CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As the crime scene investigators combed the yard and house, Hatcher phoned Wyatt and filled him in. Next, he called Cat at the bureau.
“Pallo Whiting’s brother, Ernest, is not home. Do you have a work address or cell phone where we could trace him?”
Computer keys clicked in the background. “No job. He was laid off from a construction gig because he was drugging. Oxy. No cell phone either.”
Damn. “Is there another house or apartment he might go to?”
Cat sighed. “Not that I have listed.”
“What about his daughter and his wife?”
“Wife divorced him and took the daughter away during his brother’s trial. She blamed her husband for what happened to the little girl. Denied him visitation or parental rights.”
That would have been enough for motive. “Was there any evidence to support her belief that Ernest knew what the brother was doing?”
A tense few seconds passed. He assumed she was skimming for information.
“Ernest was called to the witness stand and testified that he had no idea.”
“Did Judge Wadsworth rule in the custody hearing?”
“No, he was strictly criminal trials. This was a family-court judge, Arthur Yale.”
Hatcher scratched his head. “What did the judge base his decision on?”
“Give me a minute.”
Hatcher scanned the property. Bellamy was taking a cast of the partial footprint by the swamp’s edge. It would help if they could find the murder weapon, but most likely the unsub had taken it with him or tossed it into the water.
“Ernest’s wife claimed Ernest got hooked on Oxy after he hurt his back. On top of the Oxy, he drank, a bad combination,” Cat continued. “He sent her to the hospital with bruises at least twice. Judge Yale ordered Ernest to attend AA and anger management. He was supposed to review the situation in a year.”
“My guess is Ernest didn’t follow through.”
“There’s no record that he did,” Cat said.
Hatcher made a low sound in his throat. “Maybe he blamed his brother for ruining his marriage and his life and decided it was payback time.”
“Sounds plausible.”
He ended the call and went to catch up with Korine, but his mind spun with questions.
Two vicious murders, two days apart. Two cases where no one would really mourn the dead. Two cases that might be connected.
A feeling of foreboding engulfed him.
The SS painted in blood on the victims’ foreheads indicated they were dealing with one unsub or . . . two, as in the case of the Skull. The symbols could be the unsub’s—or unsubs’—signature.
Did they have a vigilante killer on their hands?
An hour later, Hatcher parked at the Porters’ house on the outskirts of Savannah. The Porters’ daughter, Chelsea, had been molested by Pallo Whiting when she was seven. In the three years since, the couple had divorced.
The thought of questioning this family gave Korine a bad taste in her mouth. “Apparently Chelsea has suffered from emotional problems since the molestation.”
“No surprise there,” Hatcher muttered.
“She’s in counseling. But the trial was hard on the family and tore the couple apart. Father moved to South Carolina. The mother, Polly, lives here with Chelsea. She’s a teacher at the local high school.”
“Let’s find out if the father was in town,” Hatcher said.
Together they walked up to the door on the front stoop of the duplex. Shadows fell across the weathered place, which sat on the edge of the marsh.
A red Ford SUV was parked in the drive, and a low light burned in the front room. Korine knocked, her heart aching for the family.
A thin woman with brown hair in a ponytail answered the door, wearing a sweatshirt and sweat pants. She barely cracked the door. “Who are you?”
Korine and Hatcher quickly identified themselves.
Polly exhaled sharply, then opened the door. Her expression turned wary as she looked at their identification. “This is about that awful man who hurt Chelsea, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Korine said.
“I heard that he escaped.” She glanced past them, her gaze darting up and down the road nervously. “I’ve been scared to death he’d come here.”
“Why would you think that?” Hatcher asked. “Have you heard from him?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “No, but we testified against him at the sentencing,” Polly said. “I told the judge I thought child molesters should get the death penalty.”
“You wanted him dead?” Korine asked.
“Wouldn’t you if he’d molested your child?”
Korine couldn’t argue with that.
A dark-haired little girl rounded the corner holding a spatula covered in pink icing. “Mommy, we need to finish!”
Polly gave them a warning look, which Korine interpreted as a message to tread carefully in front of her daughter. Korine would do that anyway.
She offered the child a smile. “That icing looks delicious.”
“It is.” Chelsea swiped her finger along one edge of the spatula, then licked the frosting. “The teacher’s birthday’s tomorrow, so we’re making her a surprise.”
“Honey. Go on back in the kitchen,” Polly said. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Chelsea smiled and skipped back through the doorway to the kitchen.
“She’s been through enough,” Polly said. “I didn’t want to tell her that sicko had escaped, so I kept her home from school today. She’s just recently started sleeping without nightmares.” Pain etched itself on her face. “I’m terrified that he’ll come after her. Please tell me you found him.”
“Were you here with Polly last night and this morning?” Hatcher asked.
“I’m always with her when she’s home, and I drive her to school so I can keep her safe. Why do you ask?” Polly cut her eyes between them. “Where is he? Is he nearby? Did someone see him in our yard?”
The panic in the woman’s voice tore at Korine. This mother and her child had suffered enough. “No one saw him around here. But we did find him.”
She heaved a sigh. “So he’s locked up where he belongs?”
Korine gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry—he can’t hurt your daughter or anyone else. Pallo Whiting is dead.”
Hatcher forced himself not to react as Polly Porter staggered backward and leaned against the wall in the foyer. The color had drained from her face.
Korine gently touched her arm. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
It took Polly a second to respond, but when she did, relief flooded her eyes. “This probably sounds heartless to you, but I’m glad he’s dead. I testified because I didn’t want him to hurt another little girl the way he did Chelsea.”
“No child should have to suffer,” Korine agreed softly.
The woman gave her a grateful look, tears blurring her eyes. “It’s been awful. But now he’s dead, we’re finally free, and I can stop looking over our shoulders.”
Hatcher couldn’t imagine the horror of knowing your child had been abused. If it had been his little girl, he would have tracked down the bastard and made him suffer.
Maybe a family member of one of Whiting’s victims had.
But he didn’t think it was Polly.
“Mrs. Porter, where’s your husband?”
“My ex,” Polly said in a voice laced with bitterness. “He couldn’t handle Chelsea’s nightmares or mine. He left us and moved to South Carolina.”
“I’m sorry,” Hatcher said. “Do you have a number where you can reach him?”
She shook her head. “I could give you his cell, but he’s hard to reach. Howard’s an ER doc and in Honduras on a mission trip, giving medical care to the needy,” she said. “Ironic, but I think he tries to save others because he couldn’t save his own child.”
Hatcher bit the inside of his cheek. Noble, but how could a man abandon his daughter when she needed him?
“Besides, if you think Howard killed Pallo Whiting, you’re wrong,” Polly said. “He was enraged at the creep, but he’s devoted to medicine and saving lives. He’s also the most passive person I’ve ever known.”
Hatcher remained silent. Maybe she was right. But someone had killed Pallo Whiting, someone who’d wanted him to suffer for what he’d done.
No one had more motive than the parents of the children he abused.
Hatcher thanked her, and he and Korine stepped outside. Dark clouds rumbled above, and lightning streaked the sky. Tree limbs swayed and bobbed in the gusty wind, raindrops pinging off the drive as they hurried to his SUV.
“Who’s next on the list?”
“The Green family,” Korine said. “Little girl, Lottie Forkner, was abused by Whiting a year ago. She’s a foster child. Foster mother, Lynn, works at a women’s shelter and took the child in when the birth mother died.”
Hatcher gritted his teeth. Foster families got a bad rap. Abuse was a problem.
He had to hold off on forming an opinion, though, until he heard what Lynn Green had to say.
Night was setting in as they reached the Green’s home in an apartment complex not far from the Porter house.
Pallo Whiting had worked as a janitor at the school both of the girls attended and had apparently watched them for weeks before taking them. The fact that the girls had recognized him from school made it easy for him to lure them outside their homes. Damn man had used a common ploy—he pretended to be hunting for his puppy. A puppy that he’d intentionally put out near the little girls’ yards.
Korine swallowed back bile. Polly Porter had been relieved that Whiting was dead, but she wasn’t a killer. Thank God. The little girl needed her mother.
Korine rang the doorbell, while Hatcher scanned the property surrounding the apartment complex. The buildings were old, desperate for repairs, and catered to residents who needed subsidized housing.
A fortysomething woman with short, black hair answered the door, her eyes narrowed. “I’m not buying anything.”
Korine flashed her badge. “We aren’t selling anything. We just need to talk about what happened to your foster child.”
A frown deepened the grooves beside her eyes. “That guardian ad litem, Laura Austin, convinced them to take Lottie from me, so unless you’re here to tell me I can have her back, I ain’t got nothing to say.”
“You lost Lottie?” Hatcher asked.
A wave of sadness washed over the woman’s face. “The state said she needed a family with child-counseling experience. I guess they blamed me for that crazy man abusing her.” Pain colored her voice. “As if I didn’t blame myself enough.”
“Why would you blame yourself?” Korine asked gently.
The woman rubbed her temple. “I had a bad migraine. Lay down for a bit. I thought Lottie was watching TV, but she slipped out.” She brushed at a tear. “I couldn’t have kids of my own and loved that little girl like she was mine. I’ll never forgive myself for that day.”
Korine’s heart went out to her. “I’m so sorry for both of you. Maybe the court will reconsider.”
Lynn blew a breath that lifted her bangs from her forehead. “I don’t think so. They won’t let me foster kids anymore at all.”
Korine’s throat closed. She didn’t know how to respond to that. The state did have to be cautious. But this woman was hurting and had lost the child she loved because of Whiting.
Was she bitter enough to kill him?