Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
She flicked a glance at him. “This isn’t our case. Not officially.”
“I know.” Walter sighed. “But if we can’t get jurisdiction, I can’t see what happened to Tyler through to the end.”
“That Detective Robertson seems like he’s got a good brain on his shoulders,” Laurel said, navigating the wet curves out of Elk Hollow. “But I felt like he was holding something back. Did you catch that?”
Walter huffed out a short breath. “I’m not at a hundred percent here, and you don’t go on instincts. What did you see?”
“There was something,” Laurel continued, her fingers tightening on the wheel. “A twitch in his expression. His eyes darted away from mine a little too quickly. He knows something he didn’t share.”
Walter lifted a shoulder. “That makes sense. We never tell witnesses everything in our investigations either.”
They drove on in silence for a while, and Laurel began to relax. Finally, she cleared her throat. “So . . . you enjoy wealth?”
Walter snorted out a laugh that was more pain than humor. “Not even close, Laurel.”
“Five million dollars is a significant amount of money.”
“Yeah, but neither Tyler nor I could touch that until Mom’s latest husband dies, and that guy’s fairly young. Figured I’d never see the money. Though, I guess if I have kids, they would.”
Laurel blinked. “You’re contemplating having children?”
“Yeah.” Walter stared out the rain-dotted window. “Ena wants kids. And hell, so do I. Near-death experiences tend to put things into perspective.”
He made a certain amount of sense. Laurel’s chest tightened, memory flashing back to Walter laid out on a hospital bed, pale and gasping through tubes. That bullet to his chest had nearly killed him only a few months ago.
And yet here he was. Living. Moving forward.
She hadn’t realized he and Ena had become so serious. “When I thought I was going to lose you, I swore I’d watch over the whole team better. But you, Walter . . . I should’ve made sure you had more time to heal.”
“Boss.” Walter shook his head. “You did everything right. I’m alive and healthier than ever because of this job, working with Nester, and even with falling for Ena. She’s a bit of a health nut.”
They drove for a few more minutes in silence, the rain turning heavier. Finally, Laurel pulled up to a square, two-story building near the county hospital.
Walter startled, like he hadn’t been paying attention. “We’re going to the coroner’s office?”
“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.”