A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(47)

Royce stopped at the top of the short bank, staring across at the scene. Truman waved him down. The cop could use a little hardening up. His face always gave away his emotions. Sure enough, Royce’s mouth dropped open as he got closer.

He stopped several feet away and averted his eyes, swallowing hard. “Jeez, Truman. What do you think happened?”

“I think he was shot,” Truman answered dryly. “Do you recognize him?”

Royce took two hesitant steps closer and made himself look at the face. “Holy shit!” He rubbed a trembling hand across his forehead as he turned away.

Truman raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

Royce’s gaze darted to the body and away again. He audibly swallowed. “Sorta looks like Gerry Norris. Works at the gas station. Well, I assume he still works there. I didn’t see him around much this past summer.” Royce shuddered. “Worked for Nick Walker at the lumberyard a few years back. I think Nick let him go. Nasty parting, if I remember right.”

Nick was Truman’s almost-brother-in-law. Married to Mercy’s sister Rose.

Ben had listened closely as Royce talked. “I’ll have Lucas get us a home address and Norris’s license photo to check,” he said, tapping on his phone and stepping away.

“You sure that’s who this is?” Truman asked. “Why don’t I recognize him?”

“Well—I’m not positive. Hard to tell, really. Sure feels like it could be him.” Royce took another rapid glance at the victim. “Maybe you don’t know him because he worked the graveyard shift. Uh . . . I need to get something out of my truck.” He headed back to the road before Truman could say anything else.

Bolton’s Explorer had just parked behind Royce’s patrol vehicle. Evan Bolton raised a hand at the young officer, who returned the gesture but kept walking. Bolton’s gaze followed Royce, watching as he climbed in his SUV and simply sat, staring down at his lap. The detective shrugged. Truman understood Bolton’s confusion. Royce always had a cheery word for everyone. Typically too many cheery words. It was often difficult to get the officer to stop talking.

“We meet again,” Bolton said as he approached Truman. “I’m beginning to dread your phone calls.”

Truman didn’t laugh and launched directly into business. “This victim was shot in the chest before he took a bullet to the head. I believe we’ll find the second bullet in the ground under his head. And we have a possible identification on him already.”

Bolton scanned the body. “Good. We can compare the bullet to the one we pulled from the second victim. Nice that we’re early to this one. I had an artist put together some sketches of the first two victims. They’re already posted online, and they’ll be on the local news tonight. Somebody out there should recognize them.” He bent closer. “Why did he shoot you in the chest first?” he muttered. “Who ID’d him?”

“Royce. Says he thinks it’s Gerry Norris. A local.”

“So that’s why Royce looked ready to puke,” Bolton commented.

Truman studied the detective. Bolton had always impressed him with his steady demeanor no matter what horror was in front of him. But at what cost had he developed that calm?

“Have an address for Norris?” Bolton asked.

Ben rejoined the group. “I got it and a photo,” he answered. He held up his phone, which displayed an enlarged driver’s license picture. “This guy looks a lot heavier than our victim. Face is rounder. Now I’m not sure it’s him.”

Truman compared the photo to the body. Neither he nor Bolton could be certain it was Norris.

“I’ll text you the address, Truman,” Ben said as he stomped and waved an arm at a bird that had ventured too close, its beady eyes on the body. “Damned birds.”

“Wait for the evidence team and medical examiner,” Truman told Ben. He glanced back at Royce, who was still sitting in his vehicle. “Get Royce back down here and have him help the team. I don’t care if he just holds a garbage bag or takes bird duty. Keep him busy with something.”

Ben nodded solemnly, understanding in his gaze.

Truman looked to Bolton, who was eyeing the birds with distaste. “Let’s go.”

As they headed toward the road, Truman received a phone call.

“What’s up, Lucas?” Truman signaled for Bolton to wait.

“I’m entering Samuel’s reports from last night, and I just discovered he broke up a domestic dispute between Gerry Norris and Kim Fuller at Norris’s address,” Lucas said triumphantly. “Thought you’d like a heads-up.”

“Nice job. Send me a scan of Samuel’s report.”

“I got lucky.” Lucas sounded smug.

Truman ended the call. “We’ve got a girlfriend to interview,” he told Bolton.



Gerry Norris lived in an old Eagle’s Nest building composed of four apartments that had seen better days. The architecture suggested it’d been built in the seventies, and it currently needed a new coat of paint. The outdoor landings were covered with green artificial turf that had thinned to threads in front of each apartment door.

After Truman knocked, a chain stopped Norris’s door from opening more than five inches, and suspicious female eyes studied the men. “More cops?” she asked with a sigh.