Chapter 6
"Sutherland."
"Noah, it's Sergeant Anita Emerson from Adirondack County Sheriff’s Office. We've got a body in High Peaks. Possible suicide, carbon monoxide. Local PD is requesting BCI assistance. Savannah would have called but she is handling matters related to her partner’s declining health."
Cora, Noah thought. Savannah hadn’t been herself since Cora’s cancer diagnosis and treatment that had been failing.
Noah was already reaching for his clothes, the automatic response of someone who'd learned that death didn't keep normal hours. "Address?"
"6 Pine Ridge Road. Victim is identified as Keith Dwyer, twenty-eight years old. Found in his garage by a neighbor who noticed his car running all night."
The name was familiar. Keith Dwyer—the same guy that Pierce Landry had been asking questions about, the troubled former student who'd been connected to Rebecca Hale.
The timing felt like more than coincidence, and Noah's investigative instincts started sending up warning flags even as he processed the basic information.
"Time of discovery?"
"Approximately 6:15 AM. Neighbor called it in after going outside to get his newspaper. Says the garage door was closed but he could hear the engine running."
"Who's on scene?"
"High Peaks PD secured the scene, coroner’s en route. Detective McKenzie is handling preliminary interviews with neighbors."
Noah grabbed his badge and service weapon, his mind already working through the implications. A suspicious death involving someone connected to a case that an outside investigator was actively pursuing—that was the kind of scenario that required careful handling and thorough documentation.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Make sure nobody disturbs anything until I arrive."
The drive through High Peaks in the early morning felt like traveling through a postcard of small-town tranquility.
Mist rose from the lake, and the mountains emerged from shadow with the kind of majestic beauty that brought tourists from hundreds of miles away.
But Noah's mind was focused on darker possibilities—the ways that apparent suicides could mask murders, the pressure that outside attention could put on people with secrets to protect.
Pine Ridge Road wound through a neighborhood of modest homes built for working families rather than wealthy retirees or summer visitors.
The houses sat on generous lots carved from what had once been forest, with mature trees providing privacy and the illusion that civilization hadn't completely conquered the wilderness.
Noah spotted the scene before he reached the address—three police cruisers, the coroner's van, and enough yellow tape to secure a small crime scene.
He parked behind the coroner's vehicle and took a moment to observe the layout: a single-story house with an attached garage, the kind of property that suggested someone who valued privacy and didn't much care about impressing the neighbors.
Detective McKenzie approached as Noah climbed out of his truck.
McKenzie was a veteran investigator with the Adirondack County Sheriff's Office, a burly Scotsman whose dry humor often surfaced at the most inappropriate moments.
His graying hair and weathered face spoke to decades of dealing with the worst humanity had to offer, usually with a sardonic comment that somehow made the darkness more bearable.
"Well, well, Sutherland," McKenzie said. "Another lovely morning in paradise, eh? Nothing like a wee bit of carbon monoxide to start the day."
"What do we have?"
“He was found dead in his car. Engine was running, garage door closed, windows up tight as a drum. Classic carbon monoxide suicide setup, though I've seen cleaner operations at a church bake sale."
"Any note?"
"Aye, found one on the kitchen table. Short but interesting. He claims he knows who killed Rebecca and Jacob Hale but can’t live with keeping the secret anymore. Also left a list of names, locals who supposedly know the truth but won't talk."
Noah felt his pulse quicken. A suicide note mentioning the Hale murders and naming local conspirators, coming just days after Landry had started asking questions around town, that was either remarkable timing or something more sinister.
"Can I see it?"
McKenzie led him into the house, which showed signs of someone who'd been struggling with depression or substance abuse.
Dishes piled in the sink, empty beer bottles on counters, mail stacked unopened on a coffee table that hadn't been cleared in weeks.
The kind of domestic chaos that suggested someone who'd stopped caring about basic maintenance of his living space.
"Charming décor," Noah observed.
“Yeah, nothing says 'mental health crisis' like three weeks of dirty dishes and a recycling bin that's become a beer bottle museum,” McKenzie added.
The note lay on the kitchen table, written in blue ink on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook:
I know who killed Rebecca and Jacob but I can't prove it. There are others who know too but they won't talk. Here are their names: Mike Torres, Danny Walsh, Carl Peterson, Rita Morrison, Frank Kellerman. Maybe when I'm gone someone will finally tell the truth.
“Odd letter,” Noah said.
“Sure is. If he was leaving this world, why not just say who he thought did it.”
“Maybe he already had told someone.”
The handwriting was shaky but legible, the kind of script that suggested either emotional distress or physical impairment. Noah studied it carefully, noting the word choices and phrasing that might provide clues about the writer's state of mind.
"Has this been photographed?"
"Multiple angles, plus we'll bag it for handwriting analysis," McKenzie said. "Though if this is a forgery, it's a damn good one. Looks consistent with samples of Dwyer's writing we found around the house."
Noah made his way to the garage, where the real evidence would be found.
The space was exactly what he'd expected—cluttered with tools and equipment, boxes of belongings that suggested someone who'd never quite settled anywhere permanently.
A blue Nissan sat in the center of the space, its engine silent now but still warm to the touch.
Ozzy Westborough crouched beside the driver's side door, examining the body in a way that had made him one of the most respected coroners in the region.
Ozzy was an anomaly in rural law enforcement—a death investigator who looked like he belonged at a heavy metal concert rather than a crime scene.
Shoulder-length curly black hair framed a face that would have been at home on an album cover, and his distinctive style extended to red Doc Martens that had become his professional trademark.
"Ozzy," Noah said by way of greeting. "What's the preliminary assessment?"
Ozzy looked up, pulling out earbuds that had probably been playing something by Slayer or Black Sabbath.
"Classic carbon monoxide presentation," Ozzy said, gesturing toward the body slumped over the steering wheel.
"Cherry-red skin discoloration, position consistent with gradual loss of consciousness.
No obvious signs of trauma or struggle."
"Time of death?"
"Best estimate puts it between midnight and 2 AM, which matches the neighbor's report about hearing the engine. Lividity patterns are consistent with the body position, no indication he was moved after death."
Noah studied Keith Dwyer's face, noting the peaceful expression that was characteristic of carbon monoxide poisoning. Unlike violent deaths that left evidence of pain or fear, this looked like someone who'd simply fallen asleep and never woken up.
"Anything that doesn't fit the suicide narrative?"
Ozzy considered the question with the thoroughness that made him valuable for cases where the obvious explanation might not be the correct one.
"Garage door was definitely closed when the neighbor found him.
Windows in the car were up, which is consistent with someone who wanted to ensure the carbon monoxide would be concentrated and effective.
No defensive wounds, no signs of binding or restraint. "
"But?"
"But the car was positioned oddly. Angled toward the garage door instead of pulled straight in. Could mean nothing, or could suggest he wasn't the one who parked it there."
Noah made careful notes, photographing the scene from multiple angles and documenting details that might become important later.
In his experience, apparent suicides that were actually murders usually revealed themselves through small inconsistencies—evidence that suggested the victim hadn't acted alone or hadn't acted voluntarily.
"Any signs of forced entry to the house, McKenzie?”
"None that we found. Front door was unlocked, but neighbors say Dwyer rarely locked it anyway. Back door was secure, windows all latched from inside."
Noah walked the perimeter of the garage, looking for anything that might indicate someone else had been present.
The concrete floor showed tire tracks and oil stains that would take forensic analysis to sort out, but nothing immediately obvious suggested a struggle or the presence of additional vehicles.
“What did the neighbors tell you?"
"Not much that would surprise you, laddie.
Dwyer kept to himself, worked odd jobs around town, had a reputation for drinking too much and getting into arguments.
Neighbor who found him said he seemed more agitated than usual over the past few days.
Like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, as my grandmother used to say. "
"Did anyone mention visitors? Other cars in the driveway?"
"Negative. Neighbors say he rarely had company, and when he did, it was usually other guys from the bars looking to crash on his couch. Not exactly the social butterfly type."
Noah felt the pieces of the puzzle shifting in his mind without quite forming a complete picture.
Keith Dwyer's death could be exactly what it appeared—a troubled man who'd been questioned about a decade-old murder and couldn't handle the pressure of renewed scrutiny.
But the timing was troubling, coming so soon after Landry's arrival in town and his interview with Keith.
"I want Dr. Chambers to do a full autopsy," Noah said. "Toxicology, examination for any signs of coercion or incapacitation. Also check for DNA under his fingernails, defensive wounds, anything that might suggest this wasn't voluntary."
"Already on my list," Ozzy said, sealing evidence bags. "I'll transport the body to Dr. Chambers in Saranac Lake this afternoon. Should have preliminary results by tomorrow."
"And I want the suicide note analyzed by a handwriting expert. Compare it to other samples of Dwyer's writing, look for signs of duress or forgery."
McKenzie nodded. "I'll coordinate with the state lab. What about next of kin notification?"
"Dwyer has family here. I'll handle that call personally." Noah paused, considering the broader implications of the death. "And McKenzie? I want tight control over information about this scene. Nothing to the media until we've had time to process everything thoroughly."
"Understood. Though keeping secrets in this town is messy and ultimately futile. What about that podcaster? Word is he interviewed Dwyer yesterday."
Pierce Landry's investigation had been in town for less than 48 hours, and already someone connected to the case was dead. That could be coincidence, but Noah's instincts suggested something more troubling.
"I'll be talking to Mr. Landry personally. In the meantime, I want to know everyone who had contact with Dwyer in the past week. Phone records, credit card transactions, anyone who saw him at bars or job sites."
As the scene was processed and the body prepared for transport, Noah began making connections.
Keith Dwyer's death might be exactly what it appeared, but it was also convenient for anyone who didn't want him sharing information about the Hale murders.
The note mentioned specific names—local people who supposedly knew the truth but wouldn't talk—which suggested a conspiracy of silence that could extend far beyond Keith himself.
Noah's phone buzzed with a text from Mia: Heard about Keith Dwyer. Is it true, is he dead? And is this connected to the Hale case?
The questions hit him like a punch to the gut. His daughter was already thinking like an investigator. The problem was that her instincts were probably correct, and that meant she was walking into a situation more dangerous than she realized.
He typed back: Don't know yet. Stay away from Pierce Landry and his team until we understand what's happening.
Her response came back immediately: Dad, you can't protect me by keeping me ignorant. I might be able to help.
Noah stared at the text, feeling the weight of impossible choices. Keeping Mia away from the investigation meant missing opportunities to use her local knowledge and connections. But involving her meant exposing her to whatever forces had possibly killed Keith Dwyer and made it look like suicide.
As the coroner's van pulled away with Keith's body, Noah made a decision that felt like stepping off a cliff.
He would investigate Keith Dwyer's death with the thoroughness it deserved, but he would also keep Landry under surveillance to determine whether the podcaster was stirring up trouble or walking into a trap that had been set years ago.
The question wasn't whether Keith had committed suicide. The question was whether his death was the end of the killing or just the beginning of a new phase in a conspiracy that had already claimed too many lives.