He knew Mercy would review the letter even though she was focused on her new case. There had been an obsession in her eyes when she talked about the small skull found in the culvert.
Violence against kids got under her skin. His too.
The old crime reports he and Mercy had reviewed last night had stuck in his head. More horrible attacks against children.
Why murder the entire family?
Someone isn’t right in the head.
Not that those who murdered a single person were right in the head, but to take out an entire family spoke to a new level of illness.
Truman wanted the new case solved as much as Mercy did.
But what can I do?
Steve Harris. The man’s face popped into Truman’s mind. The neighbor who’d discovered the Verbeek family.
Truman had interacted with him several times. Not usually on the best of terms, but he felt Steve respected him even if he didn’t respect the fire hydrant in front of his home. Truman knew Steve’s small house. It was three blocks away from the police department.
None of my business.
He logged on to his computer and discovered that Steve still owed the city for three parking tickets. They were about to be sent to collections.
Maybe I should be neighborly and give him a warning.
Truman put on his hat and walked out into the rain.
“We’ve got a lead.”
“I’m listening,” Mercy told Jeff as she drove away from Britta Vale’s home, where she’d silenced her phone for her interview. There’d been three missed calls and two texts from Jeff.
“I’m sending you the address. There’s a family missing. It’s possible they’ve been missing for months.”
“Sounds like a good lead.”
“Deschutes County Sheriff’s Department is already at the home. It’s not far from where you’re at.”
“On my way.” Mercy pulled over and plugged the address from his text into her GPS. She could be there in twenty minutes. She frowned at the map, surprised that someone lived in the desolate location. She would have expected it to be only rock and shrubs and wildlife.
Twenty minutes later she put her Tahoe into four-wheel drive to get through the mud. No one had done maintenance on the private road in ages. She rocked and bounced her way down into a valley, crossing her fingers that she wouldn’t get stuck. Fresh tracks assured her that the county vehicles had made it. Moments later she found the home.
If Britta Vale’s home was welcoming, this home advised people to stay away. The house looked abused and exhausted.
Three broken-down trucks sat in front of the home. Two still had wheels; none had windshields. The front of the home hid behind overgrown bushes. It had a sagging roof, and Mercy spotted several squatty outbuildings with pens to the left of the house. One she assumed was a chicken coop, and the others looked as if they would hold small farm animals. She parked next to a Deschutes County vehicle and slid out. A familiar figure stepped out of the home and Mercy recognized Deschutes County Detective Evan Bolton.
Mercy pulled up her hood in the misting rain and went to greet Bolton. The detective always looked as if he’d just wrapped up a difficult interview. He had a seen-it-all gaze in his brown eyes, even though he was a bit younger than Mercy.
She shook his hand. “What did you find?” she asked him.
“Something happened here, but who knows how long ago. There’s a lot of old dried blood in the bedrooms, and all their stuff is still here, but the place is deserted. I assume this family didn’t move away to a new city.”
Not with dried blood left behind.
“What’s the name?”
“Last name is Hartlage. Richard and Corrine Hartlage own the home.”
“Kids?”
“Judging by the pictures inside, they have one young girl and a teenage girl.”
The small skull flashed in Mercy’s brain.
“Relatives? Neighbors?”
“We’re searching for relatives. I sent a deputy to the closest homes, which are a good mile or two away, to get some information about this family.”
“Vehicle registrations?”
“There’s a missing Chevy Suburban. Fifteen years old. I put out a BOLO on it.” Bolton pointed at the three old trucks. “None of these are registered.”
“Not surprised.” The silence of the property was overwhelming. “Are there animals?”
“The doors to the pens and the buildings were open when we got there,” said Bolton. “I can tell there had been chickens in one pen and other animals in the other buildings . . . There are bales of hay and some feed bins.”
“Someone let the animals out. I guess that’s good.” Mercy turned in a circle as she eyed the remote location. “I assume they’re totally off the grid out here? No utilities to pay or fall behind on?”
“Nothing. Self-sufficient.”
“Does it appear the home has been empty a long time?”
“Come take a look.”
Mercy followed Bolton up the steps. “I think more than four people lived here,” Bolton said. “You’ll see what I mean.”
A smell of mildew and old dust pervaded. “Was that window open like it is now?” Mercy gestured at a large one in the living room. Water had stained the wall and wood floor below the window. The boards had started to curl.
“Yes,” said Bolton. “There are a few windows open. The wood floor is saturated over there.”
“Not surprising after the storms we’ve had.”
She took a quick pass through the kitchen, noting the layer of dust on the counter and the few dishes in the sink. “Did you look in the fridge?”
“It’s pretty nasty.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Her stomach was already tight at the sight of the empty home. The weather must have been better when the family was last here. It hadn’t been warm enough to leave windows open since September. A crime scene tech with a camera in hand moved into the living room from the hallway. He nodded at Mercy and started taking photos in the kitchen.
She followed Bolton down the hall and glanced in the small bathroom. A holder with five toothbrushes sat on the counter. The next doorway was to a tiny bedroom. Pink walls. Old white furniture. My Little Pony sheets on one twin bed, plain blue on the other. Clothes and Barbies on the floor.
Rust-colored stains on the pillows.
Mercy took three steps to the My Little Pony bed. The covers were pushed back, and a reddish-brown trail was smeared from the pillow to the floor. Then it stopped. It was the same for the blue bed.
“He put them in something.”
“It’s the same in all the rooms. The blood trails abruptly stop.”
The next bedroom appeared to belong to the mother and father. Men’s and women’s clothing hung in the closet. The queen-size bed had dried blood on both pillows. Both sides of the bed had bloody stains down the sides of the mattress and box springs to the floor, where it had pooled in the carpet. No blood trail to the door, but blood spatter went up the walls and across the ceiling, showing how the killer had raised and swung the weapon.