The Silence (Columbia River #2)

The Silence (Columbia River #2)

Kendra Elliot




1

Detective Mason Callahan stared at the severed fingers on the bathroom linoleum.

“What’s the point of trying to hide the corpse’s identity if he’s left in his own house?” Detective Ray Lusco muttered. The burly Oregon State Police detective had been silent for nearly thirty seconds as he took in the scene. A record.

A mutilated body lay in the bloody bathtub. Arcs of blood went up the walls and across the floor. A large rubber mallet had been abandoned on his chest, the dead man’s misshapen skull indicating its use. Most of his teeth had been broken off at the gumline and looked like pieces of shattered porcelain in the drying blood. Two fingers were still attached to his left hand, but the rest were scattered across the floor.

“Looks like someone was interrupted before he could finish the hands,” said Mason. He scowled as he did a quick count. “I only see seven loose fingers.”

Ray winced. “Aw, shit. You don’t think he took one as a souvenir, do you?”

“Might be under the body.”

Both men paused, and Mason steeled his stomach at the mental image of the two of them rolling the body to check. “We’ll wait for the ME.”

The medical examiner can have the honor.

It never got easier. Mason had seen dozens of deaths in his decades of law enforcement, and many had imprinted on his brain and cropped up in the middle of the night, ruining his sleep until he banished the images. He’d learned to compartmentalize his work. This was a job, and he was damned good at it. He was there to help and had to set aside his horror and disgust at what one human would do to another.

Even he hadn’t been safe from a killer’s wrath.

His fingertips traced the lines of rough skin around his neck. Eight months ago someone from his past had tried to hang him, fully intent on a murder of vengeance. If Ava hadn’t shown up when she had . . .

He abruptly inhaled through his nose, fighting back his gag reflex, using the scent of the death in front of him to push away the memory.

The home sat on a small lot in a tiny town just outside the Portland suburbs. A local patrolman had responded when a neighbor noticed a broken window in the back of the house and saw blood on the kitchen floor. The town’s police chief had taken one look at the gory scene and requested the Oregon State Police’s help. The town of three thousand hadn’t had a murder in more than a decade.

“Reuben Braswell. Age fifty-two. Not married. Appears to live here alone,” Ray stated, checking the notes on his phone. He pointed at the pile of bloody clothing tossed by the toilet. “His wallet and driver’s license were in his pants pocket. He matches the photo and stats.”

“What’s the tattoo say?” An American flag covered half of the victim’s arm, but Mason couldn’t make out the words below the flag.

“‘We the people.’”

“What about the tiny print?”

“The words of the Second Amendment.”

“Some people have strong feelings about it.” Mason didn’t have a problem with the Second Amendment, but he wasn’t about to tattoo it on his body. “Any other tattoos?”

“Only if they’re on his back. The ME can check.”

“Was he ever married?” asked Mason.

“Doesn’t look like it. I don’t know how he got to that age without getting married,” Ray said. “Wonder what was wrong with him.”

“Maybe he simply didn’t want to be married. Doesn’t mean there’s a problem.” The marriage discussion wasn’t a new one. He and Ray had broached it several times. The other detective swore marriage was the best thing that had ever happened to him and had a storybook home life. Gorgeous wife. Two great kids. Perfect home. Mason had hidden his jealousy for years. His own marriage had imploded long before.

His situation was about to change. For the better. Much better, thanks to Ava.

“It doesn’t make se—”

Mason cut Ray off. “It’s not for everyone. What’s he do for work?” he asked to redirect his partner’s train of thought.

“Works at the local Home Depot. Eight years.” Ray looked up. “I wouldn’t mind working there after I retire. I already know what’s on every aisle.”

Mason nodded, knowing they shared a fascination with the store. Between the two of them, they had enough tools to stock a new one. But he had no desire to ever work in retail.

“Immediate family?”

“Parents deceased. We’re trying to find the brother and sister.”

“Let’s walk the rest of the house.”

The crime scene tech had stood patiently in the doorway as the two detectives looked their fill, but Mason felt the impatience rolling off the tall, thin man, who shifted from foot to foot. Mason nodded as they passed, seeing relief cross the tech’s face that they were leaving his crime scene.

“Are you caught up on this season of Queer Eye?” Ray asked as they moved down a hallway, walking tight to the walls to avoid stepping in a wide, smeared blood trail but not close enough to knock the old photos off the wall. Mason paused at a black-and-white photo of young boys in cowboy hats sitting on a pony. He owned a nearly identical one of him and his brother. Probably every family of his generation had one.