A Merciful Death (Mercy Kilpatrick #1)(43)

“I saw the same results in Gwen’s report. Someone came prepared. I wonder if the police looked into other rapes or attempted rapes in the surrounding areas.”

Mercy looked up, her green eyes wide. “Lord, I hope they did. That seems like a basic step.”

“I’m sure that’s noted in here somewhere. I spotted the signature of one of my men in this book. He’s out of town right now, but I can call him if we have questions. He’s pretty sharp for seventy. I have no doubt he remembers these cases.”

“I suspect everyone in town remembers these cases,” said Mercy. “Nothing rocked the community like these girls’ deaths did.”

“And still unsolved after all these years. I assume there are no obvious suspects in your notes?” Truman asked quietly.

Mercy shook her head.

He flipped to the back of Gwen’s book. “I don’t see any follow-up records. How about yours?”

Mercy scanned through her book. “None. No one did anything? That’s unheard of. Someone should have talked to the people involved every few years to see if they remembered anything new. What about the families? Surely they hounded the police to not give up!” She gave Truman a stricken look, and he was surprised by the dark circles under her eyes. “Why? Why no follow-up?”

Defensiveness rose in his chest. A need to stick up for his department even though he’d been in charge only six months. Instead he shrugged. “Few man-hours. Other investigations. Turnover.”

“Unacceptable,” muttered Mercy, looking back at the senior picture of Jennifer Sanders. “Someone should be fired.”

“Ben Cooley is the only one left from that era. Hell if I’m firing him. He’s been invaluable to me.” An image of the older officer’s kind smile popped into Truman’s head. “He’s not one to take initiative, but he’s incredibly solid and excellent at following orders. Very thorough.”

“The first thing we need to do is follow up with the people who were close to these girls,” stated Mercy.

“You’re here to focus on the three current murders,” Truman pointed out. “Outside of the broken mirrors, I don’t see anything to connect these to your current cases.” His internal fire to solve his uncle’s murder was driving him to keep the FBI on track. So far Mercy appeared to be a solid investigator, but she was getting distracted by history.

Maybe I should be dealing with her partner.

He studied the woman at the table. Was she too close to the old cases? She’d been here two days and already looked exhausted. Had the FBI sent the right person to help solve these crimes?

“I know,” she said. “Eddie is going over the Enoch Finch case with Deschutes County today. I’m currently waiting to hear more from the medical examiner about Ned Fahey, and one of our analysts is searching places where the stolen weapons might have been sold.”

Truman didn’t tell her he’d already gone through the Finch investigation with a fine-tooth comb. Once he’d seen the connection between his uncle and Enoch Finch, he’d immediately contacted Deschutes County to share notes. He hadn’t spotted any new leads or possible avenues that the county investigators had missed. Hopefully, Special Agent Peterson would spot something new.

“Are the two of you moving into the bed-and-breakfast?” he asked.

“Yes. We need to be out of the motel before eleven.” She didn’t look up from her pages.

“That motel is horrible.”

“It’s not so bad.”

He raised one brow. His sister and mother wouldn’t have spent one night in that place. Granted, his sister was a diva and insisted everything she owned be the best available, but even a woman with lower standards should show some interest in leaving the slum. Maybe Mercy didn’t need comforts. He remembered Mercy’s awe at his uncle’s supplies. What he’d seen as an embarrassment, she’d admired.

The Kilpatricks are preppers.

But Mercy lived in Portland and had a high-status job with the federal government. In law enforcement.

Clearly she’d left her heritage behind.

Has she?

Roots can run deep. She might imply she was estranged from her family, but he’d glimpsed her face as she’d studied the old photo of her sister. Pain. Longing. Regret. She’d shown them all.

When Joziah Bevins had stopped by their table, fear had flashed across her face. It’d vanished immediately, replaced by confidence. Real confidence? Forced? Truman mulled it over. Joziah was intimidating, and Truman knew he avoided Karl, the Kilpatrick patriarch, and suspected there was old bad blood there. Did it extend to the daughter?

None of my business.

As long as they didn’t start shooting at each other.

“Truman, look at this.” Mercy slid over her notebook and tapped a page with one finger.

He took the notebook, reading the header on the page: “Items missing from the Sanders home.”

A box of inexpensive jewelry.

Two rifles and a handgun.

$550 in cash.

Holding his breath, Truman flipped the pages of Gwen Vargas’s murder book.

Missing items: jewelry, cash, photo album, two handguns.

Truman looked up, meeting Mercy’s gaze. “The weapons?”

“Yes. It’s not the big hauls from the recent murders, but it’s something.”