For once, Truman had been relieved that Royce was wrong about something.
Truman chose to be present for the autopsy. It was his case, and he felt an affinity to the victim, who appeared to be about his own age. He hated that the man had been left alongside the road, and he kept comparing the death with that of the man found in Britta’s field. Both had been shot and dumped recently. Why?
He stuck his head inside the lone autopsy suite. Dr. Lockhart worked in a small facility, just herself and three other employees. Truman had been afraid she’d send his victim to the bigger office in Portland, but she’d worked on the other two John Does that Truman suspected could be related to his case, and she wanted to see the third.
“Hi, Truman,” Dr. Lockhart said cheerfully as she lifted something out of the torso of the body on her table. She set the organ on a scale hanging from the ceiling, and her assistant made a notation. An eighties rock anthem played in the background, and the aseptic room smelled of strong disinfectant with an undertone of something very, very foul. “Protective gear is to the right of the door.”
Truman had just grabbed a gown when his phone buzzed. He checked the screen, intending to let it go to voice mail, but Detective Bolton’s name appeared.
“Daly here,” he answered.
“Truman, I’ve had an unusual turn in the second John Doe’s case.”
Truman looked over at Dr. Lockhart. She was concentrating on her work. “What do you have?”
“Something a bit hard to believe. You at your office?”
“No, I just arrived at the medical examiner’s. She’s working on the third John Doe.”
“That’s right. I wanted to be there.”
Dr. Lockhart set a different organ on the scale, and Truman’s throat tightened. “I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Bolton ended the call.
Truman put on the gown, slipped on gloves, and then added a mask and face shield. He felt ready for battle. He didn’t mind autopsies. He’d always had an interest in anatomy and physiology, and he respected that mysteries were solved through the invasive examination.
His victim lay on a wheeled stainless-steel table with a raised edge on all four sides. The far end of the table butted up against a sink where a long hose could stretch to rinse the victim—hence the need for the raised edge. Dr. Lockhart stood on a small stool beside her patient. Her male assistant was still taller than she. Truman was too.
She’d already completed the large Y cut from shoulders to groin. The sternum and a portion of the ribs had been cut and lifted away so she could access the lungs and heart. Truman glanced at a side table, spotting the large pruning shears with curved blades. The cutters were nearly as long as his arms. Shock had rattled him the first time he saw a medical examiner pick up the gardening tool and coolly start snapping ribs. They were effective.
Dr. Lockhart hadn’t peeled back the scalp, opened the skull, and removed the brain yet. The sound of the Stryker saw examiners used to remove the cap of the skull was one that Truman would never forget. He gazed at the victim’s face and prepared his stomach for what he knew would come soon.
“Have anything for me?” he asked the pathologist as she hummed along to Bon Jovi.
“I do.” She looked up, and her eyes danced, glittering behind her mask. “We identified him with his fingerprints.”
Truman nearly pumped his arm in celebration. “Sweet. Who is he? Wait—how come you didn’t call me?”
“Because you will have to share jurisdiction on this murder—and I knew you were on your way here.”
“Share? With Deschutes County? I know—”
“No,” Dr. Lockhart stated as she lifted out a jumbled mass of intestines and mesentery she had cut from the muscle walls. “This victim’s prints showed up in a federal database. He’s a government employee. More specifically, he works for the ATF, and I notified them already.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I expect someone from their office any minute.” She met Truman’s gaze. “As you can imagine, they move fast when one of theirs is murdered.”
“No doubt.” Truman wondered if the identification meant his victim wasn’t related to the first two murders. Or would they take another look at the other victims? It had been impossible to get prints on the severely decomposed body found a month ago, and prints of the man found in Britta’s field had led nowhere. Perhaps the involvement of the ATF would breathe new life into the first two cases.
“What else have you found?” Truman asked, wanting to collect as much information as possible in case the ATF agents booted him out the door when they arrived.
“I’ve examined the bullet entrance and exit in the skull. They are larger than the other two victims’ wounds, which is logical since the recovered bullet is larger than victim two’s bullet.”
Truman deflated a bit. His victim was looking less and less related to the other cases.
“He was a healthy male who I now know is thirty-three. Good muscle tone. No tattoos or major scars. I believe he had macaroni and cheese for his last meal.” She winked at Truman, who grimaced.
“What’s his name?”
“Timothy O’Shea.”
“Know anything else about him?” Truman asked, studying the damaged face. With his name rattling in Truman’s head, the autopsy now felt like an invasion of the man’s privacy.
“He weighs one hundred and eighty-two pounds.”
Not exactly the insight Truman had in mind.
A whoosh sounded, and Truman glanced back at the door. A tall, dark woman and a man had entered, both wearing suits. The ATF agents. “Dr. Lockhart?” asked the woman.
“Yes. Please put on the protective gear by the door.”
The two agents quickly dressed and approached. Truman had moved to the other side of the autopsy table, hoping he looked like another assistant in his gown and gloves. He was determined to milk his anonymity as long as possible. Dr. Lockhart shot him a side-eye, aware of his objective.
“I’m Carleen Aguirre, the resident in charge for the Portland ATF office,” said the woman. “This is Agent Neal Gorman.” Both agents glanced at Truman, who turned his attention to Dr. Lockhart’s hands in Timothy O’Shea’s torso.
The woman walked to the head of the table and stared down at the man’s face, her eyes going soft. “I’d hoped there’d been some sort of mistake,” she said quietly. “I see his fingerprints didn’t lie.” Her sigh was audible and heartfelt. At the foot of the table, Agent Gorman was silent as torment flashed in his eyes.
“He is your agent?” Dr. Lockhart asked.
Agent Aguirre nodded. Her chest rose in a deep breath under the pale-blue gown. “I’ll notify his family.”
“Now, Carleen—” Gorman started.
She cut him off. “I know his wife personally. I’ll do it.”
“I want to go with you.”
Agent Aguirre nodded, her focus still on the victim.
“Are cowboy boots standard footwear during autopsies?” Gorman suddenly asked. His narrowed eyes were locked on Truman. “Who are you?”
“This is Police Chief Daly,” Dr. Lockhart announced. “Your agent was found in his town.”
“Thank you, Chief,” Gorman said. “We’ll take it from here.” He awkwardly dug under his gown and came up with a business card. “You can send your reports to this email.”
Truman accepted the card, tucked it in a pocket, and held his ground. Both agents stared at him and then exchanged glances.
“Chief—” Aguirre started.
“My son found your agent’s body,” Truman cut in. “He was carelessly dumped in my town. I pay my respects by finding the truth, and the first step to finding justice for Timothy O’Shea is this autopsy. This is where I let my victim know that I will fight for him.”
I called Ollie my son.
It was right. The teen was part of his heart.
He looked from a silent Aguirre to Gorman. “If you don’t mind, I’d like
to continue to observe.” Respect flashed in Gorman’s eyes.
“I appreciate your words, Chief,” Aguirre said. “And O’Shea is lucky to have been under your watchful eye, but this case is a delicate one. O’Shea was working an investigation when he was murdered.”
“Are you aware there’ve been two similar murders found in the past month in this general area?” Truman asked.
Agent Aguirre blinked. “No. How similar?”
“Single gunshot to the head. Male. Naked. Dumped.”
“I did the autopsies on the first two murder victims,” Dr. Lockhart added. “They remain unidentified. This man was shot twice—once in the chest—unlike the others.”
Gorman cocked his head as he and Aguirre had a silent conversation via gazes across the autopsy table. Aguirre mashed her lips together, concentration filling her face.
“Could the first two murders be related to O’Shea’s investigation?” Truman asked, not liking the agents’ silent response.
“We’ll review them,” Aguirre said tightly, exchanging another look with Gorman.
She looked rattled, the pulse at her neck rapidly beating. Gorman couldn’t stand still. He tried to plunge his hands into his front pockets and discovered the gown was in the way. He hiked it up, put his hands in his pockets, realized how ridiculous he looked, and removed them. “I need to make a phone call,” he said, pivoting to leave the room.
The autopsy suite doors swung open before he reached them. FBI agents Jeff Garrison and Eddie Peterson strode in, alarm on their faces. Truman caught his breath.
Mercy.
“You two don’t need to—” Gorman held up a hand to stop the two agents. Eddie pushed it away, his agonized gaze locked on Truman. Truman’s stomach landed somewhere near his feet. Nausea rocked him.
“Truman—” Eddie started.
“Agents!” Aguirre said loudly. She took several steps toward the men. “Why are you—”
“He needs to know!” Jeff argued, now face-to-face with Aguirre and pointing at Truman.
What’s happened to Mercy?
Truman couldn’t speak or move, panic freezing his muscles. He simply stared at the two agents.
Why did Aguirre stop Jeff?
“This is an ATF investigation,” she snapped at Jeff.
“No. He—”
“I don’t care that he found Tim’s body! This case does not involve—” she stated.
“Truman!” Eddie was heated as he tried to push by Gorman, who’d attempted to block him from moving closer.
Truman numbly focused on the despair in Eddie’s face and braced his arm on the autopsy table, feeling his knees about to crumble.
It’s not good news.
Eddie turned angry eyes on Gorman. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Make me, hotshot,” Gorman uttered, moving up in Eddie’s grill.
A loud metallic clanging hurt Truman’s ears. Five pairs of eyes turned to see Dr. Lockhart still on her stool and waving a large crowbar, which she’d banged against the leg of the autopsy table. “This is my workplace. Get out. All of you.”
“Truman, Mercy was partnered with this ATF agent on her assignment,” Jeff said into the silence.
Truman spun around and met Jeff’s tormented gaze.
His heart stopped. The ATF? “What? Where is she?”
“Agent Garrison—”
Jeff whirled on Aguirre, heat raging from his eyes. “He’s her fiancé.”
Aguirre closed her mouth, her eyes wide.
“What’s happened to her?” Truman snarled, looking from one agent to the next. “Just fucking tell me!”
Is she dead?
Eddie raised his hands in a calming motion, making Truman want to knock his head off. “Truman . . . we don’t know,” he answered quietly. “We have no way to contact her.”
Truman closed his eyes as his heart shattered and fell to the floor.
TWENTY-TWO
Truman leaned against the rear of Eddie’s SUV, his stomach still on a roller coaster. The four agents and Truman had convened in the ME’s parking lot, leaving Dr. Lockhart to finish her autopsy in peace. Truman didn’t trust himself to drive at the moment. Fury had him seeing red after Jeff and Agent Aguirre told him the details.
Their words spun in his head. Undercover operation. Militia. Remote compound. Weapons theft. No contact.
And now her partner had been murdered.
Truman refused to believe she had been killed. Every time his brain tried to go down that path, nausea swamped him and he yanked it back. He would shatter if he allowed the speculation to fully bloom.
“Why did you let her go?” he asked Jeff for the third time. His voice was calm when every fiber of his body wanted to scream the question at Mercy’s boss. He felt as if he were straddling a sinkhole, his foundation in pieces at the bottom.
“I couldn’t stop her.”
Truman knew this was true.
“What are we doing about it?” he asked, including all four agents in his question.
“The FBI is taking the safety of one of their agents very seriously. HRT has been activated,” answered Eddie.
The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team was the best of the best, called out in high-risk operations. Catching the bad guys wasn’t their objective. Getting the job done and rescue were the priorities. It was rumored they didn’t carry handcuffs; they used their weapons instead.
It didn’t calm Truman’s rage. Anger was his friend; it kept despair at bay.
“They’ll be on the ground near the compound late tonight,” Jeff added. “We’re all the way across the damned country from their headquarters, but Portland FBI’s SWAT team is also on its way. The minute Agent Aguirre contacted me about the death of their agent, I lit a fire all the way up the chain of command to get immediate action.”
“Late tonight,” Truman repeated. Almost an entire day lost.
“With a murdered ATF agent and a possible FBI hostage in an armed militia compound that might have a huge store of weapons or explosives, it was agreed to move the teams into place immediately. Negotiation comes first, but we want the manpower in place and ready if they are needed. The Portland FBI team should arrive first. They’re flying in and landing near Pendleton.” Jeff looked grim. “Our negotiators will get started immediately, and we should know by the time HRT arrives if we’ll even need their tactical expertise.”
It could be too late.
“We can’t get recent satellite photos,” Gorman added. “The cloud cover and snow are causing issues. We’ve considered sending a drone, but it’d have to fly low under the clouds and could be seen and tip our hand, so we’ll have to operate off what we have from last week.”
“How did this operation go to hell?” Truman burst out at the ATF agents. “What the fuck happened up there?”
Carleen Aguirre took a deep breath. “I wish I had a better answer for you. Our last communication with Agent O’Shea before Agent Kilpatrick joined him was encouraging. He felt he’d earned the trust of some of the more important men in the compound, but he still didn’t have a confirmation on the stolen weapons or this ‘major plan’ he was hearing rumors about.” She looked him in the eye. “By all accounts, it was moving smoothly, although it was a little slower than we hoped.”
“You sent her in there with no prep time.” Truman ran a hand through his hair as he paced, glaring at Aguirre and Gorman. “You sent her in blind.”
“We appreciate what she did for us,” Aguirre said quietly. “She was sharp and smart. With the little time we had, there was no one else I would have felt as comfortable with to send into that situation. I have confidence in her. I still do. We’ll get her out.”
It hit Truman that Agent Carleen Aguirre was the first person who’d outright implied she believed Mercy was still alive. Everyone else had spoken about the rescue. No one had said they believed it would be successful.
“Mercy is fucking resourceful,” added Eddie. “She probably has half those guys tied to tr
ees and the other half convinced they should let her do the same to them.”
Truman stopped and squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. “What am I going to tell Kaylie?”
“Shit,” mumbled Eddie, looking away.
“I can’t do it.” Truman continued his pacing. “If I tell Kaylie, I have to tell Mercy’s sisters and her parents and Ollie—I’d have to tell my men why I’m headed out of town.” I can’t handle their grief in addition to my own. He rubbed his chest, feeling his heart’s fierce rhythm. “I can’t bring myself to do that right now.”
“I can help you tell the family,” offered Eddie.
“No—it’s not just telling them. They’ll be worried out of their heads and unable to do anything about it.” He shook his head. “Mercy wouldn’t want her family needlessly worried.” He met Carleen’s dark gaze. “I can’t do that to them until I have some facts.”
“You mentioned heading out of town,” Carleen slowly said. “There’s no role for you in this—”
“He’s going with us,” Jeff asserted. “The FBI takes responsibility for his presence.” He looked pointedly at Truman. “Don’t get any ideas that you will be rushing a militia camp with the HRT team. You’ll be behind the scenes with me.”
Truman nodded. If that was the only way to get near the compound, he’d take it.
When he got there, he’d decide what to do.
Right now he was apt to Rambo his way inside.
A familiar Ford Explorer turned into the lot, and Truman recognized Bolton’s vehicle. He’d completely forgotten the county detective was coming to brief him on something about the second John Doe. Truman walked away from the federal agents, desperately needing to put some space between them and himself.
A hole had been punched through his chest, and wind kept whipping through, chilling his heart and lungs.
It hurt.
A passenger got out of Bolton’s vehicle, and Truman searched his memory to attach a name. Darrell Palmer. Britta’s neighbor who she had first thought might be the dead man on her property.
A Merciful Promise Page 17
