“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?”