CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Hatcher grimaced. Another murder. “Come in and give us the details,” Hatcher said as he waved the agent inside.
“Jogger found the man dead in his car in a vacant lot by the park where he runs. I’ll text you the address.”
“Cause of death?” Hatcher asked.
“He was shot, and his hands were severed,” the agent said bluntly.
“ID?” Hatcher asked.
“Louie Hortman. Still had his driver’s license on him.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No. Officer just got to the scene. When he saw the justice symbol on the man’s forehead, he thought we should know.”
Korine was already standing, ready to go. Hatcher tilted his head toward Cat. “Send us everything you can dig up on Hortman.”
Hatcher spoke to the group. “Keep us updated on what you find. This unsub is going to kill again unless we stop him. Or her.”
Detective Brockett cleared his throat. “I’m with you two.”
Hatcher started to argue, but the body count was rising. They could use all the hands they could get.
He and Korine and the detective rushed outside. The wind hurled leaves across the parking lot, raindrops splattering the ground as the trees trembled.
Hatcher sped from the parking lot with the detective following in his own car.
“I don’t want to think that someone in law enforcement is doing this, but cops and lawyers and detectives get frustrated.” No one understood that more than him.
“Maybe this time the unsub made a mistake and we can catch him.” Korine settled her iPad on her lap and began to work.
“Damn.”
“What?” Hatcher asked.
“Hortman taught driver’s ed at the local high school until last year. He was fired after a student accused him of sexual harassment during a session.”
Hatcher tensed. “What came of it?”
“Two other girls came forward and admitted that he’d done the same thing to them. Charges were filed, and he was dismissed from the school. But when it came time for trial, two girls backed out and the other one’s family moved away. Rumors surfaced that the victims received threats.”
“So he got off?” Hatcher asked.
Korine nodded. “His lawyer got the charges dropped. A month ago, he hired on at a private driving school.”
“The man had enemies,” Hatcher said. “Just like the judge and Whiting.” Hatcher parked in the lot, which had been roped off by the officer first on the scene. Detective Brockett pulled in behind them, and they parked.
An older dark-gray sedan sat sideways near a cluster of trees. They climbed out, pulling on latex gloves as they walked toward the car.
Crime scene tape stretched across the area and extended to the trees on the edge of the parking lot.
The officer identified himself as Phil Pritchard.
Korine winced as they peered inside the car. The man’s arms were tied to the steering wheel, his hands missing. Blood was everywhere, splattered on the seats, floor, windshield, steering wheel, and the man.
The officer was looking over their shoulder. “Looks like he was shot at fairly close range in the crotch.” He indicated the bloody ropes dangling from the steering wheel. “The killer tied his hands to the steering wheel before chopping them off.”
“To keep him from fighting back,” Korine said.
“Did you find the murder weapons? A gun? Ax? Hatchet?” Hatcher asked.
The officer shook his head. “I haven’t searched yet. Didn’t want to leave the witness and vic.”
“Evidence team will search,” Korine said. “Although so far our unsub hasn’t left any forensics behind.”
“They need to check the swamp, too.” Hatcher shined his flashlight inside the vehicle and studied the floor and the seats. “Where are the hands?”
The officer’s face paled as he gestured toward a marshy area close by. “Haven’t had time to look for them either. Killer could have thrown them in the swamp.”
Yet the unsub left the man’s ID, so he hadn’t discarded the hands to slow down identification.
The severing was a message, just as the justice symbol was.
Hatcher pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. No pulse, but the body didn’t appear to be in full rigor either.
“He hasn’t been dead long,” he said.
Korine’s gaze met his. They were still too late, though.
Hatcher walked over to the swamp edge and shined the light on the area. He combed the bank in search of footprints or signs that the unsub came in on a boat.
Something caught his eye in the marsh. He approached slowly, aiming the flashlight beam on the mud and dead grass.
Good God. There were the man’s hands.
The unsub had tossed them into the muddy water as if they were food for the alligators.
Korine took deep breaths to calm her queasy stomach as she studied the bloody crime scene.
The area was virtually isolated, not a park people frequented this time of year. It backed up to marshland and offered running trails as well as trails leading to an inlet used for crabbing by locals and tourists.
The unsub had probably figured no one would be nearby, meaning no witnesses or interference while he or she perpetrated the crime.
Hatcher had found the man’s hands and pointed them out to the ERT as soon as they arrived.
She checked beneath the seats in the car for the murder weapon, then popped the trunk, but found no gun, hatchet, or ax.
Detective Brockett and Hatcher both began snapping photographs, and Drummond and Bellamy fanned out to work.
Dr. Patton knelt beside the open car door to examine the victim.
A slim man in running gear sat hunched on the curb drinking from a water bottle, his run forgotten as he absorbed the shock of his discovery.
“That guy called it in?” Korine asked Officer Pritchard as Hatcher joined them.
“Yeah.” He consulted his notepad. “Runner’s name is Ian Hammerstein. Lives in Savannah, manages a restaurant on the river named Fresh Catch. He’s training for a marathon and runs here a couple of times a week. He parked on the other side of the marsh and ran the trail, then spotted the car and thought someone might be stranded. Jogged over and discovered the body.”
“Did he touch anything?” Hatcher asked.
“Said he didn’t. He got close enough to see that the man was beyond help, then called nine-one-one.”
“Did he see anyone around? Another car? A runner or anyone leaving the scene?”
The officer shook his head. “He was pretty shook up. Apparently he’s squeamish around blood. Threw up in the bushes over there.”
At least he hadn’t contaminated the crime scene.
“Did he know the vic?” Detective Brockett asked.
The officer shook his head again. “Said he’d never seen him before. I got his contact information. Should I let him go?”
“I want to speak to him first,” Hatcher said.
Korine stooped down to study the victim’s face. He was midforties, a square jaw, pudgy belly. His wavy dark hair was combed back with some kind of gel. His white golf shirt was soaked in blood, as were the thick ropes holding his arms to the steering wheel.
Same kind of rope that was used to tie Whiting down.
“Victim probably bled out from the amputation and gunshot wound, although I can be more specific once I get him on the table,” Dr. Patton said. “Of course, I’ll run a tox screen to see if he was drugged or had alcohol in his system.”
“The hands were severed while he was still alive?” Korine asked.
Dr. Patton nodded.
“He’s a big man, probably two fifty,” Korine said. “The unsub probably held the gun on him and made him get in the car. My guess is he was shot trying to escape. Once he was injured he couldn’t fight back, so the unsub tied his hands to the steering wheel, then cut them off.”
Korine addressed Cummings. “Look for signs that another vehicle was here,” Korine said. “Tire tracks, an oil leak, anything that might point to the unsub.”
The evidence team fanned out to run a grid search. Detective Brockett had been surveying the parking lot, then veered to the right toward a pavilion for picnickers and recreational activities. Korine wasn’t sure whether he’d seen something, but they needed to keep their eyes open for anything unusual. A hair, a button, discarded drink bottles—anything could help.
A white van roared up, and Hatcher strode toward it, a frown marring his face. Korine tensed as the passenger door opened, and Marilyn Ellis, clad in a pristine gray pantsuit, vaulted from the vehicle. A cameraman followed, his microphone ready, as he raced to keep up with Marilyn.
She was sharp as a tack, and a shark when she wanted a story.
“Special Agents Davenport and McGee, you have a third murder here?” she called.
How had she heard so quickly?
Hatcher held out a warning hand to stop her from ducking under the crime scene tape. “Stay back and do not photograph the victim.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and motioned for the cameraman to focus on the car. “Is this murder connected to Judge Wadsworth’s death and the murder of escaped prisoner Pallo Whiting?”
Korine went still, her pulse hammering.
“Where did you get that idea?” Hatcher asked, his expression neutral.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Marilyn pressed. “It’s also true that you suspect a vigilante killer committed both crimes. One who has now murdered three men. One who’s cleaning up after the cops when they fail to do their jobs.”
Irritation crawled through Korine. “We can’t comment on an active investigation and you know it.”
“You can’t run that either,” Hatcher said in a cold voice.
The woman didn’t give up easily. “The public deserves to know the truth. And if there is a vigilante killer, a serial vigilante killer, they should be warned.”
Maybe they did deserve to know. But flashing that story all over the media would create panic and possibly cause the killer to bolt.
Korine didn’t want any more murders. But if the unsub decided to lie low or move to another area, they might lose their chance at catching him and putting him away.