A Merciful Silence Page 6

  Rust-colored stains on the pillows.

  Mercy took three steps to the My Little Pony bed. The covers were pushed back, and a reddish-brown trail was smeared from the pillow to the floor. Then it stopped. It was the same for the blue bed.

  “He put them in something.”

  “It’s the same in all the rooms. The blood trails abruptly stop.”

  The next bedroom appeared to belong to the mother and father. Men’s and women’s clothing hung in the closet. The queen-size bed had dried blood on both pillows. Both sides of the bed had bloody stains down the sides of the mattress and box springs to the floor, where it had pooled in the carpet. No blood trail to the door, but blood spatter went up the walls and across the ceiling, showing how the killer had raised and swung the weapon.

  Mercy stared at the blood patterns.

  They were bludgeoned.

  “The other bedroom is similar,” said Bolton. He led her to the last room.

  This room was slightly smaller, and the bed was the same size as the last one. It also had a bloodstain on the pillow. Mercy checked the small closet. Adult male clothing. “Another man lived here?” she asked, thinking of the second male skull. “Did you find a wallet?”

  “We haven’t found IDs anywhere in the home. No wallets with credit cards or anything. I suspect he took them.”

  “He may have wanted to use the credit cards. Jeez. He could have been charging up a storm for months and no one would know.”

  “No doubt the cards were frozen once no payments showed up.”

  “Good point. But he still had a wide window of opportunity.” Mercy made a mental note to check the Hartlages’ credit reports.

  “Think this is related to yesterday’s discovery up on March Mountain?” Bolton asked.

  “It’s a good possibility. Same number of victims. Obviously they’ve been gone from this home for a long time.”

  “The remains you found were skeletal. How long does that take?”

  “Depends on the environment they were left in.” Mercy took a deep breath. “So far there doesn’t appear to be any clothing or even shoes with the bodies we found. Either they were stripped before they were buried in the culvert, or possibly the bones were recently put in there.”

  Bolton scowled. “They were dumped somewhere else first and then moved to the culvert?”

  “I’m speculating out loud. I know they can test the bones to analyze the soil they were buried in, and then they can analyze the soil and debris in the culvert. I’m curious to find out if they’re the same.”

  Bolton stared at her for a long moment. “You don’t think they were in that culvert for very long.”

  “We have to consider that as an option. Why hadn’t they already washed away? We had rain last fall and this spring.”

  “But I heard the water was flowing around the culvert. Maybe it’s been doing that for months.”

  “True. This is just a theory bouncing around in my brain.” She studied the blood on the pillow. “You said there were some family pictures?”

  “This way.”

  On a small table in the living room were six framed photos. A young girl with dark hair clutching a white-and-tan cat smiled in one. Another frame held a school photo of a teenage girl. The others showed the girls with their parents.

  “What’s her name?” Mercy picked up the picture of the young girl. She was missing two top teeth, but her wide smile proved she didn’t care.

  “I found some coloring book pages in the pink bedroom with the name Alison signed on them. I haven’t figured out the teenager’s name yet.”

  The tiny skull suddenly had a potential name. No longer would Mercy think of it as “the child.” Now it was Alison.

  Maybe.

  “Dammit.” She set down the picture and looked away. It’d been easier to think about the bones when they were nameless.

  “I think we found the murder weapon outside.”

  “Saving the most important evidence for last?” Mercy asked.

  “I like to make an impact.” Bolton’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  They went out the front door and around the side of the home. In the tall grass next to the home lay a large hammer. It’d been washed by the rain and probably frozen by the snow over the last few months. Will there be any fingerprints?

  “Awfully cocky to leave it behind,” Mercy murmured.

  “I took it as a big fuck you,” said Bolton.

  “What kind of hammer is it? I’ve never seen a head like that before.” Two-thirds of the head was a solid cylinder shape before it narrowed to a point at one end.

  “I don’t know either. I’ve got an evidence team on the way,” Bolton said. “I’m not touching it until then.”

  “I want the photos from this scene as soon as possible.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Ask your team to look for dental or medical bills. We need the name of their dentist to get copies of their dental X-rays. If they don’t find any paperwork, check with the local dentists and see if any of them had the Hartlage family as patients.”

  Bolton nodded as he tapped a notation into his phone.

  “Meeeeoooow.”

  A white cat with tan patches wound itself around Mercy’s ankles. “Oh my God.” The cat’s blue gaze met hers as it rubbed the side of its face against Mercy’s shin. It’s the cat from the photo. It was skinny but not deathly thin. “How on earth . . .” Shock and pity shot through her.

  “The cat must have been living in one of the outbuildings. Catching mice.”

  “You poor thing.” Mercy scooped up the cat and it immediately started to purr, pressing its head against Mercy’s hand.

  “Looks like you acquired a cat.” Bolton leaned to one side and studied it. “A female cat.”

  Mercy stared at Bolton. “Hell no, I didn’t.”

  “Why not? I bet your niece would love it.”

  True. “My place is too small.”

  “Does it allow pets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m sure you can work it out.” Bolton finally gave a real grin. “Or we can drop her off at a shelter.”

  No! “Maybe.” The cat vibrated contentedly under Mercy’s stroking hand.

  “I’d noticed two small pet bowls on the floor in the kitchen. And there was a cat bed in the pink bedroom. I bet she misses her people.” Bolton ran a hand over the cat’s back.

  Damn him.

  “We’ll see,” Mercy admitted. “Maybe there are some Hartlage relatives who would take her in.”

  But deep down she suspected she’d just acquired a cat.

  NINE

  Truman knocked on the front door of Steve Harris’s home.

  The house didn’t have a garage, and Steve’s truck was parked on the street, directly in front of the fire hydrant. Looking around, Truman realized that the man really didn’t have anywhere else to park unless he went down the street quite a way. His neighbors’ vehicles filled both sides of the street. Yes, it was a safety issue, but Truman figured it’d only take the firemen an extra thirty seconds to bash in the windows of the truck to access the fire hydrant. Bringing up the issue on this visit wouldn’t get him any insight into the Verbeek family murder.

  Steve answered the door. In his midfifties, Steve was a tall, angular man with an oddly wide face that didn’t suit the rest of his body. He was bald except for a little hair above his ears. His eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of Truman on his front porch.

  Truman held up a hand before Steve could speak. “I’m not here about the violation I just walked past at your curb.”

  Steve relaxed a fraction, but his gaze was still suspicious. “Then what do you want?”

  “I’m doing a little research about some cases from twenty-odd years ago.”

  “The Verbeek murders,” he stated in a flat tone. The suspicion vanished from Steve’s eyes, replaced by a distant emptiness.

  “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

 
“Why? Why do you care about something that happened so long ago?”

  Truman paused, weighing how much to reveal. “Something came up recently that has us reviewing the murders of those families.”

  “Why? Grady Baldwin was tried and found guilty. The cases were closed, right?”

  “They were.” Truman didn’t want to say that it was possible something similar had happened recently. How can I phrase this? “Sometimes we have to look at the past to find answers for the present.”

  “What does that bullshit mean?” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, his stance stiff, blocking the door.

  Truman gave up on tact. “It means something violent has happened and we’re looking at the old cases for help.” He looked directly at Steve, all his cards on the table.

  Steve considered him for a long moment. He took a step back and gestured for Truman to come in.

  The inside of the home was surprisingly nice. From the outside, the old bungalow-style home looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the 1960s. But inside, it had been updated with nice wood floors, baseboards, a modern fireplace, and contemporary furniture. The home smelled of coffee and bacon.

  Truman took a seat in an upholstered chair that was uncomfortable and stiff. Steve sat in a matching chair. “What happened?” Steve asked.

  Truman mulled it over.

  “You can’t tell me,” Steve stated before Truman could speak.

  “Not yet.”

  Steve slowly nodded. “It’s serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the morning you found the Verbeek family.”

  Steve looked away, rubbing his jaw. “It’s been a long time. I try not to think about it. Never seen anything like that before. And I haven’t since, thank God.”

  “What made you go in the house?”

  “The door was open a bit and no one answered my knock, so I pushed it.” He wouldn’t meet Truman’s gaze. “I knew something was wrong . . . It didn’t smell right either. I called out and stepped inside. Dennis Verbeek was on the floor in the living room.” He looked down at his hands. “Blood had soaked his head and the floor. It wasn’t quite dry, but he was cold. I found Maria in the hallway. She was the same.”

  He cleared his throat and his knuckles went white as his hands tightened.

  “Maria was outside the girls’ room. I checked the twins first. They were bloody and cold like their parents, but when I touched Britta’s arm, she was still warm.”

  His gaze met Truman’s. “Those girls were beaten in the head. I don’t understand the kind of person who does that to adults, let alone helpless small girls.”

  “You called 911 from the Verbeek home?”

  “Yes. I was too scared to move Britta from the top bunk bed . . . I was afraid I’d injure her worse. She was unconscious, with a head and mouth injury. There was nothing else I could do, so I waited for the ambulance and prayed she continued to breathe.”

  “Did you know Grady Baldwin?”

  Anger filled Steve’s face. “I knew who he was. I’d never talked to him. I knew Dennis Verbeek had hired Grady to help him reroof his home a few months before.”

  “He made a pass at Maria Verbeek and got turned down?”

  “So they said.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  Steve shrugged. “I have no doubt that Grady Baldwin killed that family. They had evidence against him, but I doubt that was why he did it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  The man looked away. “I don’t care to speak ill of the dead,” he said with discomfort in his tone.

  “What if it helps someone else?”

  He looked back at Truman, his eyes serious. “This is just my opinion, but Maria wasn’t the type to attract other men.”

  “You can never tell what attracts another man.”

  Steve grimaced. “True. But Maria would never look anyone in the eye. She always seemed terrified of speaking to anyone and practically hid behind her husband. Why would Grady hit on her?”

  “Maybe he likes the victim type.”

  “Maybe.” Steve didn’t sound convinced. “I celebrated the day they put Grady Baldwin away,” he stated. “I testified at his trial, and he sat there in the courtroom, staring straight ahead, no emotion at all.” He took a deep breath. “I had to describe the condition I found those little girls. Those twins . . . Astrid and Helena . . . they were tiny girls, and their little heads had been caved in. I’ll never get that sight out of my mind. It rushes in sometimes . . . Those memories can completely knock me down for a day.” His voice cracked. “It’s gotten better over the years, but it’s not gone.”

  “I appreciate you telling me,” Truman told him, feeling guilty both for making the man revisit his hell and for talking to someone on Mercy’s review list.

  It’s not like he’s a witness in the new murder. The case he was involved in is closed.

  “I don’t know what happened to Britta. I know she went to live with an aunt or something. I tried to find her online a few years ago with no luck. I frequently wonder if she’s okay . . . if she’s a well-adjusted adult, or living on the street somewhere. I may have seen that horror, but Britta lost her family. I can’t imagine how that could affect a child.”

  The man sitting across from him wasn’t the jerk who had argued with Truman about fire hydrants. Caught up in his memories, Steve looked broken.

  “I know the FBI has been in touch with Britta,” Truman said kindly. “She’s doing okay and doesn’t live on the streets. I can’t tell you much else.” He’d had a brief phone call from Mercy after she’d talked with Britta.

  Steve raised his head and met Truman’s gaze. “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” Steve seemed lost in thought for a few moments. “I’ve wondered about her for years. I hope this helps me sleep better at night.”

  “Since the Deverell family had been murdered two months earlier, what went through your mind that day?”

  “After I found the Verbeeks, I figured right away that it was the same guy. Once the cops discovered that Grady Baldwin had worked in both homes, they knew they had a strong suspect.”

  “You said earlier that you didn’t think the motivation for the Verbeek murder was Maria Verbeek. Why do you think he did it?”

  “He was insane,” Steve said in a low voice.

  Truman knew the answer wasn’t ever that simple.

  Several hours after he left Steve Harris’s home, Truman pulled open the door to the Brick Tavern, wishing he had backup. Samuel was at least ten minutes out.

  Who gets in a bar fight in the middle of the afternoon?

  Surprisingly, the bar was brightly lit inside, and he had a clear view of two men wrestling on the floor. A few bystanders idly watched.

  “Hey, Chief.” The owner, Doug “the Brick” Breneman, appeared at his side, looking unconcerned about the brawling men. The Brick had been his wrestling name in Portland in the 1980s, when Portland Wrestling was on TV every week. He had been a local celebrity back then, and he was still built like a brick. Rectangular bald head, thick neck, and barrel torso. People had never stopped calling him Brick.

  “What happened?” Truman asked.

  “Dunno,” said Brick. “It’s the Moody brothers, Clint and Ryan.” He pointed at the men. “The one in the red shirt is Clint. They’re both pissed as hell at each other, which isn’t anything new. I tried to separate them, but I’m not as young as I used to be. Got back issues, so I turned up the lights. Usually that will stop a fight, but it didn’t work this time.”

  Truman scanned the room, checking for anyone who looked as if they would cause a problem if he separated the two men. His gaze stopped on Owen Kilpatrick, Mercy’s brother. His surprise at seeing Owen was compounded with relief at the knowledge that the man would have Truman’s back if trouble arose. Brick would too.

  Truman strode to the fighting men. Clint had
a grip on Ryan’s ear, attempting to slam his head into the floor. Ryan was kicking and punching but landing few blows. “Police! Break it up!”

  The men continued as if they hadn’t heard. The brothers were muscular and fit, but Truman had an advantage because both were severely inebriated.

  “I said break it up!” Truman grabbed Clint’s shoulder and yanked him backward. He landed on his back, his head bouncing off the floor.

  Shit.

  Ryan lunged for Clint, but Truman knocked his legs out from under him, making the man land on his chest. “I said that’s enough!” He planted a foot on the center of the man’s back and pointed at Clint. “Stay right there!” He noted Owen and Brick had both moved within an arm’s distance of Clint, ready to keep him from diving at Ryan under Truman’s foot. He lowered himself to a knee on Ryan’s back, and told him to spread his arms out on the floor and then bring the right one behind his back. Truman cuffed one wrist and asked for the other arm, which he promptly secured.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Ryan protested.

  “Bullshit,” said Brick. “Now shut up.”

  Truman left the man on the floor on his stomach and turned to Clint. “On your stomach, arms out.”

  “But Chief—”

  “Now. This is for my own safety.”

  Clint shot him a dirty look and laid his sweaty face down on the floor. Truman tried not to think about the filth of the tavern’s floor. Clint followed Truman’s orders and was quickly cuffed. Truman exhaled, letting go of some tension. Police work was full of what-ifs. His training had taught him to be prepared for any issue, how to study behavior and movements to anticipate a suspect’s next move, and that even a simple face-to-face discussion could turn deadly. People were insulted when the cuffs went on, but that was how it worked.

  Truman went back to Ryan. The man turned his head, struggling to make eye contact from his prone position on the floor, clearly drunk.

  “What happened here, Ryan?” Truman asked.

  “Nothin’,” Ryan spit out. “My brother is an asshole!”

  “You swung at me first!” Clint yelled back.