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.”
FORTY
I never forgot that summer.
My father had burrowed deeper inside himself. Us kids were told to leave him alone and stay out of his way. He stopped going to work, and my mother tightened the household spending. Meals were smaller. Meat was infrequent. We ate a lot of potatoes. She talked about finding a job. My father blew up when she suggested it. “No wife of mine needs a job! I can support this family!”
There was lots of yelling in their room that night, and the next morning her eye was black and blue.
My father started to wander at night. At first he’d pace up and down the hallways, and the boards would creak every time he passed our room. His mumbling continued. The only phrase I could make out was his regular “Stop talking to me,” even though he was alone.
Then he started pacing outside, and I’d watch from my bedroom window as he wandered our few acres. Sometimes he dug holes with a shovel. Sometimes he cleaned the pens. Sometimes he’d sit and simply stare at the stars. I would check the holes the next day. There was nothing in them; they were just random holes. Everywhere.
I wondered about the ghosts that tortured him.
Then he started to run. He started wearing shorts at night and running our long driveway out to the main road and back. He’d run for nearly an hour and be dripping with sweat when he stopped. I’d sneak out of the house and hide in the bed of the truck, spying on him from a wide crack in its metal side. I’m not sure why I watched; his actions were boring. But I wanted to know what drove him, why he constantly needed to move. Was something chasing him?
Several weeks after I walked through the Deverell house and saw the blood, I spied on him from my regular spot from the truck, slightly nervous because the moon was full and bright, and I felt exposed. That night he threw down his shovel as he finished a hole. He disappeared into the barn and came out with a large hammer. This was new, and I wondered what repetitive task he’d tackle. Instead he walked directly toward me.
I couldn’t move. I froze in place as my heart tried to pound its way up my throat.
He sees me.
He will hit me with the hammer.
I’m about to die.
Instead he got in the cab and the truck started. I lay flat, as close to the cab as possible, and tried to melt into the floor of the truck bed. My relief at not being spotted was brief, and I feared where he was taking me.
A few minutes later he turned off the paved road and onto a gravel one. The ride turned rough, and the moon highlighted the dust clouds rolling behind the truck.
He stopped, and I held my breath, clenching my eyes closed as if that would save me from being seen. His door opened and quietly shut, and I listened to his footsteps crunch on the gravel as he walked away.
Silence.
I opened my eyes. He’d parked under an outdoor security light and it was as if a spotlight shone on me. I scooted on my stomach to the crack in the truck bed and peered through just in time to see him enter a house. My heart still running a race, I slipped over the side of the truck bed and moved into the shadows of the trees and tried to slow my heartbeat.
I felt secure in the dark, and I crouched behind a thick trunk, keeping an eye on the house. I hadn’t been to this home before, but I knew where we were. We’d driven west from our home on the main road and the only turn my father had taken was onto this long driveway.
He’s having an affair.
The thought shot through my young brain. I knew what an affair was. He was in love with another woman. Relief for my mother swept through me. Maybe he’d leave her to stay with this other— The female scream from the house jolted every nerve I had.
In the silence that followed, I felt as if I were drowning, desperate for another sound to help me breathe again.
Instead I only heard the noises of the night. Crickets. Tree frogs. The leaves in a breeze.