Page 65 of Cyn
She stared, then let out a deep breath. “We need to clear the rest of the house, but I think we know why Bartlett hasn’t been turning his heater down at night or sucking energy for his tech toys.”
Joe glanced quickly at the other two doors, likely two bedrooms, before peeking his head around the doorframe. Sucking in a breath, he understood Cyn’s sudden stop.
Blood covered the floor of the office along with papers, a tipped-over file cabinet, and a plate. The sandwich that had presumably been on the plate at some point had been ground into the floor, and peanut butter and bright red jelly stained the white carpet.
The destruction wasn’t what drew his attention, though. No, it was the body sitting in the office chair, slightly slumped to the right.
Kevin Bartlett had not died an easy death. From where Joe stood, he could see at least three gunshot wounds—two in his chest and one along the right side of his head. Based on the blood, he’d wager that Kevin had been shot and then had dragged himself—or been dragged—over to the chair. He’d managed to crawl up into, or had been placed there, and that’s where he’d died. And there was no doubt he was dead. His body was bloated from the heat of the house and his skin was a ghostly gray pallor, though inexplicably, the smell wasn’t too strong.
“Let’s get the rest of the house,” Joe said. It would be much easier to search the office if they weren’t looking over their shoulders. Cyn nodded, and ten minutes later, they were back in the office, confident they were alone with the body.
“Do you think he managed to get himself into that chair before he died, or do you think he was placed there?” he asked.
Cyn didn’t answer right away, her gaze scanning the room. After a beat, she pointed to a long blood smear that was hard to make out among the rest of the blood and general mess. “I think he dragged himself to his desk after he was shot. The question is why.”
Joe inched into the room and eyed the smear she’d pointed out. He hadn’t done a lot of blood spatter analysis in the Navy, but he’d learned a thing or two while serving that had been further developed when he’d taken classes while studying for his detective exam. There was a significant pool of blood and then, as Cyn had pointed out, long smears leading to the chair. The one Cyn had noted, though, had handprints in it, as if Bartlett had dragged himself rather than been dragged.
“So, someone comes in, shoots him, then leaves? And he drags himself to the computer?” Joe theorized.
“Who knows what actually happened, but in our three-minute analysis, that would be my guess.”
“The follow-up question then is, why?” As Joe asked, Cyn moved toward the body, carefully avoiding any blood trails or stains. The imprint of her foot in the soft pile of the carpet wouldn’t be hard to explain to the police—the police they’d call in a minute. They’d simply say that she’d entered the room and checked his pulse.
Cyn stood behind Bartlett, looking over his shoulder. “His computer has gone into save mode and is actually probably off by now, but I wonder if he was trying to find something or send something?”
“Most likely, but what?”
Cyn shook her head and started to move away but paused. “I can have Lucy see if she can get into his network, but I think I have an idea of at least one thing he did before he died.”
Joe bit his tongue to stop himself from telling Cyn to be careful as she dropped to her haunches and started inching forward under the desk. “Cyn?”
“Did you notice the way his hand fell?” she asked. Her position was contorted, and her words came out oddly breathy.
Joe looked back at Bartlett. His left hand lay on his lap, but his right hand had fallen to the side, down by his thigh, and his fingers were halfway open. As if he’d been holding on to something.
“What did he drop?” Joe asked, his heart kicking up at the idea that they might finally have a solid lead on Waters, Persons, and Harrow.
“This,” Cyn said, popping back up and holding a USB stick in her hand. “And now, I think we should call the police. We’ve been here long enough that if any of the neighbors are nosy, they’ll have noted our arrival and waiting any longer will seem out of place.”
He nodded and held out a hand for her. “How about we do that from the warmth of my car? That way, when the police arrive, rather than seeing a police officer and a spy who maybe seem a little too comfortable with death, they’ll see two people who couldn’t stand to be in the house with a dead body.”
With a wry grin, Cyn took his hand and together they walked outside. Once seated in the car with the engine—and heat—running, he pulled out his phone and made the call as one police officer to another. Bartlett lived out in the country and it took eight minutes for the first car to arrive, but after another ten, the driveway was filled with first responders.
The first officers to arrive, two men from the Sheriff’s department, checked their IDs, then told them to stay put while they went inside to the sweep the house. Beside him, he could practically feel Cyn vibrating with the need to get back home and investigate the contents of the USB stick. She had her laptop, but they’d agreed it was too risky to try to access it now—not when they’d stolen the evidence from a crime scene.
“I’ve put you in an awkward position,” Cyn said as they both watched the people moving in and out of Bartlett’s house.
She had. Taking the evidence was most assuredly illegal, and if anyone found out he condoned the action, he’d lose his job. But he was hard pressed to feel bad about it. The men and women in blue who would investigate the murder of Kevin Bartlett didn’t have the wherewithal to investigate a potential terrorist attack, nor did he and Cyn have the luxury of bringing them up to speed. Not if the attack was moving forward on MLK day as they anticipated. In fact, he wasn’t surethey’dhave the wherewithal or time to stop it, but they were better positioned than the sheriff’s office.
He shrugged and shot her a smile—one that showed his dimple since Cyn seemed to like it. “If I lose my job, I might have a sugar mama up my sleeve who can take care of me.”
That surprised a laugh out of her, and his smile grew hearing the sound. “Ha,” she said after she stopped laughing. “I knew the idea of using my gym every day and rattling around the manse while Dan cooks all your meals appealed to you.” It didn’t, and she knew it. Well, maybe the gym was appealing. “But Franklin and Joe—Old Joe—won’t let you lose your job. Trust me on this one. If anyone finds out, they’ll pull some strings.”
“You know, I never knew my uncle had strings to pull. I always thought he was just some small-town cop. Chief of police, of course, but nothing more than that. I’m not sure how I feel about knowing about the new Old Joe.”
She smiled at him again. “Liar. You want to be Old Joe. You want strings you can pull.”
He chuckled. “I got a few strings. Maybe not my uncle’s caliber, but I have them. Never denigrate a man’s strings, Cyn. And never compare them to another man’s.”
