CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wadsworth’s personal assistant didn’t seem surprised to see Korine and Hatcher or the warrant. Two file boxes sat on a credenza behind her desk, and a clerk carried another one in and set it with the others.
Gretta Breer gestured toward the boxes. “Director Bellows phoned and asked me to gather the materials you need to review. We’ve been working all morning, pulling any cases where complaints or threats were made against the judge for his ruling or his behavior during a trial. I’ve also compiled a folder containing copies of emails, hate mail, and other threats he received.” Her face looked grim. “There’s a lot to sort through.”
Hatcher nodded. The suspect pool was growing fast.
They needed more manpower. Wyatt had been pestering him to stop by, but he’d avoided his former partner. He couldn’t stand to see him in pain, struggling to walk, when it was his fault Wyatt had been injured.
A thirtysomething ash-blonde woman wearing a dark-blue pantsuit walked by, muttering beneath her breath, her phone in hand.
“Beverly, come here,” Gretta said. “I want to introduce you to these federal agents.”
Beverly hung up, then quickly jammed her phone in her jacket pocket. Her expression remained wary as she joined them and Gretta made the introductions.
“Special Agents McGee and Davenport are investigating the judge’s death.” Gretta indicated the file boxes. “If you have questions about the judge’s trial transcripts, ask Bev,” she said. “She’s one of our court reporters and has worked a lot of the judge’s trials.”
Bev gave them a nonchalant look. “I just record the proceedings,” she said. “That’s my job.”
“But those recordings are important and imperative when cases come under scrutiny and up for appeals,” Hatcher said.
The young woman patted her pocket where she’d stored her phone. She looked impatient, as if she was expecting an important call. Then she pulled a card from her purse and handed it to Korine. “My cell number is on there. I’ll be glad to help if I can.”
“How did you feel about the judge?” Hatcher asked.
Her eyes flared with unease. “Like I said, I recorded testimony, the lawyers’ remarks, the rulings. It wasn’t my place to have an opinion.”
She was a master at deflecting questions. Maybe she’d learned that from listening to all those lawyers and witnesses.
“Thank you,” Korine said diplomatically. “We want to close this case as soon as possible.”
“Of course.” She lifted her fingers in a tiny wave, then hurried away.
Hatcher stepped to the doorway as she ducked into the hall. She was already on her phone, talking furiously, obviously upset.
Whatever was going on with her could be personal. None of their business.
But she’d seemed nervous about their questions. She gave the impression that she was a robot, recording information without thinking about the cases or people involved.
His gut instinct told him that wasn’t true. That her work got to her at times.
She wouldn’t be human if it didn’t. Counselors, social workers, doctors, nurses, first responders, medics—everyone who dealt with victims of crimes started out wanting to help, sympathizing with people.
Some burned out. Others hardened and became immune. It was the only way to survive.
He didn’t think Beverly Grant was immune.
His phone buzzed. Bellows.
Damn.
Korine watched the court reporter leave with a tightening in her gut. That young woman intrigued her—she was holding something back.
But what?
Her phone buzzed. Her mother’s number.
Good grief. She didn’t have time for more family drama. But with her mother’s condition, she couldn’t ignore a call in case an emergency had arisen.
She held up a finger to Hatcher. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
He gave a quick nod, and she stepped into the ladies’ room and connected the call.
“Have you seen Kenny?” Esme sounded panicked. “Is he with you?”
She inhaled a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. “I’m working, and no, I haven’t seen him. Why? Did something happen?”
Esme’s shaky breath echoed back. “He stopped by, but your mama was playing that song again. Kenny heard it and went into a rage. Then he stormed out of here like a demon was chasing him.”
Korine pinched the bridge of her nose. “Was he high?”
Esme hesitated.
“Tell me the truth, Esme. I need to know.”
“I think he was on something. His pupils were dilated.”
Korine clamped her lip with her teeth. How could Kenny show up and upset their mother like that? Didn’t he realize how fragile she’d become? “How is Mom now?”
“I had to give her one of her sedatives, but she finally settled down.”
Sometimes Korine thought it was better when her mother got upset than when she just sat and stared into space as if she were a vacant shell. At least a reaction meant she had some life left in her.
“Did Kenny say where he was going?”
“I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was mumbling one minute and shouting obscenities the next.”
“If he shows up again, call me. Meanwhile, encourage Mother to rest, and I’ll find Kenny.”
“Of course, dear.”
Korine thanked Esme, then stared at herself in the mirror. The photographs of the rape victims flashed behind her eyes. The painful injuries, the scars on the women’s bodies.
She didn’t have visible scars. But the reflection of a wounded woman stared back at her.
Nothing could bring her father back, but finding his killer would give her closure. He was a real hero in her book. He’d helped countless children as a child psychologist. And he’d loved her and Kenny with all his heart.
She wouldn’t be whole again until she found the person who’d taken him.
A knock sounded at the door. “Korine, are you in there?” Hatcher’s voice.
“I’ll be right out.” She wet a paper towel and blotted the perspiration on her forehead and neck, then opened the door.
Hatcher studied her with hooded eyes. “Everything okay?”
“Just a family thing.”
His eyes narrowed in question, but leaning on Hatcher was not an option. Those broad shoulders were too damn tempting.
So were his big strong hands and his body.
“I talked to Bellows,” Hatcher said, cutting into her wayward thoughts. “I told him we needed more manpower to review those files.” He paused. “My former partner has been asking for an assignment.”
Was this an attempt to weed her out? Maybe she needed to step up her game. “I didn’t think Wyatt was ready to return to duty.”
“He’s not, physically.” Pain underscored Hatcher’s voice. “But he could analyze the files.”
“That would save us time,” she admitted.
“We’ll drop them off when we leave here.”
She followed him back to Gretta Breer’s office where he solicited help in transporting the boxes to his SUV.
She felt confident they could clear Andi and the other two rape victims, but the judge’s family still remained persons of interest.
Once they started digging, they’d probably uncover others. Hopefully forensics would find some evidence to offer a concrete lead.
Although if the murder was premeditated, the unsub was probably smart enough to cover his tracks.
Mentally, she reviewed what she knew about the killer’s MO. This killer had bludgeoned the judge to death, possibly with a gavel like Wadsworth used in court when he rendered his decisions. When he wanted to call the court to order. When he wanted to exert his power.
The injuries on the man also seemed violent. As if the unsub was in a rage.
As if he wanted to inflict pain, to make the judge feel the same kind of humiliation and suffering a woman felt when she was overpowered or beaten by a man.
That suggested the crime was personal.
Except there was no sexual element.
Or . . . they might be looking at this case all wrong. Tinsley’s blog and the comments she received could be significant. Perhaps the unsub left the judge’s body in the cove to gain Tinsley’s attention.
Someone who wanted to brag to Tinsley that they’d rid the world of the judge.
The Skull was still at large. What if he’d beaten the judge to death as some kind of sick message to Tinsley that he was watching her?
That he knew where she was and that he could get to her?
Hatcher never thought he’d dread seeing Wyatt Camden. They’d been a good fit on the job, had become running buddies, and had bonded over beer and Braves games.
When Wyatt was first hospitalized, he’d been in a lot of pain. Seeing his former partner suffer and then watching the frustration on his face when his leg wouldn’t work had been hell and had intensified his guilt.
As he had done a hundred times since the night Wyatt was injured, Hatcher mentally replayed the events. Tinsley and his wife, Felicia, had been friends. Wyatt and Hatcher had been working day and night to find Tinsley.
But he and Felicia had been on the outs. He’d asked for a divorce, packed his bag, and checked into a motel. That night, he’d succumbed to his burning attraction to Korine.
Then Wyatt had gotten a lead on the sadistic maniac holding Tinsley, and they’d chased it down. At the time, they hadn’t realized there were two men who called themselves the Skull, two men who worked as a team, sharing their violent rituals with each other, competing for their conquests.
Just as he and Wyatt approached the shanty where the Skull was holding Tinsley hostage, Hatcher had heard a scream in the woods.
Felicia.
He’d raced to find her and left Wyatt alone to save Tinsley. Tinsley’s abductor had attacked Wyatt with a hunting knife and sliced his leg to the bone. Wyatt had fired a round and hit the bastard. Bleeding but still standing, the monster had escaped. Even injured, Wyatt had managed to rescue Tinsley and call 9-1-1 before he passed out from blood loss.
Sweat broke out on Hatcher’s brow as he drove. He fought the image of Felicia dangling from a tree, her naked body dripping blood.
That image would haunt him forever.
He didn’t realize he was breathing hard and sweating until Korine’s voice jarred him back to reality.
“Hatcher, are you okay?”
He nodded, wiped at his forehead, and slowly exhaled. “Just wondering if Wyatt is really up to this. Last time I saw him he could barely stand.”
“Work may be the therapy he needs.”
“He needed a partner who wouldn’t let him get injured.”
He hadn’t realized he’d said that aloud and silently cursed himself.
“I read the file. There were two perps. You had to divide up to try and save your wife.”
Raw pain sliced through him.
“At least you took one of those psychos off the streets,” Korine said. “If you hadn’t killed him, he could have taken another victim by now.”
True. And that gave him solace.
But Felicia was still dead. Wyatt had nearly lost his leg. Tinsley was holed up in that cottage, terrified her kidnapper was coming back for her.
He should be searching for him instead of looking for the judge’s killer.
Korine touched his arm in a sympathetic gesture. He bit back a moan. He’d forgotten how good her touch felt.
How much he wanted those hands on him, assuaging his pain and giving him pleasure.
But his selfishness and weakness had cost his wife her life.
He shrugged off Korine’s hand and clenched the steering wheel. He would never let himself care about anyone else again. And he sure as hell wouldn’t jump back in bed with Korine.