“I like it,” said Mercy. She truly did. It spoke of a unity that resonated within the Central Oregon community, in contrast to the horror of the shootings.
“It’s come up several times that the shooter must have some serious skills to make the shots he did,” continued Jeff. “Eddie, I want you to contact the ranges in the area. Find out who can shoot like that.”
Eddie nodded and made a note on the pad in front of him.
“Keep in mind plenty of people practice on their own property,” added Mercy. “Some never step foot in a shooting range.”
“What about wanting to show off their skills to their buddies?” asked Darby. “Should we publicly ask if anyone knows someone with those skills? Or are we looking at a level of military training? We have to consider that he may have learned these skills on our tax dollars.”
Mercy sighed. She’d wondered the same thing. Please don’t let it be a former soldier.
Eddie made more notes. “I don’t think we should advertise that we’re looking for someone with a particular set of skills,” he said in his best Liam Neeson imitation.
“Agreed,” said Jeff. “Later, possibly. For now, let’s keep our inquiries quiet.”
Darby shuffled through the stack of papers before her and focused on one. “Reports and complaints about militia activity seem to be on a bit of an uptick,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if it’s relevant here.”
The room was quiet as everyone weighed her words.
“There’s always chatter about militia activity,” Jeff finally said. “I don’t think a week goes by that something doesn’t cross my desk in that regard. Is arson a method they use?”
“Not typically,” said Darby. “Most of what I’ve seen are complaints about open carry and some target practice.” She pulled out a piece of paper and stared at it.
“Sounds like business as usual,” Mercy said. She’d grown up seeing weapons everywhere. Gun racks in pickup rear windows. Rifles slung across backs or propped behind neighbors’ doors. Pistols on hips. But it was much rarer now.
“The most unusual thing I’ve come across is a rumor of a plan to blow up a bridge,” added Darby.
“Holy crap,” said Eddie. “That made my skin crawl. How reliable is that rumor?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to trace back the source, but it seems to be a lot of . . . ‘so-and-so said.’”
“Assign it to Lefebvre,” Jeff instructed. “Give him what you’ve found so far and that I want a report sometime tomorrow. That deserves a closer look whether it’s related to this case or not.”
Mercy fully agreed. Public safety was their first priority.
“We know a rifle was used in the deputies’ shooting,” continued Jeff. “We have the casings and the bullets. It appears the weapon hasn’t been used in a crime before, but if we can find the weapon, then our lab can see if the striations match.”
“Did they find the bullet that was fired at Ben Cooley?” Mercy asked.
“Not yet. County found the casing, but the actual bullet hasn’t turned up. The sheriff theorizes it ricocheted off rock and headed in a different direction. They’re combing the area with metal detectors, but it’s packed with rock and dense shrubbery.”
“And the casing was for a nine millimeter, correct?” asked Eddie.
Jeff agreed.
Two different weapons . . . two different shooters? “One shooter missed Ben Cooley, and at the previous fire one shooter hit his targets four times,” Mercy said, thinking out loud. “Two different marksmen? Or possibly markswomen?” She updated the group about Clyde Jenkins’s observation.
“Your opinion on the quality of the witness?” Jeff asked.
“Solid,” said Mercy. “He wasn’t positive about what he’d seen, but he felt strongly enough to let us know.”
“The descriptions of suspects we’re looking for keeps expanding,” complained Darby.
“We need to consider that we could be looking at a group,” added Mercy.
“I hope it’s a group,” said Darby. “They’ll start to rat each other out at some point. Or they’ll become disenchanted with their leader and start talking. I’ll take that over one secretive introvert any day.”
“Ted Kaczynski,” added Eddie. “He was a loner. It took nearly twenty years to find him.”
Darby nodded, scowling at the mention of the domestic terrorist.
“Any word on the identity of the victim with the cut throat?” their boss asked.
“Not yet,” said Mercy. “I know the ME sent over his prints, and we’ve forwarded them to our lab.”
“He could be an innocent victim or one of the arsonists,” Eddie pointed out.
“I suspect he’ll turn out to be one of the arsonists,” said Mercy. “Even if he didn’t fit the description from Clyde Jenkins. I’m keeping an open mind, but the fact that no one can place him indicates he’s not from around here . . . therefore, he was at that location for a purpose.”
“And someone turned on him?” asked Darby. “In their opinion, he did something that he deserved to die for?”
“Possibly,” said Mercy. “Maybe he wasn’t happy with the murders or who they targeted with the fires. Maybe he wanted out of the group. Assuming there is a group.”
“Assume nothing,” Jeff stated. “Let’s back up a bit and take a fresh look at the beginning. I want new interviews with the victims of the first three small arsons, and I want it done tomorrow. I’ll let you decide who talks to whom.” He stood and pulled his papers together. “Anything we missed?” he asked without looking up.
Eddie and Mercy exchanged a look. “No,” they said in unison.
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
“I’d like to talk to the prepper family,” she told Eddie.
“You got it, and if you buy coffee all next week, I’ll interview the other two victims.”
“Deal.”
Mercy pulled into the driveway of the double-wide mobile home and parked. Julia and Steve Parker had agreed to see her that evening. They’d been pleased to hear the FBI had an interest in their fire. When Steve told her the location of their home, Mercy had realized they lived less than a mile from her parents’ home. As she’d driven past the familiar farmhouse, it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Rose in three weeks and promised herself to correct that.
As soon as her case lightened up.
Since she’d been back in Eagle’s Nest, she and her sister had developed a routine of meeting for coffee once a week after one of Rose’s preschool classes. They’d meet at the Coffee Café and chat for a solid hour, and then Mercy would drive her home.
Rose’s facial scarring had faded. She still had some pink lines, but most had disappeared completely. Mercy hoped the remaining lines would completely fade . . . Rose might have some thin silver scars, not that her blind sister would ever be able to see them.
Rose would have another permanent reminder. One she was excited to love and raise.