Page 31 of The Hanging Dolls (Zoe Storm #1)
THIRTY
Zoe stood at the window of Travis Hunter’s office, her gaze fixed on the bleak, overcast sky. The clouds hung heavy. She sensed there was a storm whipping on the ocean from the early telltale signs of the leaves fluttering in fast winds.
Travis sat at his cluttered desk, his fingers tapping rhythmically on a stack of old case files.
His face was bloated and there were dark circles under his eyes.
Mindlessly, he began rubbing his wrist, staring off deep into empty space.
Zoe hadn’t spent that much time with the chief.
But compared to the first day she met him, he had lost a significant amount of weight.
The ring he always wore on his wedding finger had come loose.
But she also noticed the small signs that he was losing it.
Aiden was right. They exchanged a loaded glance.
Scott paced the room, holding his phone. As soon as it buzzed, he tapped the speakerphone button, the crackle of static giving way to a clear, crisp voice.
“Dr. Camden, it’s Scott,” he said, leaning closer to the phone. “I’ve got Chief Hunter, and Agent Zoe Storm and Dr. Aiden Wesley from the FBI here with me. You’re on speaker.”
“Good to hear from you, Scott,” Dr. Camden said. “I’ve got the preliminary results on the ropes from Lily’s crime scene. The analysis took a bit longer than usual; there were some complexities other than the backlog.”
Zoe turned away from the window, her attention sharpening. Complexities wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“What kind of complexities?” Travis asked.
“We ran multiple tests on the ropes,” Dr. Camden explained. “Most of it was inconclusive—too much degradation, environmental contamination, no fingerprints, you know the drill. But one of the ropes, the one with her picture clipped to it, had a small amount of DNA that didn’t belong to Lily.”
Zoe’s pulse quickened. This could be something. “How small are we talking?” she asked, stepping closer to the desk.
“Small enough that we could only get a partial profile,” Dr. Camden replied. “We used a technique called Low-Copy Number analysis, which amplifies the DNA, but it’s risky—sometimes you get artifacts or contamination. This time, though, we were able to confirm one thing.”
Zoe felt a flicker of hope. “And what’s that?”
“It’s male DNA,” Dr. Camden said, “and more specifically, the individual has a mutation in the HFE gene—hereditary hemochromatosis.”
Zoe looked at Aiden, trying to gauge his reaction, but he just shrugged. “Hereditary hemochromatosis?” she repeated, the term ringing a bell. “That’s the condition where the body absorbs too much iron, right?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Camden said. “It’s relatively common in people of Northern European descent. The mutation we found is on the C282Y allele, which is one of the more typical ones associated with the condition. People with this mutation can accumulate toxic levels of iron over time if left untreated.”
Travis played with his wedding ring. It slipped from his grasp and rolled toward Zoe who picked it up and handed it back to him.
“Any hits on CODIS?” Travis asked.
“We ran it through CODIS, but with only a partial profile it’s like searching with a hand tied behind your back. No hits came up,” Scott said.
Zoe felt the flicker of hope dimming. “Are there any symptoms of this which might help us narrow it down?”
“Symptoms are non-specific like fatigue and joint pain. And for most patients, it will show up later in life when enough iron levels have accumulated.”
Scott hung his head low and rubbed his palms. “Is there any other information you can get from this sample?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Dr. Camden admitted.
“The condition affects a significant proportion of the population, especially in regions with a high percentage of people of Northern European ancestry. We can definitively say we are looking at a white male. But with the amount of DNA we have, we couldn’t create a full profile—just enough to identify the condition. ”
“Can you rerun the sample and do more tests?” Aiden asked hopefully.
“We can’t do that without risking degradation. If we do then we risk losing the sample altogether. If you make an arrest and this case goes to trial, the defense will be unable to run any tests to verify our findings.”
“That could compromise the whole case,” Zoe agreed. “Grounds for a mistrial.”
Scott sighed in frustration. “So we’re stuck with this? A genetic breadcrumb that leads nowhere.”
“For now, yes,” Dr. Camden conceded. “But it’s not a dead end—just a detour. The DNA we do have could help eliminate suspects or corroborate other evidence if you find it. Think of it as one piece of the puzzle, not the whole picture.”
Zoe’s mind churned. They needed more than pieces. But this was a way forward. They were one step closer to identifying the killer.
“What are our options here?” Travis asked.
“You could go down the route of looking into local medical records, though privacy laws make that nearly impossible,” Dr. Camden said.
“People with hereditary hemochromatosis often need treatment, like phlebotomy to reduce iron levels. If there’s a specialist in town, they might have records, but getting access to that data…
you’d need a court order, and even then, it’s a long shot. ”
Zoe felt a wave of frustration. They were so close, yet so far. “Thanks, Dr. Camden. Let us know if anything changes.”
“I will. And good luck.”
“It’s something, but it’s not enough,” Zoe said, breaking the silence choking the room. “We’re still grasping at straws.”
Scott’s eyes lit up. “We can run a volunteer program, Travis. It’s a small town. We can invite people to come and get tested for this condition.”
Travis flattened his mouth, unconvinced. “Why would the killer come out and volunteer if he knows he has this condition?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know?” Zoe offered. “Dr. Camden said that the symptoms don’t appear until much later. He might not even be in treatment for it.”
Travis pondered this, his eyes doing a calculation. “There will be a significant proportion of people who will not show up, Agent Storm. Not because they don’t care or are guilty but who wants to give out their DNA to anyone, especially the police, effectively the government?”
“It’s also a privacy issue,” Aiden said.
“The one thing Americans care about most after freedom.” Travis’s eyes bore into Zoe. “You’ll have to find another way to do this, Agent Storm and Dr. Wesley.”
The rain fell in heavy sheets, turning the parking lot into a glistening expanse of wet asphalt.
The streetlights cast a dim, yellow glow, reflecting off the puddles that had formed throughout the day.
Travis Hunter stepped out of the station, the cold air hitting him like a slap.
He pulled up the collar of his coat and opened his umbrella, the rain drumming steadily against the fabric.
As he made his way toward the parking lot, he spotted Scott standing by his car under an umbrella as he fumbled with his keys.
“Scott,” Travis called out, raising his voice over the downpour. Scott looked up, surprised, then quickly turned back to his car, his movements stiff.
Travis approached, the sound of his footsteps muted by the rain-slicked pavement. “You got a minute?”
Scott glanced at him, his expression wary. He nodded, though it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for a chat. “Sure, what’s up?”
They stood there, huddled under their umbrellas, the rain creating a near-constant hiss around them. Travis hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
“A friend of mine was at the bar the other night,” Travis began, keeping his tone neutral. “He said he saw you there.”
Scott stiffened slightly, but didn’t look at Travis. “So what?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rain. “I can go to a bar if I want.”
“He said you were drinking.”
Scott’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you, Travis? It’s none of your goddamn business.”
His patience was wearing thin. “It is my goddamn business,” he snapped. “It’s my business to make sure the people under me are okay.”
Scott scoffed, turning back to his car. “I’m fine. I ordered a drink. It’s no big deal.”
Travis wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. He took a step closer, his umbrella nearly touching Scott’s. “You were doing really well. You’ve been sober for over two years now.”
Scott’s face tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost resigned. “I do this sometimes, okay? When I’m stressed, I order a drink and sniff it and hold it. The ritual calms me down. But I didn’t drink .”
Travis studied Scott’s face, the hard lines of stress and something else—something darker—etched into his features. “Are you hiding something, Scott?”
Scott’s body tensed, his jaw clenching. “No,” he said, immediately defensive. But the denial lacked conviction. Travis’ eyes bore into him as he waited. Finally, Scott exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I went to see Carly.”
Travis blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Carly? Why the hell would you do that? You know that woman is toxic. God knows what she’s doing raising a child.”
Scott’s eyes flashed with anger, and before he could stop himself, the words were out. “If Carly’s so bad, then maybe you shouldn’t have slept with her when I was dating her.”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Travis felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He stared at Scott, stunned into silence.
Scott didn’t wait for Travis to respond.
Instead, he yanked open the car door and got in, slamming it shut behind him.
The engine roared to life and Scott sped out of the parking lot, the tires splashing through puddles as he disappeared into the night, leaving Travis to marinate in shame at having betrayed his friend.