The Silence (Columbia River #2)(69)

Reuben isn’t fine.

“Oh.” She exhaled heavily. “I’m at my sister’s house.”

“Good. What I’m specifically calling about is how long you think you banged on the back door that morning after seeing the blood.”

Gillian was quiet for a long second. “Why?”

“We’re trying to tighten up the sequence of events that morning,” Mason said smoothly. “When we first talked, you estimated you called his name and banged on the back door for thirty seconds.”

“I think so.”

“And then you did the same on some of the back windows.”

“Yes. I couldn’t see in any of them. The blinds were closed.”

“What did you do after trying to get his attention through the windows?”

“I went around front and rang the bell.”

“So maybe another thirty seconds between the windows and running out front?”

Gillian paused. “Was something wrong with that?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Like I said, we’re working on a timeline.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Would you guess it was longer than thirty seconds?” Mason asked. “Shorter?”

“I didn’t think it made any difference,” she whispered.

Crap. What did she do?

“What difference?” he asked calmly.

“I ran back home first.”

Mason briefly closed his eyes. “You didn’t mention that.” He continued to sound calm, though he wanted to reach through the line and shake her. “Why did you go home?”

No wonder she didn’t see the killer leave.

“I knew from all that blood that something bad had happened. Reuben had told me that if something ever happened to him, I needed to get away.”

“Get away where? How come?”

“I don’t know. It was something he said one night . . . He was rambling on about safety. I didn’t ask any questions. Most of the time I didn’t understand what he was talking about.”

“But you remembered that warning?”

“Yes. I didn’t stay home very long that morning. I was freaked out and paced around, terrified of what could have happened. I wanted to call 911, but I was too nervous.”

“But you finally did.”

“I realized I should at least try the front door. If he was hurt, maybe I could help. I got up the nerve to go back and try the door. I rang the bell and then called 911.”

Mason enlarged a picture of the loose fingers in the bathroom and then moved to Reuben’s battered face.

How much of that abuse was he conscious for?

“How long would you estimate you were at home?”

“I know I finished a cigarette. It calmed me down.”

Five minutes? Plenty of time for the killer to get out.

“I wish you would have told us that the first time.”

“I was really nervous talking to you. I might have forgotten.”

Mason doubted that. More likely she had been afraid she’d be in trouble.

He enlarged a photo of the Second Amendment and flag tattoo that filled most of Reuben’s lower arm and remembered that Gillian had said he wouldn’t tell her what his tattoos meant to him.

The meaning was obvious to Mason.

Tattoos. Plural.

Mason quickly clicked over to the medical examiner’s report and opened the file of photos. He scanned each one, not seeing a second tattoo.

“Gillian, you told me you asked Reuben about his tattoos. What kind of tattoos did he have?”

“He had a lion’s head on his shoulder and some sort of tribal tattoo that went around both his upper arms. You know . . . sorta geometric and badass looking.”

In Mason’s photos, Reuben’s shoulders were clear.

His fingers grew icy. “No flag tattoo?”

“No. Not that I remember.”

There’s no way she forgot a tattoo that covers half of his arm.

“Thanks for answering my questions, I need to get back to work.” His sentences ran together, his mind sprinting far ahead as he ended the call.

“The murdered man isn’t Reuben Braswell,” he stated out loud.

Holy shit. We fucked up.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling as he mentally retraced their steps to identifying the body. Reuben didn’t have any fingerprints on file.

The victim’s face was severely damaged.

The victim’s stats matched the license.

The victim’s hair and eye color matched. Height and weight seemed about right.

Reuben’s wallet had been in the bloody jeans. In his own home.

A forensic dental exam hadn’t been done yet. The ME needed films from Reuben’s dentist to compare.

I should have asked Gillian to visually identify him.

We made assumptions.

Mason dug his hands into his hair and pulled. This isn’t happening. “Who the fuck was left in that bathtub?”

Tony Schroeder is missing.

“I talked to Schroeder on the phone,” he muttered. “No, I talked to someone who answered his phone. Dammit!”

He abruptly sat up and tapped on his keyboard as he searched for Tony Schroeder’s driver’s license. He stared at the man’s photo, comparing it to the battered face in the tub.