Page 54 of Beneath the Surface

Brad and Larson approached him, hoping against hope they could extract some kind of useful information. “Tyrone,” Brad began, keeping his voice calm and steady. “We need to know who told you to hurt Isobel Everhart. Who hired you?”

Tyrone’s head snapped up, and for a moment, his gaze locked onto Brad’s. But then his eyes glazed over, and he began to babble nonsensically, his words a jumbled mix of paranoia and delusion. “They said… they said I had to do it,” Tyrone mumbled, his voice shaking. “Said she was dangerous… that she had to be stopped… but they didn’t say why… didn’t tell me why…” His voice trailed off, and he began to rock back and forth, his eyes unfocused.

Brad’s heart sank. It was clear now that Tyrone had no real understanding of the larger plot. He was just a broken man, used by others for their own evil purposes. “Tyrone, who are ‘they’?” he pressed, though he knew it was likely a futile effort.

“They… they’re everywhere,” Tyrone whispered, his voice filled with terror. “Watching… always watching… but I don’t know who… I don’t know…”

Larson placed a hand on Brad’s shoulder, gently pulling him back. “He’s not going to give us anything,” he said softly. “He’s too far gone.”

Brad nodded, feeling defeat settle over him. Tyrone was a dead end, a tragic figure caught in the crossfire of a scheme he didn’t understand. And with Tyrone’s mind unraveling further by the minute, there was little chance they would ever get the answers they needed from him.

Brad exited the patient area, the head nurse stopping him just before he could head out. "Commander Killian, we need you to sign the property log for Tyrone’s belongings," she said, offering him a clipboard.

Brad glanced at the list:Three quarters, four dimes, three singles, seven brand-new twenty-dollar bills, two brand-new hundred-dollar bills, a blue ballpoint pen, and a matchbox from Hot Shots.

He frowned as he scribbled his signature. The matchbox caught his eye immediately.

Minutes later, he met Larson in the hallway outside. “Larson, you saw Tyrone’s place—it was filthy. No way he had access to that kind of money legitimately. It’s the end of the month. He wouldn't have this from Social Security either, and look at this." Brad held up the matchbox, pinching it by its edges.

Larson’s expression darkened as he studied the matchbox. "Hot Shots," he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s anexpensive place for someone like Tyrone. No way he had the clothes to hang out there either.”

“Exactly,” Brad said. “This kind of cash—seven twenties, two hundreds, all brand-new—doesn’t fit his profile. Tyrone wasn’t clean enough to have money like this lying around.”

Larson reached for the matchbox, careful not to smudge any potential evidence. “We’ll need to dust this, check for prints.” He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, and, shaking it open, he dropped the matchbox inside.

Brad exhaled as he turned to the nurse. “Have the doctors performed a physical on Mr. Morris yet?”

The nurse looked at her clipboard. “No, we’re waiting for his medication to take effect.”

“I’ll get a warrant. I need to know as soon as it’s complete.” Brad gave her his brightest smile.

“I’ll call you, Commander.”

Larson glanced up. “What are you thinking?”

“I bet they’ll find evidence of restraint and sexual activity on Mr. Morris.” Brad shook his head.

“In the meantime, we’ll run the matchbox and money for prints and see where they lead. But don’t get too far ahead. For now, we stick with the facts.”

Brad and Larson walked out of the locked ward at the psychiatric hospital. Tyrone was incoherent, his words rambling in circles, offering nothing actionable. The man’s fractured mind seemed impenetrable, but Brad’s gut told him there was something there—something they weren’t seeing.

“Damn it,” Larson muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He exhaled sharply, the smoke curling around his face.

Brad walked beside him. “He’s obviously not capable of this on his own. He’s schizophrenic. He doesn’t have the capacity to plan something this intricate without meds.”

“So someone’s pulling his strings,” Larson said, his tone sharp. “That’s not exactly new territory. We knew he wasn’t the mastermind.”

Brad ran a hand over his jaw, pacing slightly as his thoughts raced. “But Tyrone’s behavior wasn’t just random. Someone planted these ideas in his head—used him, manipulated him. We need to find out if he’s ever had a lucid period, a time when he could’ve connected with someone and been coerced into this.”

Brad’s gaze hardened. “The matches from Hot Shots. Did Jace Rodriguez give them to him?”

Larson straightened, his cigarette paused mid-air. “Hot Shots—D/s. The Viper Lords.”

Brad let out a low whistle. “Tyrone doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d wander in there on his own. For Tyrone to have matches from Hot Shots, someone gave them to him. And the cash he had on him? There’s no way he came by that on his own. Someone paid him. Someone used him.”

Larson tossed the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out with his boot. “That brings us back to Jace Rodriguez. He knows more than he’s letting on.”

Brad nodded as he arrived at their car. “He mentioned knowing Tyrone from the psych hospital, but that doesn’t explain the matches or the cash. We know Jace is a Viper Lord. He needs to confirm his connection to Hot Shots.”

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