Twenty-Six
Hull Street
9:30 p.m.
Bobbie climbed the final set of stairs to her room. Wayne Cotton and Hoyt Wilson had stuck by their stories. Neither made the first misstep in repeating their claims. Both maintained that they had never received ransom demands or threatening contact of any sort after the abduction of their children. Both also insisted they’d had little or no life insurance on their children.
No matter how many ways she asked the same questions, the answers were consistently the same. Some would say such flawless consistency was a good indicator the two were telling the truth. Bobbie wasn’t so sure. Sounded more like well-rehearsed responses to her. And why not? Cortland, Wilson and Cotton had been telling the same story for thirty-two years. Durham, on the other hand, had stayed oddly quiet. He’d given his statement in the beginning and, according to Troy, had refused to speak of the case again.
What had those men done to incur the wrath of someone—presumably Bill Sanders—ruthless enough to snatch and murder their small children? Heather Durham had noted a taking of sides, so to speak, among the men involved.
Maybe there was some tie between the Sanderses and the Foster family. Or the Bonners. But what would that have to do with the children whose remains were found in those statues? If not for money or sexual perversion, what motive would anyone have for taking those children?
The only good news she had learned today was that Troy’s mother and father weren’t likely involved beyond being the parents of one of the missing. Any noted tension had been about the affair and the strain put on Luke’s relationship with the other fathers during the course of the investigation. She’d thought Troy would break down into tears when she recounted the conversation she’d had with his mother—leaving out the details of the affair. Instead of breaking down, Troy had hugged her for the longest time. This case was a tough one for him, but she didn’t blame him for wanting to stay on top of it.
As she reached the landing on the third floor, Bobbie stalled. Amelia Potter stood in front of her door. Clutched to her chest was a paper shopping bag, the kind with handles that boutiques and higher end department stores used.
“Hey.” Bobbie walked toward her—the closer she came, the more fear she recognized in the other woman’s eyes. “Has something happened since we spoke this afternoon?”
She and Troy had stopped by The Gentle Palm and briefly questioned Amelia. Like the others, she was unable to provide any additional useful information. Unlike the others, Bobbie believed she was telling the truth for the most part. She still felt Amelia was leaving something out. Maybe it was nothing significant, but it was there.
“I need to speak with you privately.” Laughter coming from a room down the hall snapped her gaze in that direction.
Definitely jumpy. “Of course. I hope you didn’t wait too long. You could have called.”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t like to talk on phones.”
Bobbie dug for the key in her shoulder bag. “They can be a pain.” She unlocked the door, stepped into the room and then turned on the light. “I’m sorry I don’t have tea to offer you. I could call room service.”
Amelia looked around as she entered the room. Bobbie wondered if the idea of ghosts concerned a woman supposedly gifted in seeing things others didn’t.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She glanced at the duffel bag on the floor at the end of the bed. “I brought you some things.” She thrust the bag she carried at Bobbie. “I thought you might need them.”
Bobbie accepted the bag. Inside were two sweaters, a fur-lined jacket and a pair of faded jeans. Thick, warm socks and even a couple of pairs of underwear and a nightshirt. Bobbie wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”
“I rewashed them just to be sure they were fresh and clean.” She shrugged. “We’re about the same size. I thought these could tide you over until you’re back home again.”
Bobbie had intended to pick up a few things but she hadn’t found the time. She’d ended up washing her panties in the shower last night. She checked the size of the jeans. Should fit. She remembered the first time she went to The Gentle Palm thinking that she needed to pick up some necessities, but she was fairly confident she hadn’t mentioned as much to Amelia.
“One question.” Bobbie placed the borrowed clothes on the bed, along with the bag. “How did you know I needed extra clothes?”
“Both times I saw you, you were wearing that same sweater.”
Well, there was a logical answer that had nothing to do with woo-woo. “Maybe I just like this sweater.”
“When you were in my shop the first time,” Potter said, “I sensed you were concerned about picking up a few things.”
Maybe that something else she’d been holding back wouldn’t be contained any longer. Bobbie indicated the chair next to the desk before dropping onto the foot of the bed. “Have a seat.” She was too damned tired to stand and finish this conversation. “Is there something else you’ve sensed? Is that why you’re here?”
Amelia smiled but she didn’t sit. Instead she pulled her sweater tighter around her. Like the shawl, it was crocheted. Bobbie imagined she’d made it herself. The one sewing project Bobbie had tried in high school when all her friends were making cute short shorts and skimpy tops had turned out badly. She hadn’t attempted anything along those lines since.
“I told you that I knew you were coming before you came to my shop.”
Bobbie nodded. “You did.”
“I didn’t tell you everything.” Amelia sank into the chair next to the desk.
“I’m listening,” Bobbie prompted.
“I keep having this same dream over and over. We—you and I—are in the woods.” Her voice grew soft and distant. “We’re running. The danger is right behind us. So very close.”
“Can you see what or who it is?” Bobbie didn’t really believe in fortune-telling or seeing into the future. But what she strongly believed in was some people’s ability to sense things others could not. Not really a psychic ability but a heightened awareness of the world around them.
Amelia shook her head. “I only know it’s close and that we’re in grave danger.”
“Are there any other details you can share?”
Her gaze lifted to Bobbie’s. “The water. We’re in the water together and we’re struggling.” She shook her head and looked away. “Struggling so desperately. I can see the blood. It leaks into the water and turns it a bright red.”
The next second turned into five, then ten before Amelia spoke again, her attention once more settling on Bobbie. “I think one of us is going to die.”
10:30 p.m.
Bobbie hurried along the alley, following the same route Nick had taken the night before last. Before leaving the inn she’d sent him a text letting him know she was headed to his place. If this was the way he wanted their interaction, then so be it. She couldn’t make him see what she wanted him to see. She could only hope time would.
The moon seemed so close tonight. Her feet slowed as she peered up at it. Almost full. Tomorrow would bring a rare harvest moon for trick or treating. Halloween. Last year she and James had taken Jamie from door to door in their neighborhood. They’d pulled him around in the red wagon Newt had bought him for his birthday the year before.
A smile tugged at her lips as the memory came flooding back.
“That’s a big wagon for such a little baby,” Bobbie teased her partner.
Newt shrugged. “The boy’ll grow into it. Wait and see.”
And he had. Jamie had grown into the cutest, sweetest toddler. He had pulled that wagon around the backyard just like Newt said he would.
I’m so sorry I let you down, baby.
Bobbie brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She wished she’d brought her good running shoes. Four or five miles would definitely burn off some of this pent-up frustration. She walked faster, needing the brisk pace and cold night air to release the tension. She appreciated the clothes Amelia Potter had brought to her. For now she would reserve judgment on the other. Bobbie had never been one to believe in all that woo-woo stuff. Ghosts and psychics had been more Newt’s thing. He’d had a healthy respect for those who professed to dabble in the supernatural.
As she reached the same stoop where Nick had hidden before, he stepped into her path.
She rolled her eyes. “I know the way.”
His dark eyes assessed her as if he needed to ensure she was in one piece. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Bobbie kept walking.
“What have you learned in the past twenty-four hours, Detective?”
So this was how it was going to be. Business. Straight to the point. Bobbie kept her attention forward and her step quick. “I’m sure you already know the cause and manner of Edward Cortland’s death.”
“I do.”
“We’ve reinterviewed the other players in the case, the Wilsons, Cottons and Durhams. Nothing’s changed about their statements. In fact, the statements are so eerily similar they feel rehearsed.”
That was it. It was as if the parents of the children in the case had gotten together and prepared responses to any potential questions that might be thrown at them. The one time their responses had faltered was when Deidre Wilson said her husband was playing golf with Wayne Cotton. She hadn’t expected the visit or the question so she’d stumbled.
“None have legal or financial problems,” Nick said as they reached the alley next to his building. “Then or now.”
“There were no ransom payoffs or substantial insurance payouts after the abductions as far as we can tell,” she added as they climbed the stairs.
They didn’t discuss the case further until they were in Nick’s room. Bobbie walked straight to the case map. He’d added more photos and reports. The sheer number of details he knew about all the players amazed her.
“Who’s your source in the department?” She turned to him, knowing full well he wouldn’t tell her.
He hesitated for a moment, then said, “He isn’t a cop, but he’s been in the department longer than most of them, including your lieutenant.”
Will wonders never cease? “Thank you.”
“Trust isn’t the issue between us, Bobbie.”
“So you’re admitting that there is something between us?”
He gestured to the case map. “You came to discuss the case.”
Rather than start another argument, she decided to consider his statements as progress. Focusing on the case, she looked from photo to photo. “None of this really ties together. The Fosters are connected to the Bonners through tragedy but neither is really connected to the others—beyond the fact that the Fosters were wealthy and attended the same church as the Cortlands, Wilsons, Cottons and Durhams.”
Nick moved up beside her. He tapped the photo of Christina Foster. “Her murder was the beginning of the tragedies that would befall this group. She was the first domino to fall.” He moved on to the photo of Treat Bonner. “He was falsely accused and then disappeared, the second domino.”
“Days later the children disappeared,” Bobbie picked up from there. “Four of the five were taken from the fall festival. The Potter boy was the only exception. He was taken from his bed. He was the last domino to fall.”
Nick gestured to the photos of the parents. “The real answer we need to find is what do these people have in common? All except Potter and the Bonners have money and power. Why was her child added to the mix? What did she possess that put her in the same category as the others? Or was it something she had done?”
“Her statement about seeing Treat Bonner with Christina Foster triggered multiple reactions.”
“Weller was called to evaluate him.” Nick pointed to Weller’s photo.
“He found Bonner incapable of masterminding or executing that level of violence.” Bobbie studied the photos of Bonner and Foster. “Have you ever known Weller to choose victims related to a case where he was called in for an evaluation?”
“No.”
“You think the Sanderses were murdered only to reveal who took the children all those years ago?”
“I do. It was both a revelation and a warning.”
Bobbie surveyed the faces of the parents. “I think they were all—except maybe Potter and the Durhams—involved in what happened somehow. Something one or all did. Something Weller knew about or was somehow involved in.” Bobbie turned to him. “Did you and your family ever come to Savannah when you were growing up? Did Weller have friends or connections in the city?”
“Not that I remember.” As he spoke he moved the photos of the children around on the wall. He placed Christina Foster’s photo first, and methodically surrounded it with the other children’s, then he tapped Christina’s. “As we’ve already established, she was the trigger.”
Bobbie gathered the photos of the parents and repeated the process, placing Amelia Potter in the center with the parents of the other missing children in a circle around her. “Her child doesn’t fit with the others. He wasn’t taken from the same setting as the others.” She looked to Nick, her pulse rate kicking up. “He was chosen as payback for her statement to the police about the Bonner boy.”
“That’s why he was taken from his home,” Nick agreed. “He wasn’t part of the original plan.”
“That’s why his remains haven’t been found.” Bobbie put her hand to her mouth, disbelief stealing her breath. “What if he isn’t dead? What if he was a replacement for the son Lucille Bonner lost?”
Nick stared at the photos for a bit before turning to Bobbie. “We may be looking at two different cases. Noah Potter was lumped in with the other children only because he went missing on the same night and in the same manner.”
“If Lucille Bonner took him,” Bobbie began, “where is he now?”
“I believe you and your lieutenant have a new lead to follow up on tomorrow morning.”
There was something in his tone...jealousy? “I believe you’re right. This is a solid theory.”
“Find a connection between Lucille Bonner and Bill Sanders.” Nick tapped the veterinarian’s photo. “The other children may have been nothing but a distraction to prevent anyone from figuring out what she’d done.”
Bobbie considered that one of the children was a Cotton. “And maybe a little payback for what happened to her husband.”
Nick nodded. “Adding the other three children, whose families had no direct ties to her, helped avoid drawing suspicion to herself. She wouldn’t have minded taking something so precious from them. They were rich, powerful, likely sided with the Fosters when her son was accused. They had everything and she was left with nothing.”
Bobbie turned to him. “Would the circumstances of this case have drawn Weller somehow? Intrigued him?”
Nick considered her question for a time. “As I said before, Potter would have intrigued him. I see nothing about the others that would draw his attention. His victims were typically those who, for whatever reason, couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of themselves much less contribute to society. None of the people involved in this case fit his preferred criteria, which indicates there’s a different motive. The nurse, his longtime attorney, the driver and the courier were executed for no other reason than they were in the way of an objective. He made no attempt to turn them into art by painting the scene of their deaths.”
“We’ve never talked about why he kills.” When Nick’s gaze lit on hers once more, she went on, “I know he claims his victims inspired him, but what made him need to kill to capture that inspiration? What perverse hole in his soul did all those murders fill?”
Every killer, even serial killers as heinous as Weller, had motives. They had histories and reasons they became what they became. Not that any reason was an excuse to commit murder, but it gave a glimpse into the killer’s soul.
“You’re looking for his profile, is that it? You didn’t like the one the feds created?”
“I haven’t been privy to the profile the FBI created for Weller.” She studied his face, looking for any hint of what he was thinking. “I’m certain you created his profile long ago.” Nick was as good as any profiler at the FBI’s illustrious BAU. He didn’t like to talk about Weller so they had never delved into the subject of how he became a notorious serial killer. She’d done some research on him, but she wanted to know what Nick thought...what he felt.
“He was born in Chicago to parents who were hand-to-mouth factory workers. They had nothing. They lived in a small apartment over a butcher shop.”
“Were they loving parents?”
He stared at her as if the question hadn’t occurred to him, but she knew that wasn’t true even before he answered. “According to my source they were, yes. They spent money they didn’t have to spare feeding beggars, even going so far as to allow hungry strangers to spend the night in their apartment rather than freeze on the street.”
Bobbie shuddered as her mind conjured images of slabs of meat in display cases. She’d been in a couple of butcher shops. There was a smell she suspected couldn’t be washed away even with bleach. The smell of freshly cut, chilled meat and cold blood had no doubt been a part of Weller’s everyday life.
“Was there ever any trouble with the beggars they took in?”
“Only once. Mr. Thompson, the owner of the butcher shop, warned Weller’s father that he could no longer bring in strangers off the street, even for a meal.”
“Sounds like the Thompsons were looking out for him.” Bobbie felt no sympathy for whatever Weller had suffered.
“Most days when Weller came home from school, his parents were still at work,” Nick went on, “so he hung out in the butcher shop. The man and his wife had no children of their own so they enjoyed having him around. The butcher, Mr. Thompson, took Weller with him when he made his weekly trips to the packinghouses where Weller routinely played on the killing floors. Sometimes he was even allowed to use the large meat cleavers to help cut the hogs.”
“Jesus.” What kind of person allowed a child to play where animals were being slaughtered much less allowed them to participate?
“It wasn’t as strange as you think,” he countered. “At the time grade school children were taken on tours of the stockyards and packinghouses. Watching the hog slaughter was a major event in Chicago during the better part of the twentieth century.”
Bobbie attempted to see beyond the matter-of-fact tone and expression he maintained. “How do you know all this? Did he tell you stories about his childhood?” They had talked about Nick’s childhood but he hadn’t mentioned stories about Weller’s childhood.
“No, he never spoke of his early life. I interviewed Mrs. Thompson ten years ago, when she was ninety-seven. She still remembered him. She’d never made the connection between the child she enjoyed as if he were her own and the serial killer in the news.”
Before Bobbie could ask, he said, “I didn’t tell her. I saw no reason.” He shrugged. “She died three years later on her one hundredth birthday.”
“What about your grandparents? Were they still alive when you were a child?”
“My mother was a foster child. She never knew her real parents and she despised her foster parents, so I never knew them. Weller’s parents died in a suspicious fire at the factory where they worked when he was twelve.”
“Who took him in after that?”
“The Thompsons. He lived with them until he went off to college. According to Mrs. Thompson, he never showed the slightest emotion about their deaths. He came home from school, Mr. Thompson informed him what had occurred and he asked what was for supper. He sat stoically at the funeral. Never shedding a single tear.”
“She never noticed anything odd about him?”
Nick considered her question a moment as if he had grown weary of the subject. “When Weller was sixteen, her husband found him in the bathroom at the packinghouse masturbating after helping on the killing floor. She said things were never the same between them after that. She cried when she confessed that from that point until he left for college her husband beat him often.”
Was that childhood enough to turn Weller into the monster he became? Bobbie couldn’t say, but she did see one conspicuous fact. “So neither of his parents was a killer?”
“Not as far as anyone knew.”
Bobbie folded her arms across her chest. “So you looked into it?”
“I did.”
“So much for DNA making monsters.” Rather than give him the opportunity to debate the statement, she surveyed the case map and announced, “We make a good team.”
He tensed at her words, but she wasn’t taking them back. It was true. When she refused to look away from him, he reluctantly met her gaze. “Talking about Weller’s childhood doesn’t change anything. This is only temporary, Bobbie. When this is over, I’ll be gone.”
She shook her head. “You just can’t admit that you feel something for me.”
“You’ve mistaken basic human compassion for something it’s not. I lost the capacity to feel anything more profound long ago.”
He started to look away but she stopped him with a hand on the center of his chest. He flinched at her touch. “As long as your heart is still beating—” the strong pounding beneath her palm confirmed her belief “—there is no limit on what you can feel.”
He pulled her hand free of his chest but didn’t immediately let go. “Not the way you think.”
When she would have argued, he released her. “I should walk you back.”
Bobbie let it go for now, but the debate was far from over.