TWENTY
Truman sat at his desk, looking at the broken-mirrors photos from Ned Fahey’s and Enoch Finch’s homes. He’d memorized the photos from Uncle Jefferson’s home. Now he stared at the others, searching for something in common and wondering if he could figure out what had been used to break the mirrors.
Bullets had destroyed the mirrors in Jefferson’s home. Just as they’d destroyed his uncle.
But no bullets had been found behind the mirrors in the other two homes.
Why hadn’t anyone else connected the mirrors from the old cases yet? Surely there was a police officer or county deputy who recalled that detail. Why had it been pointed out by someone who’d been a teenager at the time?
Coincidence?
If Mercy Kilpatrick hadn’t been assigned to the murders, would those two old cases still be sitting in the file room? Waiting for Lucas to run a duster over their box?
Truman didn’t believe in coincidences. Not yet, anyway.
He laid out all the broken-mirror pictures on his desk. Five different cases. Fourteen different pictures. The glass of each small accessory mirror had fallen out of its frame, but the bathroom mirrors had stayed glued in place. Except for in one of the Vargas bathrooms, where the mirror had been a medicine cabinet door and it’d crumbled to pieces across the counter.
Did the same person cause all this destruction?
Why?
Truman wanted to bang his head on his desk. It would be as helpful as staring at pictures.
“Chief?” Royce Gibson stepped into his office. “You wanted an update on the agents?”
A pang of guilt struck Truman’s chest. “Sure.”
“Special Agent Peterson headed in the direction of Bend. I assume he’s going to the FBI office. Special Agent Kilpatrick headed out on Route Eighty-Two this morning. I didn’t follow either of them outside the city limits.”
Truman thought for a minute. “Rick Turner lives off Eighty-Two, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mercy had been headed toward her sister’s house. Truman wondered if she was nervous. She hadn’t said much about her sister that morning, but Truman had put enough pieces together to know it wasn’t going to be an easy visit.
“Thanks, Royce.”
The cop lingered in the doorway, shifting from one foot to another and letting his gaze roam about the room.
“Is there something else?” Suspicion prickled at the back of Truman’s neck.
“It might be stupid.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Royce fidgeted some more. “There’re rumors going about. Not a lot, but I’ve heard it three times now. And everyone says they don’t know if it’s true.”
“What is it, Royce?” Eagle’s Nest thrived on rumor. Truman got some of his best information from the gossip chain. Along with a lot of garbage.
“Ever hear of the cave man?” he asked in a wavering voice.
Truman raised a brow. Ina’s cave man?
Royce’s face turned red and he studied his shoes. “You said to tell you everything.”
“Spit it out.”
The cop managed to look him in the eye. “I heard some hunters spotted weapons near a cave along with signs of someone living there. They left quickly, afraid they’d stumbled onto personal property.”
“When? What hunters?” Truman barked.
“Don’t know. The hunters were from the other side of the Cascades. They mentioned it in passing somewhere in town, asking if anyone lived in a cave around here. With all the talk about the weapons stolen lately, I thought it might be important.”
Truman sat silently. Hunters? Telling stories in the bar? “Anyone else ever mention a cave man?”
Royce looked at his shoes again.
Truman waited.
“There were always stories passed around. Someone would say they’d seen some creepy guy who lived in the forest. No one ever claimed he had a bunch of weapons. But they always said he’d shoot at you.”
“Stories? Like rumors you tell in high school?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Truman counted to ten. “Can you be more specific, Royce? Can you remember the name of someone who actually saw this cave man or his weapons?”
Royce looked miserable. “Like I said, it’s just rumors. But I thought the hunters saying they’d seen the same thing added some credibility.”
“Is the hunter story recent?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit.” He eyed the young cop. “Can you try to track down the story? Start with the bartenders and waiters. Maybe Sandy at the B&B. Try to find someone who remembers hearing it from the hunters’ actual mouths . . . not their drinking buddies. Try to pinpoint some sort of location too. Surely you guys who went to high school together know one section of the forest that everyone avoids, right? Sometimes rumors evolve from facts. Let’s figure out what’s what.”
The cop nodded eagerly. “I’ll get right on it.” He gave a minisalute and strode down the hallway with a sense of purpose.
Did I just send an officer to chase a figment of an alcohol-fueled imagination?
It didn’t matter. Any bit of information needed to be taken seriously, and this wasn’t the first time he’d heard of the cave man. Truman wasn’t above following up on rumors of a cave man with a cache of weapons.
His phone rang.
“Truman Daly.”
“Chief? This is Natasha Lockhart from the ME’s office.”
Truman pictured the petite medical examiner. His uncle’s death had been his first encounter with her. She’d come across as highly competent and driven. Good qualities to have in her job.
“Yes, Dr. Lockhart, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve sent you an e-mail along with the FBI and Deschutes County, but I wanted to talk to you because I know this is personal.”
His stomach-acid level suddenly tripled.
“Some of the lab work on Enoch Finch and your uncle came back. You know certain tests can take a few weeks, right? I analyze some tissues at our office, but I typically send out for more in-depth testing.”
“Right.” Get on with it.
“Enoch Finch had traces of Rohypnol in his blood work. Your uncle had the same in his system.”
Truman was silent. Jefferson Biggs had preached against all prescription medications. He believed the pharmaceutical companies brainwashed people to believe they needed chemicals. A conspiracy to take Americans’ money and keep them addicted to their products. Had his uncle lied to him? Preached against medications while popping pills in his bathroom? He wouldn’t be the first hypocrite Truman had encountered.
But this was his uncle. He firmly believed the man had never lied to him.
“Truman?”
“I’m here. You’re checking Ned Fahey for the same medication?”
“I am.” She paused. “Your uncle’s meds actually turned up in his stomach contents. He’d just taken it.”
Truman remembered the two glasses on his uncle’s kitchen counter. He knew there’d been Scotch in both glasses, an indication Jefferson had shared a drink with someone that evening. The glasses had been printed, but only his uncle’s prints had been found. One of the glasses had no prints.
Had the killer been close enough to Jefferson to share a drink first?
And then coolly wipe down his glass before he left?
“I have an idea of how the drug might have gotten in his system,” Truman said slowly. “He wasn’t one to take medication.”
“Wherever it came from, it’s odd that both men had it.”
“Agreed.” Truman chatted with the ME for another minute and then ended the call. He headed down the hall to the evidence locker, to the stack of evidence boxes from his uncle’s murder. After a few moments of searching, he found the bag with the two glasses. He slipped on a pair of vinyl gloves and broke the seal to examine the glasses. Fine black fingerprint powder still coated them.
He held one to his nose and sniffed. The odor of Scotch still lingered.
Could they find the medication in the dried residue on the glasses?
It was worth a shot.
His uncle wasn’t a liar. Someone would have had to trick him to get drugs into his body.
Someone he was willing to share a drink with.