Fragmented by George Fong

tired eyes. “You ready?” he asked.
    “Like a race horse,” Marquez answered.
    As they made their way toward the front door, a uniformed officer gave them a hard stare before throwing a casual salute and stepping aside. A dozen agents roamed the hallways in latex gloves and Tyvek containment suits. Green light beams from the RUVIS illuminated a small monitor screen as the agent panned the equipment over the glassy surface of the back slider looking for fingerprints. Jack turned the corner and found his way into the living room. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table in a small pool of water, moisture from the sweating glass. Jack imagined Paul Baker sitting on the couch, scanning the mail while his wife lay dead in the bathtub down the hall. The thought of coming home to find his own wife, Emily, murdered gave him a chill. He paused to regain his focus. He needed to get back on track, back to finding Jessica Baker.
    He turned to see three agents conferring down the hall next to a doorway, and headed in their direction. Marquez followed. An agent, Sheldon Stewart, exited the room right where the three stood, holding plastic evidence bags, which he handed over to Brad Houston, who placed them in a large box already filled with other pieces of evidence. Hoskin had designated Houston team leader for this search.
    Houston reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, slipping them on and carefully jotting down notes in a log.
    “What do you have, Brad?” Jack asked.
    Houston looked over. “I see the cavalry has arrived.” He shook Jack’s hand before waving the crew to follow down the hallway and into the master bedroom, where more evidence bags were neatly stacked on the corner of a crimson-stained mattress. A bedroom chair lay on its side and a glass lamp was smashed against the wall. Droplets of blood dribbled across the carpet, followed by larger, smeared bloodstains, denoting something heavy dragged into the master bathroom. Jack maneuvered around the evidence and into the room.
    “The place has been gone over already. Samples taken, items photographed, hairs and fibers vacuumed. Nothing else of value for you to look at.”
    Jack pointed at the blood smeared across the carpet. “Looks like there was a struggle.”
    Houston nodded. “A pretty bad one. Mrs. Baker must’ve put up a helluva fight. There’s handprints in blood over the broken lamp and streaked across the bed sheets. My guess is the assailant killed her here.” Houston pointed to a spot next to the bed where a dry, dark stain crusted on the carpet. “This is where she bled out before being dragged into the bathtub.”
    “How was she killed?” Marquez asked.
    Houston pointed toward the ceiling and a long splatter of blood trailing across it, dripping down the walls. “Hit her with something hard, over and over.” Houston swung his arm up and down, mimicking the motion. “Her head took a good beating.” Houston dragged a thumb across his neck. “To add insult to injury, he sliced her throat open for good measure.”
    Jack shook his head in disgust. “What about the daughter?”
    “No sign of a second struggle, and we found nothing to lead us to believe she was killed.”
    Jack already knew she was alive based on the photo. Still, it was reassuring to hear Houston affirm it.
    “I guess that could be good news,” Marquez said.
    Houston shook his head. “I’m not so sure. If this guy wanted money, he wouldn’t have killed the wife.” He pointed at the blood soaked floor. “This asks for cops to be involved.”
    “No ransom note found, I take it?”
    Houston shook his head. “Her bed sheet is missing. I’m guessing her kidnapper wrapped her in it to conceal her as he carried her out. I think the daughter was drugged.”
    “How did you reach that conclusion?” Marquez asked.
    Stewart held up a plastic evidence bag with a spent syringe. A tag dangled from the bag. Jack reached down and took the