Chapter 11
Vaughn suggested that they unscrew the drywall and remove it, but Darnell had nixed the idea. Said it would take too long.
The medical examiner arrived before Darnell returned. Vaughn had worked beside Dr. Alex Button on several past cases. Liked the guy. Appreciated his no-nonsense approach.
“What are you thinking? Cause of death?”
Dr. Button rolled one of the victims onto his back with gloved hands. Landon helped him out.
“Won’t be able to say for certain until I get these bodies back to the lab.”
No-nonsense, but still a doctor. Just one rung lower on the “hesitant to make assumptions” ladder than a lawyer.
“Consistent with hydrogen sulfide poisoning?” Vaughn asked, remembering what Landon had told them about the readings on his Gas Detector 5000.
“Not inconsistent.”
So, probably.
“Rough guess at time of death?”
“Again, I’ll know more when I get back to the lab and check liver temp. If I was forced to hypothesize though, I’d say in the last six or eight hours.”
Darnell entered the room, hardware tools in hand. He held up a reciprocating saw.
“Detective Ryan? Ready to get to work?”
“You have at it.”
“Don’t need to ask me twice.”
Darnell revved the battery-powered saw, made a pose reminiscent of something from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
With the sound of the blade biting into drywall filling the room, Vaughn went outside to clear his head and met up with Delaney.
“What a mess in there.” The cop had a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he said this.
What did Darnell like to call the young officer?
Puppy dog.
Yeah, it fit.
As much as Darnell’s distaste for Delaney was without merit, Vaughn’s partner was right about that part.
“Yeah. Hey, there’s some sort of cable hanging from the wall in there. Probably went to a camera that was smashed. Also, a speaker. Any way to track incoming or outgoing signals?”
“I can look into it.”
“Do it. What about Cedar Ridge security?”
“Like I told the grumpy old guy—”
“Delaney,” Vaughn warned.
The smirk vanished.
“Sorry. There was a patrol last night, but nobody noticed anything.”
Vaughn glanced around.
The dirt path that led to the barn was overrun with vehicles now. More PPD cruisers, the CSU van, the ME’s car. If there had been castable tire tracks in the dirt, they’d since been obliterated.
“How the hell did they get here?” Vaughn wondered out loud.
“What do you mean?”
He turned his attention to Delaney.
“This is pretty far from any bus stop or parking lot. There are ten victims . . . did they all drive here? If so, where are their cars?”
“I mean, if it’s a game show, maybe they had a bus?”
A bus?
Vaughn frowned.
“See if you can trace those signals.”
He took a few gulps of fresh air before heading back inside.
Dr. Button and Landon had moved all of the bodies into the center room, lining them up like they were corpses from some sort of mass casualty circa World War II.
Vaughn supposed they were. The first part, anyway.
“As soon you can, I’m going to need the victims fingerprinted. Check their shoes, too,” Vaughn said.
“Shoes?” Landon asked.
“I want to know how they got here. Check for wear, I don’t know, grass, dirt. What kind of farms are around here again?”
“Fruit,” Darnell answered over the whir of his saw.
“Fruit, right. If they walked here, they might have fruit in their treads.”
“On it,” Landon said.
Darnell used the saw again, and a large section of drywall fell inward. Bits of plaster covered his face and clung to his sweaty skin.
“I think you’re supposed to wear safety glasses while using that.”
“That’s a Gen Z thing.” Darnell set down the saw, used his phone flashlight to illuminate the space beyond the poorly constructed wall. Then he gestured toward the opening with his free hand. “Hey, isn’t parkour a Gen Z thing, too?”
Vaughn grimaced.
More like you can’t fit.
The hole that Darnell had made between two studs—definitely not to code, not thirty-six inches on center—was about three feet wide. Four feet tall.
“I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Brandishing his cell phone, the flashlight on, Vaughn turned sideways and slipped one foot through the drywall. Felt soft ground beneath his shoe.
Put his other leg through.
This was the barn that he’d expected to find when Landon had initially led them inside. High, peaked roof. Square beams covered in cobwebs. Undertones of long-buried manure, less so of rotten eggs.
“What do you see?” Darnell asked from the other side. He peered through like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Vaughn didn’t answer.
He swung his phone around. Saw where the cable from the camera and speaker went. A small, router-looking thing sitting on a table that was a carbon copy of the boxes containing the numbers.
He noticed the tank next.
About the size of a piece of scuba equipment. Silver, polished.
The top had been modified. A thick rubber nozzle bifurcated three ways, each prong heading into a separate duct that looked like the hot air exhaust from a dryer. Secured with silver tape to prevent leaks where the two different materials met.
The three ducts spiraled upward. One to each of the interior rooms.
“Vaughn?”
Vaughn stepped forward, dropped down. Sprayed light on the side of the tank.
There were stickers wrapped around the cylinder, flanked by the appropriate hazard symbols. Skull and crossbones—fatal. Flame—flammable. Red/yellow burst—explosive, reactive. Exclamation mark inside a yellow triangle—irritant.
Finally, in bold print, Vaughn read: “Hydrogen Sulfide Gas.”
He leaned back to take everything in.
When Vaughn had first stepped into the barn, he’d thought that this was an amateur job. And maybe the construction of the three connected rooms was.
But this? This set up with the tanks and the tubes and the nozzles?
This was anything but amateur. This was pro-level shit.
And that only meant one thing: this deadly game, or whatever the hell it was, was only the beginning.