A Merciful Silence Page 9

  “Did she reply?”

  “No. My lawyer told me to stop.”

  “So the letters were reported to the police.”

  “Yeah.” Disgust filled his scratchy voice. “They investigate a letter, but they never follow up on any tips that I’ve sent them.”

  “What tips are those?”

  “Other crimes that are similar to the Verbeeks and Deverells. The cops don’t care because they already put me away for the murders. They don’t want to look like idiots and have to admit they made a mistake by arresting me.”

  Mercy fumed. “I’ve never met a detective with that attitude.”

  “Well, I’ve met plenty.”

  “If they thought your tips held any weight, they would have investigated them. Or maybe they did, and it turned out to be nothing.”

  “Nothing? You call murdered families nothing?”

  “What families?” Mercy grabbed her pen.

  “Phoenix, Arizona. The Smythes. Denver, Colorado. The Ortegas.”

  Mercy wrote down the names and cities. “These aren’t close to us at all.”

  “No, but they were close to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Britta Verbeek. Like I said, she moves around a lot. Death seems to follow her.”

  THIRTEEN

  My father was a cruel man.

  I didn’t realize this until I was older. I thought it was normal to rule a family with an iron fist.

  Mother said it was because of the war. Father had seen horrible things during the war and returned as a different person. She told me his friend had died right beside him, his blood and brains splattered on my father’s gear. My father saw dismembered bodies and people suffering from mortal wounds with no immediate help available. Countless times he had feared for his own life as he served our country. When he was finally home, he heard bombs and guns in his sleep.

  When he was able to sleep.

  My punishments for bad behavior were swift and memorable. No time allowed for explanation or excuse.

  “Discipline should be immediate,” he said. “You put other people at risk if you don’t learn what you did wrong.”

  I found this to be unfair, especially when I was punished for the actions of someone else. My father went with his own view of family squabbles. My pleas of innocence didn’t matter.

  A broken dish would warrant a spanking.

  A bike left in the driveway would result in the bike being given away.

  I never understood how these small things could put other people at risk.

  One time I dropped a bowl of spaghetti. I had finished my meal and was taking the dirty dish to the dishwasher. It slipped out of my hands. To my relief the dish didn’t break, but the leftover sauce in the bottom of the bowl splashed all over the floor and up the cupboard doors.

  A hand was immediately at the back of my neck, pushing me to the floor. “Clean it up!” A dishrag thrown on the floor in front of me.

  Of course I would clean it up.

  I started to clean, fuming because he hadn’t given me a chance to start on my own. From the corner of my eye, I saw his boots planted in a stiff stance as he watched every move I made. I rinsed the rag frequently, the red sauce difficult to get out of the grooves of the linoleum. I wiped down the cabinets and put the bowl in the dishwasher. To my eye everything looked perfect.

  I helped clear the rest of the table and believed the incident was over.

  At one in the morning, he hauled me out of bed. Bleary eyed, I stumbled down the stairs not comprehending his furious words. In the kitchen he pushed me to the floor again, and I landed hard on my hands and knees. “You missed spots!”

  I frantically looked and saw nothing. “Where?”

  He slapped the back of my head and I flinched. “Open your eyes!”

  I looked closer, running my hands across the floor, not seeing what he saw. “Where is it? I don’t see anything.” Terror shook in my bones. I knew his tone. It meant he needed to administer pain.

  His foot landed on my back, crushing me down to the floor, and my nose made a sickening crack. Blood dripped. The new spots on the floor resembled the spaghetti sauce.

  “Dammit!” he swore. “Another fucking mess.”

  Still on the floor, I slapped my hand to my nose, and pain shot to my brain at the touch.

  “Look right there!” He knelt and pointed.

  From my view on the floor I could see under the cabinet. The sauce had splashed up under the cabinet and I’d missed it. I blinked back tears, pain still rocketing from my nose. “I see it,” I mumbled, tasting blood in my mouth. My stomach heaved at the metallic flavor.

  Don’t puke, don’t puke.

  A wet dishrag dropped beside me. I shakily picked it up, keeping my other hand over my nose, feeling warm blood flow between my fingers. I scrubbed at the dried sauce until I saw no more, double- and triple-checking the area. Then I cleaned up my blood.

  He stood behind me and silently watched every move.

  I stood, rinsed out the dishrag, and then laid a clean one beside the sink from the kitchen drawer. I clenched the wet one in my hand to take to the laundry and grabbed a napkin to hold below my nose. Facing him, I stood silently, my gaze on the floor, waiting to be dismissed.

  He made me wait a full ten seconds.

  “Did you learn something?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look me in the eye when speaking to me!”

  I immediately looked up, my stomach knotting in fear. His gaze was furious, and I hated him. Despised him with every angry cell of my body.

  “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go to bed.”

  I ran. I put the dishrag in the laundry, grabbed a dark-colored bath towel, and then crawled in my bed, covering my pillow with the towel, terrified to get blood on the sheets. My legs shook for an hour. My nose throbbed, but I didn’t dare wake my mother to ask for help.

  I lay in bed and imagined the death of my father.

  FOURTEEN

  Truman realized too late that it had been a mistake to invite Royce along to Joshua Forbes’s arraignment.

  The young cop wouldn’t stop talking or asking questions. Sitting by Truman in the courthouse, Royce delivered a running commentary under his breath as the judge arraigned other defendants. Twice Truman had told him to be quiet, but the cop’s lips kept moving.

  Truman was ready for the judge to ask Royce to leave.

  Joshua sat at the front in the county jail’s bright-orange inmate clothing. His chin was up and his shoulders held stiffly back. He stood out from the other inmates, who slouched and stared at their feet. Truman hadn’t seen the sovereign citizen turn around, and he wondered if Joshua knew he was there.

  The judge called Joshua Forbes.

  “Finally,” Royce muttered.

  Truman liked Judge Parks. The older man was direct and took no bullshit from lawyers or defendants. He’d already made one defendant cry that morning.

  Joshua rose and stepped in front of the bench, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  Judge Parks looked at him over his reading glasses. “You’ve got quite a list of charges here, Mr. Forbes. No license, no registration, speeding, resisting arrest. How do you plead?”

  “I am not Joshua Forbes.”

  Even from his seat in the back, Truman could see the gleam in the judge’s eye at Joshua’s statement. Joshua didn’t know what he was up against.

  “Well, who are you?”

  “I am the representative of Joshua Forbes. I’m here to challenge the jurisdiction of this court,” Joshua announced. “It has no authority over me.”

  “What the hell?” Royce whispered.

  Truman shushed him.

  “Why is that, Mr. Forbes?” The judge’s tone was polite.

  “This is a maritime admiralty court—”

  “No, it’s not,” shot back the judge.

  “Maritime?” Royce asked. “Do
es he mean like in the ocean?”

  “I have no idea,” whispered Truman.

  “Is this a common-law court?” Joshua asked.

  “No.”

  “I am not accountable to your laws.”

  “The laws apply to everybody,” answered the judge.

  “I am not a US citizen. I am sovereign under God.”

  Royce started coughing uncontrollably, and Truman slapped him on the back, glancing at the judge. The judge was focused on Joshua.

  The judge removed his reading glasses. “Is that a not-guilty plea on the charges?”

  “I will not plead. I am only here to challenge jurisdiction.”

  “When there is no plea, I enter a plea of not guilty for you,” said the judge. “Do you have an attorney to represent you at trial?”

  “No. I will represent myself.”

  “This court strongly recommends you have an attorney.”

  “There is no need. I know my rights.”

  The judge sighed. “Of course you do.” He proceeded to schedule a trial for Joshua and dismissed him.

  Truman didn’t miss the stunned look on Joshua’s face.

  “Did he really think the judge would dismiss the charges?” Royce whispered behind his hand to Truman.

  “Of course he did. Just like he believed his diplomatic license gave him the right to drive however he wanted,” Truman answered. He stood. “We’re done here.”

  “Mercy, you’ve got a visitor,” the FBI office manager, Melissa, stated as she stepped through Mercy’s open door.

  “Who is it?” Mercy glanced up from her computer screen, where she’d been searching for information on the out-of-state murders that Grady Baldwin had told her about. They existed, but public details were scarce. She’d have to contact sources in both cities for more information.

  “She wouldn’t give her name. But she’s got black hair and a Lab with her.”

  Britta.

  Mercy pushed back her chair and followed Melissa out front. Britta Vale sat in the small waiting area, Zara at her side. Again Mercy noted Britta’s constant stroking of the dog and wondered if the dog always accompanied her. Zara didn’t wear one of the service animal vests that Mercy always viewed with skepticism. Anyone could order a vest off the internet.

  The tall woman was dressed for the rain in boots and a hooded jacket, her neck tattoo barely visible. Raindrops glittered on Zara’s fur, and she had wagged her tail as Mercy entered the room. Mercy greeted Britta and patted Zara’s head.

  “Can I talk to you outside?” Britta asked as she glanced at Melissa, who’d returned to her desk behind a glass window.

  “It’s raining,” said Mercy, curious as to what the woman wanted. “Why don’t you come to my office?”

  “I’d rather not. Right outside the door is a covered area.”

  Mercy agreed and buttoned up her thick cardigan as she followed Britta. Outdoors, the woman had a hard time looking Mercy in the eye. “What is it?” Mercy finally asked.

  Britta took a breath and met Mercy’s gaze. “Someone was outside my home last night. Do you know who it was?”

  Mercy stiffened. “No. What happened? Did they threaten you or do some damage?”

  “Nothing happened. I think they left when Zara barked.” The woman’s throat moved as she swallowed. “I’d hoped you’d know if it was some sort of police investigation.”

  “They would have come to your front door like I did. Why do you suspect the police?”

  “I don’t. I just hoped . . . I don’t like to think of the alternative.” She bent over to rub Zara’s head.

  “Tell me what happened,” Mercy ordered.

  Grady Baldwin said his brother kept tabs on Britta through the internet. Has he changed to doing it in person?

  “It was about two in the morning. Zara went crazy barking and jumping at the front door. I’d installed a lot of outside lights, so I have a good view right around the house. I looked out, expecting to see a coyote or cougar, but I didn’t see anything.” She swallowed again. “But I couldn’t see beyond the lighted area. It was pitch-dark last night.”

  Mercy waited. She wouldn’t come to me with a possible coyote sighting.

  “This morning, when I let Zara out, she immediately headed to the orchard on the east side of the house. I had her on a leash because I didn’t want her taking off after a cougar trail.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Boot prints under a tree. I don’t think they got any closer to the house than that.”

  “That was plenty close. Could you see more tracks?”

  “I followed them for a little bit, going in the direction of the main road, but then the prints disappeared because the rain washed them away except for right under the trees.”

  “Did Zara try to follow the prints?”

  “She led me all the way to the road, where she stopped. I think they parked on the road and walked in.”

  “Someone knew exactly where they were going,” Mercy added.

  It’s the right decision to contact Grady’s brother soon.

  She was pleased Britta had come to her with her concern. Even if Britta didn’t admit it, on some level the woman trusted her. “How is the security at your home?”

  “The best. It’s the one thing I sank money into before moving in. I don’t rent a place unless the owner agrees that I can add new locks, outside lights, and a security system. I need it for peace of mind.”

  Mercy understood the turmoil on Britta’s face. She had her own needs for peace of mind. Knowing that her cabin wasn’t rebuilt yet was giving her a low level of constant stress. The supplies are still up there. And makeshift sleeping quarters.

  But it wasn’t the same as the solid four walls of her cabin.

  “What are you going to do?” Mercy asked.

  Frustration crossed Britta’s face. “I don’t want to move again already. I’m prepared to protect myself if needed.”

  Mercy frowned. “Britta . . . do you have a suspicion of who it was?”

  “No.”

  Her answer was too quick for Mercy. And most people wouldn’t consider moving just because they’d found the footprints of a prowler. She decided to take a risk. “Britta, have you ever been contacted by Grady Baldwin?”

  Her gaze flew to Mercy’s, and Mercy knew she was about to lie. But Britta pressed her lips together for several seconds. “A long time ago he sent letters to my aunt. I was still a kid. My aunt didn’t tell me about them, but I found them. I think she reported them to the police, because they stopped.”

  “You didn’t tell your aunt you found them?”

  “No.”

  “What did Grady write?”

  Britta looked away. “He wanted me to tell the truth about what I’d seen that night. He believed I knew things that would set him free.”

  “Do you?”

  She met Mercy’s gaze again. “No. I remember nothing.” She zipped up her jacket a few inches to her chin and rearranged her grip on Zara’s leash.

  “I think we should talk inside,” suggested Mercy.

  “No. It was stifling in there. The rooms are too small.”

  Mercy agreed. Both the waiting area and her office were definitely not roomy. “How many times have you moved since the murders?” She knew the answer, but she wanted to open the subject with Britta.

  Britta’s brows came together. “Why?”

  “I’m trying to understand what your life has been like.” Grady Baldwin’s claims of similar murders in those other cities went through Mercy’s head. She wasn’t about to mention them to Britta before she finished investigating.

  Britta raised one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “I haven’t kept count.”

  “You told me before that you move when you feel uneasy in a location. Were your other homes approached like last night?”

  The woman paused, holding Mercy’s gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “I’m a
single woman living alone, although I’ve lived with other people at times in the past.”

  “Roommates? Boyfriends?”

  “Both.”

  “Did they think there had been prowlers?”

  “No one ever saw anything, but everyone always agreed it was possible because we lived in suburban areas. This is the first time I’ve lived out in the country.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Besides my rifle, I own a handgun and keep it beside my bed. I practice once a month.”

  Mercy wasn’t surprised.

  “Did you figure out the identities of the remains you found?” Britta asked. “The ones with the . . . damaged skulls?”

  “Not yet.” Mercy watched her closely. The identification of the children hadn’t been released to the press yet.

  “I can’t get the thought of them out of my head,” Britta said angrily. “Why did you tell me about them the other day?” Accusation shot from her tone and gaze.

  “I can’t stop thinking about them either,” Mercy admitted. “You know I told you in hopes that you could help us out. The way they were murdered was too similar . . .” To your family.

  “I know nothing. I knew nothing as a ten-year-old, and I know nothing today.” Desperation permeated her tone.

  The emphasis of Britta’s words struck Mercy’s bullshit meter. Britta was trying too hard to make her point.

  Grady Baldwin was right. What is she scared of?

  FIFTEEN

  That afternoon, Mercy stared at the red spray paint that now coated the edge of the concrete culvert. The vandal had also sprayed the wet dirt, but the paint hadn’t stuck very well. Broken beer bottles covered the area, the crime scene tape had been ripped down, and the wood stakes marking the search area had been ripped out and tossed aside.

  Mercy was at the crime scene to meet Dr. Peres because a second group of bones had been found farther down the hill. She sighed at the disrespectful damage.

  Dr. Peres was grim. “Pissed me off when I found it.”

  “I can’t say it pleases me,” said Mercy, wiping from her nose the rain that had sneaked past her hood. “But no one had the manpower to keep a watch here twenty-four seven. At least all the initial evidence had been removed.”