The Silence (Columbia River #2)(53)

“I bet the RCFL would love to answer that,” said Nora, referring to the FBI’s computer forensics lab in Portland.

Mason nabbed a pair of gloves and a plastic baggie from the medical examiner’s kit. He put on the gloves and carefully bagged the phone. Picking up Kaden’s right hand, he pressed the thumb against the phone’s TOUCH ID button through the plastic. Nothing happened.

“Shit.”

“I hate it when you guys do that,” said Dr. Trask as she watched. “I get the why . . . but it still disturbs me.”

It bothered Mason a bit too.

“He has another thumb,” said Nora.

The thumb of the left hand worked. Mason scrolled through the contacts to “Dad” and read the number to Nora, who dialed. She paused before connecting the call. “I think you should talk to him. You spoke with Kaden, not me.”

His stomach tightening, Mason set Kaden’s phone back where he had found it. The call would be a delicate situation. He had to inform a father of his son’s death and ask about the weapons in the duffel in the same conversation. The gaming room suddenly grew airless and hot.

“I’m going out back to call,” he said.

“Want me to come?” asked Nora.

“I do. I don’t know how this is going to go.”

Outside, Mason could breathe easier, and he immediately spotted fresh lumber in one section of the backyard’s fence.

He helped my dad repair our fence.

Kaden’s words rang in his mind. His father, Tony, had known Reuben Braswell well enough to ask him for help.

Mason cleared his head and mentally prepared himself, staring at the phone number Nora had tapped into the phone. A heavy weight settled on his heart.

How do I tell a father that his son has been murdered?

He touched the screen.

After three rings he heard a cautious “Hello?”

“This is Mason Callahan with the Oregon State Police. Is this Tony Schroeder?”

He purposefully left off his title, not wanting to alarm Tony beyond the normal worry that occurs when one is receiving a call from the police. People heard Detective and automatically thought the worst.

Although this case was the worst.

“Dammit. What did Kaden do? Is he all right?”

“Is this Tony?”

“Yes, I’m his father. Has he been arrested?”

“Are you in town, Mr. Schroeder?”

Tony paused. “No. I’m in Bend. I’m visiting my brother.”

“Is your brother with you now?”

“Oh my God,” Tony whispered hoarsely. “What happened?”

Mason took the plunge. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Schroeder, but Kaden died last night.”

Silence.

“Mr. Schroeder?” Concern rocked through Mason.

A questioning voice sounded in the background of the call. Tony finally spoke, his mouth away from the receiver, his voice flat. “It’s the police. Something happened to Kaden,” he told whoever was with him. The voice grew louder with concern.

At least Tony is not alone.

“Mr. Schroeder?” Mason asked again. “I’m really sorry to tell you this way.”

“What happened?” Tony asked in a broken tone. His voice fractured Mason’s heart.

“I’m unhappy to tell you this, but Kaden died from a bullet wound . . . and it occurred in your home.”

“Oh God!” Tony started to cry. “Someone shot him?”

“I’m so sorry.” The words were fruitless, but he didn’t know what else to say. He looked to Nora. She was watching and listening closely, biting her lip, uncertainty in her gaze. She gave him an encouraging nod.

“Mr. Schroeder. I hate to ask questions at this time, but we want to figure out who did this.”

Tony sucked in air between wet, ragged sobs.

“Do you know who might want to harm your son?”

“No! No, I don’t know! He’s just an innocent kid who never hurt anyone!”

Questions were being asked in the background of the call. Mason couldn’t make out the words, but it was clear the other person was upset and confused.

“He says someone shot Kaden,” Tony said away from the phone. “Yes, he’s dead.” His voice cracked.

“We’re doing everything we can to find who is responsible,” Mason said, unsure if Tony was even listening to him. “But I wanted to ask you about the weapons we found in his bedroom.”

There was a long pause. “What?”

“Kaden had a duffel bag with five long guns under his bed.”

“Jesus Christ.” Tony sounded shocked. “You’re talking about rifles?”

“Yes. Three AR-15s. Two shotguns.”

“He was shot with one of those?” Tony could barely speak.

“No. We haven’t found the weapon he was killed with. It sounds like you were unaware of the guns under his bed?”

“This is the first I’ve heard about it. Where would he get those?”

“Do you know when you’ll be back in town, Mr. Schroeder?”

“I’m leaving now.” A voice in the background protested and then insisted on driving Tony to Portland.

Mason was relieved. He didn’t want the man making the three-hour trip from Central Oregon on his own.