A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(41)

Truman met Samuel on the small concrete porch. “What do we have?”

“Ryan is a mess,” said Samuel, “and Clint’s truck is gone.”

“Ryan doesn’t believe he drove somewhere?”

“With the amount of blood in the home, the only place I would drive is to the hospital.”

“Maybe he drove off the road if he’s severely injured.”

“I put out a BOLO on his truck. It’s a ten-year-old Ford Ranger. Black.”

Truman stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I broke up a bar fight between these guys the other day. Could Ryan have hurt his brother?”

Samuel pressed his lips into a line as he considered. “Ryan’s a big guy. Physically he could do it. But if he’s acting about being upset, he’s got me fooled. I got in fights with my brothers all the time. Doesn’t mean I’d really hurt them.”

He knew Samuel had good instincts, but all of them had been conned before. Truman would make up his own mind. “Show me the way.”

Inside the small house, Ryan sat on the couch with his head in his hands, staring at his feet. He didn’t look up at Truman, and Samuel gave a jerk of his head for Truman to follow him. He’d talk to Ryan in a few minutes. Obviously the man wasn’t interested in speaking at the moment.

They stopped at the first bedroom. The king-size bed nearly filled the entire room. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall, and several game consoles sat on a small table beneath it. A sheet hung over the window, and a curtain and two pairs of dirty jeans lay on the floor.

Blood had soaked into the pillow and splattered on the wall. The heavier spots still glistened with moisture.

“Jesus.” Someone had been brutally beaten. Recently. “Did you see any blood on Ryan or his clothes?”

“No. And I checked the sinks and showers. All dry. No wet towels in the laundry. If he did this, he cleaned up somewhere else.”

The covers were shoved back, and more blood smeared the sheets. “I don’t see any heavy bloodstains or trails on the carpet,” Truman said. “A little spatter here and there.”

“I noticed that too. I’m sure county will spray it and check for blood.”

Truman squatted and studied the carpet. “It’s not wet. No one cleaned up the rug. Is there blood elsewhere in the house?”

“I’ve done a quick search and didn’t see anything.” Samuel gestured at the bed. “With an injury like that, I’d expect blood trails. There’s nothing.”

Truman pulled the flashlight off his belt and shone it under the bed. Dust bunnies, dirty Kleenex, and a paper plate holding several old pizza crusts. A small white object caught his eye. “Samuel, get a photo of this.”

Samuel took a picture of the mess under the bed with his department cell phone, and then Truman used a pen to move the white object closer.

It was small and pointy, with blood covering two-thirds of an end. A tooth.

“One of his teeth was knocked out,” said Samuel. “No question this guy was seriously injured.”

Truman imagined the tooth arcing through the air to land on the floor and then accidentally being kicked under the bed by the attacker. “Have you found a weapon?”

“No. But I haven’t searched outside yet. County is sending an evidence team.”

“Good call.” Truman stood and stared at the pillow, a suspicion simmering in his thoughts, thinking of Mercy’s current cases. “This blood pattern reminds me of a case Mercy is working on.” A stomach-lurching notion struck him. “Any kids live here? Does either man have kids?”

“Ryan said just the two of them live here. I guess their kids could live somewhere else.”

“I’d like to talk to Ryan now.”

This time Ryan looked up when Truman stepped into the living room, recognition flashing in his eyes. After Ryan and Clint had sobered up in the Eagle’s Nest holding cells, Truman had let them go after a stern lecture that he didn’t want to see them again for beating up on each other.

And here they were . . . well, one of them.

Ryan’s eyes were red, and he wiped his nose. He wore jeans, work boots, and a John Deere cap. He stood as Truman approached. Truman noted his fingernails were dark around all the edges, but it was the deep stain that comes from years of grimy physical work. His hands and knuckles had scabbed abrasions that Truman recalled being fresh on the night of the bar fight. He also had a colorful bruise on his cheekbone and a healing split lip from that night.

Truman didn’t see any new injuries.

“Before we start, do you or your brother have kids?”

Ryan stared, a confused look on his face. “No. Why?”

“Just checking.” Truman gestured for him to sit back down, and took a seat in a chair facing him. Samuel stood in his usual pose with his arms crossed. “What happened when you got home?”

Ryan cleared his throat. “Nothing happened. I pulled up around nine and was a little surprised that Clint’s truck wasn’t here because I know he has to get up early, but I didn’t think much of it. I’d been home for a good two hours before I noticed the blood in his room. I’d left the light on in the bathroom across the hall and caught the stain on his sheets out of the corner of my eye.” He took a shuddering breath.

“Did you touch anything in the room?”