel asked.
“Mostly concentrated in the temporal lobes and cerebellum. But not exclusively. The pattern is uneven and erratic. Certain pathways show severe degradation, while others are untouched.” Dr. Ortega rubbed his temple. “I’ve requested Tyler’s medical records. Something genetic could cause degradation like this. Neurodegenerative conditions normally don’t act this quickly, but it does happen.”
Walter scratched his chin, his gaze somber. “So, you’re not ruling out disease?”
“No. Viral, bacterial, even something fungal. Or a chemical agent. It could be environmental, something new or modified. I’ve sent samples to specialists in DC,” Dr. Ortega replied. “Neurotoxicologists, geneticists, virologists. I’m not ruling anything out. But the rapid deterioration . . . that’s what worries me.”
Laurel breathed deep. “What does your gut say?”
“I don’t go on my gut any more than you do on yours.” Dr. Ortega’s expression remained solemn. “The deceased could’ve had a genetic disease that has been affecting him for a while, and we haven’t received his medical records yet. But you need to get Detective Robertson to request your involvement, officially.”
“Understood,” Laurel replied. She rarely relied on instincts, but none of this felt right.
Chapter 11
Huck finished the last interview of the day so far, his voice scratchy from repeating the same questions over and over. He’d managed to speak personally with everyone present during the courthouse steps shooting, and he had his team tracking down anyone else in the vicinity. CCTV from the courthouse showed nothing except the bullet hitting Abigail. No hint of a muzzle flash, no stray figure lurking in the shadows. Whoever took the shot had done it clean. Professional.
CCTV along the routes the sniper probably took had so far revealed nothing of value. Not surprising. Huck was a trained sniper himself; he knew how to avoid cameras, how to blend into the landscape so thoroughly even the best digital eyes wouldn’t pick him up. The shooter had likely used alleyways and pedestrian routes, maybe even public transportation. No car to trace, no license plates to run. He’d been good. Hell, if Abigail hadn’t been wearing the vest, the shot would’ve been fatal.
Huck had put out feelers to old contacts from his military service, asking them to track down any signature or style that might match this shooter. But it was like fishing in an empty lake. No nibbles, no leads. Which meant the guy was good.
Obviously he was good if he’d hit Abigail from that distance, threading the needle between columns and across a windy square. It was skill, sure, but also a damn message.
A knock at his door pulled Huck’s attention from the sprawling mess of files and notes carpeting his desk.
Laurel appeared in the doorway. “Hi,” she said, her voice as steady as ever, even if the subtle lines at the corners of her eyes betrayed her weariness.
“Hi, come on in.” He waved her toward the one chair that wasn’t drowning under stacks of paper. How he’d gone from pretty much living alone with his dog to now not only being part of this office but running it, he still couldn’t entirely grasp. It had happened gradually, then all at once, like falling asleep on guard duty.
Monty, the other captain in the office, was healing nicely from chemo, but the guy still needed frequent breaks. He was currently on a Bahamas cruise with Laurel’s mother, Deidre. They seemed like a good pair, but if things went south, it’d get awkward for them all. So Huck was hoping for everybody that they ended up in love and married and all happy.
Laurel walked inside, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She looked pretty today, in a feminine green sweater and jeans. That was probably Deidre’s influence. Her mother had an uncanny way of getting Laurel to wear whatever she thought best, whether it was comfortable or not.
Her earrings were dangly and pink, the necklace sparkling with tiny stones arranged like blossoms on a vine. Deidre had definitely given those to Laurel as a gift. And Laurel had worn them because his brainiac woman had a huge heart.
