The Silence (Columbia River #2)(8)

“Anyone,” clarified Mason.

“Dunno. I didn’t ask. Didn’t see people in any of his photos. I’m sorry I’m not more help. If he was moving or buying anything, he didn’t tell me about it.” She blinked, her eyes growing wet. “He really was a nice guy. I freaked out when I saw the blood. I banged on the back door and shouted his name for a good thirty seconds while I called 911. I beat on some other windows in back before I ran around front and rang the bell.” The woman shuddered.

“That sight would disturb anyone,” said Ray.

“How did he die?” she asked bluntly.

Both men went silent as Gillian looked from one to the other.

She stiffened as their silence sank in. “Don’t tell me—I mean, I know you can’t tell me. I understand—I don’t want to know.” She frantically patted her shorts pockets again, her chest rapidly rising and falling with fast breaths.

“Detectives.” A young officer had opened the front door. “The tech has something she’d like you to look at. She says it’s extremely important.” The officer glanced at the teary witness and looked at Ray with concern.

“Could you take Ms. Wood back home?” Ray asked.

The detectives said their goodbyes, telling her they’d be in touch. Gillian stepped off the porch and then spun around. “Find that asshole,” she snapped, her voice cracking.

“We will,” Ray promised.

Mason stayed silent. He didn’t make promises he didn’t know he could keep. Especially to simply make someone feel better.

“What do you think?” Ray murmured as they watched the woman leave with the officer.

“I think she had a thing for our victim.”

“What do you think about her story?”

“I think Reuben was trying to impress her. Just like any other jerk trying to get laid.”

“We don’t know that he was a jerk,” Ray said.

“He made her use his back door to hide their relationship from the neighbors. Sounds like a selfish asshole to me.”

“Could be a private person. Maybe wanted to protect her reputation from the neighborhood grapevine.”

“Mmphf.” Speculating on their victim’s motives was pointless.

“Think she scared off the killer with her noise? It appeared he wasn’t finished.”

“Possibly.”

The house was a one-story ranch. The men passed two bedrooms and the bloody bathroom as they went down a narrow hall. Dr. Trask was hunched over the tub in the bathroom, examining their victim. Mason followed Ray to where a crime scene tech impatiently waited at the end of the hall. “In here,” she said. “You’ve got to see this.” The tech led them into a third bedroom that held a large folding table and wooden chair. A clunky-looking laptop and printer sat on the table along with a dozen plastic stacking shelves full of papers.

It looked like anyone’s messy workroom except for the heavy blood smears on the laptop, folders, and papers scattered on the table. Mason scanned the room for more blood.

Maps of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho covered the walls. A short, cheap bookshelf held several titles that indicated Reuben liked to hike and camp in the Pacific Northwest. Two large backpacks with aluminum frames were piled in a corner alongside a few clear tubs of various supplies for outdoor living. Small pots, tarps, collapsible containers.

The cluttered room felt at odds with the perfectly organized garage.

Mason didn’t see any more blood. It seemed contained to items on the table.

I’ll let the crime scene team decide that.

“It’s this. I just found it,” the tech said, pointing at blood-spotted pages in a manila folder next to the laptop. Her hand was shaking.

“Was the folder laying open like this?” Mason asked.

“No. I’d already documented the entire room, and then I opened the folder. The coffee-cup warmer was on top of it.”

Three coffee cups were on the desk. Each had about a half inch of coffee left.

“I assume the blood is our victim’s,” Ray said.

“Most likely,” said Mason. “But I’m wondering if the victim left behind the blood—he could have gotten away from his attacker at some point and come in here—or was it left behind by his killer’s dirty hands.” He shrugged. “Also could be the killer’s blood. Maybe our guy got in some blows too.”

“I doubt our victim came in here to read something while he had a killer after him,” said Ray.

“Don’t assume,” said Mason. Until he had proof, he never ruled out anything.

“Please stop talking and read it,” begged the tech, frustration in her voice.

Mason looked closely at the top page. He scanned it and then rapidly flipped through the next two, his stomach churning. Three pages of handwritten rants against law enforcement. “What the fuck,” he muttered.

Beside him, Ray had gone silent, the blood forgotten.

Mason turned to the last page. It was a blueprint with a single handwritten line below it. “This is a map of the Clackamas County Courthouse.” Mason forced out the words.

“It says this afternoon. A bomb is to go off in the courthouse.” Ray choked. “This afternoon.”

Mason was already on his phone.

“What the hell . . . I thought I saw this.” Ray had returned to the second page and pointed at a line.