[Author's Note: In this chapter, references are made to a real-life hand condition and I'll be making a bit of an assumption in regards to this condition. I mean absolutely no disrespect whatsoever to anyone who lives with this condition every day. I'm just taking some creative liberty for the sake of a character.]

Chapter 10: Eyes Only

Route 6
Winterville, Vermont
7:15 PM

The on-foot line search for the fleeing driver of the stolen van had led Sergeant Hank Voight, Detective Hailey Upton, and the 6 Winterville County sheriff's deputies who had commenced the search to the edge of Route 6 just inside Winterville's town limits. Unfortunately, you wouldn't really know it considering how dense the woods were between Interstate 92 and their current location.

Every one of them was shining a flashlight straight ahead and stepped quietly and methodically forward, but their precise searching had so far yielded nothing aside from some old tires and assorted mounds of crudely discarded trash. That was, until Voight had gotten his boot caught inside a hole in a rotting log.

"Shit," the frustrated Chicago sergeant muttered as he reached to free his snagged foot from the sizeable hole in the log. It was once he had gotten his foot free that he heard something. He instinctively stood back up and shined his flashlight over to the right of where he stood before unobtrusively making his way over. Someone was groaning and breathing rapidly, as if they were trying to decompress from a period of nerve-wracking exertion.

Voight shined his flashlight over to a fallen tree and found someone leaning next against it. The person was a lanky Hispanic bald man in his early 20's clothed in a baggy black hooded sweatshirt and black work pants.

In other words, he was a dead ringer for the van driver whom Karen Harrison had just described. He was sweating profusely and was incredibly pale as if he was nauseous and was also breathing heavily to the point of nearly hyperventilating.

"Hey!" Voight called out before kneeling to the man and holding up his Chicago Police badge that hung from a chain on his neck, "Police, pal! Show me your hands, okay?"

The man reluctantly raised his trembling hands. "Please man," the man mumbled in a nearly breathless tone, "I…I need help."

Harrison Family Camp
9:00 PM

A few hours later, everyone reconvened in the cabin at the Harrisons' camp, save for Bill Harvey, who still hadn't yet returned from the Crime Lab. Chief Jayden Porter and Officer Jeanette Franco had even stopped by and everyone was seated around the picnic table on the side deck, enjoying grilled hot dogs and hamburgers along with their chosen beverages.

"The kid's name is Nick Palmasano," Voight explained in reference to the young man he discovered in the woods, "He's twenty-one. Detective Mannell ran a background check on him and found that he had several arrests over a ten-year period, mostly for petty theft and misdemeanor heroin possession."

"I spoke to a sergeant at Brattleboro PD," Detective Mannell added, "he said that Palmasano's a local kid who he's personally had dealings with since he was about eleven. Shoplifting, breaking into cars, that kind of stuff. He went on to tell me that he started using pills at around fifteen, which later escalated to IV heroin use."

"As it sometimes does," Hailey Upton commented.

"So does he look good for these murders or not?" Porter pointedly asked.

"On the surface," Harrison said, "Maybe. But to avoid pointing things in the wrong direction, I asked Robbie to serve a subpoena for Nick Palmasano's medical records. Call it a hunch."

"What do you mean?" Franco asked.

"As we all know," Harrison explained, "A lot of addicts tend to use their addictions to self-medicate all kinds of conditions and problems. I was curious to see what Nick's deal was, so I went over his most recent doctor notes. He suffers from Dupuytren's Contracture. It's a really debilitating hand condition that usually affects people who are fifty or older. However, in Nick's case, it's hereditary. His late mother had it too, evidently. He most likely developed pain and other symptoms at a much earlier age."

Franco nodded. "Makes sense," she said, "But how does that exonerate him as a suspect?"

Lieutenant Asher then perked up to back up Harrison. "I think what Troy's getting at is that this Palmasano kid's hand condition makes it pretty difficult to hold a knife and slit three people's throats."

Harrison nodded in retort. "That was pretty much my point," he said, "Yeah. Thanks, kid."

The sliding door leading out to the deck then came open and Bill Harvey stepped out onto the deck, a rather thick file folder in his hand. "Hey bud," Harrison greeted his cousin, "How'd everything go at the lab?"

"As good as it could go," Harvey replied as he sat down at the picnic table and opened the folder, "There was a ton of prints all over the vehicle, some we matched to employees of Fuego Fuel Company, and a lot of the others we matched to our van thief, Nick Palmasano."

Mannell piped up and explained Harrison's hunch about Palmasano's hand condition and his disbelief in his guilt to Harvey. "Well," Harvey said, "That also fits with what the crime scene techs and I found. Like I said, we did find Palmasano's prints in the van, but we also found several latent prints on the steering wheel that match our mysterious 'Restricted Access' print owner."

"Our 'ghost' with the G-Fourteen security clearance," Voight added.

Harvey nodded. "Right," he said, "And that's not all. The techs also found several cans of black spray paint in the van, and the chemical analysis proves that it's consistent with the paint used to paint the black stars at our crime scenes. We also found traces of Sam Kneeland's blood on the rear floor of the van. It would appear that the real killer, whoever they are, abducted Sam from his house, killed him in the van, and dumped him at Oasis Park."

"That fits with what Franco and I found at his house," Porter said, "Our running theory was that the only reason he wasn't killed right there at his house was because he put up a fight. The inside of that house looked like someone had a damn wrestling match inside it."

"Look," Voight interjected, "All this stuff is very helpful, but I think it goes without saying that we're at kind of an impasse unless we're able to determine the identity of this G-Fourteen 'ghost."

Harrison nodded. "Agreed," he said, "Did this Palmasano kid give you guys any sort of description to go off of?"

"Not really," Upton replied, "Voight, Mannell, and I interviewed him for almost an hour and a half at the county jail. The guy's going through heroin withdrawal and he's sicker than a dog, so he wasn't a whole lot of help to be honest."

"All he could tell us was that he was paid seven hundred bucks by what he described as a 'tall, skinny white dude'," Mannell added, "He admitted to stealing the van and leaving it by the interstate where your mom rolled up on him, but he denies any involvement in the murders."

"And given what you said about his hand condition," Halstead chimed in, "I think he's off the hook for now."

"He'll have to face the music as far as the van theft is concerned," Mannell said, "But I'll tell the State's Attorney that we don't consider him to be a viable murder suspect."

Harrison nodded in agreement just as he happened to notice the reflection of headlights from an apparently oncoming car shine off a nearby tree. "I wonder who this is," he said.

The sheriff stood up from the picnic table and walked to the side of the deck, where he looked out to see a white 2021 Mazda CX-5 pulling into the driveway. He went around and hurried down the front steps, approaching the car cautiously.

"Can I help you?" Harrison called out as he walked up to the vehicle's tinted driver's-side window.

The door opened and Juan Cortez stepped out into the night, carrying a file folder in his hand. The older, grizzled Yaran man was dressed in a festive red and white tropical shirt with matching Bermuda shorts, white sandals, and a white fishing hat.

"Hola," Juan politely greeted, "You would be Bill Harvey's cousin, correct?"

"I am," Harrison replied, "I'm Troy Harrison. I beg your pardon, but I don't believe we've met."

"My apologies, Señor Harrison" Juan said as he produced a set of CIA-issued wallet credentials from his pocket with his free hand and displaying them for Harrison, "My name is Juan Cortez. I'm the Central Intelligence Agency's attaché representing the Republic of Yara."

Harrison visually examined Juan's identification carefully before nodding. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Cortez" he replied, "But I have to ask, what brings you all the way here to Vermont?"

"I called him," Bill Harvey piped up. Hearing this, Harrison turned to see his cousin come up beside him. "After we ran that restricted fingerprint," Harvey continued, "I knew Juan here had the connections to cut through the red tape and get us a real name for the print owner."

Harvey then looked Juan dead in the eye. "I have to say though," he said to him, "When I made that call, I didn't expect for you to make this big, long, in-person trip all the way up here from Yara, Juan."

"Yeah," Harrison added, "I mean, how long did it take you? Twenty-four hours?"

"Twenty hours," Juan clarified, "I flew from Valle De Oro to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Then, I caught a connecting flight to Boston, rented this Mazda, and drove two hours here. Señor Bill told me you were staying up here."

"Ah," Harrison said, "In that case, come on over to our picnic table and I'll whip you up a Margarita just for going to all that trouble."

Juan chuckled as Harrison and Harvey ushered him over to the picnic table. The two men then took the opportunity to introduce Juan to everybody, after which time Harrison presented their guest with a Margarita as promised.

"So, Mister Cortez" Asher said a few minutes later, "For you to make it all the way here, what you have in that folder must be mighty important."

Juan sipped his Margarita before nodding. "Sí, Lieutenant" he replied, "I was able to identify that print that Señor Bill found. I have to say, though, I was very surprised at who we may have here in your little town." He then slid the folder over to Harvey on the opposite side of the table.

Taking his cue, Harvey flipped open the folder and eyed the dossier inside. His face then seemed to go chalky white with shock. "Oh my God," he almost breathlessly said.