The Silence (Columbia River #2)(27)

Maybe the house he needed to visit would have a security camera.

He would walk the Braswell home first and then talk to the neighbors. Decision made, he got out of his car and was slapped in the face by the heat. The high temperatures were very unusual. Typically June was quite wet. No doubt the local media would start worrying about a drought any day.

He let himself into the house, took off his hat, and stood just inside the door. He hadn’t paid much attention to the living room on his right yesterday. He’d gone straight to the body and then checked the kitchen and the “map room.” The living room was nondescript. Brown furniture. Oak coffee table and end tables. A framed poster of Mount Bachelor and another of the Columbia River Gorge. Couch cushions were slightly askew—they’d been searched. Black fingerprint powder on the tables. The crime scene techs had been thorough even though there didn’t appear to have been any violence in the room.

The kitchen was next. More black powder. Mason pulled up the photos he’d shot of the kitchen on his work phone yesterday and compared them to the scene in front of him. Except for the powder, nothing had changed. The pools of blood had dried and were now darker.

A vision of Ray’s blood in the gravel popped into his mind. His lungs suddenly tightened, and he wiped sweat off his forehead. The air in the home abruptly felt stagnant and thin.

I need to get out.

Mason strode back out front. Breathing deeply, he leaned against the same pole on the porch that he’d stood at for the Gillian Wood interview. His gaze fell on the neighbor’s car across the street, and he immediately moved in that direction. Now, talking to people sounded much better. The house could wait.

The home was a ranch nearly identical in shape and size to Braswell’s, and the vehicle was a little red Toyota pickup that had seen better days—probably over a decade ago. Mason rang the doorbell and stepped back a few feet, his business card in his hand and his badge visible on his belt.

The door was opened by a lanky teenage boy in long athletic shorts and a tank top. His hair poked out in all directions, and he clutched a game controller in one hand.

Mason introduced himself. “Your parents around?”

“I live with my dad, and he’s out of town.” The teen studied the business card Mason had given him. “This about Reuben?”

“Is school out already?” Mason’s son, Jake, had always been in school halfway through June.

“I’m at PCC. No class today. What happened to Reuben? I mean, I know he’s dead, but how did it happen?”

“How old are you?” Just because he attended the community college didn’t mean he was over eighteen. Mason wasn’t about to talk to a minor without his parent present.

The teen scowled. “Twenty-two.”

Mason didn’t believe him. “You got ID?”

“Am I under arrest? You can’t just come here and ask me to show ID for no reason.”

“You want to talk about Reuben? I want to know you’re over eighteen.”

He instantly vanished and was back moments later with a driver’s license. Kaden Schroeder was twenty-two. “I heard it was pretty nasty,” Kaden said as Mason studied the license, at first wondering if it was a fake so Kaden could buy alcohol, but it looked legit.

Mason handed back the license. “Who told you that?”

Kaden shrugged. “Dunno.”

The shrug and answer reminded Mason of Jake. So did the game controller and messy hair.

When I was twenty-two, I had my own apartment and a full-time job.

“What are you studying?”

“Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. Just curious what you’re working toward in your life.”

The young man squinted at him. “Uh-huh. I think we’re done.” He started to close the door.

“You got any security cameras that cover the street?”

The door swung back open, interest bright in Kaden’s eyes. “Nah. You got a suspect?”

“How well did you know Reuben Braswell?” Mason ignored Kaden’s question.

Another shrug. “Not that well. He helped my dad repair our fence. Seemed cool. Big Twilight Zone fan. Found out we liked a lot of the same episodes.”

“The original series?”

“Of course. All the reboots suck.”

“The two of you talked about a TV show. What else?”

“Dunno.”

“Did you help your dad repair the fence?”

“What does that matter?”

That means no. “Have you seen anyone over there or on your street recently?”

“You mean like someone new? There was a Mustang in his driveway a couple times over the last week or so. Didn’t see it before that.”

Mason made a note on his pad. “Color?”

“Silver. Sweet car.”

“You don’t think it was Reuben’s?”

“Nah, seen him driving his truck the other day. The Mustang wasn’t around.”

Mason froze, his pen hovering over his pad.

Where is Reuben’s truck?

He scribbled a note to get the make and the plates of the truck to put out a BOLO. The killer could have driven off with the truck . . . but then how had the killer arrived at the home?

Two people?

It wasn’t confirmed that a single shooter had done the courthouse shooting.