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“Any luck?”
Detective Quevedo raised an eyebrow at Nick and looked back at Boyd Ballantine through the glass of the ICU isolation room.
“What part of that set-up makes you think he’s talking to anyone?” Cass asked.
Three of Ballantine’s limbs were in suspended casts. A wrap of gauze rounded his skull from the emergency surgery. Both of his eyes had swollen shut, the rest of his face covered in a ventilator. Beneath the sheets, a catheter was helping him piss. Even if he wasn’t in a coma, the feeding tube snaking down his throat and resting in his stomach would prevent any conversation.
“I mean outside this quaint little room,” Nick said.
“Old Zoo is like your tent crime scene. Found plenty of DNA. What’s useful? Likely nothing,” Cass said. “We found a couple of fiber samples. Look
