“Why? Grady Baldwin was tried and found guilty. The cases were closed, right?”
“They were.” Truman didn’t want to say that it was possible something similar had happened recently. How can I phrase this? “Sometimes we have to look at the past to find answers for the present.”
“What does that bullshit mean?” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, his stance stiff, blocking the door.
Truman gave up on tact. “It means something violent has happened and we’re looking at the old cases for help.” He looked directly at Steve, all his cards on the table.
Steve considered him for a long moment. He took a step back and gestured for Truman to come in.
The inside of the home was surprisingly nice. From the outside, the old bungalow-style home looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the 1960s. But inside, it had been updated with nice wood floors, baseboards, a modern fireplace, and contemporary furniture. The home smelled of coffee and bacon.
Truman took a seat in an upholstered chair that was uncomfortable and stiff. Steve sat in a matching chair. “What happened?” Steve asked.
Truman mulled it over.
“You can’t tell me,” Steve stated before Truman could speak.
“Not yet.”
Steve slowly nodded. “It’s serious?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the morning you found the Verbeek family.”
Steve looked away, rubbing his jaw. “It’s been a long time. I try not to think about it. Never seen anything like that before. And I haven’t since, thank God.”
“What made you go in the house?”
“The door was open a bit and no one answered my knock, so I pushed it.” He wouldn’t meet Truman’s gaze. “I knew something was wrong . . . It didn’t smell right either. I called out and stepped inside. Dennis Verbeek was on the floor in the living room.” He looked down at his hands. “Blood had soaked his head and the floor. It wasn’t quite dry, but he was cold. I found Maria in the hallway. She was the same.”
He cleared his throat and his knuckles went white as his hands tightened.
“Maria was outside the girls’ room. I checked the twins first. They were bloody and cold like their parents, but when I touched Britta’s arm, she was still warm.”
His gaze met Truman’s. “Those girls were beaten in the head. I don’t understand the kind of person who does that to adults, let alone helpless small girls.”
“You called 911 from the Verbeek home?”
“Yes. I was too scared to move Britta from the top bunk bed . . . I was afraid I’d injure her worse. She was unconscious, with a head and mouth injury. There was nothing else I could do, so I waited for the ambulance and prayed she continued to breathe.”
“Did you know Grady Baldwin?”
Anger filled Steve’s face. “I knew who he was. I’d never talked to him. I knew Dennis Verbeek had hired Grady to help him reroof his home a few months before.”
“He made a pass at Maria Verbeek and got turned down?”
“So they said.”
“You don’t believe it?”
Steve shrugged. “I have no doubt that Grady Baldwin killed that family. They had evidence against him, but I doubt that was why he did it.”
“Why do you say that?”
The man looked away. “I don’t care to speak ill of the dead,” he said with discomfort in his tone.
“What if it helps someone else?”
He looked back at Truman, his eyes serious. “This is just my opinion, but Maria wasn’t the type to attract other men.”
“You can never tell what attracts another man.”
Steve grimaced. “True. But Maria would never look anyone in the eye. She always seemed terrified of speaking to anyone and practically hid behind her husband. Why would Grady hit on her?”
“Maybe he likes the victim type.”
“Maybe.” Steve didn’t sound convinced. “I celebrated the day they put Grady Baldwin away,” he stated. “I testified at his trial, and he sat there in the courtroom, staring straight ahead, no emotion at all.” He took a deep breath. “I had to describe the condition I found those little girls. Those twins . . . Astrid and Helena . . . they were tiny girls, and their little heads had been caved in. I’ll never get that sight out of my mind. It rushes in sometimes . . . Those memories can completely knock me down for a day.” His voice cracked. “It’s gotten better over the years, but it’s not gone.”
“I appreciate you telling me,” Truman told him, feeling guilty both for making the man revisit his hell and for talking to someone on Mercy’s review list.
It’s not like he’s a witness in the new murder. The case he was involved in is closed.
“I don’t know what happened to Britta. I know she went to live with an aunt or something. I tried to find her online a few years ago with no luck. I frequently wonder if she’s okay . . . if she’s a well-adjusted adult, or living on the street somewhere. I may have seen that horror, but Britta lost her family. I can’t imagine how that could affect a child.”
The man sitting across from him wasn’t the jerk who had argued with Truman about fire hydrants. Caught up in his memories, Steve looked broken.
“I know the FBI has been in touch with Britta,” Truman said kindly. “She’s doing okay and doesn’t live on the streets. I can’t tell you much else.” He’d had a brief phone call from Mercy after she’d talked with Britta.
Steve raised his head and met Truman’s gaze. “Truly?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Steve seemed lost in thought for a few moments. “I’ve wondered about her for years. I hope this helps me sleep better at night.”
“Since the Deverell family had been murdered two months earlier, what went through your mind that day?”
“After I found the Verbeeks, I figured right away that it was the same guy. Once the cops discovered that Grady Baldwin had worked in both homes, they knew they had a strong suspect.”
“You said earlier that you didn’t think the motivation for the Verbeek murder was Maria Verbeek. Why do you think he did it?”
“He was insane,” Steve said in a low voice.
Truman knew the answer wasn’t ever that simple.
Several hours after he left Steve Harris’s home, Truman pulled open the door to the Brick Tavern, wishing he had backup. Samuel was at least ten minutes out.
Who gets in a bar fight in the middle of the afternoon?
Surprisingly, the bar was brightly lit inside, and he had a clear view of two men wrestling on the floor. A few bystanders idly watched.
“Hey, Chief.” The owner, Doug “the Brick” Breneman, appeared at his side, looking unconcerned about the brawling men. The Brick had been his wrestling name in Portland in the 1980s, when Portland Wrestling was on TV every week. He had been a local celebrity back then, and he was still built like a brick. Rectangular bald head, thick neck, and barrel torso. People had never stopped calling him Brick.
“What happened?” Truman asked.
“Dunno,” said Brick. “It’s the Moody brothers, Clint and Ryan.” He pointed at the men. “The one in the red shirt is Clint. They’re both pissed as hell at each other, which isn’t anything new. I tried to separate them, but I’m not as young as I used to be. Got back issues, so I turned up the lights. Usually that will stop a fight, but it didn’t work this time.”
Truman scanned the room, checking for anyone who looked as if they would cause a problem if he separated the two men. His gaze stopped on Owen Kilpatrick, Mercy’s brother. His surprise at seeing Owen was compounded with relief at the knowledge that the man would have Truman’s back if trouble arose. Brick would too.