SEVENTEEN
“The broken mirrors at my uncle’s made you think of these old murder cases?” Truman asked the next morning.
Mercy raised her chin, feeling slightly ridiculous after telling Truman about the two old Eagle’s Nest cases. Her chair in Truman’s office was quite low, and he stood with his arms crossed, looking down at her. His expression was bland, but his tone said he was struggling to process the connection between the cases she’d shared and their newly murdered preppers. She was exhausted, operating on three hours of sleep, but she wasn’t about to let the chief know it. “Yes. The broken mirrors stuck with me. The second victim was my sister Pearl’s best friend.”
“What year was it?”
Mercy told him, and he called Lucas into his office. The cheery young man immediately appeared at the door. “Whatcha need, boss?”
“I need the file on two cases from fifteen years ago. I assume nothing was computerized back then?”
Lucas shook his head. “No, but everything should be neatly boxed up back in the storage room. If you give me a name, I can find the file number easy enough. That part’s computerized.”
Truman looked at Mercy.
“Jennifer Sanders.”
Lucas nodded and vanished.
“I don’t know a Sanders family in town yet. Do they still live here?” Truman asked.
Mercy raised a brow at him.
“Oh, right. You haven’t been around lately. We’ll know soon enough. Lucas doesn’t know the entire town the way Ina did, but he’s trying hard to catch up.”
A man knocked lightly on the jamb of Truman’s open door. “Hey, Chief, you got a minute?”
Mercy looked over her shoulder. Her gaze landed on the man’s clerical collar and then climbed to his face. He wore a heavy leather jacket and faded jeans with a sports cap pulled low on his face. Her brain couldn’t connect the collar with the face. Something was off.
“What can I do for you, David?”
David nodded at Mercy with a polite smile and then turned to Truman. “I was looking—”
He stopped, and his gaze shot back to Mercy. Confusion raced over his features, and Mercy silently sighed. This is getting old. She stood and held out her hand. “Mercy Kilpatrick.”
David’s mouth opened, but no noise came out as he shook her hand.
Then she recognized him. David Aguirre had been a close buddy of her brother Owen. No wonder her brain wouldn’t connect the collar with the face; David had been a wild hell-raiser in his youth. She was stunned that he now worked behind a pulpit instead of living behind bars.
“Mercy? Holy cow. I haven’t seen you in ages.” A wide grin crossed his face.
“Nice to see you, David.” She nodded at his collar. “I see you’ve left behind your hellfire ways.”
“Absolutely. God got a hold of me before I dug my own grave.” A pious look crossed his face and his tone lowered, his gaze becoming concerned. “And how are you?”
Her faith was no business of his. To Mercy he’d always be the asshole who’d shot BBs at her chickens and landed her brother in jail for underage drinking. She didn’t care who he was now.
“Very well, thank you. You were about to ask the chief something?”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . did you find out who keeps ticketing the cars parked on the south side of the church?”
“I did. And I looked it over, David. The sign at the far end of the block clearly says no parking. You’ll need to tell people not to park by the yellow curb. Even on Sundays. No exceptions. It’s a safety issue.”
Annoyance flashed in David’s eyes, triggering several memories for Mercy. He’d had a quick temper in the past, often striking out with his fists before thinking. Apparently he still had the temper but had learned a semblance of control.
Praise God.
“Got it,” David said. He looked back to Mercy. “You in town for long?” His enthusiasm at seeing her had waned. Mercy wondered if he’d remembered the time she’d kicked him in the groin for fighting with her brother.
“Not long. Good seeing you.”
He touched the brim of his cap and vanished.
She turned to find Truman looking expectantly at her. “He was best friends with Owen,” she said.
“Still is, I believe. You know more people in town than I do.” His brown eyes studied her, curiosity hovering.
“The files?” she reminded him.
Lucas appeared and held out a sticky note. “Here’s the case number, the box number, and which shelf you’ll find it on. I saw Jennifer Sanders was cross-referenced with another woman’s name, Gwen Vargas. Her file is in the same box if you need it.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Lucas.” She took the note.
Truman came around to the front of the desk and deftly plucked the yellow piece of paper from her fingers. “Let’s take a look.”
Truman immediately noticed that someone had cleaned up the records and evidence storage room. Lucas. He made a mental note to buy him a latte. Ina Smythe had always kept the room well organized, but someone had swept out all the dust bunnies and spiderwebs that’d formed. His department didn’t collect a lot of evidence; mostly they handed out tickets and took the role of a cool head in disputes. Truman figured he hadn’t set foot in the evidence and file room in over a month. The file box was exactly where Lucas had indicated it would be. The large room was packed with rows of ceiling-to-floor shelves stuffed full with boxes and evidence. They found the box in the second-to-last row, right at eye level. Truman grabbed the entire box. Mercy stopped him with a hand on his arm, eyeing the label on the front.
“According to this, there are six different cases assigned to this single box.”
Truman looked. “And?”
“Two of these are murder cases and that’s all the evidence and case notes?”
“Maybe the other cases are shoplifting. Skinny files. We store the bulky evidence somewhere else. There could be a reference inside the box to other storage.”
Mercy looked resigned. “Maybe.”
Truman understood. Two women had been murdered. A person would expect to find tons of evidence and notes on the case. Something that showed the police had exhausted every lead. A single box that held six cases didn’t give confidence.
He directed her down a hall to the small room he’d offered for their investigation. Neither she nor Special Agent Peterson had made use of the room yet, and Truman figured it was time. He’d already learned that Jennifer Sanders’s and Gwen Vargas’s murders had been handled solely by the Eagle’s Nest PD. Truman was slightly stunned. Why didn’t the chief ask the state or county for help?
Truman’s department resources were pretty small, leading him to assume that fifteen years ago they had been even smaller. What had made the chief confident his department could handle two murders? And the cases were still unsolved. Where was the follow-up?
That chief had passed away ten years ago. Truman wished Ben Cooley was back from Mexico. Cooley had been a cop in Eagle’s Nest for thirty years but was currently in Puerto Vallarta for his fiftieth wedding anniversary. He wouldn’t be back on the job until next week. Truman hoped he’d gotten an international calling plan for his cell phone. He might need to call the older officer.
He set the box on the table and lifted the lid. Inside, the six cases were individually sealed. He’d been right that the other four cases were represented by small files. They barely took up two inches of space. The other two cases had multiple notebooks and manila envelopes in their sealed plastic covers. He grabbed the largest one, which matched the case number on Lucas’s sticky note, unsealed it, and handed it to Mercy. “Nothing leaves this room.”
“Of course not.” She pulled out a chair and immediately started flipping through the biggest notebook. It was the Jennifer Sanders murder book. Autopsy report, evidence reports, all officer notes, photos. A copy of every piece of the paper trail from the case was in the notebook or referenced. Truman read over Mercy’s shoulder for a few moments. Long enough to learn that Jennifer had died a horrible death. A senior school photo was in the front of the book. Jennifer had had long, dark hair and an incredible smile. It was a startling contrast to the images of her dead body, with its swollen face and purple lividity on the bare limbs.
He saw Mercy pause at a candid photo of Jennifer with three other laughing girls. Mercy slipped it out of its plastic envelope, flipped it over, scanned the names written on the back, and looked at the photo again. Truman read fast enough to know that the second girl was Mercy’s sister Pearl. He leaned closer. The Pearl he knew today no longer looked like that vibrant teenager.
What is Mercy thinking?
He pulled the second fat case out of the box, checked the remaining cases to be certain they were still sealed, and ran his fingertips along the bottom of the box to check for any loose papers. All clean. He set the lid on the box and pushed it away, then sat down to open the second packet, placing plenty of space between himself and Mercy. Every piece of paper should be labeled with a case number, but he wasn’t taking any chances on mixing things up between the two.
Gwen Vargas had been twenty-two. Truman skimmed through her book, noting that Mercy had been right that she’d been strangled and raped. Photos of the scene showed a broken hand mirror on a small table in Gwen’s bedroom, and shattered mirrors in her bathroom and her parents’ bathroom.
Why?
According to the officer’s notes, Gwen had been home alone. Her father and mother found her when they returned home late that night from a rodeo. Her boyfriend had been at the same rodeo and was alibied by several witnesses. The officer had written that the boyfriend’s grief appeared sincere. Truman looked at the officer’s signature and smiled. Ben Cooley. At least he had one person he could ask about the investigation. He flipped through the book. Interviews. Pictures. Outside of the boyfriend, there didn’t seem to be any suspects.
No other suspects?
“Anything jump out at you?” Mercy asked, her gaze still on Jennifer’s murder book.
“Not yet. Where was Jennifer killed?”
“Her apartment. Her roommate had moved out two weeks before.”
“How many broken mirrors?” he asked.
Mercy flipped a few pages. “Four. Two bathrooms and two other small mirrors in the apartment.”
“What’d he strangle her with?”
“His hands,” Mercy said shortly.
“Same happened with this one. Left naked?”
“Yes.”
Truman took some time to carefully read the fingerprint report. “This fingerprint report is no help. And it’s been noted that there’s no crossover with Jennifer’s case. Both murders had several unidentifiable prints, but they weren’t present at both scenes.”
Mercy nodded. “But so much else is the same. It must have been done by the same person. This autopsy report says there was no semen to examine from the rape. He must have worn a condom.”
“I saw the same results in Gwen’s report. Someone came prepared. I wonder if the police looked into other rapes or attempted rapes in the surrounding areas.”
Mercy looked up, her green eyes wide. “Lord, I hope they did. That seems like a basic step.”
“I’m sure that’s noted in here somewhere. I spotted the signature of one of my men in this book. He’s out of town right now, but I can call him if we have questions. He’s pretty sharp for seventy. I have no doubt he remembers these cases.”
“I suspect everyone in town remembers these cases,” said Mercy. “Nothing rocked the community like these girls’ deaths did.”
“And still unsolved after all these years. I assume there are no obvious suspects in your notes?” Truman asked quietly.
Mercy shook her head.
He flipped to the back of Gwen’s book. “I don’t see any follow-up records. How about yours?”
Mercy scanned through her book. “None. No one did anything? That’s unheard of. Someone should have talked to the people involved every few years to see if they remembered anything new. What about the families? Surely they hounded the police to not give up!” She gave Truman a stricken look, and he was surprised by the dark circles under her eyes. “Why? Why no follow-up?”
Defensiveness rose in his chest. A need to stick up for his department even though he’d been in charge only six months. Instead he shrugged. “Few man-hours. Other investigations. Turnover.”
“Unacceptable,” muttered Mercy, looking back at the senior picture of Jennifer Sanders. “Someone should be fired.”
“Ben Cooley is the only one left from that era. Hell if I’m firing him. He’s been invaluable to me.” An image of the older officer’s kind smile popped into Truman’s head. “He’s not one to take initiative, but he’s incredibly solid and excellent at following orders. Very thorough.”
“The first thing we need to do is follow up with the people who were close to these girls,” stated Mercy.
“You’re here to focus on the three current murders,” Truman pointed out. “Outside of the broken mirrors, I don’t see anything to connect these to your current cases.” His internal fire to solve his uncle’s murder was driving him to keep the FBI on track. So far Mercy appeared to be a solid investigator, but she was getting distracted by history.
Maybe I should be dealing with her partner.
He studied the woman at the table. Was she too close to the old cases? She’d been here two days and already looked exhausted. Had the FBI sent the right person to help solve these crimes?
“I know,” she said. “Eddie is going over the Enoch Finch case with Deschutes County today. I’m currently waiting to hear more from the medical examiner about Ned Fahey, and one of our analysts is searching places where the stolen weapons might have been sold.”
Truman didn’t tell her he’d already gone through the Finch investigation with a fine-tooth comb. Once he’d seen the connection between his uncle and Enoch Finch, he’d immediately contacted Deschutes County to share notes. He hadn’t spotted any new leads or possible avenues that the county investigators had missed. Hopefully, Special Agent Peterson would spot something new.
“Are the two of you moving into the bed-and-breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes. We need to be out of the motel before eleven.” She didn’t look up from her pages.
“That motel is horrible.”
“It’s not so bad.”
He raised one brow. His sister and mother wouldn’t have spent one night in that place. Granted, his sister was a diva and insisted everything she owned be the best available, but even a woman with lower standards should show some interest in leaving the slum. Maybe Mercy didn’t need comforts. He remembered Mercy’s awe at his uncle’s supplies. What he’d seen as an embarrassment, she’d admired.
The Kilpatricks are preppers.
But Mercy lived in Portland and had a high-status job with the federal government. In law enforcement.
Clearly she’d left her heritage behind.
Has she?
Roots can run deep. She might imply she was estranged from her family, but he’d glimpsed her face as she’d studied the old photo of her sister. Pain. Longing. Regret. She’d shown them all.
When Joziah Bevins had stopped by their table, fear had flashed across her face. It’d vanished immediately, replaced by confidence. Real confidence? Forced? Truman mulled it over. Joziah was intimidating, and Truman knew he avoided Karl, the Kilpatrick patriarch, and suspected there was old bad blood there. Did it extend to the daughter?
None of my business.
As long as they didn’t start shooting at each other.
“Truman, look at this.” Mercy slid over her notebook and tapped a page with one finger.
He took the notebook, reading the header on the page: “Items missing from the Sanders home.”
A box of inexpensive jewelry.
Two rifles and a handgun.
$550 in cash.
Holding his breath, Truman flipped the pages of Gwen Vargas’s murder book.
Missing items: jewelry, cash, photo album, two handguns.
Truman looked up, meeting Mercy’s gaze. “The weapons?”
“Yes. It’s not the big hauls from the recent murders, but it’s something.”
“They—or he—took the easiest items to sell for the most money,” he argued.
“I know.”
“The Vargas murder included a photo album.”
Her brows came together. “That’s odd. I haven’t seen anything personal taken in the other cases.”
“We don’t know what else could be missing from the recent cases. There was no one to ask.”
“Men who live alone and are isolated. Easy pickings.”
“Nothing about my uncle was easy,” corrected Truman.
“You’re right. And from what I saw at Ned Fahey’s house, he made everything as difficult as possible.”
“I’m not sure these old cases can be connected,” Truman said slowly. “The motivations appear totally different.”
“They’re fifteen years apart,” said Mercy. “Motivations change. I’ll get some searches going through ViCAP and see if anything similar has happened in the Pacific Northwest. Maybe he hasn’t been inactive all this time.”
Truman nodded.
Or has someone been biding their time in Eagle’s Nest?