“Why?” Truman asked. “I honestly don’t think she’s been to the barn in years.”
“If I get a relative that tells me there was a boat or expensive farm equipment stored inside, then we have a problem.” Bill looked pointedly at the burned remains. “Clearly there wasn’t anything like that left here.”
Mercy suddenly understood. “Someone would have moved things they wanted to protect if they’d set the fire themselves . . . if they were hoping to get the insurance payment for the structure they set on fire.”
“You’d be amazed at how many ‘accidental’ home fires are missing the big-screen TV the neighbor says was in the living room. Or the antique gun collection that just happened to be moved to storage the week before. They want the insurance payout for an accident, but they can’t help but first move their favorite belongings. A dead giveaway when a relative tells me the antique gun collection has had a place of honor in the den for twenty years.”
“I don’t think Tilda Brass set the fire,” Truman said.
“I agree. But I need to make certain all my t’s are crossed.”
“What else do you do outside of examining the actual scene?” Mercy asked with curiosity.
“Well.” Bill paused. “A lot. I’ll talk to the insurance company and the friends and neighbors. I’ll check with the hospital and clinics, looking for someone with burns or inhalation injuries. You’d be surprised how many get burns on their hands or their ankles. The fires always catch faster than they expect. Especially with the gasoline they used here.”
Mercy looked at the section of concrete pad Bill had cleared. The patterns meant nothing to her. “The gasoline was also dumped inside the barn? Not just around the outside?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“So they must have seen that there was a propane tank inside.”
“I assume so,” agreed Bill. “Either they didn’t care or saw it as a bonus. It wasn’t a big one.”
“Big enough to knock me a few feet and shoot burning debris onto me,” Truman pointed out.
“It was positioned against the wall you were closest to,” Bill agreed. “If it had been on the other side of the barn, you wouldn’t have felt the same strength of the blast.”
Truman turned away and walked over to the far side of the debris pile, staring at the ground. He stopped a few feet from where the two men had breathed their last breaths and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“How’s he doing?” Bill asked her in a low voice. “What he went through would send most men to their doctors begging for drugs to make their memories go away.”
“I suspect that’s crossed his mind,” Mercy admitted. “He’s been through a similar type of hell before. It nearly drove him out of law enforcement, but he seems well prepared to deal with the emotional aftermath this time. Sadly, it’s because he had to learn how the first time.”
“No one would blame him for stepping back.”
“That’s not who he is.”
“I can see that.” Bill met her gaze. “But he can still crash. He’s not Captain America.”
Truman often wore a Captain America T-shirt, and Mercy thought it suited him. “Actually, that’s a perfect description of him. Captain America has a mushy sentimental core; he’s very human. And yes, he can fall apart.” She glanced over at Truman. He stood motionless, and she knew he battled invisible demons. Her instincts told her to go to him, but she stood still. Truman would ask when he needed help.
She simply had to be available.
SEVEN
Mercy wrapped her hands around her hot coffee cup at the Bend FBI office but didn’t drink. She was coffeed out. Darby noticed and asked if she wanted some juice. Mercy turned down the intelligence analyst’s offer. She was tired of eating and drinking on the run. It was all she’d done at Quantico for the previous two weeks, and she hadn’t found time to grocery shop since she’d been back. Her body was rebelling against the unusual diet.
I need a week of eating nothing but organic veggies and beef from happy, grass-fed cows.
She’d never dreamed she’d be that consumer, the one who questioned the source of the chicken breast on her plate, but after she left home at eighteen, she’d noticed that food tasted different. She’d grown up on meat slaughtered by her father and vegetables grown by her family or by friends. After a few months of processed food, her body had revolted, and she’d learned to seek out local sources.
She’d embarrassed Truman a time or two in restaurants with her questions, and he’d quickly figured out the best places for her to eat, where he didn’t have to cower behind his menu as she grilled the staff about sourcing.
She thought of the cinnamon roll she’d grabbed at the gas station that morning. So sometimes I’m a hypocrite.
Eddie plopped into the seat next to her. His hair didn’t look as perfect as usual, and it appeared he’d run his hands through it a few dozen times in the last hour. Dark circles hung below his eyes.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Crappy. I’ve spent the last two days talking with the families of Ralph Long and Damon Sanderson.”
“Ahhh.” Sympathy washed over her. She’d seen the pictures of Damon’s darling baby, and her heartstrings had nearly snapped in half. “Do they have support?”
“Tons of family are hovering around,” said Eddie. “I don’t know if that’s always a good thing. I think Damon’s wife needs some alone time.”
“Any leads?”
“Not really. I’m looking into a bar fight that Long broke up two nights before he was shot. One of the guys threatened him at that time. Long included it in his report, but I haven’t been able to locate the person. No arrests were made.”
“That’s a stretch,” said Mercy. “Any drunk asshole is going to mouth off at whoever is ruining their fun.”
“That’s what I’m expecting to find. I’m meeting with the bartender and bar owner this evening to see what they remember, and I’m hoping for some camera views.”
“Anything jump out about Sanderson?”
“Nope. According to the half dozen people I’ve talked to, he was a complete angel and impossible to despise.”
“Of course that’s what they say. Makes me suspicious. No one’s that perfect.”
“That’s my reaction too. I’m still digging.”
Their supervisor strode into the meeting and shrugged out of his sport coat, hanging it on his seat back before he sat down. “Where are we?” he asked in greeting. “Mercy, have you heard from the medical examiner? Any news on the autopsies?”
“She found nothing unusual. Both men died within moments from their gunshot wounds.”
“When are the funerals?” asked Darby.
“Tomorrow,” replied Eddie. “The families have decided to hold a joint service.”
“That’s unusual,” observed Jeff.
“It is, but all members of both families are firmly on board with it.”