“I know this smell means bad shit,” Floyd Cox said solemnly as he led Truman toward the back of his property. His rental business had thirty storage units of different sizes, and they were all full.
Floyd had called the police station, concerned about an odor coming from one of his units. Now the wide sixty-year-old man waddled around the puddles on his grounds. Floyd didn’t have any front teeth, but that didn’t stop him from constantly grinning or talking. In fact, the short man was one of the most gregarious people Truman knew.
“You didn’t call the owners?” Truman asked, thankful it wasn’t raining.
“Nope. I wanted the police here when it was opened. If I called the owners, they might clean out something illegal first. I don’t put up with that sort of thing on my property. Everyone signs a form saying they won’t use the units for anything against the law.” He looked over his shoulder at Truman, scrutinizing him and eyeing the splint. “Good to see you back, Chief. Our whole town was mighty worried.”
“It’s good to be back.”
“What happened to the arm?”
“Had a nasty fall,” Truman lied.
“For the most part.”
Most of the injuries to his face had healed, but he still had some scabbing. He wasn’t about to say he’d had the crap beat out of him—especially to one of the most talkative men in town. The forgers had been charged, and Truman figured he had weeks if not months of trials to deal with. The real story of his injuries would come out in testimony.
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever found in one of your storage units?” Truman asked to divert Floyd’s attention. “I imagine people leave stuff behind all the time.”
“Haven’t found money, that’s for sure,” Floyd said mournfully. “I keep hoping one of these days someone will leave behind a pile of cash. Hasn’t happened yet.” He hitched up his pants. “I suppose the weirdest thing was about four years ago. They stopped paying on the unit, and I couldn’t hunt them down. When I finally opened it, I found dolls. Hundreds of them in all different shapes and sizes, from Barbie dolls to mannequins.” He lowered his voice and waited for Truman to come up beside him. “Every single one of them was naked. Several didn’t have heads.”
“Were they in boxes?”
“Nope. There were boxes in the unit, but the dolls were sitting on top of the boxes, arranged like an audience. Creeped me the hell out when I went in and found all those eyes staring at me.”
I’m creeped out by listening.
“Who does that?” Floyd went on, confusion in his voice. “The image of those dolls still pops into my head at odd times. I didn’t understand. Why display them in that way? Probably something sexual,” he said, whispering the word with disdain.
“People do weird stuff.”
“I wish they’d keep it behind their own closed doors, not mine,” Floyd asserted. “Here we are.” He gestured to a unit that was about six feet wide and eight feet tall with a roll-up door.
Truman smelled it. Rotting flesh. Not good. “Maybe an animal got in there . . . or they stored something from hunting.”
“I hope you’re right.” Floyd bent over to unlock the padlock at the bottom of the door. “But you can understand why I wanted a cop here when I opened it.”
Truman understood. And wished Samuel had taken the call.
“Holy sheeet,” Floyd said as he yanked up the door. He took three giant steps away and dry heaved.
Truman covered his mouth and nose, stepping back from the odiferous wave and clenching his teeth against the bile that rose in the back of his throat.
Something is definitely dead.
Cardboard boxes were stacked high along one wall of the unit, labeled neatly with dates and contents. But Truman had eyes only for the rolled-up carpet on the floor. It was wedged among the legs of several wooden chairs. Fluids seeped from the closest end, and Truman saw hair inside. It was short human hair that appeared to still be on a head.
“What’s the name of the renter?” he asked Floyd.
“Moody. Clint Moody,” Floyd said between retches.
“Aw, jeez.”
A half hour later, the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Department reported that Ryan Moody wasn’t at home and had the day off from his plumbing job.
Truman put out a BOLO on Ryan’s truck and wondered if the brother had left town.
“The fucker had me convinced he was worried about Clint,” Truman muttered to Mercy as they waited near the storage unit. She’d been his third phone call after the sheriff and the medical examiner.
“You weren’t the only one,” Mercy said. “I actually felt sorry for him.”
“Still not positive he’s the one who put his brother in here.”
Mercy snorted.
Dr. Natasha Lockhart appeared at the same time as the county forensics team. She greeted Truman and Mercy with her usual perky smile. “I’ve got good news!” she said to Mercy. “You’ll get an email from me later today, but the DNA tests came back on our unknown skull. It is definitely related to Corrine Hartlage. The test indicates a sibling relationship.”
“Well, that’s one question answered,” admitted Mercy. “I assume his last name is Palmer, since that was Corrine’s name. We haven’t found a paper trail that we can positively link to him. Maybe he simply stayed off the grid most of his life.”
“Seeing how the Hartlages lived cut off from everyone, that wouldn’t surprise me,” commented Truman.
Dr. Lockhart turned her attention to the open unit. “Oh boy. You’ve got a smelly one here.” She opened her bag, shoved cotton rolls up her nose, and put on a face shield. “Looks gooshy too.”
Is gooshy an official medical term? The visible hair inside the rolled-up rug was eating away at Truman. He’d wanted to yank the carpet out of the shed and confirm it was Clint Moody.
Who else would it be?
The hair color matched what he remembered of Clint.
Dr. Lockhart directed the forensic photographer for a few minutes, showing him the views she wanted, and then asked for help to slide out the rug. Both Truman and Mercy stepped forward, but Mercy waved him back. He’d forgotten he only had one good arm. Mercy, the ME, and two of the techs slid the rug onto a tarp spread out on the concrete. More photos.
The dark-haired medical examiner raised a brow at Mercy and Truman. “Ready?”
No. Truman held his breath as she unrolled the rug. He studied the body for a long moment and then walked away, seeking fresh air.
At the end of the row of units he leaned his good arm against a wall and looked up at the gray sky, breathing deep. A minute later Mercy joined him.
“Clint’s wallet was in the back pocket. I think it’s him,” she said.
“I don’t know how you can visually identify him. Someone practically beat in his skull,” Truman stated. He’d never get the image out of his head. It’d been seared into his brain. The spots where Truman had been kicked in the skull started to throb.
“That’s true, but the height and hair color are accurate according to the license. I bet we’ll confirm it’s him by tomorrow.”
“Or we can get a confession out of Ryan,” Truman muttered. When the carpet had been unrolled, his anger toward the man had tripled. “His disappearance is too coincidental. And he would know about and have access to Clint’s storage unit.”
“The injuries on this body appear to be similar to the Hartlages and Jorgensens. The damaged skulls and the broken teeth. This seems worse because of the amount of decomposition. Clint’s been missing for about two weeks, right?”
“Yes.” He paused as her words sank in, and he turned toward her. “Are you saying Ryan is also a suspect in those family murders?”
“I don’t know. I can’t assume anything.” Mercy rubbed a hand across her mouth. “As far as I can tell right now, the type of injury Clint has—assuming it’s him—is the only thing in common . . . although that could change.”
“This body was hidden away like the Hartlages were,” Truman pointed out.
“True.”
“Someone did a crappy hiding job. They had to know the smell would eventually lead someone to the body.”
“Maybe they planned to move him.”
“I wonder if they’ve been back to the storage unit. I wish Floyd had installed cameras. He doesn’t have one of those gates where people key in a personal code either.”
“Ryan might not be our killer,” Mercy stated. “It only needs to be someone who knew Clint had a unit here and had access to his key . . . which was probably on his keychain. I’ll get it from evidence. The keys were left in Clint’s truck in the pond.”
“Didn’t they already fingerprint the keys?”
“I don’t know. Clint’s missing persons case was handled by county once you disappeared. I didn’t believe it was related to the Hartlages or Jorgensens.”
“I didn’t either.”
Mercy met his gaze. “But we’re both wondering if it’s related now. I want a look inside the Moody house.”
“Deschutes County was authorized to go into the Moody house to look for Ryan today. A car should still be there in case he shows up.”
“Let’s go.”