“Look at the angle,” I say, gesturing toward the line of the impalement. “Center mass. Clean entry. No lateral deviation.”
“He could’ve slipped?—”
“No,” I cut in, sharper now, turning just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t slip into that. Not like this. There’s no scatter,no secondary impact points, no signs he hit anything else on the way in.”
I turn back to the body, forcing myself to keep looking.
Because I need to be sure.
Because I already am.
His arms hang at his sides, not twisted, not braced, not positioned the way they would be if he’d tried to catch himself. His legs follow the same unnatural stillness, no sign of scrambling, no instinctive reaction frozen into the muscle.
And then I see his wrists.
The discoloration is faint, almost lost beneath the burns and the damage from the current, but it’s there—irregular bands along the scales that don’t match the rest of the trauma.
Compression.
Restraint.
“He was held,” I say, quieter now, but more certain than before. “This was controlled placement.”
“That’s speculation,” a voice cuts in from behind me, clean and authoritative.
I turn.
Inspector Dadams moves through the gathered personnel with measured precision, his uniform untouched by the dust and heat that cling to the rest of us. His gaze flicks briefly to the body, taking it in with a glance that feels far too quick, then settles on me with something colder.
“Lieutenant Racine,” he says. “Step away from the scene.”
I hold my ground.
“With respect, sir?—”
“That wasn’t a request.”
The interruption lands hard, sharp enough to cut through the noise around us.
I don’t step back.
“This isn’t accidental,” I say, forcing the words through the pressure building in my chest. “There are no indicators of uncontrolled movement. The positioning is deliberate, and there are signs of restraint consistent with?—”
“That’s enough,” he says, his tone flattening.
“It’s not enough,” I fire back, my voice rising despite the effort to keep it contained. “If we log this as an accident, we’re ignoring clear?—”
“We’re logging what the evidence supports,” he cuts in, stepping closer, his presence pushing into my space in a way that’s meant to assert control. “And what the evidence supports is an unauthorized approach to the fence resulting in fatal contact.”
“That’s not what this is,” I say, the words sharper now, harder. “You can see that.”
“I see a soldier who crossed a boundary,” he replies, his voice calm in a way that feels rehearsed. “And suffered the consequences.”
My hands curl at my sides, tension coiling tight through my arms.
“He didn’t cross anything,” I say. “He was put there.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Dadams says, his gaze hardening. “One you’re not in a position to make.”
