"Nothing. Soil's soft up there from the moisture but there's no clear boot print. If he left anything, we haven't found it." He pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead. "But I'll tell you something. From that position up there, this was a harder shot."
Callie looked at the ridge. “So he's getting better."
"He was already good. Now he's confident." McKenzie put the cap back on. "First kill he picks a stationary target in a fixed position. Second kill he takes someone moving, at greater range, in the open. That's not just skill. That's someone testing himself."
"Or proving something."
"Aye. Either way, he might not be done."
Callie thought about the approach. From the road, the shooter would have had to cross the property boundary on foot, hike through forest and uphill terrain, set up on the ridge, and wait for Burt to come outside. That meant he knew Burt's routine. Knew when he came and went. Knew the layout of the property. Knew the dog wouldn't be a problem because the dog was old and trusting and wouldn't bark at a figure in the trees.
He had scouted this place. Just like Maggie's.
The forensic tech held up a clear evidence bag. The recovered round was deformed but largely intact. "Same profile as the Coleman round," she said. "Thirty-caliber, high velocity. I'd bet my mortgage it's the same rifle."
McKenzie looked at Callie. She looked back.
"Same rifle," he said. "Same shooter." He paused. "We've got a serial sniper."
The words landed hard. Callie felt the investigation shift beneath her feet the way ground shifts before a slide. This was no longer a single murder.
By noonthe property was crawling with personnel. State Police. BCI. Sheriff's Office. A forensics van from Troop B. Two television news crews had set up on Hays Brook Road, their satellite dishes visible through the tree line. The story that had been local was about to go regional. By evening it would be national.
The town felt it before the press conference. Callie drove through High Peaks on her way back to Lewis and saw it in the faces on Main Street. Clusters of people standing outside the coffee shop, talking in low voices. A mother walking her kids to school with her hand on the older one's shoulder, holding tighter than usual. The hardware store had a handwritten sign in the window: CLOSE AND LOCK YOUR DOORS. A town that had prided itself on never locking anything was suddenly remembering that the mountains didn't just keep people out. They kept them in.
Ray held the press conference at three o'clock on the steps of the High Peaks Police Department. He stood behind a cluster of microphones in his dress uniform, flanked by Acting Sheriff Rivera and two State Police officials. He read from a prepared statement. A task force was in place. Resources were being deployed. The community should remain vigilant. Anyone with information should contact the tip line.
He took no questions. He walked back inside and the doors closed behind him.
At the same time, Savannah spoke to the media separately, outside the State Police building in Ray Brook. "Both victims were prominent members of the community," she said. "A journalist and a medical examiner. We are investigating this as a potential domestic terrorism event targeting community institutions. We take this extremely seriously and we are devoting every available resource to identifying and apprehending the individual responsible."
Noah watched the press conference on a monitor at his desk. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen as Savannah fielded questions with the same composed certainty she brought to every briefing. Domestic terrorism. Community institutions. The language was clean and the framework was institutional.
It made sense on paper. But everything about this was telling him it wasn't random. It just looked that way from a distance. He stared at the photos and waited for the connection to surface. It was right there, sitting on the edge of his mind, close enough to feel but not close enough to name.
He turned back to the monitor and watched Savannah finish the press conference. .
The briefingthat evening at High Peaks PD ran long. It was the same questions. Same dead ends.
Callie worked through the files anyway.
Near the bottom of one stack, she paused.
"The Hale autopsy," she said.
Noah glanced up. "Yeah. Burt handled that."
"And Maggie covered it."
She paused.
"There was a surviving son, right?"
"Yeah. Liam."
She made a note. Then kept going.
It was one name in a room full of names. And no one treated it like anything more.
