If I Should Die_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [80]
Dillard gave him a half-smile. “A bit. You’re both welcome to join me. Let me take the lead.”
“We’ll follow you,” Sean said as they left the station.
There was no response to Dillard’s repeated knockings at the small, post–World War II house of Tyler Weddle.
Sean had a bad feeling. Weddle’s personal car was in the garage and his police unit in the driveway.
“I’m calling it in,” Dillard said. He informed dispatch that he was entering the locked house of Deputy Tyler Weddle on a well-being check. He went to his truck to retrieve a small, one-man metal battering ram.
“If you don’t mind,” Sean said and pulled out his lock pick set. He liked the ease and finesse of picking a lock, and didn’t understand why most cops went for the big guns, so to speak. In less than five seconds, he had the door unlocked.
“You two, go around back,” Dillard said, notably impressed. “At a count of ten I’ll announce myself and then enter. Do not enter until I give you the clear, though if he bolts—”
“Got it.” He and Patrick jogged around to the back, keeping low beneath the line of the windows. “If he bolts, you’ll have to chase him down.” Sean was usually faster than Patrick in a sprint, but with his bum leg he didn’t think he’d be any help.
At exactly ten seconds, they heard Dillard shout, “Weddle! It’s Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard! I’m coming in!”
Sean positioned himself just outside the door to watch the knob. Patrick was five feet behind him, against the house, gun drawn, ready to give chase if necessary.
“Boys!” Dillard called. “It’s me.”
Sean lowered his gun. As soon as Dillard opened the door, Sean smelled it. Vomit, alcohol, blood. Dillard’s face was grim.
The back door opened into a small mudroom, then the kitchen. Dried vomit coated the sickly yellow counter and dripping sink. A bottle of JD had spilled on the table, soaking into a stack of junk mail and bills.
“I didn’t do a complete search yet,” Dillard said, “but I don’t think anyone’s alive in here.”
The living room was clear. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom. The bedrooms were clear.
The carpet in the narrow hall outside the bathroom was soaked in water. A light trickle of water sounded from behind the closed door.
Dillard motioned for Sean and Patrick to stand back, then opened the door.
Sean wasn’t sure what he thought he’d see, but he wasn’t expecting a bloodbath.
“Dear God,” Dillard said and glanced away.
“Glad I missed breakfast,” Patrick mumbled.
Blood had spattered across the entire white-tiled room. Darker red arcs covered the ceiling in what looked like a classic cast-off pattern. Because the room was damp from the running shower, the blood hadn’t completely dried. Some had dripped to the floor, drying in trickles of pink down the slick walls.
Weddle’s butchered naked body was slumped in the shower, blocking the drain, as the water dripped steadily over it. Almost all blood had been washed from his flesh. His face was turned away from the door, but Sean could tell that Weddle’s throat had been slit. He couldn’t tell if it was deep enough to kill him quickly, or if the cause of death was the multiple slash marks covering his skin. They weren’t simple in-and-out stab wounds, either. Whoever had killed Weddle used slicing motions—each cut shallow and methodical.
“Out,” Dillard ordered. “This is now a crime scene.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
As soon as Noah landed the Cessna, Lucy turned on her phone. She had a text message from Sean that gave her chills.
She said to Noah, “Deputy Weddle is dead. Murdered in his home.”
By the time Lucy managed to get Sean on the phone, she and Noah were in a taxi heading to FBI Headquarters in Albany. “We just landed,” Lucy told Sean. “I got your message about Weddle. I’m putting you on speaker so Noah can listen. What happened?”
“At first glance, it looked like he was attacked in the shower. But Patrick convinced Dillard to let him observe the on-scene investigation, and he’s been keeping me updated.