Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

S hane stepped into the sterile, chilled confines of the medical examiner’s office, the air heavy with the unmistakable blend of antiseptic and something darker, a faint lingering of death that clung to the walls. The fluorescent lights were harsh, illuminating the rows of steel tables, their surfaces gleaming coldly under the clinical light.

Dr. Fenton, looked up as Shane entered, setting aside his notes with a grim expression. His face was ashen, worn down from the weight of what he’d seen in recent days.

“Shane, good to see you. Sorry about the circumstances,” Dr. Fenton greeted with a nod, gesturing to a set of files on the table. “You ready for this?”

Shane took a deep breath, steadying himself. He didn’t look around the room. Didn’t want to. The actual scene from the Colburn property was still in his head, vivid enough. He didn’t need to add one more. “Yeah, but I don’t need to see the victims. Just give me the details. Let’s start with Willis Colburn.”

Dr. Fenton sighed, flipping open the first file. “Mr. Colburn had blood on his face, dirt on his shirt, and his clothes were bunched up in odd places. There were bruises and scratches on his back—signs he’d been dragged.”

That was when they’d dragged him through his own living room, outside, off the porch and around back, then dropped him like a bag of trash on the deck of the shed.

Shane’s jaw clenched. “How … how quick was his death? Did he suffer?”

“It was quick, I’d say.” Dr. Fenton pointed to an image, showing the entry wound at Willis’s temple. “The bullet went straight through his skull. Death was likely instantaneous.”

Shane closed his eyes briefly, imagining the scene, the horror of it. “Any sign he tried to fight back?”

“None,” Fenton replied. “No defensive wounds. Toxicology came back clean, too—no drugs or alcohol in his system. It was a single, direct shot. It’s likely he didn’t see it coming.”

Shane nodded, feeling a bitter mixture of relief and dread. At least Willis hadn’t suffered long. But what about the others?

“What about Jane?” he asked, his voice a little rougher.

Dr. Fenton opened another file, his gaze somber. “Mrs. Colburn was found lying on her back in the middle of the shed. Before they moved her, I saw blood on her thigh, but there was no wound there. It looks like the blood from her head wound dripped down onto her leg because of the way her body arranged itself when it was thrown in there.”

Shane swallowed hard, remembering Jane lying there, lifeless, in a pool of her own blood as he’d seen her days ago. “And the gunshot wounds?”

“Two bullet wounds, though I believe three or four shots were fired. The first shot, close range, hit her in the forehead.” Fenton tapped the photo showing the stippling marks. “She was likely looking up at her killer when it happened. That shot would have incapacitated her, and she wouldn’t have been able to breathe but she’d still be lucid. ”

Shane felt his stomach twist. He didn’t want to imagine Jane in that moment, staring up at the gun, terrified and knowing what was coming. “And the second shot?”

Fenton’s expression was grim. “It went from her neck down to her shoulder and lodged near her armpit. The hollow point bullet fragmented, tearing through her body. I can’t tell for sure which bullet came first, but she likely felt both.”

Shane gritted his teeth, anger simmering beneath the surface.

Fenton continued. “There were abrasions on her arm, her hand, and her hip,” he confirmed, flipping through the images. “Not defensive wounds, but they’re consistent with the body being dragged, too.”

Shane’s fists clenched. He could almost see it—the killer, heartless, dragging Jane’s lifeless form. “And Seth?”

Fenton moved to the next file, and his face tightened. “Seth had blood on his face, his stomach, his thighs. He had a head wound, a neck wound, and an abdominal wound. The head wound was downward, through the chin, into his chest.”

“Standing over him?” Shane asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Most likely,” Fenton replied. “And the abdominal wound? That one went straight through his stomach and out his back. It’s seared, blackened at the edges. That shot was fired close up, but it wasn’t the fatal one.”

Shane’s voice was tight. “Why?”

“No bleeding around the site. It was postmortem. They shot him again even after he was gone,” Fenton said, his voice low.

The thought was sickening. Shane’s throat tightened, bile rising. “This … this wasn’t just murder. This was annihilation.”

Fenton nodded solemnly, and then opened the last file. “Now, Erin Colburn. Hers was … complicated. Six bullet tracks. It’s almost impossible to say the order of the shots, but it all ha ppened fast. One bullet entered her forehead, close range, like Mrs. Colburn.”

Shane’s breath caught. “So she saw the gun, too.”

“Yes. And she had multiple shots to her chest and abdomen. Her body showed signs of movement while bleeding. The killer or killers … they weren’t in a hurry. They took their time even as she fought to live.”

Shane felt a cold fury building. “This was a slaughter,” he muttered, his voice shaking.

Fenton nodded, his face weary. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Whoever did this, they wanted them to suffer. They wanted to make a statement.”

Shane turned away, feeling the weight of the case like a vice around his heart. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to keep it together. Thank you, Dr. Fenton," he said, rage simmering inside as he turned and left the room.