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“What do we have?” Mitch asked as he walked toward an officer leaning on a patrol car—its headlights pointed toward the shed.
If it had been daylight, Mitch would’ve noticed the tinge of green in the officer’s face sooner.
The officer slowly shook his head, seemingly lost for words. He cleared his throat. “Best you take a look for yourself, boss.”
Mitch nodded, striding past him, his stomach already churning.
He stopped at the open doors and his heart skipped a beat.
A stainless-steel bench was positioned in the middle of the shed, covered in what appeared to be blood. However, it didn’t all look the same; some stains looked older than others.
Mitch’s stomach rolled.
His officers looked as ill as he felt.
At first glance, it looked like an old workshop—but it was clear this workshop was not being used for its intended purposes.
Mitch grabbed a pair of gloves and pulled them on. He slid his shoes into booties then stepped inside.
The shed had been partitioned, and drywall had effectively made this area into a small room.
A stainless-steel bench lined one wall and it was covered with old, rusting tins and bottles of chemicals which looked like they belonged in a farm shed, but the forensics team would need to test the liquids and confirm what was inside. Mitch’s gut feeling was that the original contents had been replaced with other chemicals—like formaldehyde.
A hand fork, trowel, rake, long-handled shears, and other tools hung on one wall. The tools weren’t rusted, but they weren’t new either.
Mitch exhaled a long breath. He moved toward the metal cupboards, opening them.
He swallowed hard when he saw yards of rope coiled on the shelf—rope that looked to be the same thickness and color as the ones he’d cut down from the trees.
“Please bag this up and ask forensics to confirm if it’s the same rope used to suspend the victims,” he said to the officer nearest him.
Mitch looked toward the stainless-steel table in the center of the shed. It appeared out of place. It was newer, and looked like it was either taken from the hospital or obtained from a medical-supply company—it wasn’t a typical stainless-steel table that would be bought at a hardware store.
Mitch sat back on his heels looking underneath for a manufacturer label before taking a photo of it on his phone.
He stood, shining a flashlight on the stains. Dried, caking patches were mixed with wet patches that Mitch would’ve bet were tacky if he touched them, but he’d leave that to forensics.
He swallowed hard. He knew Graham Laube—he’d known him all his life, and he couldn’t imagine for a second that the man was capable of such horrific crimes.
But protocol was protocol, and Mitch had no choice but to arrest him.
He turned to the officer beside him.
“Let’s pay Graham a visit,” Mitch said with a heavy heart.
Mitch exhaled a long sigh as he walked out of the shed. He climbed into his car, turned the key and lowered his foot on the accelerator.
Sometimes he hated his job—or rather, he hated the responsibility of it. But it was his duty, and if he didn’t do it, someone else would have to. Better for it to be him, Mitch thought.
It seemed like the car was crawling to Graham’s house, as Mitch maneuvered the car along the widening dirt road. When the house came into view, the porch lights were on.
Unease clung to Mitch’s skin and he felt like a thousand little spiders were crawling over his arms and up his neck.
He took a deep breath. This was his responsibility—his job.
He climbed out of the car and walked to the porch, an officer right beside him.
“You really think Graham could’ve done this?” the officer asked, the doubt in his voice as clear as a freshly cleaned pane of glass.
