Page 16 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

The county morgue always felt unnaturally cold to Sheila, as if the sterile air itself was frozen. She watched Dr. Jin Zihao work methodically, her father standing beside her as they observed the examination of Marcus Reed's body.

"Cause of death is consistent with the fall," Dr. Zihao said, indicating the massive trauma to Marcus's skull and torso. "Multiple fractures, severe internal injuries. Death would have been nearly instantaneous."

Sheila studied the body, trying to see beyond the obvious injuries. Marcus lay pale under the harsh lights, all the energy and enthusiasm she'd seen in his videos now extinguished.

"What about his movements before death?" Gabriel asked. "Any indicators of his path through the mine?"

Dr. Zihao nodded, lifting one of Marcus's hands. "Residue under his fingernails consists primarily of copper ore dust, but there are traces of limestone as well. That suggests he traveled through both the main mining tunnels and some of the natural cave formations."

Thus far, Sheila wasn't particularly surprised. Nothing they'd learned so far would help them identify the killer nor indicate where he might strike next.

So why had Dr. Zihao made it sound urgent for them to come down?

"Doctor," Sheila said finally, "you called us here specifically. Said you had something important to show us."

"Ah, yes." Dr. Zihao's eyes brightened with professional excitement. "When we were processing his personal effects, I noticed something unusual about his glasses."

He moved to a small evidence table and lifted a pair of black-framed glasses. They were cracked but largely intact, surprisingly resilient considering the fall their owner had taken.

"At first glance, they appear to be ordinary prescription eyewear," Dr. Zihao continued.

"But notice the unusual thickness of the frames, particularly near the temples.

And this small panel here—" He pointed to a nearly invisible seam.

"I've seen something similar before in a case involving corporate espionage. These are smart glasses."

Sheila leaned closer, examining the frames. "Recording devices?"

"Essentially a wearable computer," Dr. Zihao said. "Popular with certain types of content creators. They can record video, take photos, even stream directly to the internet."

Gabriel stepped forward. "Marcus was a video blogger. These would let him film hands-free while exploring."

"Exactly." Dr. Zihao carefully turned the glasses over. "They're damaged, but the storage component appears largely intact. If he was recording when he encountered our killer..."

Sheila felt her pulse quicken. After hours of searching dark tunnels and finding nothing but dead ends, they might finally have something concrete—actual footage of their killer.

"We'll need someone who knows how to extract the data," she said. "Someone who can handle damaged equipment without destroying potential evidence."

"I know someone," Gabriel said. "Tech expert over in Salt Lake City. Used to do data recovery for the FBI."

"How soon can they look at it?"

"I can make some calls." He studied the glasses. "But given the damage, there's no guarantee we'll get anything usable."

Dr. Zihao lifted the glasses carefully, holding them under a magnifying light. "The main impact was to the front of the frames, but the storage components are housed in the temples. So I wouldn't give up hope."

Dr. Zihao placed the glasses in an evidence bag. "The damage appears superficial, but I'd recommend getting them to your expert as quickly as possible. The longer we wait, the more chance of further degradation to any stored data."

"I'll make those calls," Gabriel said, already pulling out his phone. "See if we can get the glasses looked at today."

Sheila took one last look at Marcus's body. Whatever his glasses might reveal, it had come at a terrible cost. Two deaths now, both young men with their whole lives ahead of them.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said. "Let us know if you find anything else."

They hurried toward the parking lot, leaving the sterile chill of the morgue behind. Somewhere in those damaged glasses might be the key to catching their killer. Sheila just hoped that, if there really was something actionable on the glasses, they would find it before the killer struck again.

***

"You couldn't have warned me he was like this?" Sheila muttered to her father as they watched Dr. Malcolm Petty mutter to himself, turning Marcus's damaged smart glasses over and over in his latex-gloved hands.

They'd driven two hours to reach his workshop in Salt Lake City—a converted garage behind his home filled with computers, diagnostic equipment, and what looked like several decades' worth of dismantled electronics. It was nearly noon, and Sheila had hardly slept since finding Marcus's body.

"Malcolm's... particular," Gabriel admitted. "But he's the best. Got me crucial evidence in three different homicides back when he was with the Bureau."

"When was that?"

"Oh, they fired me in '05," Malcolm said absently, not looking up from the glasses. "Creative differences." He was a small man with wild gray hair and clothing that looked like he'd slept in it. Knowing what Gabriel had told her about his habits, he probably had.

"Creative differences?" Sheila asked.

"They wanted me to follow protocol. I wanted to actually solve cases." He set the glasses under a magnifying lens attached to his workbench. "Your father understood. Always brought me the interesting problems."

Gabriel smiled hesitantly. "Malcolm sees patterns others miss. Connections that aren't obvious."

"Patterns are everything," Malcolm said. He pressed something on the side of the glasses, frowning when nothing happened. "Hardware's intact, mostly. Some damage to the external controls, but the core components..." He trailed off, mumbling technical terms to himself.

Sheila watched him work, fighting her impatience.

The caffeine from her last coffee was wearing off, and the shaking in her hands told her she probably couldn't take any more caffeine.

She'd caught a bit of sleep during the drive here—her father had insisted that he hardly slept most nights, anyway—but not enough to cover the deficit.

"Should have been here an hour ago," Malcolm said suddenly, glaring at them. "Sun angle's all wrong now. Changes the thermal patterns."

"The... thermal patterns?" Sheila looked at her father.

"Don't ask," Gabriel advised quietly.

Malcolm connected the glasses to a tablet, then to a larger monitor. Lines of code scrolled past. "Interesting," he muttered.

More typing. More muttering. Sheila paced the cramped workshop while Gabriel settled into what looked like the room's only chair not covered in computer parts.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Malcolm sat back. "Good news and bad news."

"Good news first," Sheila said.

"Storage component is intact. Recent footage is there, encrypted but recoverable." He gestured at his screen. "Bad news is, we need his password. And given how much private content these influencer types record, it's probably a good one."

Sheila chewed her lip for a few moments, thinking. Then she pulled out her phone.

"What are you thinking?" her father asked.

"Amy, Marcus's sister. If anyone would know the password…"

Sheila dialed Amy's number, putting it on speaker. It rang three times before Amy answered, her voice hollow with grief.

"Sheriff Stone?"

"Amy, I'm so sorry to bother you. I wouldn't if this wasn't very important."

"Have you found who did this to him?"

"We're working on it. That's actually why I'm calling." Sheila chose her words carefully. "We recovered your brother's smart glasses from the scene. There might be footage on them that could help us, but we need his password."

A long silence followed. When Amy spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "His glasses? I didn't even think about those. He wore them everywhere, used them to record his videos..."

"I know this is hard," Sheila said gently. "But anything you can tell us about his passwords, his accounts—it could help us find whoever did this."

There was a long pause.

"Amy?" Sheila asked gently.

"I want to help," Amy said, her voice rough from crying. "But Marcus never shared his passwords. He was paranoid about security after his account got hacked last year."

"What about hints?" Sheila asked. "Something personal he might have used?"

"He changed them regularly. Said that was safer." Amy paused. "The only constant was that he always used something from our dad's old newspaper stories. Said it was his way of keeping Dad's memory alive."

Malcolm perked up. "What kind of newspaper stories?"

"Dad was an investigative reporter. Covered everything from city council corruption to cold cases." Amy's voice caught. "He always said the truth would set us free. That was kind of his motto."

"What kind of cases did Marcus find most interesting?" Sheila asked.

"Dad's biggest story was about corruption in the police department back in '61. Three officers were taking bribes, falsifying evidence. Dad broke the story, won a regional award for it." Another pause. "Marcus had the article framed above his desk. 'Truth Prevails: Three Officers Face Justice.'"

Sheila felt a chill. Corruption in the police department—it wouldn't have anything to do with the money laundering her father had been investigating back when he was with I.A., would it? No, probably not. Nineteen-sixty-one was a long time ago.

"That's too long for a standard password," Malcolm muttered.

"What about dates?" Gabriel asked. "Would he have used the date the story broke?"

"June 15, 1961," Amy said immediately. "Dad referenced it all the time. Said it was the day that proved one person could make a difference."

Malcolm's fingers flew across his keyboard. "Adding special characters... trying variations..."

They waited in tense silence, only the sound of typing filling the workshop.

"Got something," Malcolm said suddenly. "Device is responding to 'TPJ61561.' Truth Prevails Justice, 6/15/1961."

Sheila leaned forward. "Can you access the footage?"

"Decrypting now." Malcolm squinted at his screen. "Last recording was yesterday at 11:47 AM. File size suggests about twenty minutes of video before the device stopped functioning."

"That's when he entered the mine," Sheila said quietly.

They had Marcus's final moments. The only question was whether they would reveal the face of his killer.

Malcolm tapped commands into his keyboard, and the first video file began playing on his large monitor. The footage was shaky, showing Marcus walking through the mine entrance.

"Hey guys, Marcus here," his voice came through clearly. "Today we're exploring the Copper Queen Mine, but this isn't our usual kind of video..."

They watched as Marcus moved deeper into the mine, his narration growing quieter, more cautious. The smart glasses captured everything at his eye level, their built-in stabilization helping to smooth the footage.

"I'm still a little confused," Gabriel said. "I thought he was using his phone for recording?"

"He was," Sheila said. "Maybe he hadn't intended to leave the glasses recording, or maybe he just liked having two versions."

"Did you hear that?" Marcus whispered suddenly. The camera swung toward a side tunnel.

A figure moved in the darkness ahead—just a shadow of indeterminate size.

"Hello?" Marcus called out. "Is someone there?"

The figure turned, and for a brief moment, they caught the green glow of night-vision goggles. There was something else, too—a small silver cross hanging from the figure's neck, catching the light from Marcus's headlamp.

"Hello?" Marcus called out again. "Look, I don't mean to intrude if you're exploring too. Just trying to document the mine."

The figure stood motionless, head slightly tilted. Then, slowly, deliberately, it reached into its jacket.

"Hey, it's cool," Marcus said, his voice betraying growing unease. "I can head back out—"

The figure withdrew something that glinted in the weak light. A blade, maybe, or something metallic.

"Listen, I don't want any trouble," Marcus said, backing up. "I'm live-streaming this, by the way. People know where I am." This was a lie, of course—even if he had tried to livestream, there was no way his phone would remain connected so far underground.

The figure took a step forward. Another. No words, no response to Marcus's claims. Just that slow, methodical advance.

That's when Marcus ran.

The footage became chaotic then—his ragged breathing, the sound of boots on stone, glimpses of tunnel walls as he fled deeper into the darkness.

"I promise this isn't a prank," he said to his unseen audience. "I have no idea who the hell that guy was." He stopped at a fork, turning left then right.

"Shit," he muttered. "Where'd I come from?"

There was a sound behind him—a footfall, maybe. Marcus sprinted forward, twisting around to look behind him. Then, suddenly, he was falling. There was a crash—a sound that, Sheila realized with horror, might've been the sound of breaking bones—and then the video ended in static.

Nobody spoke for several long moments. Sheila clenched and unclenched her hands. There was a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Can you back up?" she asked.

"You want to see that again?" Marcus asked in horror.

"No, I mean to where we can see the figure with the goggles."

Malcolm rewound the footage frame by frame until the necklace was visible again.

"Simple silver cross," Gabriel said. "Probably thousands like it."

"But now we know he wears one," Sheila said. "It confirms the religious angle, just like the cross drawn by Tyler's body."

Gabriel patted Marcus's shoulder. "Thanks for the help. I owe you one."

Malcolm nodded absently. "I'll keep working on the other files, see if there's anything else recoverable."

Outside, the afternoon sun felt harsh after hours in Malcolm's dimly lit workshop. Sheila squinted, exhaustion finally catching up with her.

"We need to track down those goggles," she said as they walked to their vehicle. "They're military-grade—someone may have sold them locally."

Gabriel nodded. "Three licensed dealers in Utah. We start there, show them pictures of the goggles, and see if anyone has purchased anything similar in the past few years."

Sheila slid behind the wheel and took a deep breath. She was thinking about the cross, wondering what kind of twisted religious beliefs a man could have that would pardon him for the heinous crimes he was committing.

Or if, in his worldview, he was actually obeying a religious mandate.

Like a man on a mission.