“Impressive,” mumbled Truman.
Dr. Lockhart grinned. “I like to see how close I can guess the weight. It’s hard to narrow the age range, but I’ve adjusted it to between forty and fifty-five. It’s very subjective. He has gum disease, which has led to minor bone loss in his jaw, half of his hair is gray, and there’s a loss of elasticity in his skin in a few places. But all those things can happen early or late in life. I took into account that he exhibits all three when I made my age estimate.” She squinted at her screen. “As you probably noticed, he’s Caucasian. And even though his belly was very bloated from decomp, he’s actually quite thin.”
“Was he . . .” Bolton paused. “Assaulted?”
“You mean sexually? No.”
“Why remove his clothing?”
Dr. Lockhart shrugged. “That’s your part of the investigation.” Her eyes moved back and forth as she read her screen. “Nothing in his stomach.”
“He hadn’t eaten?” Bolton asked. “You said he was thin. Was he being starved?”
The doctor tapped her chin as she thought. “I need lab results. His serum proteins will be off if he’s suffering from malnutrition. The labs aren’t definitive on their own. I have to consider the physical signs, and I’d say he wasn’t getting enough to eat. Or chose not to eat enough.”
“He was being held captive and not fed?” Bolton wondered out loud.
“No abrasions on his wrists or ankles to indicate he was restrained,” the doctor said. “We removed the dirt from under his nails for evidence, but his hands didn’t show signs of defensive wounds or have the broken nails that I’ve seen when someone is trying to escape out of something.”
“Did the evidence techs find fingerprints anywhere on the body?” Truman asked. Human skin was tough to print, but he knew it could be done.
“No,” replied Dr. Lockhart. “They tried several different ways but only found smears. I suspect whoever moved him wore gloves. I did recover the bullet. As you saw at the scene, there was only an entry wound, no exit. I sent the bullet to ballistics—it was mangled, but it was definitely from a smaller-caliber weapon. They should have a report for you soon. I hope it’s helpful.”
Bolton nodded and made a notation in his notebook.
“The shot was made very close to the head,” she continued. “I found stippling from the gunpowder in his scalp. I followed the path of the bullet through his brain and around inside his skull.”
Truman winced at the mental image.
“The angle of the path puts the gun at a steep angle, shooting downward.” She met Bolton’s and Truman’s eyes, her face solemn.
“You mean the victim was below the shooter?” Truman asked. “Like on his knees?”
“Shit.” Bolton tapped his notebook, scowling. “You’re saying—”
“Yes, like you’d imagine for an execution.” Dr. Lockhart turned back to her screen. “And as you’ll remember—”
“You made the same suggestion with the John Doe from a month ago,” Bolton finished. “His injury had an exit wound, but the angle was similar—from above. I recall you mentioned the stippling on that victim’s scalp too.”
Truman exhaled. Men are being executed?
“Do you see any other similarities to this case from the first John Doe?” Bolton asked.
Dr. Lockhart nodded as she typed. “I knew you’d ask about that.” She rested her chin on a fist as she studied her screen. “The first John Doe was younger. Late twenties or early thirties. He was also naked except for underwear. I couldn’t make as many exterior physical observations because he was in an advanced state of decomposition. Cause of death was the gunshot wound.”
“Same caliber?” Bolton asked hopefully.
She grimaced. “I will say it’s not impossible—gunshot wounds from the first victim indicate it was also a smaller-caliber weapon, but I can’t state more than that.”
“You have to consider they’re related,” Truman told Bolton. “Especially with the angle of the gunshots.”
“I do,” said Bolton. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shit.”
Do we have a serial killer?
TWELVE
Mercy tried the doorknob to the supply depot. Locked. She pounded on the door and stepped back to wait. Her thumb tried to spin her engagement ring, a new habit, but found nothing on her left ring finger. Her subconscious had forgotten she’d left it behind.
Dammit.
She settled for pacing with her arms crossed. Vera had pointed out the supply depot as they returned to the main portion of the compound. “Good luck,” the sour woman had commented. “I’d stick around to watch, but I have work to do.” Vera sniffed and walked away.
Watch what?
Mercy was determined to get some acetaminophen for Noah and then get a look at the camp’s medical supplies. Slow, heavy footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened.
Shit.
It was the overweight man from yesterday’s lunch line. The one who’d complained when she kissed Chad.
His current scowl matched the one from the day before.
No. It was worse.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, his bearded face clearly unhappy with her presence.
She searched her memory for his name but came up empty. “I’m Jessica—”
“I know who you are. Why are you banging on my door?”
“Are you in charge of supplies?” she asked, praying he was not.
“I’m the quartermaster.” He emphasized his title as he crossed his arms, and she spotted a round scar on his wrist.
Great. He’s a trusted member of Pete’s posse and hated me on sight.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name yesterday.” She gave a nervous, small smile, hoping to thaw the ice in his pale-blue eyes.
“Beckett.” No thaw.
“Pete told me you’d separate out the medical supplies for me.”
The scowl deepened. “He told me to do that but didn’t say anything about you.”
“He’s put me in charge of medical care for the group,” she told him. “I need to know what we have on hand.”
“You’re supposed to requisition something when you need it.”
Mercy drew a breath and silently asked for patience. “Pete and I talked about me having quick access to the medical supplies.”
“I heard nothing about that.”
Mercy doubted that. “So I need to go find Pete right now?”
The scowl faltered, and she knew she’d touched a sensitive spot. Like Vera, Beckett was protective of—or fearful about—his leader’s time. He knew what duties Pete would concern himself with and which would be delegated.
The large man shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the dusty flooring. “I pulled the supplies together. You can take a look for now,” he said reluctantly.
Mercy considered that a win. “Thank you.”
“Wait here.”
He closed the door in her face just as she caught a glimpse of a dozen shelving units packed with cartons and sacks.
They wouldn’t store weapons here.
Although Beckett was as protective of his supplies as if he were guarding stolen weapons. She tried to imagine him taking part in the heist that had intercepted the ATF’s transportation of weapons. The agent who survived the attack had described fast-moving, prepared, and precise men who overpowered him. Beckett didn’t move swiftly. His steps were ponderous and heavy. In the brief moment she’d watched him move, he’d clearly favored one leg.