The Predator's Apprentice

By LS Sygnet

With a smear of lipstick leaving a scrawled and cryptic message, Helen Eriksson's world is shattered. Wendell is missing. Jerry Lowe is—God only knows what. A killer's prediction that the murders wouldn't stop with his arrest is the only truth in the devastating culmination of events in Darkwater Bay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LS Sygnet
• Release date: Dec 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370606672

LS Sygnet

LS Sygnet was a mastermind of schoolyard schemes as a child who grew into someone who channeled that inner criminal onto the pages of books. Sygnet worked full-time in the nursing profession for 29 years before her "semi-retirement" in March 2014.She currently lives in Georgia, but Colorado will always be her home.

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© 2017 LS Sygnet, Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations.  

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental or referenced as a matter of public record. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print, without written permission from LS Sygnet.

Foreword

To my faithful readers:

We've been on this journey with Helen Eriksson for several years now, and as I have explained on my Facebook page, this is the final Eriksson novel. No, she is not evaporating into the mist in Darkwater Bay.

What I realized a couple of years ago, beyond the fact that the series has become very long over these many years, is that I had fallen into sort of a rhythm of writing the back half of the series anyway. The stories started coming out in threes—and what I mean by that, is that three stories seemed to be rather interrelated. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I finished Hindsight, TinkerBrain and I Am the Monster.

It is much easier for all of us, I think, if I end the Eriksson (Darkwater Bay) series after the last set of three stories—Reverend Detective, Dirty and The Predator's Apprentice.

In the future, when Helen and her group of crime-fighters have stories, they will be designated as Darkwater Bay: (insert subset) But they will be limited to three books per sort of mini-series. Some may be two books, but like I said, it seems I have fallen into the trio of stories mindset, as evidenced by the aforementioned books, and also with The Last Mile, Patron Saint of Demons and Winter's Harvest. So that is nine books of the back half that all are rather linked by continuation from where the previous story left off.

The crux of it is that no, Helen isn't going away. (If I could insert a picture of the claw marks she left inside my skull at the very suggestion that she be banished, I'd do it. She was not fond of the idea). This of course too, will help me with my obsessive need to organize, and will take some of the pressure off of me when another spark ignites in my imagination that perhaps has nothing to do with Helen Eriksson. I do have a few of those books published as well.

Thanks for bearing with my wordy explanation. I don't want any confusion. Not everyone who reads my books uses Facebook, or even follows my author page. Helen will most definitely return, likely in my next novel, which is already outlined, plotted and in the process of being written.

All my best regards,

LS Sygnet

Eriksson (Darkwater Bay) Series

Paper Clip

Daddy's Little Killer

Beneath the Cracks

Forgotten Place

The Chilling Spree

Always Watching

Sins of the Father

Cloaked in Blood

Sweet Gruesome Dreams

The Last Mile

Patron Saint of Demons

Winter's Harvest

Come Out and Play

Gift Wrap Killer

Hindsight

TinkerBrain

I Am the Monster

Reverend Detective

Dirty

The Predator's Apprentice

Raver/Castillo Series

Going Urban

Pain Killer

Evolution

#DigUrGrave

Stand Alone Novels

The Quiet Ones

From Darkness to Death

Contents

Copyright

Foreword

Books by LS Sygnet

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 1

Helen Eriksson

She was in the trauma suite when Johnny and I rushed into the emergency department at St. Mary's Hospital. For all the touting of her status as a psychiatric nurse, I was impressed with Fiona Dennison's skills in trauma nursing as well. She wore gown and gloves, just like the other nurses, and barked out orders regarding how Jerry Lowe's current medication regimen couldn't be ignored while they treated—well, whatever had happened to him since Johnny's call to Dunhaven prompted Fiona to personally check on him.

I inched closer to the gurney.

Ah hell… is that what it looks like?

No wonder Fiona freaked out and disconnected our call little more than forty minutes ago.

It was obvious what had happened, yet as I peered at the once devious and vibrant man I'd known for nearly six years, the man on the gurney looked but a mere shell of who I'd known.

Deep purple bruises stretched over his bulging eyelids, and there were unmistakable bits of dry crimson in the canthi of both eyes.

Johnny tugged me back to the periphery and spoke in that low tone the rest of the room surely felt in its deep vibration whether they could discern his question or not.

What happened to him? Did somebody beat the hell out of him?

I shook my head.

Full scanning series, both CT and MRI, the emergency room physician barked. STAT. I don't care who's at the head of the line. This man goes first. And I want to know who the neurosurgeon on call is. If he needs an OR, I want the on-call scrubbed in and waiting.

The flying around the room seemed to intensify save for Fiona, who finally stepped back from the trauma, shoulders slumped.

I made my move and gripped her hand. Fiona, how did something like this happen to Jerry?

She shook her head as I watched the crisis response fade, only to be replaced with her own shock and horror.

Will one of you please tell me what the hell is going on? Johnny snapped.

Someone lobotomized him, Fiona spoke the horrifying words dully. The old way, Johnny. Periorbital lobotomy. I'd studied this in school—not because we'd observe them or assist with them, but as a matter of historic significance.

His eyebrows crunched inward. "What?"

It was more than disbelief in his question. I could hear anger, and the deeper questions of who, why and how such a thing was accomplished in a secure psychiatric facility.

His single utterance hung in the air, suspended I supposed by all of our horror and confounded thoughts. How could such a thing happen?

My night in the old treatment room in Dunhaven's basement suddenly popped into my head.

Oh Jesus.

What is it? Fiona and Johnny asked simultaneously.

Johnny, you've got to get a team from Fielding to Dunhaven right away. They need to secure the old treatment room—

Helen, it was bricked off years ago, after what…well, Fiona glanced up at Johnny guiltily.

After what happened to me out there, he said grimly.

She looked away in response, unable to muster even a nod.

Fiona looked and behaved like a guilty woman. Instinctively, my arm wrapped around her shoulder. "This wasn't your fault you know. Nor was it your fault that Dunhaven was taken over by a homicidal maniac years ago. We will get to the bottom of what happened to Jerry. But Fiona, part of that includes finding out more than who did this to him. We must determine where and why as well. All we know at this point is what they've done to him and when it was accomplished. You can help us narrow down the list of suspects and also securing the likely crime scene."

She sniffled softly and tried to discreetly swipe at the drizzle under her nose. I'm off shift. We were about to change over when you called. I'll call Kim and tell her you're sending officers. She knows what happened to Jerry. She saw him as we were…well, I insisted in riding with him in the ambulance.

I glanced at Johnny. Get another team. People you can trust to keep all of this as quiet as possible, Johnny. I'll stay here with Fiona and make sure she's got a ride home.

Helen—

I interrupted the admonishment I knew was forthcoming. Trust is a two-way street, Johnny. I think at this point, we've got a lot to prove on both sides in that regard.

He nodded curtly and disappeared from the emergency department.

Helen, what is going on? Fiona whispered. Why would someone do something like this to Jerry Lowe?

I arched one brow. Seriously? The guy killed God only knows how many women, and he raped scores more than he killed. We both know it's the truth. He was a lethal predator. They didn't kill him for heaven's sake.

Unless they didn't know what they were doing, she fretted. "Oh, Helen. This is the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. And no matter what you say, I am responsible for it. It's all on me."

Why? Because you can't be on multiple floors of the hospital watching every patient and every staff member for the entirety of your shift? It doesn't work that way. You're upset, clearly, and in shock.

And you seem to be coping with a disturbing rate of speed.

I sighed and tugged her by the arm to a bank of chairs in the hallway. Maybe I'm not as upset as I ought to be. Someone lobotomized Jerry Lowe, and on some level, it does bother me; on another level, I can't help but be grateful they picked such a guilty son of a bitch to do it to.

She gasped.

"Concede that you haven't seen the horrors I have, Fiona, and I'll admit that my nightmares have likely stripped me of some of the empathy a normal human being feels in situations like this one. If I cried over every predator that got a taste of well-deserved comeuppance, I'd be blinded by tears. As a practical matter, I do have to compartmentalize most things I see and experience in my profession. If you're honest, you'll admit that you do too."

She sniffled again, and I patted her shoulder. Be right back.

I returned with a box of tissues from the nurse's station. Blow, I instructed.

I do understand what you're saying, Helen. I understand why you shut it off, but for the love of God, did you see him at all?

"Of course I did. And you're right. Odds are better than average that Jerry Lowe suffered more brain damage than the historic victim of the pre-frontal lobotomy. Unlike you, I am very aware of the history of the procedure.

Did you know that Dr. Walter Freeman, the man who invented the technique likely used on Jerry, personally completed over 3,500 of the 40,000 lobotomies performed in the United States from the nineteen thirties until he died in the early seventies? Of course, by then, the horror of the process had pricked the ethics of other physicians enough that the lobotomy in general had fallen out of favor as a treatment option.

She shook her head. I didn't know that, nor do I see how any of it is relevant.

Oh Fiona, it's key, I said softly. Don't you see it? It's so obvious.

She stared at me, blinking slowly like a baby doll.

It's a procedure that hasn't been taught in medical schools for probably fifty years now.

Exactly. So whoever this butcher is, he likely learned it from some musty old book with diagrams.

Or, in the alternative, perhaps he or she knows someone old enough to recall the technique. Freeman and his partner practiced on cadavers. Don't suppose you knew that either.

Fiona shuddered mightily. Why would I want to know anything like that? Is this what happens to cops who see all kinds of violent crimes? It all becomes blasé and commonplace to you, doesn't it?

All cops? No, not all of us, Fiona. It happens to those of us tasked to determine who the likeliest pool of suspects might be. If I'm going to figure out the type of person to commit any crime, I have to imagine and understand the circumstances that led an otherwise normal human being to transform into a monster. It's how I caught Jerry Lowe. I suppose now, it's sort of poetic that I'm going to have to do the same thing to find out who assaulted him.

She frowned suddenly. Helen, why did you and Johnny call me earlier to ask if Jerry Lowe was safe in his bed? Does this have something to do with that case you've been working with Paul?

Not really related to that at all, I said. And no offense, but I'd rather not discuss the particulars. Something happened, something that involved things Jerry knew, and I thought we should check on his status.

Bullshit. You thought he was gone, Helen. You wanted me to make sure he was still at Dunhaven, not that he was safe.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Are we sticking around until radiology gets around to reading his films?

Don't change the subject!

Shh, I hissed. Keep your voice down.

Why? Tell me what happened!

I gritted my teeth. "Unrelated to your husband's now closed case, something happened. Someone who…had occasion to meet Jerry a few weeks ago is now missing."

Who? she demanded. Access from outside Dunhaven is strictly limited where Jerry's concerned.

It was a…well, a doctor who treated a patient temporarily housed at Dunhaven.

Her eyes widened. Bill Dugger's doctor? Finn, right?

I swallowed hard. You met him then?

Not a single time, but the staff talked about Dr. Finn, how for some reason, Jerry became obsessed with him and tried to latch on. They had concerns that Dr. Finn was saying things to Jerry that were causing some agitation. I was about to speak to administration about it, but Mr. Dugger was suddenly transferred out of the hospital, back to wherever they came from. You're telling me Dr. Finn is still in Darkwater Bay?

I opened my mouth to respond with the best possible yet least informative explanation I could offer, but was saved by the ringtone.

Fiona's cell phone specifically caused the emission of noise that at minimum postponed my carefully crafted lie of omission.

Hold that thought. It's Declan calling.

Ah. That explained why a woman my age had some poppy little ditty playing in lieu of a more traditional tone.

"Declan, this isn't a good…what? What do you mean Dad told you to call…yes. Yes, she's with me right now. Hold on. Fiona pressed her telephone to her chest. Did you change your cell phone number, Helen?"

Heat rose from the hellish fire of my habit of fabrications, outright deception and softer lies of omission and threatened to consume me. I nodded, not quite sure I wanted to fumble my way through the particulars of why I'd made such a foolish snap decision to cut everyone off rather than simply blocking Johnny's number to prevent him from speaking to me.

Declan says something's happened; Paul needs to speak to you immediately, and would very much appreciate your response.

At my hesitation, she continued. Now Helen. He wants you to call him now.

Of course, it would likely involve railing at me some more because Johnny was trying to drag people into the investigation of my father's likely abduction but certain disappearance who were aware he hadn't died, as one of our lies from long ago purported.

I'm pretty sure I know what it's about, Fiona. If you could have Declan tell him I'll be back to the scene in Bay View—

"Bay View? she echoed. Paul doesn't work in Bay View anymore, Helen. You know that. What the hell is going on?"

Johnny's asked him to help with uh…um…it's a multi-jurisdictional case, Fiona. I can't tell you more than that.

She held the phone to her ear and relayed the message to Declan. Declan, who did know the huge Eriksson family secret and might not yet know that his parents now were aware that we'd coerced his cooperation keeping that secret hidden.

Fiona was frowning, interrupted half way through my message for Paul.

Another "WHAT?" comment, this one more emphatic with disbelief.

The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the tiled floor in the hallway. She followed its descent, dropping hard onto the chair she'd recently vacated when Declan called.

I scooped the phone from the floor. Declan, it's Dr. Eriksson. What's going on?

Dad needs to—

Yes, yes, I know he wants to talk to me. I'll be in Bay View again just as soon as I find out the extent of Jerry Lowe's injuries.

Jerry Lowe? He's been injured?

Declan, focus. Do me this favor and tell your dad—

But he can't go to Bay View, and he can't send his men. Something's happened in Downey, something at the university, and he can't leave.

Something like what?

Um, well, that's why he wanted you to call him. Something about your last case not being quite as closed as you all wanted to believe.

Flesh pimpled over every inch of my body, including the soles of my feet and palms of my hands. Tell me exactly where your father is, Declan.

I just did.

Metro State University, I clarified.

Well, uh, yeah.

You and Hedra are still students, yes?

We'll graduate in May, he replied.

Neither of you lives on campus.

Does that matter? he asked.

Do you know Millicent Huff? I ignored his question.

Helen, you're not making any sense.

What did your dad tell you? Why is he at Metro State? What happened?

"He didn't give me any details, just that something horrific has happened and he needs to talk to you right away. He found out from Ken Forsythe that you and Commander Orion were at the hospital, that you were probably with Mom. Why are you with Mom? What happened to Jerry Lowe?"

I swallowed hard as the words of Clive Huff echoed in my head again. He'd be locked up, but the killings would continue. Likely, he'd beat the charges against him because of it. It was what he inferred at least.

Suddenly, the scenario started making sense to me. My father was abruptly missing. More murders at Metro State this time. Or at least one more. It was a classic two-pronged approach. They could use my father to leverage my perception of the evidence against Clive Huff, and in the absence of that, another victim while Clive was in custody gave great rise to reasonable doubt.

Will you call him? Declan asked. My dad sounded freaked out. I've never heard—

I'm calling him now, Declan. Perhaps you and Hedra should come to St. Mary's and stay with your mom while she waits for news on Jerry Lowe. One of you could call me with information on that front.

Sure, I could call, but I had to go through Mom to find you in the first place. You changed your number.

I rattled it off to him, disconnected the call and turned to Fiona. Something is happening tonight. I'm not sure what it has to do with Jerry Lowe, but I'm not convinced it isn't all connected either. I've asked Declan and Hedra to come here and be with you while you wait. I have to find Paul.

Helen… her wide eyes conveyed every speck of fear she felt.

I know. Do me a favor. Have Heddy stay with you tonight. She won't be able to go home.

Is that what's going on? Something happened to Wendell… Dawning flooded her gaze. Something happened to your father. Dear God, was that why I never met the man Helen? Dr. Finn I mean.

I nodded. I'm sorry, Fiona. I can't get into the details of why my father and his friends infiltrated Dunhaven or spoke to Jerry Lowe, but he's missing now. Jerry's been lobotomized, and now apparently, something horrific has happened at Metro State, something your husband thinks is related to the case we solved earlier tonight. I have to leave. Hedra will be distraught when she learns my father is missing. They've grown quite close over the years.

Indeed, her voice full of censure. We'll discuss all of that later, Helen. I was prepared to let it slide. God knows I'd do anything to protect my family, but this…this is a step too far.

Daddy didn't lobotomize Jerry Lowe, I snapped in frustration. I don't have time for your righteous indignation. He saw Jerry Lowe as the path of least resistance for information we needed about Shelly Finkelstein. Was he deceptive in the manner he chose to obtain that information? Yes. Are any of us sorry he did it? Not one little bit!

Perhaps you should be, she murmured.

Phone in hand, I rose. I have to go, Fiona. You should save some of your moral outrage for those who actually harmed our victims instead of heaping it on me or my father. Then again, maybe you prefer the Shelly Finkelsteins of the world walking free among us. I suppose it's my fault juries are too stupid to find guilt unless they have a solid motive for the monster to do what the monster does.

Chapter 2

Helen Eriksson

I didn't call Paul. I called Johnny.

Yeah, he told me something's going on at Metro State, Helen, he said. I've got officers from Fielding Division here at Dunhaven searching. Unfortunately, we missed their changing shift, so some of the officers are tracking down the employees who were on duty when Lowe was assaulted.

For some unknown reason, I suggested that they pay specific attention to Jerry's room. I don't know why, Johnny. It's just a theory I've got. Tell me why Paul Dennison declined to help search for Daddy. Is it because he hates me for lying about his death versus liberation from Attica? Do you know why he's trying to contact me? He had Declan track me down at St. Mary's you know.

I cringed at the sound of Johnny's grinding teeth over the connection blasting through the speakers of the Expedition.

By the way, who picked you up from St. Mary's? I asked.

Crevan's with me. And I'm pissed that Paul tried to get you to call him. I thought you wanted to be hands-on in the search for Wendell.

I do, but—

Then you understand why I refused to give him your new number.

The only people who have it are Charlie Haverston and my dad, Johnny. How did you get it?

Charlie, he said. He feared you'd get in over your head at some point, and he wanted me to be able to track you.

Ah, more lies. And now I can't trust Charlie either.

I already told you Charlie was the reason I showed up at the Montcliff to help you detain Clive Huff, Johnny said. Anyway, I figured you'd want to be the person to clue in Stephen Jarecki on the circumstances of Wendell's disappearance.

I'm going to Metro State first, I said. Paul thinks this is related to the Huff case, that perhaps we didn't solve it after all. Given that Millicent Huff's favorite shade of red lipstick was used to write the message left behind on Daddy's bedroom wall, I won't rule out a connection.

And how does Jerry Lowe figure into all of this? he asked, rather unpleasantly. It makes no sense.

Not yet, I murmured. That trust thing, Johnny. Are we going to collide on the two-way street, or are we finally going to accept that you tell me what's really going on and I do the same? No holding back details. No lies of omission, no half-truths. What's it going to be?

I thought you told the boys we were good. I thought you apologized for assuming the worst every time you don't know—

Together or not, I interrupted impatiently. "The ball's in your court. I'm going to see what Paul Dennison wanted to tell me. My gut says I need to see it rather than hear it. Now do you know the specific location at Metro State or do I need to rely on my instincts?"

What do they tell you? he asked.

The Phi Beta Kappa house, I said.

I trust your instincts too, Helen. Be careful, and stay in touch.

You too. Whoever took Daddy might be sitting around watching us chase our tails, Johnny. Or waiting for another opportunity to strike at us.

And on that note, I think I'll be sending Crevan over to the house to make sure nothing happens with Kathleen and the boys, Johnny said. He can do his computer wizardry from your office.

I'm hanging up so I can let Paul know I'm on my way to his location, I said, disconnecting before Johnny could reply.

Paul answered before the phone rang. Helen?

I'm headed in your direction right now, Paul. Declan said it was urgent.

It is, and frankly, I'm glad you're coming. How did you know where—

Phi Beta Kappa house, right? I interrupted.

Yeah. I'm not sure what to make of the place, he said. There's absolutely no one here, but the blood…Jesus it's everywhere. Helen, I know what Clive Huff told you earlier when you arrested him, and given the volume of blood splattered all over these girls' bedrooms, I have to wonder if the case against him is really as airtight as we all thought it was.

I'll be there in ten. On the other fronts tonight, are you aware of what happened at my father's house and at Dunhaven?

I knew Johnny wanted Hal and me to help with something. I wasn't aware it was your father. Some missing persons case, foul play suspected.

I exhaled heavily, reluctant to tell him more of my family's propensity for deception so close on the heels of his discovery that one, my father wasn't dead after all, and two, we'd convinced his son to keep Dad's secret. Still, this was no time to skimp on the facts or try to do damage control.

His silence after I finished the concern of my father's absence gave me more than a little pause, particularly since it involved a confession that he'd posed as the fictional Dr. Finn to get close to Jerry Lowe.

You think Lowe figured it out somehow, don't you? he asked.

That was when I dropped the other shoe. I don't know what to think. Fiona is at St. Mary's with him, Paul. It looks like someone lobotomized him at some point within the past few hours. She's hanging out over there to find out if he suffered extensive brain damage. Whoever did it used the old transorbital procedure.

Meaning?

The barbaric icepick through the eye socket thing from the dark ages of psychiatry, I said. "We may never get another lucid statement out of Jerry again, but considering his contact with Dad as Dr. Finn, he was my first suspect—which was why we called Fiona to personally make sure he hadn't somehow eloped from the hospital. My father, after his brief contact, urged Zack Carpenter to proceed with a trial for Jerry, considering how easy it was for him and his old cop buddies to get into the hospital."

Right, he drawled softly. So the inverse assumption would be that it was just as easy for Jerry to get out of the hospital.

That was Daddy's fear, I admitted. Were you with us when I remarked on Millicent Huff's lipstick the other day?

Yeah, suspicion tainted his reply. Why?

The name Dr. Finn, scrawled on my father's bedroom wall, it was written in that shade of lipstick, the tube left behind at the scene.

"Shit. I'm starting to really think this whole thing is connected, Helen. How far are you from the house?"

Two minutes, tops, I said. In fact, I can already see the lights from patrol at the…scene… my words failed me.

Yes, there were more than half a dozen patrol cars and two unmarked police vehicles at the scene. Conspicuously absent were ambulances or the coroner's van.

I'm on my way inside, I said.

I'll meet you on the porch.

His silhouette darkened the gaping entryway before I had the engine shut off. I slid out of the Expedition and hurried toward him. No survivors? Why isn't the coroner's van here? Or CSD for that matter?

Forsythe is at the scene in Bay View. Frankly, we haven't called his B team over here just yet, he said, scratching his head. All we've done is walk through the place, Helen. But Lawanda's services apparently won't be required. At least not here, he added.

What does that mean?

Paul pointed to the boxes of protective footwear and gloves on the porch. He nodded to the officer with the crime scene log. Dr. Helen Eriksson, here to consult at my request, Phyllis.

Paul—

He aborted my repetitious question with a sudden but emphatic shake of the head. You need to see it for yourself.

I hopped on one leg while I tugged the blue gauze bootie onto one foot and then the other. I pulled on a pair of gloves and followed him into the house. I'm not sure what I expected—beyond the general sense that anyone who decorated a house with so much pink had indeed created a crime scene of sorts. But nothing looked out of place, or at least differed at first blush from the last time I'd been inside the decorating nightmare.

Upstairs, Paul said, waving me past the common areas. If you expected to find anything out of place down here, you'd be sorely misled. The nightmare's upstairs, both second and third floors.

It was, after all, an old, stately Victorian, lovingly maintained, though abominably furnished.

We rounded the stairs at the first landing when I noticed the unmistakable metallic tang of blood in my nostrils. My senses recoiled while the cop in me pushed onward and upward.

You already told me it was a bloodbath, Paul. I could likely form any necessary opinions from crime scene photos.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow tented into a sharp arch. I disagree. A photo isn't going to do any justice.

At the top of the stairs, my eyes quickly surveyed the hallway. Other than the smell of blood, overpowering though it was, nothing else appeared out of place. There were no little accent tables overturned. No broken vases. No pictures askew on the walls. There was no visible dust, not