A Merciful Silence Page 4

  “I’m doing both.” His question didn’t bother her; it was pertinent. “I’ve gone through missing persons records, and we prepared a short statement for the local news. It should be on the eleven o’clock edition tonight.”

  “You’ll be mobbed with leads.”

  “We’ll sort through them. We didn’t mention the possibility of a missing family, but we did include the fact that there was a young child. Until I get a report from Dr. Peres, the only information I have on the adult skulls is their sex and that one of the females is probably in her teens. I can only do so much with that and the missing persons records. And who knows? We might find more remains down the slope.”

  “They’re still looking?”

  “We’ll have a team out there for at least a few more days. Depends on the weather, safety, and what they find. Until I have more evidence on the current case, this is a good place to start.”

  Truman glanced pointedly at the storage boxes. “This could take a week to wade through.”

  Mercy moved a few boxes aside, lifted a lid, and chose a three-ring binder. “I want to start with the Verbeek family. I plan to go visit Britta Verbeek tomorrow.”

  “The girl who survived.”

  “Barely survived. She was in the hospital for weeks. They thought she’d have permanent brain damage from the blow to her head, but from what I found about her online, she appears to have recovered well.”

  “What did you find?”

  “She works for a business that builds websites . . . her portfolio features a lot of restaurants and small businesses. She changed her last name to Vale a long time ago, but I couldn’t find any marriage records, so I suspect it was a personal choice.”

  “Can’t say I blame her,” said Truman. “No doubt weird people have contacted her to ask rude questions about her story. Probably some reporters too.”

  Mercy opened the binder and set aside her pork, searching for interviews with Britta Verbeek.

  “How was the Verbeek family discovered?” Truman asked.

  “A neighbor stopped by in the morning. And Britta was lucky he did. It was a summer weekend, so the kids weren’t expected at school and the father wasn’t expected at work. No one might have noticed for days that something had happened, because the Verbeeks lived on a dozen acres out in the middle of nowhere. According to the neighbor, the front door was open. When no one answered, he went in.”

  Truman poked at his pad thai with his fork. “I can’t imagine.”

  Mercy scanned the neighbor’s interview. “The father was found in the living room, the mother in the hallway, and the three kids in their beds.”

  “Weapon?”

  “A hammer.”

  Truman looked up, his fork motionless in his noodles. “Seriously? That’s it?”

  “A big hammer.” Mercy imagined a madman swinging the hammer. “The father had broken bones in his hands and abrasions on his arms. The mother did too. She was found in the hall outside the girls’ bedroom.”

  He set down his fork. “Trying to protect her girls.”

  “It appears the girls didn’t wake. They all had single blows to their heads.” Mercy closed the lid on her pork, her appetite gone. “Britta was on a top bunk. He probably didn’t have the right angle to get a killing blow.”

  “The neighbor was cleared?”

  “He was. The medical examiner estimated the deaths occurred between eight and midnight. The neighbor’s work shift covered the hours, and he had several witnesses to back up his presence at work.”

  “Why did he stop by?”

  “He was going to borrow a rototiller for the weekend. Phone records show a short call between the two homes the day before, which the neighbor said was about the rototiller. And the machine was sitting out and dusted off beside the Verbeek home, looking ready to go.”

  Truman leaned closer to see the neighbor’s interview. “Steve Harris. I know him . . . if it’s the same one. Now he lives in a house just off the main drag in Eagle’s Nest. Older man. Rather crabby. A get-off-my-lawn type of guy. I dealt with him after he accrued a dozen parking tickets and refused to pay. He couldn’t accept that the curb right in front of the hydrant on his street wasn’t a legitimate place to park. Still doesn’t.”

  “He sounds charming. Let him park there. He’ll get a surprise when the fire department bashes in his windows to get to the hydrant.”

  “That’s what I told him. He responded that he’d sue the fire department.”

  Mercy could only shake her head. “I’m sure I’ll interview him at some point.” She flipped through several pages. “All the detective notes say Britta had no memory of what happened. She remembers going to bed and then waking up in the hospital days later.”

  “I’ve read that kids are dead to the world when they’re sleeping. Sometimes smoke alarms won’t even wake them.”

  “Poor child woke up without a family.” Mercy’s heart contracted in pain for the girl.

  “Was anything taken from the home?”

  “No one was sure. Nothing obvious was missing. Guns and some money were left behind.” Mercy ran a finger down several pages. “It looks like Britta never went back into the home. I’d think she’d be the only one who could tell if anything was missing . . . although a child that young might not know. It looks like the detectives came to the same conclusion.”

  “Any other . . . assault of the female victims?” Truman asked delicately.

  “No.” Relief had filled Mercy when she verified that fact. But it didn’t help with the motive for the attack.

  “But they think a sexual motive was behind the murders? He was interested in the mother, right?”

  “I read that in the summaries. It said one of Maria Verbeek’s friends believed Grady Baldwin made a pass at Maria.” Mercy checked the summary of the contents on the binder. “That interview isn’t in this binder.”

  “I’d like to see that one too.”

  Mercy went back to the boxes and opened another binder, reviewed the contents, and then grabbed a third. “Here it is. Janet Norris.” She sat back down and found the detective’s notes on the interview, then slid the binder over so Truman could read too.

  “Janet didn’t say Grady Baldwin by name,” Truman asserted. “Janet states the pass was made by a workman at the house.”

  Mercy tapped her fingers on the table. Truman was right. “I wonder if they had an inaccurate accounting of the workmen. Everyone who knew which persons had worked in the home were killed. Except for Britta.”

  “A good point. But Grady Baldwin was convicted.”

  “They had physical evidence. A hammer with his fingerprints. His prints in the home. No alibi.”

  Truman sat back and rubbed his eyes. “I have to imagine Grady had a decent lawyer who poked all the right holes in the prosecutor’s case.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What did the other crime scene look like?”

  Mercy wasn’t going to open the other case boxes when she had binders from the first still on the table. “Two months earlier the Deverell family had been killed,” she recited from her research earlier in the day. “They hadn’t arrested Grady Baldwin yet, but he’d been interviewed because he’d worked on the Deverells’ home too. It was another late-night home invasion type. That time all the family members were in their beds.”

  “Any sexual assaults?”

  “No.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “Again, they were unsure.”

  Mercy reread Janet Norris’s interview summary. The woman had stated that Maria Verbeek rarely went into town, and that they’d worked in the same hotel for a short time. Mercy found the family photo of the Verbeek family that she’d shown at the FBI case briefing. Maria looked like a timid woman. She stood a half foot behind her husband, at his side, her hands clasped in front of her, her shoulders rounded.

  She looked as if she didn’t have an assertive bone in her body.

  But she’d fought to the death to save h
er girls.

  I hope they put away the right person.

  SEVEN

  The next morning Mercy was filling her coffee mug as her niece Kaylie sleepily stumbled into the kitchen.

  “You’re going to be late for school,” Mercy said as she watched the teen cram a bagel in the toaster.

  “I’m skipping first period. The teacher’s still sick and the sub is just babysitting us. There’s no point for me to sit there and read a book.”

  Mercy fought back a lecture on the teen’s attendance record. Kaylie got great grades; Mercy had nothing to complain about.

  This isn’t how raising a teenager is supposed to be.

  Kaylie was easy. Which immediately made Mercy suspicious. Where was the teen angst and drama? The two of them had experienced some hiccups, but for the most part the six months they’d been together had been smooth sailing.

  “Cade around?” Mercy asked about Kaylie’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Mercy approved of the hardworking young man, but Kaylie’s world was rapidly growing beyond Cade’s. Her amazing baked goods were displayed every day at the coffee shop she’d inherited after the death of her father, and she had talked about starting a new bakery south of Portland, where there were more people and shoppers. Then the next day she’d discuss marketing a line of brownies to grocery stores. Then she’d express an interest about a job in law enforcement. Her niece knew her options were open and limitless, and Mercy loved listening to her explore the possibilities. Even if she didn’t seem very focused.

  That will come.

  “He’s gone for the next three weeks. New project.” Disappointment rang in her tone.

  “He has solid, stable work,” Mercy pointed out. “And most of the time he enjoys it.”

  “I know. He’s happy at this new job.” Kaylie smeared cream cheese on her bagel. “I heard they found a bunch of bodies under the road up on March Mountain.”

  “What else did you hear?” Mercy asked, startled at the abrupt change of topic and curious as to what rumors had started to circulate.

  Kaylie gave her a side eye. “I saw a picture online of you at the scene in an article. You looked tired.”

  “Sheesh. Let me guess. I was sitting on the bumper of a vehicle. How bad was the caption?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Kaylie,” she said in a warning voice.

  The girl sighed. “Okay. It said you were sitting around waiting for others to do the investigation. I know that’s not how it was,” she quickly added.

  “One of these days I’m going to kill Chuck Winslow.” Mercy sipped her coffee too fast and burned her tongue. She swore out loud.

  Today is not off to a great start.

  “The reporter only does it to annoy you. Ignore him,” advised Kaylie.

  “Reporter is a kind word for him. He’s a bottom-feeder.”

  “Who are the victims they found?”

  “We don’t know yet. Have you heard of anyone missing around town? Is anyone speculating on who it could be?”

  The teen took a big bite of bagel. “Not that I’ve heard,” she said around the mouthful.

  “Keep your ears open. There’s often a bit of truth buried in rumors.”

  “I’m around high school students all day.”

  “They listen to their parents talk.”

  “Is it true a family was murdered?”

  Mercy set down her coffee mug, exasperated. “There. See? How did you hear that? No one was supposed to talk about that.”

  Kaylie tucked her hair behind her ear. “I heard something at the Coffee Café last night.” She took another bite and blinked innocently.

  “We don’t know who they are or if they were a family. That’s pure speculation, and I’m looking into it today.” She waved a finger at the teen. “Don’t be part of the gossip problem.”

  “Never.”

  Mercy raised a skeptical brow at the girl.

  Five minutes later, Mercy climbed in her Tahoe. She had a local address for Britta Vale but no phone number. Tax records indicated the woman was self-employed. She was the owner of the website business, so Mercy crossed her fingers she’d find her at home.

  Mercy’s additional research had explained the forensic odontologist’s odd comment about prison not stopping a killer. A few years earlier, Lacey Harper had been the target of a serial killer. Someone had decided to finish the job another serial killer had started decades before. Lacey had survived both men’s attempts to kill her.

  Mercy doubted she would smile as much as the blonde woman did if she’d been through that much trauma. Being shot two months ago had made Mercy noticeably cranky. At least in her opinion. Some rolled eyes and glares from Kaylie since that time had confirmed Mercy’s suspicions.

  Time for me to get over it. I’ve got nothing to whine about.

  I can still walk.

  Her GPS took her on a wet, winding trip thirty miles out of Bend. Mercy revered privacy, and it appeared Britta Vale did the same. The terrain was flat, with clumps of huge trees and fields of scattered volcanic rock. She took the final turn off the two-lane road and was pleasantly surprised to find a well-maintained gravel driveway. A wood fence lined one side of the drive, and Mercy idly wondered if Britta kept cows or sheep in the field. A wide creek rapidly flowed through the pasture, full of the recent rains. A few minutes later she stopped in front of an old white farmhouse. Fields flanked the house on two sides, and a small ancient grove of fruit trees was to the east.

  The paint flaked from the two-story building, and large pieces of railing were missing from the wraparound deck. Lace curtains appeared at most of the windows, and a newer Ford pickup was parked next to the home. As Mercy stepped out of her Tahoe, faint barking greeted her, and she spotted a black Lab inside, watching through a tall window next to the front door, alerting the residents that company had arrived. Its wagging tail defied the belligerent barks.

  Overall, Mercy liked the home. It felt shy but friendly. Sequestered but welcoming.

  The size of the large window next to the door caught her attention. Easy to break and enter.

  She shut down that part of her mind as she approached the house. She wasn’t here to assess the home as a fortress. Recently she’d sunk a lot of brainpower into considering every possible angle of security as she designed her new cabin. The weaknesses of her old cabin had been exposed during its destruction, and Mercy was determined to anticipate all vulnerabilities. She’d been mentally entrenched in the process for so long, it was difficult to turn off.

  The door opened, and a woman appeared. In one hand she gripped the Lab’s collar. With the other she balanced a rifle against her shoulder.

  Not threatening but making her stance clear.

  Mercy approved. And stopped moving forward.

  Mercy stood with her right shoulder and hip slightly farther back and casually held her hands out in front of her stomach, the palms up. A nonaggressive pose, but she was ready to move to the gun in her shoulder holster if needed. “Britta Vale?”

  “Who wants to know?” The woman’s tone was polite but direct. Her long hair was black. The flat-black, obviously dyed tone that half of Kaylie’s friends wore and that Mercy prayed her niece would never attempt on her lovely hair. Blunt-cut bangs just above Britta’s eyebrows gave her a no-nonsense look.

  “I’m Special Agent Mercy Kilpatrick from the Bend FBI office. You’re welcome to call them to verify me.”

  “Take three steps closer.”

  Mercy took three measured steps, her hands still exposed. She felt the weight of her weapon at her side and watched Britta for any warning movements. The woman stood perfectly still, the dog’s wagging tail a contrast. At this distance Mercy could meet Britta’s gaze. The woman had light-blue eyes and skin that looked as if it’d never seen the sun. She also had a huge tattoo that wrapped around the front of her neck. Mercy couldn’t read it but wondered how painful the process had been. She swallowed, imagining tiny sharp needles jabbing at the tender skin on he
r throat.

  The woman released the dog, who instantly sat, its dark eyes still locked on Mercy.

  “Are you here about Grady Baldwin?”

  “Yes,” Mercy answered.

  “Is he out? I’m supposed to be notified if he gets out. No one has said anything to me.” Britta’s voice shot up an octave as the words spilled out of her mouth, terror and anger flashing in her eyes. Her fingers tightened on the butt of the rifle, and Mercy tensed.

  “He’s not out and he’s not getting out.”

  The woman lowered her chin a notch, and her shoulders moved as she exhaled. “I have nightmares about police vehicles abruptly showing up at my home, trying to get me to safety. They’re always too late.” She nodded at Mercy’s Tahoe. “You’re clearly armed, and you have government plates, so you understand my reaction.”

  “I do. You are Britta, right?” The woman acted like a survivor, but Mercy wanted to be certain.

  “I am. Why are you here?”

  “Yesterday we uncovered five bodies. Possibly a family—we aren’t certain about that. But each one of them had been struck in the mouth. Their teeth and jaws shattered.”

  The pale woman went a shade whiter as she slapped a hand across her mouth, and the dog whined, leaning hard against her thigh.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have coffee. I gave up caffeine years ago.”

  “The herbal tea is fine.” Mercy took a sip. It tasted of grass and flowers. The two women sat at a small table in Britta’s large kitchen. Zara, the Lab, had sniffed Mercy thoroughly, accepted some scratches behind her ears, and then planted herself next to Britta’s chair. The woman had stroked Zara’s fur nonstop since she found out the reason for Mercy’s visit, and Mercy wondered if Zara served as a sort of service animal for anxiety. The dog’s calm manner and serene dark eyes created a soothing presence.

  “Your last name seems familiar,” Britta stated, studying Mercy from head to toe.

  “I was a year behind you in grade school.”

  “I don’t remember you. Did you have an older brother?”