“No,” replied Dr. Lockhart. “They tried several different ways but only found smears. I suspect whoever moved him wore gloves. I did recover the bullet. As you saw at the scene, there was only an entry wound, no exit. I sent the bullet to ballistics—it was mangled, but it was definitely from a smaller-caliber weapon. They should have a report for you soon. I hope it’s helpful.”

Bolton nodded and made a notation in his notebook.

“The shot was made very close to the head,” she continued. “I found stippling from the gunpowder in his scalp. I followed the path of the bullet through his brain and around inside his skull.”

Truman winced at the mental image.

“The angle of the path puts the gun at a steep angle, shooting downward.” She met Bolton’s and Truman’s eyes, her face solemn.

“You mean the victim was below the shooter?” Truman asked. “Like on his knees?”

“Shit.” Bolton tapped his notebook, scowling. “You’re saying—”

“Yes, like you’d imagine for an execution.” Dr. Lockhart turned back to her screen. “And as you’ll remember—”

“You made the same suggestion with the John Doe from a month ago,” Bolton finished. “His injury had an exit wound, but the angle was similar—from above. I recall you mentioned the stippling on that victim’s scalp too.”

Truman exhaled. Men are being executed?

“Do you see any other similarities to this case from the first John Doe?” Bolton asked.

Dr. Lockhart nodded as she typed. “I knew you’d ask about that.” She rested her chin on a fist as she studied her screen. “The first John Doe was younger. Late twenties or early thirties. He was also naked except for underwear. I couldn’t make as many exterior physical observations because he was in an advanced state of decomposition. Cause of death was the gunshot wound.”

“Same caliber?” Bolton asked hopefully.

She grimaced. “I will say it’s not impossible—gunshot wounds from the first victim indicate it was also a smaller-caliber weapon, but I can’t state more than that.”

“You have to consider they’re related,” Truman told Bolton. “Especially with the angle of the gunshots.”

“I do,” said Bolton. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shit.”

Do we have a serial killer?

TWELVE

Mercy tried the doorknob to the supply depot. Locked. She pounded on the door and stepped back to wait. Her thumb tried to spin her engagement ring, a new habit, but found nothing on her left ring finger. Her subconscious had forgotten she’d left it behind.

Dammit.

She settled for pacing with her arms crossed. Vera had pointed out the supply depot as they returned to the main portion of the compound. “Good luck,” the sour woman had commented. “I’d stick around to watch, but I have work to do.” Vera sniffed and walked away.

Watch what?

Mercy was determined to get some acetaminophen for Noah and then get a look at the camp’s medical supplies. Slow, heavy footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened.

Shit.

It was the overweight man from yesterday’s lunch line. The one who’d complained when she kissed Chad.

His current scowl matched the one from the day before.

No. It was worse.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, his bearded face clearly unhappy with her presence.

She searched her memory for his name but came up empty. “I’m Jessica—”

“I know who you are. Why are you banging on my door?”

“Are you in charge of supplies?” she asked, praying he was not.

“I’m the quartermaster.” He emphasized his title as he crossed his arms, and she spotted a round scar on his wrist.

Great. He’s a trusted member of Pete’s posse and hated me on sight.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name yesterday.” She gave a nervous, small smile, hoping to thaw the ice in his pale-blue eyes.

“Beckett.” No thaw.

“Pete told me you’d separate out the medical supplies for me.”

The scowl deepened. “He told me to do that but didn’t say anything about you.”

“He’s put me in charge of medical care for the group,” she told him. “I need to know what we have on hand.”

“You’re supposed to requisition something when you need it.”

Mercy drew a breath and silently asked for patience. “Pete and I talked about me having quick access to the medical supplies.”

“I heard nothing about that.”

Mercy doubted that. “So I need to go find Pete right now?”

The scowl faltered, and she knew she’d touched a sensitive spot. Like Vera, Beckett was protective of—or fearful about—his leader’s time. He knew what duties Pete would concern himself with and which would be delegated.

The large man shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the dusty flooring. “I pulled the supplies together. You can take a look for now,” he said reluctantly.

Mercy considered that a win. “Thank you.”

“Wait here.”

He closed the door in her face just as she caught a glimpse of a dozen shelving units packed with cartons and sacks.

They wouldn’t store weapons here.

Although Beckett was as protective of his supplies as if he were guarding stolen weapons. She tried to imagine him taking part in the heist that had intercepted the ATF’s transportation of weapons. The agent who survived the attack had described fast-moving, prepared, and precise men who overpowered him. Beckett didn’t move swiftly. His steps were ponderous and heavy. In the brief moment she’d watched him move, he’d clearly favored one leg.

Pete could move fast. Small, wiry, explosive.

The group of men she’d seen rush out of the mess hall yesterday hadn’t moved with trained precision. They’d been an awkward group, some moving much slower than others. If she sorted through the men, she could probably pick out an efficient crew, but she hadn’t spent enough time with them. Ed was older and slow. No military exactness there. So far Pete topped her list.

Chad was fit.

The theft was eight months ago. Chad had been on the outside.

Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been involved.

Dirty agents weren’t a new concept. Stuff happened. Agents were pushed over the edge and sometimes sympathized with the people they were supposed to investigate. She hadn’t seen sympathy from Chad, but she still questioned his lack of information for the amount of time he’d spent in the compound.

Guilt pierced her chest.

I need facts before I can suspect him.

But she believed in keeping all options available.

The door opened, and Beckett appeared with a small, dingy cardboard box under one arm. He handed it to her. “You can look in it right here.”

Mercy stared into the box. It was a jumbled mess of crushed Band-Aid boxes and old pill bottles. It looked like an ancient bunch of supplies found under a bathroom sink. Horror twisted through her brain.

I’m supposed to treat injuries with this?

She dug with one hand, looking for her supplies, which Pete had said would be added to the stock. They weren’t there. No XStat syringes or sutures. Possibly they were still in Pete’s office.

Would he keep them for himself?

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she dug. Dirty spools of medical tape, loose bandages, and empty syringes. “Is this all of it?” she asked Beckett.

“Yep.”

“There isn’t even a blood-pressure cuff or stethoscope or thermometer in here. This isn’t a medical kit. It’s someone’s medicine cabinet rejects.”

He shrugged and leaned against the doorjamb.

You’ll be sorry when you’re in need.

She dug a little more. Yes! A grimy bottle of eighty-milligram Children’s Tylenol. She shook it and exhaled as several pills rattled inside. It’d expired a month ago, but right now she didn’t care.

Mercy handed the cardboard box back to Beckett, keeping the bottle as she read the label. Compound members had probably not bothered with the medication, because an adult dose was at least a half dozen tablets.

“Nope.” Beckett held his hand out for the bottle.

Mercy was confused. “I need a few.”

“Then why are you taking the whole bottle?”

She gritted her teeth, removed the lid, and shook out three purple pills. She handed him the bottle and held the pills on her palm for him to see. “I’d like to requisition these pills,” she forced out through a clenched jaw, holding his gaze.

Ridiculous.

“Who is it for?”

“Do you really need to know?”

“Yep. You’ve got a lot of pills there.”

She held the bottle up so he could see the label. “This is a single dose for a five-year-old. It will only last four to six hours.”

“That stuff can be addicting.”

Mercy raised a brow. “Uh . . . no, it can’t. It’s fucking Tylenol . . . not an opioid.”

“Watch your mouth. You don’t know what the government puts in that bottle.” His expression was completely serious.

Mercy stared and bit her tongue. It’s not my place to educate him—as if he’d listen anyway.

“It’s for Noah,” she told him.

“The kid?” Surprise lit Beckett’s eyes.

“Yes. He has a high fever and probably an ear infection.”

The scowl was back. “His father was fine with this?”

“Yes,” she lied, knowing that giving medication to other people’s kids was extremely wrong on many levels. She’d talk to the father before she gave it to him, but first she wanted the pain medication approved and in her hand.

He handed her a clipboard. “Log it.”