“People do weird stuff.”
“I wish they’d keep it behind their own closed doors, not mine,” Floyd asserted. “Here we are.” He gestured to a unit that was about six feet wide and eight feet tall with a roll-up door.
Truman smelled it. Rotting flesh. Not good. “Maybe an animal got in there . . . or they stored something from hunting.”
“I hope you’re right.” Floyd bent over to unlock the padlock at the bottom of the door. “But you can understand why I wanted a cop here when I opened it.”
Truman understood. And wished Samuel had taken the call.
“Holy sheeet,” Floyd said as he yanked up the door. He took three giant steps away and dry heaved.
Truman covered his mouth and nose, stepping back from the odiferous wave and clenching his teeth against the bile that rose in the back of his throat.
Something is definitely dead.
Cardboard boxes were stacked high along one wall of the unit, labeled neatly with dates and contents. But Truman had eyes only for the rolled-up carpet on the floor. It was wedged among the legs of several wooden chairs. Fluids seeped from the closest end, and Truman saw hair inside. It was short human hair that appeared to still be on a head.
“What’s the name of the renter?” he asked Floyd.
“Moody. Clint Moody,” Floyd said between retches.
“Aw, jeez.”
A half hour later, the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Department reported that Ryan Moody wasn’t at home and had the day off from his plumbing job.
Truman put out a BOLO on Ryan’s truck and wondered if the brother had left town.
“The fucker had me convinced he was worried about Clint,” Truman muttered to Mercy as they waited near the storage unit. She’d been his third phone call after the sheriff and the medical examiner.
“You weren’t the only one,” Mercy said. “I actually felt sorry for him.”
“Still not positive he’s the one who put his brother in here.”
Mercy snorted.
Dr. Natasha Lockhart appeared at the same time as the county forensics team. She greeted Truman and Mercy with her usual perky smile. “I’ve got good news!” she said to Mercy. “You’ll get an email from me later today, but the DNA tests came back on our unknown skull. It is definitely related to Corrine Hartlage. The test indicates a sibling relationship.”
“Well, that’s one question answered,” admitted Mercy. “I assume his last name is Palmer, since that was Corrine’s name. We haven’t found a paper trail that we can positively link to him. Maybe he simply stayed off the grid most of his life.”
“Seeing how the Hartlages lived cut off from everyone, that wouldn’t surprise me,” commented Truman.
Dr. Lockhart turned her attention to the open unit. “Oh boy. You’ve got a smelly one here.” She opened her bag, shoved cotton rolls up her nose, and put on a face shield. “Looks gooshy too.”
Is gooshy an official medical term? The visible hair inside the rolled-up rug was eating away at Truman. He’d wanted to yank the carpet out of the shed and confirm it was Clint Moody.
Who else would it be?
The hair color matched what he remembered of Clint.
Dr. Lockhart directed the forensic photographer for a few minutes, showing him the views she wanted, and then asked for help to slide out the rug. Both Truman and Mercy stepped forward, but Mercy waved him back. He’d forgotten he only had one good arm. Mercy, the ME, and two of the techs slid the rug onto a tarp spread out on the concrete. More photos.
The dark-haired medical examiner raised a brow at Mercy and Truman. “Ready?”
No. Truman held his breath as she unrolled the rug. He studied the body for a long moment and then walked away, seeking fresh air.
At the end of the row of units he leaned his good arm against a wall and looked up at the gray sky, breathing deep. A minute later Mercy joined him.
“Clint’s wallet was in the back pocket. I think it’s him,” she said.
“I don’t know how you can visually identify him. Someone practically beat in his skull,” Truman stated. He’d never get the image out of his head. It’d been seared into his brain. The spots where Truman had been kicked in the skull started to throb.
“That’s true, but the height and hair color are accurate according to the license. I bet we’ll confirm it’s him by tomorrow.”
“Or we can get a confession out of Ryan,” Truman muttered. When the carpet had been unrolled, his anger toward the man had tripled. “His disappearance is too coincidental. And he would know about and have access to Clint’s storage unit.”
“The injuries on this body appear to be similar to the Hartlages and Jorgensens. The damaged skulls and the broken teeth. This seems worse because of the amount of decomposition. Clint’s been missing for about two weeks, right?”
“Yes.” He paused as her words sank in, and he turned toward her. “Are you saying Ryan is also a suspect in those family murders?”
“I don’t know. I can’t assume anything.” Mercy rubbed a hand across her mouth. “As far as I can tell right now, the type of injury Clint has—assuming it’s him—is the only thing in common . . . although that could change.”
“This body was hidden away like the Hartlages were,” Truman pointed out.
“True.”
“Someone did a crappy hiding job. They had to know the smell would eventually lead someone to the body.”
“Maybe they planned to move him.”
“I wonder if they’ve been back to the storage unit. I wish Floyd had installed cameras. He doesn’t have one of those gates where people key in a personal code either.”
“Ryan might not be our killer,” Mercy stated. “It only needs to be someone who knew Clint had a unit here and had access to his key . . . which was probably on his keychain. I’ll get it from evidence. The keys were left in Clint’s truck in the pond.”
“Didn’t they already fingerprint the keys?”
“I don’t know. Clint’s missing persons case was handled by county once you disappeared. I didn’t believe it was related to the Hartlages or Jorgensens.”
“I didn’t either.”
Mercy met his gaze. “But we’re both wondering if it’s related now. I want a look inside the Moody house.”
“Deschutes County was authorized to go into the Moody house to look for Ryan today. A car should still be there in case he shows up.”
“Let’s go.”
FORTY
I never forgot that summer.
My father had burrowed deeper inside himself. Us kids were told to leave him alone and stay out of his way. He stopped going to work, and my mother tightened the household spending. Meals were smaller. Meat was infrequent. We ate a lot of potatoes. She talked about finding a job. My father blew up when she suggested it. “No wife of mine needs a job! I can support this family!”
There was lots of yelling in their room that night, and the next morning her eye was black and blue.
My father started to wander at night. At first he’d pace up and down the hallways, and the boards would creak every time he passed our room. His mumbling continued. The only phrase I could make out was his regular “Stop talking to me,” even though he was alone.
Then he started pacing outside, and I’d watch from my bedroom window as he wandered our few acres. Sometimes he dug holes with a shovel. Sometimes he cleaned the pens. Sometimes he’d sit and simply stare at the stars. I would check the holes the next day. There was nothing in them; they were just random holes. Everywhere.