Truman knocked on the front door of Steve Harris’s home.
The house didn’t have a garage, and Steve’s truck was parked on the street, directly in front of the fire hydrant. Looking around, Truman realized that the man really didn’t have anywhere else to park unless he went down the street quite a way. His neighbors’ vehicles filled both sides of the street. Yes, it was a safety issue, but Truman figured it’d only take the firemen an extra thirty seconds to bash in the windows of the truck to access the fire hydrant. Bringing up the issue on this visit wouldn’t get him any insight into the Verbeek family murder.
Steve answered the door. In his midfifties, Steve was a tall, angular man with an oddly wide face that didn’t suit the rest of his body. He was bald except for a little hair above his ears. His eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of Truman on his front porch.
Truman held up a hand before Steve could speak. “I’m not here about the violation I just walked past at your curb.”
Steve relaxed a fraction, but his gaze was still suspicious. “Then what do you want?”
“I’m doing a little research about some cases from twenty-odd years ago.”
“The Verbeek murders,” he stated in a flat tone. The suspicion vanished from Steve’s eyes, replaced by a distant emptiness.
“Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“Why? Why do you care about something that happened so long ago?”
Truman paused, weighing how much to reveal. “Something came up recently that has us reviewing the murders of those families.”
“Why? Grady Baldwin was tried and found guilty. The cases were closed, right?”
“They were.” Truman didn’t want to say that it was possible something similar had happened recently. How can I phrase this? “Sometimes we have to look at the past to find answers for the present.”
“What does that bullshit mean?” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, his stance stiff, blocking the door.
Truman gave up on tact. “It means something violent has happened and we’re looking at the old cases for help.” He looked directly at Steve, all his cards on the table.
Steve considered him for a long moment. He took a step back and gestured for Truman to come in.
The inside of the home was surprisingly nice. From the outside, the old bungalow-style home looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the 1960s. But inside, it had been updated with nice wood floors, baseboards, a modern fireplace, and contemporary furniture. The home smelled of coffee and bacon.
Truman took a seat in an upholstered chair that was uncomfortable and stiff. Steve sat in a matching chair. “What happened?” Steve asked.
Truman mulled it over.
“You can’t tell me,” Steve stated before Truman could speak.
“Not yet.”
Steve slowly nodded. “It’s serious?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the morning you found the Verbeek family.”
Steve looked away, rubbing his jaw. “It’s been a long time. I try not to think about it. Never seen anything like that before. And I haven’t since, thank God.”
“What made you go in the house?”
“The door was open a bit and no one answered my knock, so I pushed it.” He wouldn’t meet Truman’s gaze. “I knew something was wrong . . . It didn’t smell right either. I called out and stepped inside. Dennis Verbeek was on the floor in the living room.” He looked down at his hands. “Blood had soaked his head and the floor. It wasn’t quite dry, but he was cold. I found Maria in the hallway. She was the same.”
He cleared his throat and his knuckles went white as his hands tightened.
“Maria was outside the girls’ room. I checked the twins first. They were bloody and cold like their parents, but when I touched Britta’s arm, she was still warm.”
His gaze met Truman’s. “Those girls were beaten in the head. I don’t understand the kind of person who does that to adults, let alone helpless small girls.”
“You called 911 from the Verbeek home?”
“Yes. I was too scared to move Britta from the top bunk bed . . . I was afraid I’d injure her worse. She was unconscious, with a head and mouth injury. There was nothing else I could do, so I waited for the ambulance and prayed she continued to breathe.”
“Did you know Grady Baldwin?”
Anger filled Steve’s face. “I knew who he was. I’d never talked to him. I knew Dennis Verbeek had hired Grady to help him reroof his home a few months before.”
“He made a pass at Maria Verbeek and got turned down?”
“So they said.”
“You don’t believe it?”
Steve shrugged. “I have no doubt that Grady Baldwin killed that family. They had evidence against him, but I doubt that was why he did it.”
“Why do you say that?”
The man looked away. “I don’t care to speak ill of the dead,” he said with discomfort in his tone.
“What if it helps someone else?”
He looked back at Truman, his eyes serious. “This is just my opinion, but Maria wasn’t the type to attract other men.”
“You can never tell what attracts another man.”
Steve grimaced. “True. But Maria would never look anyone in the eye. She always seemed terrified of speaking to anyone and practically hid behind her husband. Why would Grady hit on her?”
“Maybe he likes the victim type.”
“Maybe.” Steve didn’t sound convinced. “I celebrated the day they put Grady Baldwin away,” he stated. “I testified at his trial, and he sat there in the courtroom, staring straight ahead, no emotion at all.” He took a deep breath. “I had to describe the condition I found those little girls. Those twins . . . Astrid and Helena . . . they were tiny girls, and their little heads had been caved in. I’ll never get that sight out of my mind. It rushes in sometimes . . . Those memories can completely knock me down for a day.” His voice cracked. “It’s gotten better over the years, but it’s not gone.”
“I appreciate you telling me,” Truman told him, feeling guilty both for making the man revisit his hell and for talking to someone on Mercy’s review list.
It’s not like he’s a witness in the new murder. The case he was involved in is closed.
“I don’t know what happened to Britta. I know she went to live with an aunt or something. I tried to find her online a few years ago with no luck. I frequently wonder if she’s okay . . . if she’s a well-adjusted adult, or living on the street somewhere. I may have seen that horror, but Britta lost her family. I can’t imagine how that could affect a child.”
The man sitting across from him wasn’t the jerk who had argued with Truman about fire hydrants. Caught up in his memories, Steve looked broken.
“I know the FBI has been in touch with Britta,” Truman said kindly. “She’s doing okay and doesn’t live on the streets. I can’t tell you much else.” He’d had a brief phone call from Mercy after she’d talked with Britta.
Steve raised his head and met Truman’s gaze. “Truly?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Steve seemed lost in thought for a few moments. “I’ve wondered about her for years. I hope this helps me sleep better at night.”
“Since the Deverell family had been murdered two months earlier, what went through your mind that day?”
“After I found the Verbeeks, I figured right away that it was the same guy. Once the cops discovered that Grady Baldwin had worked in both homes, they knew they had a strong suspect.”
“You said earlier that you didn’t think the motivation for the Verbeek murder was Maria Verbeek. Why do you think he did it?”
“He was insane,” Steve said in a low voice.
Truman knew the answer wasn’t ever that simple.
Several hours after he left Steve Harris’s home, Truman pulled open the door to the Brick Tavern, wishing he had backup. Samuel was at least ten minutes out.
Who gets in a bar fight in the middle of the afternoon?
Surprisingly, the bar was brightly lit inside, and he had a clear view of two men wrestling on the floor. A few bystanders idly watched.
“Hey, Chief.” The owner, Doug “the Brick” Breneman, appeared at his side, looking unconcerned about the brawling men. The Brick had been his wrestling name in Portland in the 1980s, when Portland Wrestling was on TV every week. He had been a local celebrity back then, and he was still built like a brick. Rectangular bald head, thick neck, and barrel torso. People had never stopped calling him Brick.
“What happened?” Truman asked.
“Dunno,” said Brick. “It’s the Moody brothers, Clint and Ryan.” He pointed at the men. “The one in the red shirt is Clint. They’re both pissed as hell at each other, which isn’t anything new. I tried to separate them, but I’m not as young as I used to be. Got back issues, so I turned up the lights. Usually that will stop a fight, but it didn’t work this time.”
Truman scanned the room, checking for anyone who looked as if they would cause a problem if he separated the two men. His gaze stopped on Owen Kilpatrick, Mercy’s brother. His surprise at seeing Owen was compounded with relief at the knowledge that the man would have Truman’s back if trouble arose. Brick would too.
Truman strode to the fighting men. Clint had a grip on Ryan’s ear, attempting to slam his head into the floor. Ryan was kicking and punching but landing few blows. “Police! Break it up!”
The men continued as if they hadn’t heard. The brothers were muscular and fit, but Truman had an advantage because both were severely inebriated.
“I said break it up!” Truman grabbed Clint’s shoulder and yanked him backward. He landed on his back, his head bouncing off the floor.
Shit.
Ryan lunged for Clint, but Truman knocked his legs out from under him, making the man land on his chest. “I said that’s enough!” He planted a foot on the center of the man’s back and pointed at Clint. “Stay right there!” He noted Owen and Brick had both moved within an arm’s distance of Clint, ready to keep him from diving at Ryan under Truman’s foot. He lowered himself to a knee on Ryan’s back, and told him to spread his arms out on the floor and then bring the right one behind his back. Truman cuffed one wrist and asked for the other arm, which he promptly secured.
“I didn’t do anything!” Ryan protested.
“Bullshit,” said Brick. “Now shut up.”
Truman left the man on the floor on his stomach and turned to Clint. “On your stomach, arms out.”
“But Chief—”
“Now. This is for my own safety.”
Clint shot him a dirty look and laid his sweaty face down on the floor. Truman tried not to think about the filth of the tavern’s floor. Clint followed Truman’s orders and was quickly cuffed. Truman exhaled, letting go of some tension. Police work was full of what-ifs. His training had taught him to be prepared for any issue, how to study behavior and movements to anticipate a suspect’s next move, and that even a simple face-to-face discussion could turn deadly. People were insulted when the cuffs went on, but that was how it worked.
Truman went back to Ryan. The man turned his head, struggling to make eye contact from his prone position on the floor, clearly drunk.
“What happened here, Ryan?” Truman asked.
“Nothin’,” Ryan spit out. “My brother is an asshole!”
“You swung at me first!” Clint yelled back.
“That’s bullshit!”
“You’re the bigger asshole!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Both of you shut up,” Truman ordered. He hauled Ryan to a sitting position, noting how the man swayed, and then did the same with Clint. Truman couldn’t decide which man was more drunk. He turned to Brick. “You filing charges?”
“Nothing’s broke.”
Truman had figured that would be Brick’s answer.
After a quick pat down, Truman said, “I need to see IDs from both of you.” After some awkward maneuvering due to the men sitting on their wallets and having their hands cuffed, Truman finally opened the first wallet. He found a diplomatic card identical to the one he’d been shown by Joshua Forbes but with Clint Moody’s name and photo. He looked at Clint and showed him the ID. “This all you got?”
The man squinted blearily at the card. “Nah, that’s just a joke. My regular license is in there.”
Truman found a legitimate Oregon driver’s license. Clint was twenty-eight.
“Told you not to carry that crap,” Ryan told his brother. “It’s illegal.”
“Shut up!” Clint shot back. He looked nervously at Truman. “Like I said, it’s just for fun.”
Truman checked Ryan’s wallet next. No diplomatic card. Just a normal license. He was thirty.
“These are expensive.” Truman held up the fake ID. “I’d like to know where you got it.”
“A friend gave it to me. He didn’t charge me anything.”
“What’s that friend’s name?”
Clint looked away.
Truman bit his cheek at Clint’s stubborn silence. Does he not realize he’s sitting on the floor in cuffs and about to go to jail? He sighed. There was no point in arguing when the men were clearly inebriated.
Eagle’s Nest officer Samuel Robb pulled open the bar door and entered at that moment.
“Damn. I missed the fun,” the buzz-cut, brawny officer said as he took in the two men on the floor. “What do you have?”
Truman briefed him on the fight and fake license. “I want them locked up until they’re coherent.”
Samuel nodded. “Will do. I got this one.” He grabbed Clint’s arm and easily hauled him to his feet. “This way, princess.” The two men disappeared out the door.
Ryan sat silently, his head down, still swaying. Truman hoped he wouldn’t puke in the back seat when he drove him in.
“Nice job.” Owen approached and shook Truman’s hand.
“Thanks.” The simple fact that Owen approved of Truman’s police work was a big sign of the change in Mercy’s brother. He’d been suspicious of police and government all his life. Enough to make him rub shoulders with a growing militia several months ago. He’d learned from his mistake and had grudgingly also accepted his sister as a federal officer.
“I heard Joshua Forbes will be arraigned tomorrow,” Owen commented, his words casual but his eyes alert as he studied Truman.
“I heard that too,” said Brick.
“Word travels fast.”
“He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” added Owen.
“I noticed that,” said Truman. “You know him well?”
Owen shrugged. “Everyone knows the Forbeses.”
“Not me.”
“They try to stay under the radar,” said Owen. “His dad had a few run-ins with the courts and police back in the day. He’s in a wheelchair now, and that’s reined him in. But Joshua seems to be following in his footsteps.”
Brick nodded. “Right here in this bar, I’ve overheard him try to convince people about the straw man theory. He’s pretty fervent in his beliefs.”
“People fall for it?” asked Truman.
“Hard to say,” answered Brick. “It’s easy to get people’s attention when you tell them they’re not legally obligated to pay taxes and that the government actually owes them money. Making the life change is a difficult commitment, but sometimes people are just hungry and desperate for answers. No taxes sounds like heaven.”
“Have you seen these?” Truman showed Owen and Brick the fake diplomatic license. “I’d like to find the supplier.”
Owen grinned. “You arrested the supplier the other day.”
“Joshua Forbes made it?” Truman was surprised.
“Yep. Sells them too,” said Brick. “Makes a pretty penny, I believe.”
Truman nudged Ryan with his boot. “Is that who your brother got this from? Joshua Forbes?”
Ryan wobbled and nearly tipped over. “I don’t know where he got it. He doesn’t tell me shit, and he’s an idiot for carrying it around.”
Truman scowled, wondering if he could get forgery added to the charges against Joshua Forbes. “Glad to hear you weren’t sucked into this scam, Owen.”
Mercy’s brother looked grim. “I stay away from big talkers now. Besides, everyone knows those aren’t legal. Well, everyone but the sovereign citizens who want to believe.”
“Good.”
Ryan suddenly fell to one side and moaned. Truman jumped backward as the man vomited where Truman’s boots had been a split second earlier.
Truman’s stomach heaved at the odor, and Brick cursed like the professional wrestler he’d been.
Better here than in my vehicle.