FOUR
Sheriff Rhodes’s words flashed through Mercy’s mind.
He’d called Ned Fahey’s murder site a tea party compared to the Biggs scene.
What are we walking into?
“Nothing’s changed since the day I found him,” warned Truman.
Mercy nodded at the police chief. “We’re ready.” Truman paused a second longer and then shoved open the door, leading the way in.
“Booties?” Eddie asked before stepping over the threshold. He and Mercy had put on vinyl gloves as they walked through the yard.
“We vacuumed up every lick of evidence from the floor. Essentially the scene has been released, but I appreciate your gloves.” He flicked a light switch, and two lamps lit up in the small living room.
“Essentially it’s been released?” Mercy asked.
Pain flashed in the chief’s eyes whenever he mentioned his uncle. “Jefferson left everything to me. It’s my house now, and I’m not going to clean it up until I figure out who did this.”
Mercy imagined the old house gathering dust and cobwebs growing over the crime scene. How long will he wait?
Clearly the nephew was still grieving.
Maybe we should ask for someone else to show us the scene.
But one look at the determined jaw of the chief as he scanned the interior of the home told her he was their best source of information about Jefferson Biggs. She had to move past any concern about his feelings.
The house had a strong scent of a tobacco pipe. A smell Mercy remembered from her childhood. Her grandmother had hated the “stinky pipe” and would send her grandfather outside to smoke, but the odor had always clung to his clothes.
The small living room had one old sofa, two chairs, no TV, and several faded prints of elk on the walls. The dark-brown carpet was heavily matted, and in front of a well-used easy chair the carpet was worn down nearly to the mesh backing. There was no sign of a woman’s touch.
If the victim left everything to his nephew, does that mean he had no children?
She needed to review the Biggs file.
“He was found back here.” Truman turned down a narrow hallway. She and Eddie followed.
A dark, reddish-brown smear zigzagged along one wall and ended in a distinct handprint. Ragged bullet holes surrounded a door frame halfway down the hall. The door was also peppered with holes. Truman pushed it open with one finger and stepped back as he gestured them toward the dark room.
Mercy moved forward and blindly felt around the corner for a light switch in the black space. It was a small bathroom, and the floor was covered with thick, swirling patterns of dried blood. Bullet holes covered the back wall. A few more holes peppered the old linoleum.
It was brutal.
“He took refuge in the bathroom?” Eddie asked behind her.
“Yep. After confronting someone in his kitchen. The blood trail starts out there. I found one of his kitchen knives on the bathroom floor beside him. He was shot eleven times.” The chief’s voice was a monotone. “Someone else’s blood was on the knife, so I know he delivered at least one injury.”
Mercy looked back at him. “Your uncle was a fighter.”
“Absolutely. He didn’t take shit from anyone. I suspect he was very offended that someone was trying to kill him and struck back out of sheer pissed-offedness instead of out of defense.”
She smiled at his description, and the air of tension around the chief thinned.
“I suspect he’s sitting in heaven all proud that he fought until the end but still pissed that they got the best of him,” Truman added.
“He sounds like a real character,” said Mercy.
“You’ll find this county is packed with characters. I’ve never experienced such a diverse crowd of people in such a small population.”
“Let’s look at the kitchen,” suggested Eddie. The three of them walked single file back down the narrow hall to the kitchen at the rear of the home.
Mercy spotted dishes in the sink and some blood spattered on the floor and lower cupboards. “He pulled the knife out of that block on the counter?”
“Yes.”
She circled the room carefully. “No bullet holes out here?”
“No,” said Truman. “They’re all in the bathroom area.”
“Forced entry?” she asked.
“No signs.”
“Is the blood in here your uncle’s or more mystery blood?” asked Eddie.
“Both.”
“So someone in the kitchen made your uncle start swinging the knife around? That must have been quite the conversation,” said Mercy.
“I imagine it was pretty heated, considering the way it ended,” Truman said dryly. He didn’t look offended, and Mercy was pleased the chief didn’t mind a little banter in the face of a raw situation. Humor was an easy coping tool, and cops used it regularly. There was no disrespect, just investigators trying to protect their hearts from horrible sights left by the underbelly of humanity.
“Why is the FBI suddenly interested in my uncle’s murder?” Truman asked in a low voice. “It’s the missing weapons, isn’t it? I know Ned Fahey lived in an armed fortress out in West Bumfuck. Are his weapons gone too?”
Eddie met Mercy’s gaze and gave a brief shrug with one shoulder.
“Ned Fahey has a history of antigovernment actions,” said Mercy. “That and the combination of a lot of missing weapons got the attention of our domestic terrorism department.”
“Ned wasn’t a terrorist,” stated Truman, anger growing in his gaze. “He was an opinionated old man whose knees gave him debilitating pain every time the weather changed. He wasn’t the type to blow up federal buildings.”
“How long have you been in Eagle’s Nest?” asked Mercy quietly.
“Six months.” Truman raised his chin. “But I spent three high school summers right here in this house. I know how this community functions.”
Mercy’s heart stopped for a brief second. If he’d recognized her, he hadn’t said so. She had no recollection of Jefferson Biggs’s nephew visiting during the summers. Truman Daly appeared to be a few years older than she . . . probably the age of one of her siblings, so no doubt she would have been beneath his notice.
“As a summer visitor, you’d still be an outsider,” she stated. “The town would welcome you, but you wouldn’t be privy to their secrets. You’d only see what they wanted you to see.”
His brown gaze narrowed on hers. “You think so?” His tone implied she had no idea what she was talking about.
She shrugged. “I grew up in a small town. I know the mentality. It takes a couple of decades and lots of family roots to be allowed into the inner circles.”
An odd look flashed across his face, telling her she’d struck a nerve, and she suspected the six-month-old police chief had encountered plenty of barriers to the acceptance he wanted from the town.
“They’ll trust you eventually,” she added encouragingly. “It simply takes time.”
“Give me a big city any day,” chimed in Eddie. “If you keep your eyes on the sidewalk then everyone gets along just fine.”
Truman didn’t reply, and Mercy knew she’d exposed a truth he’d been trying to deny. The police chief had a lot going for him, she admitted. He was direct, had a trustworthy face, and wore his cowboy hat like he’d been born to it. All three were positives in Eagle’s Nest. She didn’t see a wedding ring, so no doubt he’d shot to the top of the town’s available bachelor list. His short, dark hair and brown gaze made him easy on the eyes. Local girls were always looking for a good-looking guy with a solid job.
“Basically, large amounts of weapons have been missing from all three recent deaths.” Eddie brought them back to Truman’s original question.
“You think one person is stockpiling?” the chief asked.
“We don’t know,” said Mercy. “We’re here to find out why. Were these men murdered for their weapons? Or did someone get lucky three times in a row?”
“I’d think it’d take more than missing weapons for the FBI to send extra agents,” commented Truman. “Surely the agents out of Bend could have handled this. What aren’t you telling me? It’s aliens, isn’t it? You’re the real Mulder and Scully.”
Mercy wished it were the first time she’d heard the joke.
“Trust that we want to get to the bottom of your uncle’s death as much as you do,” said Eddie in a firm voice.
Truman gave him a look that could have melted steel.
“Since you know someone was stabbed or sliced by your uncle’s knife, I assume no one was spotted with a fresh injury in the days after Jefferson’s murder?” Mercy asked, distracting the police chief before he ripped Eddie’s glasses from his face for patronizing him.
“I followed up on that. No one went to the emergency room, and I put out the word that I was looking for someone who’d been cut.”
Mercy had manned the front desk of the tiny Eagle’s Nest hospital one summer in high school. It had seven beds, and the accounts receivable were handwritten ledgers in a single file cabinet. She’d known who in town paid five dollars a month on a thousand-dollar hospital bill. It’d been a lot of people.
“I wouldn’t go to the emergency room for an injury I received while killing someone,” commented Eddie.
“I also followed up with the vets. But most people around here have basic medical skills. If you get hurt, oftentimes professional help is far away.”
Mercy nodded. When she was ten, she’d watched her mother stitch up a deep gash in her father’s leg. He’d gripped a bottle of alcohol and held a thick piece of leather in his teeth, occasionally pulling out the leather to take a deep draw on the bottle. He didn’t want to pay a doctor when his wife could stitch him up just fine. Her mother had been highly regarded as a midwife and self-taught medic.
“Who do you think did this?” She closely watched the chief’s face.
The air in the kitchen shifted slightly, and Eddie looked expectantly at the police chief. Mercy wondered if they’d get a straight answer out of the nephew. It was in his best interest to tell them all he knew or suspected, but outsiders weren’t trusted in Eagle’s Nest. Yes, Truman Daly was an outsider, but the FBI might as well have it printed in yellow across the backs of their dark jackets.
Truman’s jaw shifted slightly to one side, and Mercy could almost see the waves of frustration roll off his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Believe me, I’ve been up nights trying to figure it out. I’ve gone through every piece of paper in this home and checked all his banking records. I can’t figure it out. I hate to say it, but I think he simply got into an argument with a friend and it blew up. I think the shooter cleaned out his weapons cache simply because of the value of the guns.”
Mercy wanted to believe him. The small edge of desperation in his tone told her he was truly at a loss. And his eyes were honest. She’d interviewed a lot of liars in her six years at the FBI. Some fooled her; some didn’t.
For now, she’d accept that he’d told them everything.
“Are the weapons traceable?” Eddie asked.
Truman winced. “Only two were registered.”
The clock over the stove showed it was nearly eight o’clock. She and Eddie still needed to check in to their hotel. “I’d like to come back tomorrow when it’s daylight and see the rest of the property,” she told the chief. “We also need to visit the other scene.”
“Just call the department and leave a message. I’ll meet you here,” Truman offered. His energy had dimmed and resignation dipped his shoulders. The house felt quieter than when they’d first entered.
“Thank you.” The tour and its guide had made the case personal. Mercy was now determined to solve Jefferson Biggs’s murder for the nephew as much as for the victim.