Chapter 4 - The Hunt for the Bat
While the federal team dismantled the administrative core of the Westbridge precinct, another specialized task force was operating out in the field.
The primary objective: locating the weapon.
During the initial intake interview at the station, Brooke and Arthur had smugly insisted to the desk sergeant that no baseball bat existed, claiming Helena had suffered a fall or inflicted the bruises on herself during a psychotic episode. But my mother’s detailed statement—describing the bright yellow aluminum Louisville Slugger with a worn black grip tape that Brooke kept in the trunk of her silver SUV—gave our investigators an exact target.
At 8:30 AM, State Bureau of Investigation agents executed a search warrant at Arthur and Brooke’s suburban home on Maple Street.
Arthur stood on the front lawn in his bathrobe, looking like a man who had suddenly realized he was standing on top of a ticking time bomb. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and his phone buzzed incessantly in his trembling hand.
“You can’t search my house!” Arthur protested weakly as two agents walked past him carrying metal evidence cases. “This is harassment! My uncle is Captain Landry! I know my rights!”
“Your uncle is currently being stripped of his badge and detained for federal corruption charges, Mr. Carter,” the lead agent replied without breaking stride. “I suggest you step back unless you’d like to join him in the back of a cruiser for obstruction.”
Arthur swallowed hard, shutting his mouth instantly. He looked toward the driveway, where Brooke stood wrapped in a designer cashmere blanket, shivering furiously.
“Arthur, tell them to stop!” Brooke hissed, her voice shrill and desperate. “They’re going into the garage! They’re looking at the recycling bins!”
“Shut up, Brooke,” Arthur muttered under his breath, his face pale with sudden, crushing terror. “Just shut up.”
In the detached garage, an investigator using a high-intensity forensic ALS (Alternate Light Source) flashlight swept the concrete floor near the back storage lockers.
The beam hit a dark, irregular shadow tucked behind several plastic storage bins.
“Got it,” the investigator called out over his radio.
The yellow Louisville Slugger was pulled out into the light. It wasn't clean. Even though someone had made a hurried attempt to wipe down the barrel with household bleach, the forensic wand immediately illuminated microscopic splatter patterns along the upper grip and barrel.
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Swabs were taken on the spot. Dark crimson residue—human blood matching Helena Carter’s DNA profile—coated the metal grain. Alongside it, latent fingerprint dusting revealed a crisp, undeniable match to Brooke Vance’s right index finger.
The weapon that was supposed to never exist had just been recovered, fully contaminated with physical evidence, and tagged for federal court.
