A Merciful Silence Page 32
Switching to the Jorgensen file, she wondered if the killer had planned to remove the Jorgensen family from their beds, but been interrupted by the neighbor. That family hadn’t lived in isolation like the Hartlage family. Sharla Jorgensen had many social interests, the kids attended school, and the husband had an employer.
The trace evidence from both homes had yet to reveal that a unique presence had visited both homes.
Her gaze fell on Janet Norris’s name. The woman had been involved with the Verbeeks and the Jorgensens, and the coincidence still made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. But coincidences did occur. People knew people. The population in the area where the families had lived wasn’t huge. It could happen.
Can I connect her to the Hartlages?
Mercy made a note to see if the Hartlages had ever stayed at the DoubleTree hotel where Janet worked.
She switched again to Truman’s case.
Joshua Forbes’s traffic stop with Truman continued to dart through her thoughts. She and Detective Bolton had yet to track down the sovereign citizen. A county deputy had gone to Joshua’s home that morning and reported no one was home.
Did he leave the area?
He could be at a girlfriend’s house.
He could be crashed on a friend’s couch, venting about his time in jail.
She’d assigned more officers to track down Joshua Forbes. Currently it was the best lead in Truman’s case.
The ringing of her cell phone distracted her, and Britta’s name and number showed on her screen. Mercy had added the woman to her contacts after she’d called two days before.
“Agent Kilpatrick.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Britta stated in a calm voice.
“How can I help?” Mercy leaned back in her chair, determined to win more of the woman’s confidence.
“That reporter Chuck Winslow is sitting on my floor. I may have shot him.”
“What? Is he dead?” Mercy jumped up as shock shot through her nerves.
“Oh no,” Britta assured her. “I was loaded with buckshot and I purposefully shot wide. But he does have some lead in him. He’ll live, but he’s not happy with me.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked in a hushed voice, glancing toward her door, wondering if anyone in the office had heard her shriek.
“He broke into my house.”
“Ohhhh.” Mercy sat back down, her thoughts racing. “That’s not good.”
“That was my thought when I spotted him. Fucking asshole.” Britta’s last two words were said away from her phone, and Mercy suspected they were aimed at Chuck.
“You better call an ambulance.”
“He doesn’t deserve an ambulance. And a hospital will have to report that he’s been shot. That involves the police.”
“True.” Mercy now understood the reason for Britta’s call. She needed an advocate with the police. “Can I talk to him for a second?”
“I’ll have to hold the phone.”
“Is he hurt that bad?”
“No, but his hands are tied.”
Mercy briefly closed her eyes. “That’s fine.” Chuck had had no idea what he was getting into when he took on Britta Vale. I bet he knows now.
“What?”
That distinctive male voice made her chest tighten. “How badly are you hurt, Chuck?”
“She shot me. I’ve got a dozen holes in my legs and there is damned blood everywhere.”
“Any blood spurting or pulsing? Or is the blood flow slow?”
“Does it matter?” he shot back. “I’m going to sue this bitch.”
“Yes, it matters. Pulsing could mean you’ll bleed out within a few minutes.” Mercy felt oddly calm. Talking to the jerk when he was in pain was rather satisfying.
“It’s slow. It’s mostly stopped,” he admitted.
“Are the shots in the front of your thigh?”
“Yes, now call me an ambulance and the police! This woman is psychotic!”
“I’ll have her call one as soon as I hang up. I’m coming too.” She paused. “Is it true you entered her house?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
So yes he did.
“Agent Kilpatrick?” Britta was back on the line.
“Call him an ambulance. I’m on my way. Since he was facing you when you shot, you could have felt threatened. It strengthens the argument that you defended yourself.”
“He’s no threat. I shot him because he was in my house. I also took his gun away from him. He had it in a stupid ankle holster.”
He was armed too. Another reason to defend herself.
Britta shouldn’t face any consequences for shooting an armed man in her home. Especially since she’d reported a prowler a few nights before.
“Call the ambulance, Britta,” Mercy ordered again. “It’ll look better if you show you tried to help him, since he’s injured.”
“All right,” she said with great reluctance.
“I’ll call for a county deputy to respond, and I’ll be there as soon as possible. No more shooting, Britta,” she said firmly.
“Of course not.” She sounded offended.
Mercy ended the call and sat motionless at her desk for a moment, mentally struggling to leave Truman’s investigation.
Deschutes County and his officers are still actively working. I need more leads.
Britta has no one to help her. It won’t take more than an hour.
She slowly stood and grabbed her bag, promising to refocus on Truman once she cleaned up Britta’s issue.
The ambulance and a county deputy were already at Britta’s home when Mercy arrived.
Chuck Winslow sat on the front porch of Britta’s home as his wounds were examined and cleaned. Britta stood farther back on the porch, keeping Chuck in her line of sight while speaking with the deputy, who took notes.
Mercy stopped next to Chuck and was greeted with a glare. Chuck was short. Napoleon short. He was in his midthirties, and his clothes always looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Today was no exception, but now his clothes sported patches of blood, and the responders had cut away part of his jeans. His legs were whiter than Mercy’s—and that was saying something.
She put a fake smile on her face. “What is your problem with Britta, Chuck?” she asked in a saccharine voice, determined not to yell or curse at the man. Two witnesses were working on his leg. They would confirm that she’d been polite if Chuck tried to claim she’d threatened him. “First you publish her new name and her website online, nearly accusing her of hiding something about her family’s deaths. Now you’re caught in her house?”
Another plastic smile.
Chuck looked away, but the responders glanced at her, obviously listening.
“Do you have any idea how much online harassment she’s dealt with since you did that?”
No answer.
“She feared people would come to her home. I guess you were the only one she needed to fear.”
Silence.
“I assume you were her night prowler three nights ago. Her dog followed your trail back to the road.”
He jerked his head to look at her, eyes flashing. “That wasn’t me. I’ve never been out here before.”
The only accusation he denies.
“We’ll see.” Mercy passed him to join Britta and the deputy. A huge wash of pain took her breath away as she focused on the deputy’s uniform, a visual reminder that Truman was still missing. There was one positive aspect to Britta’s problem; it’d taken Mercy’s mind off Truman for several minutes.
I need to get back to his case.
She forced herself to keep walking and greet the two of them. Britta was tense, like a panther waiting to pounce. She was all black. Boots, jeans, sweater, and her long hair. For the first time, Mercy could read the large, ornate tattoo covering the front of the woman’s neck. ASTRID&HELENA.
Her murdered sisters.
Every day she sees that in the mirror.
No wonder she carried survivor’s guilt. She wore a constant reminder.
Today she’d skipped the thick black eyeliner, and her pale-blue eyes seemed lost in her face.
“It’s pretty clear from the shots still in her wall that the man was in her home,” the deputy said to Mercy. “But I’ll have a detective and evidence team examine it.”
“Good,” said Britta. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say exactly that. He does have a leg full of buckshot,” Mercy pointed out. “He refused to say anything to me except to deny that he was your prowler the other night.”
Britta stilled, her breathing silenced. “Then who was it?”
Mercy knew it was a rhetorical question.
“I’m sorry about Truman,” the deputy said to Mercy. “We’ve got every available patrol keeping an eye out.”
“Thank you.” Emptiness swamped her as the deputy excused himself to talk to Chuck.
“Who’s Truman?” asked Britta, her pale gaze locked on Mercy.
“He’s my . . . We’re a couple.” Boyfriend sounded juvenile. Kaylie had boyfriends, not Mercy. “He hasn’t been heard from since yesterday morning.” The words were awkward on her tongue.
“That’s horrible. They’re already looking for him? I thought they waited forty-eight hours.”
“He’s the chief of police for Eagle’s Nest. They found blood . . .” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t physically say more.
Understanding flashed in Britta’s gaze, and Mercy broke eye contact. “I think everything will be fine for you,” Mercy said to the woman, forcing Truman out of her immediate thoughts. “Chuck will go to the hospital, and they’ll talk to you some more, but even the deputy could see the evidence backs you up. Did Chuck say why he was here?”
“He claimed he wanted an interview.”
“People who want interviews call you. They don’t break into your home. How did he get in?”