Page 55 of The Hanging Dolls
“That could compromise the whole case,” Zoe agreed. “Grounds for a mistrial.”
Scott sighed in frustration. “So we’re stuck with this? A genetic breadcrumb that leads nowhere.”
“For now, yes,” Dr. Camden conceded. “But it’s not a dead end—just a detour. The DNA we do have could help eliminate suspects or corroborate other evidence if you find it. Think of it as one piece of the puzzle, not the whole picture.”
Zoe’s mind churned. They needed more than pieces. But this was a way forward. They were one step closer to identifying the killer.
“What are our options here?” Travis asked.
“You could go down the route of looking into local medical records, though privacy laws make that nearly impossible,” Dr. Camden said. “People with hereditary hemochromatosis often need treatment, like phlebotomy to reduce iron levels. If there’s a specialist in town, they might have records, but getting access to that data… you’d need a court order, and even then, it’s a long shot.”
Zoe felt a wave of frustration. They were so close, yet so far. “Thanks, Dr. Camden. Let us know if anything changes.”
“I will. And good luck.”
“It’s something, but it’s not enough,” Zoe said, breaking the silence choking the room. “We’re still grasping at straws.”
Scott’s eyes lit up. “We can run a volunteer program, Travis. It’s a small town. We can invite people to come and get tested for this condition.”
Travis flattened his mouth, unconvinced. “Why would the killer come out and volunteer if he knows he has this condition?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know?” Zoe offered. “Dr. Camden said that the symptoms don’t appear until much later. He might not even be in treatment for it.”
Travis pondered this, his eyes doing a calculation. “There will be a significant proportion of people who will not show up, Agent Storm. Not because they don’t care or are guilty but who wants to give out their DNA to anyone, especially the police, effectively the government?”
“It’s also a privacy issue,” Aiden said.
“The one thing Americans care about most after freedom.” Travis’s eyes bore into Zoe. “You’ll have to find another way to do this, Agent Storm and Dr. Wesley.”
The rain fell in heavy sheets, turning the parking lot into a glistening expanse of wet asphalt. The streetlights cast a dim, yellow glow, reflecting off the puddles that had formed throughout the day. Travis Hunter stepped out of the station, the cold air hitting him like a slap. He pulled up the collar of his coat and opened his umbrella, the rain drumming steadily against the fabric.
As he made his way toward the parking lot, he spotted Scott standing by his car under an umbrella as he fumbled with his keys.
“Scott,” Travis called out, raising his voice over the downpour. Scott looked up, surprised, then quickly turned back to his car, his movements stiff.
Travis approached, the sound of his footsteps muted by the rain-slicked pavement. “You got a minute?”
Scott glanced at him, his expression wary. He nodded, though it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for a chat. “Sure, what’s up?”
They stood there, huddled under their umbrellas, the rain creating a near-constant hiss around them. Travis hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
“A friend of mine was at the bar the other night,” Travis began, keeping his tone neutral. “He said he saw you there.”
Scott stiffened slightly, but didn’t look at Travis. “So what?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rain. “I can go to a bar if I want.”
“He said you were drinking.”
Scott’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you, Travis? It’s none of your goddamn business.”
His patience was wearing thin. “It is my goddamn business,” he snapped. “It’s my business to make sure the people under me are okay.”
Scott scoffed, turning back to his car. “I’m fine. I ordered a drink. It’s no big deal.”
Travis wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. He took a step closer, his umbrella nearly touching Scott’s. “You were doing really well. You’ve been sober for over two years now.”
Scott’s face tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost resigned. “I do this sometimes, okay? When I’m stressed, I order a drink and sniff it and hold it. The ritual calms me down. But I didn’tdrink.”
Travis studied Scott’s face, the hard lines of stress and something else—something darker—etched into his features. “Are you hiding something, Scott?”
