A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(46)

EIGHTEEN

Driving with one hand, Ollie took a long sip from his thermos, attempting to avoid burning his tongue on the hot coffee. He turned onto the country highway out of Eagle’s Nest that headed toward Bend and his community college. He sped up, appreciating the sight of the crisp white-topped mountains against the blue sky to the west. The range had received fresh snow recently, its gray summer silhouettes a thing of the past for the next eight to nine months.

Winter was definitely coming.

Which meant Truman and Mercy’s wedding was less than three months away. Ollie shifted in his seat. He’d spent a lot of brainpower to think up a wedding gift that symbolized how important they were to him. It was impossible. If only—

Suddenly distracted, he leaned forward to get a better look at the large birds circling in the sky to the right of the highway.

Something got hit by a car.

He glanced over as he sped by, trying to identify the type of animal lying far off the road. It was a long, pale lump with a few birds on top.

Did I see an orange hat?

Ollie pulled onto the shoulder and craned his neck to see out the back window. The lump was too far away to distinguish details. He turned and stared out his windshield. If it was a body, he had no wish to see it. He’d stumbled across skeletal human remains a few months ago, and that had been disturbing enough for one lifetime.

It’s nothing. Just go to school.

He pulled back onto the road, deciding to move on. If it’d been a body, someone would have already stopped.

I can’t.

He pulled a U-turn. Traffic was always light on the road, especially this early in the morning. He’d take a look, satisfy his curiosity, and continue on to class.

He passed the lump, made another U-turn, and parked on the edge of the road. The birds flew off but maintained their circle in the sky. Straining his eyes, he tried to make heads or tails of what he saw, but the lump was about thirty feet off the road and down a small slope. He’d have to move closer.

Swearing under his breath, Ollie hopped out of his old truck and carefully stepped down the short bank to where the ground leveled off. He walked through the sagebrush, reddish-brown dirt, and ancient volcanic rocks of all sizes. The larger rocks were the reason he wasn’t certain about what he saw.

“Fuck.” Ollie whirled away from the sight, his coffee burning in his gut.

It was a body. Male. Shot in the forehead and the chest.

A filthy orange cap, the kind hunters often wore, lay two feet from the body.

Ollie held his breath and steeled himself for another look. The man lay on his back, his right arm stretched out above his head as if he were reaching for his hat. There was no question that the man was dead. The birds had already worked on his face. The victim was naked except for his underwear. Even his socks and shoes were missing.

With shaking hands, Ollie slid his phone out of his pocket and called Truman.



“Think we should call state for help?” Officer Ben Cooley asked Truman.

Truman lifted his cowboy hat to run a hand through his hair as he evaluated the dead body. “I already called Deschutes County for their evidence team. This is the third man who’s been shot and dumped over the last few weeks. Bolton has been handling those investigations.”

But this one is in my jurisdiction.

Not that he would shut Bolton out of the investigation. Common sense said the detective should be involved in this case, but Truman intended to keep his foot firmly on it. It was his. He had already felt personally connected because one of the victims had been found at Britta’s, but this made his association feel stronger.

“You don’t recognize him?” Truman asked. Ben had worked for the Eagle’s Nest police department for over thirty years. He knew almost everyone in the area.

“Seems familiar, but I can’t quite place him. Hard to do with part of his face missing. Damned birds,” Ben answered, scratching under his chin as he pondered the body. “Looks young. Speaking of young men, how was Ollie after finding him?”

“He was shook. I told him to go home, but he insisted on going to class. Said it’d keep his mind on other things.”

“That boy has some bad luck. Found two bodies this year.”

“He thinks he’s pretty lucky these days,” Truman replied.

Ollie had a permanent home as part of Truman’s family.

Crouching next to the body, Truman estimated the victim to be in his twenties or thirties. “I want to see underneath him.” He handed Ben a pair of vinyl gloves. Truman had already taken several dozen photographs of the body. They could do a quick study without concern about disturbing the scene.

“I’ll roll him toward you,” Truman said, lifting the man’s shoulder and hip. He was heavy. The body wasn’t in full rigor yet; his arms were stiff but not completely frozen in place. No swelling or hint of decomposition. No doubt the cold temperatures had helped, and Truman suspected he’d been shot at some point overnight. There was an exit wound in the back of his skull and a hole in the dirt under his head. He had been shot in the head as he lay on the ground.

But no hole in the ground below the exit wound in his back. Possibly he’d been standing when shot in the chest and had fallen.

The crunch of gravel announced another vehicle had arrived. Truman stood, expecting to see a county cruiser. Instead it was his youngest officer, Royce Gibson. Royce was an enthusiastic and hardworking cop, but he was also the most innocent and unsuspecting man Truman had ever met. The rest of his team had made it their mission to frequently prank the officer. Just that morning his office manager, Lucas, had given him a mayonnaise-filled doughnut. Royce had eaten half before he realized something wasn’t right. Truman had learned long ago not to accept food from Lucas without careful investigation.