She had confidence in Dr. Peres’s theory that the Asian skull was a war trophy. Especially after Mercy had done some online research. People collected weird shit.
But that doesn’t help me find their killer.
The family’s old Suburban hadn’t turned up. No one had used their missing credit cards or accessed their bank accounts, so the motive didn’t appear to be financial. The post office had closed their mailbox when no one renewed the lease and returned all the mail that hadn’t been picked up. The Hartlages got their water from their well and generated their own power. They’d truly been off the grid. So far off the grid that no one had missed them for eight months. A calendar hanging on the back side of a kitchen cupboard door was open to August of the year before. The few pieces of mail that had been found in the home were postmarked last August.
Those weren’t confirmations of the time of disappearance, but several of the windows had been left open, and summer clothing was in the laundry. All that was enough to make Mercy pretty darn certain the Hartlages had been gone for eight months, and that had been more than enough time for their remains to skeletonize.
Mercy understood people not being missed for a week or two, but was this family so socially isolated that there was no one to care?
Is that the reason this family was targeted? The killer suspected no one would notice for a long time?
Switching to the Jorgensen file, she wondered if the killer had planned to remove the Jorgensen family from their beds, but been interrupted by the neighbor. That family hadn’t lived in isolation like the Hartlage family. Sharla Jorgensen had many social interests, the kids attended school, and the husband had an employer.
The trace evidence from both homes had yet to reveal that a unique presence had visited both homes.
Her gaze fell on Janet Norris’s name. The woman had been involved with the Verbeeks and the Jorgensens, and the coincidence still made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. But coincidences did occur. People knew people. The population in the area where the families had lived wasn’t huge. It could happen.
Can I connect her to the Hartlages?
Mercy made a note to see if the Hartlages had ever stayed at the DoubleTree hotel where Janet worked.
She switched again to Truman’s case.
Joshua Forbes’s traffic stop with Truman continued to dart through her thoughts. She and Detective Bolton had yet to track down the sovereign citizen. A county deputy had gone to Joshua’s home that morning and reported no one was home.
Did he leave the area?
He could be at a girlfriend’s house.
He could be crashed on a friend’s couch, venting about his time in jail.
She’d assigned more officers to track down Joshua Forbes. Currently it was the best lead in Truman’s case.
The ringing of her cell phone distracted her, and Britta’s name and number showed on her screen. Mercy had added the woman to her contacts after she’d called two days before.
“Agent Kilpatrick.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Britta stated in a calm voice.
“How can I help?” Mercy leaned back in her chair, determined to win more of the woman’s confidence.
“That reporter Chuck Winslow is sitting on my floor. I may have shot him.”
“What? Is he dead?” Mercy jumped up as shock shot through her nerves.
“Oh no,” Britta assured her. “I was loaded with buckshot and I purposefully shot wide. But he does have some lead in him. He’ll live, but he’s not happy with me.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked in a hushed voice, glancing toward her door, wondering if anyone in the office had heard her shriek.
“He broke into my house.”
“Ohhhh.” Mercy sat back down, her thoughts racing. “That’s not good.”
“That was my thought when I spotted him. Fucking asshole.” Britta’s last two words were said away from her phone, and Mercy suspected they were aimed at Chuck.
“You better call an ambulance.”
“He doesn’t deserve an ambulance. And a hospital will have to report that he’s been shot. That involves the police.”
“True.” Mercy now understood the reason for Britta’s call. She needed an advocate with the police. “Can I talk to him for a second?”
“I’ll have to hold the phone.”
“Is he hurt that bad?”
“No, but his hands are tied.”
Mercy briefly closed her eyes. “That’s fine.” Chuck had had no idea what he was getting into when he took on Britta Vale. I bet he knows now.
“What?”
That distinctive male voice made her chest tighten. “How badly are you hurt, Chuck?”
“She shot me. I’ve got a dozen holes in my legs and there is damned blood everywhere.”
“Any blood spurting or pulsing? Or is the blood flow slow?”
“Does it matter?” he shot back. “I’m going to sue this bitch.”
“Yes, it matters. Pulsing could mean you’ll bleed out within a few minutes.” Mercy felt oddly calm. Talking to the jerk when he was in pain was rather satisfying.
“It’s slow. It’s mostly stopped,” he admitted.
“Are the shots in the front of your thigh?”
“Yes, now call me an ambulance and the police! This woman is psychotic!”
“I’ll have her call one as soon as I hang up. I’m coming too.” She paused. “Is it true you entered her house?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
So yes he did.
“Agent Kilpatrick?” Britta was back on the line.
“Call him an ambulance. I’m on my way. Since he was facing you when you shot, you could have felt threatened. It strengthens the argument that you defended yourself.”
“He’s no threat. I shot him because he was in my house. I also took his gun away from him. He had it in a stupid ankle holster.”
He was armed too. Another reason to defend herself.
Britta shouldn’t face any consequences for shooting an armed man in her home. Especially since she’d reported a prowler a few nights before.
“Call the ambulance, Britta,” Mercy ordered again. “It’ll look better if you show you tried to help him, since he’s injured.”
“All right,” she said with great reluctance.
“I’ll call for a county deputy to respond, and I’ll be there as soon as possible. No more shooting, Britta,” she said firmly.
“Of course not.” She sounded offended.
Mercy ended the call and sat motionless at her desk for a moment, mentally struggling to leave Truman’s investigation.
Deschutes County and his officers are still actively working. I need more leads.
Britta has no one to help her. It won’t take more than an hour.
She slowly stood and grabbed her bag, promising to refocus on Truman once she cleaned up Britta’s issue.
The ambulance and a county deputy were already at Britta’s home when Mercy arrived.
Chuck Winslow sat on the front porch of Britta’s home as his wounds were examined and cleaned. Britta stood farther back on the porch, keeping Chuck in her line of sight while speaking with the deputy, who took notes.