TWENTY-THREE
Truman was tired of seeing murdered old men.
Three days ago he’d hauled Anders Beebe into a holding cell for driving drunk.
Today he was dead.
He stood in the kitchen doorway of Anders’s home and kept his anger in check as the county’s crime tech photographed every element of the scene. Across the room, Mercy and Eddie watched the photographer move about the area. A county deputy had called Truman at six this morning, and he’d immediately called Mercy to share the news of the Beebe murder.
Her voice had been full of sleep when she answered her cell phone. But she’d come to her senses instantly. “Why are you calling us, Truman? This sounds like it’s a county case.”
“It is. Let’s just say the sheriff is a little slow to see the connection to your other cases, so he hasn’t called the FBI yet. Consider my phone call a favor to him.”
“Eddie and I will be there in thirty minutes.”
Sheriff Ward Rhodes had covered his ass as the agents showed up at the Beebe home, telling Mercy and Eddie he was just about to call them. He was on the phone and waved his hand at the house. “Take a look.” And went back to his phone call.
Mercy had smiled to the sheriff’s face, but rolled her eyes behind his back. Eddie had spotted it and poked her in the ribs. She’d batted his hand away.
Their casual closeness made Truman envious. When was the last time I had someone to banter with like that?
Mercy had caught him watching them and winked.
His breath caught.
Special Agent Kilpatrick had amazing eyes.
She’s rather amazing all around. Sharp. Driven. Intelligent.
Yesterday she’d shown an emotional side that’d raised his concerns, but he still believed she was as motivated as he to find the killer.
Someone who’d now killed four men within a few weeks.
Anders Beebe had been shot several times in the chest. His blood covered the floor of the kitchen, and faint spray coated several cabinets.
“This scene seems different than the other scenes,” said Mercy. “It feels rushed. Like he didn’t find what he expected when he entered the house. No one else was shot to death in their kitchen. Even with Jefferson Biggs, it appeared they had a drink before he became suspicious.”
“I agree,” said Eddie. “Especially since Anders fired a weapon at our suspect. Our guy was the aggressor in our other scenes. What went wrong this time?”
“Come look back here.” Truman gestured for the agents to follow him. They trailed him down a long hallway to a small room at the back of the house. In the closet a gun safe stood wide open. And full of guns.
“He didn’t take the weapons.” Mercy looked stunned. “Was he scared off?”
“Anders Beebe’s sister showed up at five this morning to drive him to Portland for a doctor’s visit later this morning.”
“All the way in Portland?” asked Eddie.
“A cancer specialist.”
“Oh.” Agent Peterson pushed on the nose of his glasses. “So it’s possible she interrupted something.”
“She said her brother was warm when she found him, but she didn’t hear anyone else or see anyone leave.”
“How about another vehicle?”
Truman shook his head. “Did you see the number of cars out front? Most of them look like they haven’t run in thirty years.” Anders Beebe had liked to tinker with vehicles, and he’d never turned away a car that someone wanted to simply drop off and forget. The front acre of his property was a vehicle graveyard. “His sister said it was dark, and she didn’t even look at the other vehicles. She’s used to driving around several dozen cars to make her way to his home.”
“Perfect camouflage to park his car,” muttered Mercy. “Is anything missing from the home?”
“The sister said she doesn’t know. She comes to Anders’s home about once every other month, and she claims it’s always a mess.” Truman looked around the room and agreed. Boxes and bins were haphazardly stacked along every wall. Mercy flipped open the lid of the one closest to her and glanced inside.
“Towels,” she said. “I guess no one wants to run out of towels. Ugh. They stink.” She closed the lid. Distaste crossed her face.
Truman understood why her reaction to Anders Beebe’s prepping was completely different from her reaction to his uncle’s. His uncle had been neat and organized and clean. This house was a fire hazard of piles and emitted a bad, sour smell. As if damp things hadn’t dried out in a few years. His uncle’s home was a palace compared to this.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Mercy asked.
Truman had been waiting for her to ask. He was surprised it hadn’t been the first thing she’d asked when she arrived, and suspected she’d simply been biding her time. He pointed across the hall, and she and Eddie crossed out of the room. That familiar lemon scent reached Truman as the agents passed him. A spot of sunshine in the gloomy home.
No way is that Agent Peterson’s scent.
The two agents stared at the broken bathroom mirror for several seconds. “Are there any more?” Mercy asked, her green gaze meeting his.
“That’s the only bathroom. I haven’t found any other small mirrors.”
“This is different too,” Eddie added. “It’s barely cracked. The other mirrors were destroyed.”
Mercy stared at the mirror. “Is it because he was interrupted? Or his heart wasn’t in it? What if it’s been cracked for decades?”
“Could someone else have done it?” Truman finally asked what he’d been thinking since he first walked the scene. “Do we have a copycat? Nothing is quite what we expected.”
Mercy and Eddie exchanged a glance. Both gave small shrugs. They appeared as stumped as he was.
“We’ll treat it as being connected,” said Eddie. “But we can’t rule out that any of these crimes were done by more than one person.”
“Is the sister still here?” Mercy asked.
“I think so. One of the county deputies was walking the property outside with her, looking for anything missing or odd.” He led the agents out of the house and paused on the front porch, looking for Jane Beebe.
“What a bunch of junk,” Eddie said, looking over the sea of vehicles. “I understand liking to tinker with cars and even collecting cars, but this is hoarding. Just like inside. These cars are a bunch of crap. Probably a half-dozen environmental laws are being broken too.”
Truman silently agreed. Most of the vehicles were covered in rust. Windshields and wheels missing.
“Another man’s treasure,” said Mercy.
“He’s lucky he doesn’t have close neighbors and that the vehicles aren’t visible from the road,” Eddie added. “I don’t envy the people who have to clean this up.”
“Maybe they’ll find a trunk full of gold,” suggested Mercy.
“Good luck,” said her partner.
“That’s Jane,” said Truman, spotting the woman and a deputy as they came through a gate to the back of the property. The woman was tall and slender, and she moved with an effortless confidence even though the knees of her jeans were dark with blood. She spotted the group watching her and moved their way.
“What have you found out?” Her voice was as confident as her posture. Her gaze swept over the FBI agents.
Truman made introductions.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Mercy said as she shook the older woman’s hand. “I understand you don’t come out to the property that often?”
Truman couldn’t help but compare the two women as they stood face-to-face on the porch. Both were tall, with stubborn chins and a very direct manner. Jane seemed to recognize a kindred soul in Agent Kilpatrick and directed her words to her.
“That’s correct. Anders was getting up there in years and took decent care of himself. I don’t think he ate or bathed as often as he should, but he didn’t like me coming around and nagging him . . . as he put it. So I kept my visits to a minimum. He wasn’t a very social old coot.”
Truman agreed. His encounters with Anders Beebe had been full of suspicion on the old man’s part. He’d spent most of his time with the police chief arguing random bits of law in a way that made Truman’s head hurt.
“Was Anders having problems with anyone? Had he argued with a neighbor?” Eddie asked.
Jane stared at him. “A neighbor? Isn’t this clearly the work of the same murderer as those other three preppers in the last few weeks? Why are you asking about neighbors when you should be looking for who killed those other men?”
Truman hid a grin. Jane wasn’t a pushover.
Eddie backpedaled. “We’re doing that. But we always ask in case this isn’t what it appears to be at first glance. If you told me a neighbor had come over with a rifle and threatened Anders yesterday, we’d follow that lead first, no matter how similar it was to the other crimes.” His smile looked forced.
“No fights that I’ve heard of.” Jane sniffed. “Anders would need to leave the house to make enemies. He didn’t leave very often. He liked being alone.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” added Mercy. “Did you notice anything missing from the property during your walk with the deputy?”
Jane sighed. “I noticed that my brother was letting things rot to shit.”
Mercy smiled at the woman’s language. “That doesn’t sound like someone who strives to be prepared.”
“He was a damned prepper. No need to use soft language around me.” Jane gestured at the acre of cars. “He was also a hoarder and believed in every conspiracy theory under the sun. A glorious trifecta. Thank the Lord he wasn’t on social media. It would have filled his mind with a million other theories. He was convinced his cancer came from his smallpox vaccination because the government worried the country was getting too crowded and that was a good way to thin it out.”
“That’s an awfully long-term plan,” said Eddie.
Jane turned faded-blue eyes his way. “He was nuts, but I found most of his theories quite entertaining.”
“I understand you didn’t see anyone leave when you arrived this morning,” said Mercy. “We think you might have scared him away.”
“You’d think Anders’s shooting at him would have scared him away,” said Jane. “I was happy to see he got off a few shots at his killer. Did you find any blood that didn’t belong to my brother? I hope the shooter’s bleeding out in the forest somewhere.”
“That would help us greatly,” agreed Mercy. “They’ll examine all the blood spatter, but I didn’t see a trail that left the kitchen. If the killer bled from a gunshot, it didn’t happen in the house.”
“He was expecting him, you know,” Jane said matter-of-factly, looking at Truman.
Truman stilled. “What do you mean?”
“When I talked to Anders yesterday about his appointment, he said he was expecting someone to try to come kill him in his sleep like the other preppers. He said, ‘I’m old, I’m alone, I prep, and I have a lot of guns. He’s probably already sniffing around my land.’”
Truman didn’t know what to say. “Did he have any evidence he was being watched? Was there something that led him to believe he was a target?”
“He fits the description of the other victims,” said Jane. “That was enough for him. They talk, you know . . . all these old guys with nothing better to do. Get a bunch of them together and they’re a bunch of hens. The latest rumor Anders told me was that there was a cave man who lived in the forest and targeted them, wanting their supplies.” Guilt crossed her face. “I told him no one wanted his crap. What would a cave man do with all his old cars?”
“Cave man,” Truman repeated. That’s three times I’ve heard that rumor this week. From three very different sources.
“Someone else mentioned a cave man in regard to another case,” Mercy said. “Had Anders ever mentioned it before yesterday?”
“Not a cave man. Little green men, yes. G-men in black suits with dark glasses, yes. You see why I don’t take his concerns too seriously.”
“Were there any other reasons Anders believed he’d be targeted by this cave man? Any strange encounters?” asked Eddie.
“He didn’t believe he would be specifically targeted,” Jane said in a schoolteacher voice. “He was being prepared. It’s what he does,” she added simply. “Just as he was prepared for the water supply to be poisoned. He was also prepared for a personal home-invasion-type attack.”
The agents looked at Truman. Anders’s preparation hadn’t been enough.
“Are there dozens of men in our area waiting for someone to break into their home?” Truman asked softly. Waiting on a cave man to attack?
“Wouldn’t you be?” Mercy asked. “If three women who lived my lifestyle had been targeted in my area, I’d be looking over my shoulder. I think that’s expected behavior.”
“We’re going to end up with a rash of people getting shot in the middle of the night,” muttered Truman.
“If someone’s breaking into my home in the middle of nowhere, they have it coming,” said Eddie.
The agent had a point.