By the looks of the arrest records, it was a regular thing. Truman wasn’t surprised that Ryan had stretched the truth about the bar fights.
Clint’s disappearance can’t be related to the cases Mercy is working on.
Other than the similar bloodstains left in Clint’s bed and the lack of a blood trail, it didn’t feel the same.
Truman had slept at his home alone the night before, and hadn’t told Mercy about his late-night call-out yet. They’d exchanged their normal brief morning texts but no work talk. I’ll call her after I have more information.
He tapped his fingers on his desk as he thought. Ryan’s record was as bad as Clint’s. There hadn’t been any local police calls to the men’s home, so maybe they did get along with each other. But each had a history.
Ryan Moody had agreed to stop by the station later that morning. Looking at the time, Truman decided he could fit in a quick stop to Walker’s Lumberyard and talk to Clint’s employer, Nick. He liked Nick and figured he’d be a reliable source of information on Clint.
Ten minutes later, he strode in the door at the lumberyard and brushed the rain off his coat. He’d called ahead to make certain Nick was in, so the man was waiting for him, his German shepherd, Belle, at his side. The men exchanged greetings, and Truman rubbed Belle’s soft ears. He gave Nick an abbreviated version of what he’d discovered at the Moody home the night before.
“Holy crap. That’s awful.” The tall man looked stunned. “I left a message on his cell phone when he didn’t show up for work. I figured he had a hangover or was sick . . . although I was surprised he didn’t answer his phone.”
Truman remembered seeing a cell phone on Clint’s nightstand and assumed the evidence team had taken it.
“A hangover? Does that happen often?”
A thoughtful look crossed Nick’s face. “Not really. My guys know I don’t put up with that shit. They need to be on their toes when handling the lumber—it’s heavy. And if anyone had an accident while driving the forklift because they were hungover, they’d be out of a job. They know this.”
“Did Clint get along with his coworkers?”
Nick considered the question. “He did. He was the type to lose his temper pretty quick, but then he’d be laughing the next minute. No one held it against him. I’d say everyone likes him.”
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him? Did he mention any arguments outside of work?”
“I can’t think of anything he mentioned like that.”
“How’d he get along with his brother, Ryan?”
Nick’s brows slowly rose on his narrow face. “You don’t really think . . .”
“I have to consider everything.”
The man gave it careful thought before speaking. “Clint’s worked here less than a year. I think I’ve seen his brother stop in once. I knew they lived together, and he’s occasionally bitched about Ryan. But it was what I would expect of two brothers sharing a house.” He gave a wry grin. “One time Ryan ran into Clint’s truck in their driveway, and I know there was an issue about who would pay for the damage. Clint was in a foul mood for a few days about that.”
“When was that?”
“During the snow and ice earlier this year. Ryan slid. Claimed he couldn’t have prevented the accident.”
“Anything else you can think of that might help? Did Clint ever talk about leaving town?”
Nick shook his head.
Truman held out his hand. “Thanks for your time. Let me know if you think of anything else.”
“Anytime.”
Truman was about to leave when he stopped and looked back. “How’s it going with Rose?” Belle’s ears perked up at Rose’s name.
An easy smile crossed Nick’s face. “Good.”
“Take it slow.” Truman had a soft spot in his heart for Rose. He’d witnessed the hell she’d been put through last fall. A weaker person would have been emotionally and mentally destroyed. Thankfully Rose was made of tough material. Like Mercy.
“I will.”
Truman pushed open the door, thinking about the blind woman and the quiet lumberyard owner. He made a silent wish that they’d have a good future together.
As he left the lumberyard, he realized he’d forgotten to feed Simon that morning in his exhaustion after two nights with little sleep. Truman still had a good half hour before Ryan Moody was to show up at the police department for an interview, so he headed toward home, surprised his cat hadn’t made her needs known before he left for work.
Maybe she did and I was too tired to notice.
He’d started his coffee maker without any water that morning.
He pulled into the driveway of his house and sat in his seat for a few seconds.
Damn, I need a nap.
He’d have time to stop and get some caffeinated fuel after feeding Simon. The thought of espresso and Kaylie’s apple coffee cake from her coffee shop perked him up. He got out of his SUV and headed toward the front door.
He knew someone was behind him a split second before the blow hit him in the right kidney. Lightning shot from his lower back to the core of his brain, and he forgot how to breathe. He stumbled forward and fell to one knee as his right hand grabbed the railing to the porch stairs, stopping him from landing on his face.
Protect my gun.
He started to push to his feet and turn to face his attacker as his left hand tried to reach his weapon at his right hip. His balance relied on his right hand’s still gripping the railing, preventing him from using his gun hand. His body burned as if a mine had exploded in his back.
The second strike hit his left kidney, and Truman fell to both knees. Both his hands shot forward to stop his skull from crashing into the concrete steps. Fire radiated from two places in his back. Bright lights flashed behind his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
A baseball bat?
“Fucking cop!”
“Asshole!”
Two attackers.
He tried to turn again. A blow hit his temple, and the flashes of light went black.
Simon will be hungry.
His head bounced off the concrete, and then he knew no more.
TWENTY-ONE
“This has to be boring for you,” Dr. Harper said to Mercy as they looked at dental films in the medical examiner’s office for the second time that week.
“Heck no. I find it fascinating,” corrected Mercy. It was true.
The Hartlage films from the Burns office had been delivered to Dr. Harper, who’d called Mercy within an hour to tell her the first Caucasian skulls they’d found were definitely Corrine and Richard Hartlage. Mercy asked Dr. Harper to demonstrate how she’d come to the conclusion.
Again the small grayscale rectangles on the screen looked like a jumbled mess to Mercy.
“How long did it take for you to learn to read these?” she asked the dentist.
Dr. Harper tilted her head as she thought. “It feels like I’ve always known, but we learned to identify the teeth in films very early in dental school. Years of working with them after I graduated also taught me hundreds of things I never encountered during school. I’ve easily examined fifty thousand films. Everyone has unique qualities to their teeth, the roots, and the bone around them.”
Mercy looked again. She could recognize fillings and crowns and root canals, but that was about it.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“Let’s start with Richard Hartlage.” Dr. Harper’s lips twisted. “The copies his old office made aren’t the greatest. They’re dark. I would have told the assistant to redo them, but I can work with them. I put the films I shot at the top of the screen.”
Mercy nodded, noting the films on the bottom were much darker.
“On my film, he’s missing two molars on the lower right side.” She indicated a wide empty space on her film. “On the dark film, he has those teeth, but do you see how the crest of the bone steeply angles down toward the roots of both of those teeth? This was caused by gum disease. Over time it destroys the bone that anchors teeth. A healthy bone level would have been higher on the root, just below the bulbous part of the tooth, like on this one.” Dr. Harper pointed at another tooth on the film. The crest of bone was flat.
“You’re not surprised that those teeth are missing on the films you took.”
“Not at all. When comparing old films and new, teeth and their roots can always be missing on the newest films, but you can’t add a tooth and root that weren’t there before. Unless you count implants, but those are completely different. They look like screws in the jaw.”
“That still doesn’t prove this is Richard. It could be someone else.”
“It doesn’t. But then I look at the amalgam filling on tooth number thirteen on this old film, and it’s still the exact same shape on the new. Same with these three other amalgam fillings. They are identical on both sets of films. But on number five, the old film shows an amalgam filling that involves two surfaces of the tooth. Now that tooth has a filling that involves three surfaces.”
“There’s an inconsistency?”
“No. The filling was replaced with a bigger one. Fillings will never be replaced by smaller ones or disappear, but they can be replaced with larger ones. If tooth five had no filling, I’d know this isn’t Richard.”
“You’re convinced it’s him?”
“Without a doubt.” Confidence rang in her voice.
“And Corrine?”
Dr. Harper pulled up new films. “Corrine had better dental health. Her old films show no fillings, but she’s received two amalgam fillings which show up in the films I took on the skull.”
“Then how can you be sure it’s her?”
Mercy swore the dentist’s eyes twinkled.
“There are other markers besides fillings. Look at the roots on this tooth. See how the ends suddenly point toward the back of the mouth instead of going straight down?”