CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Korine’s heart ached as she signed the admission forms for Kenny’s rehab. He shot her venomous looks, then scribbled his name on the consent form with a low curse.
“You may not believe it right now, but you’re making the best decision of your life,” E. L. Foote, the addiction counselor, said with a welcoming smile. “Our staff has had great success in helping patients in the recovery process.”
Kenny slumped forward and stared at his hands, twisting his fingers around and around, a nervous gesture he’d developed after their father’s murder. Korine remembered fixating on his hands the day the sheriff had questioned them.
Except then his fingers hadn’t been shaking from withdrawal.
Two years later, Kenny had discovered their dad’s liquor stash. He’d dived in and never looked back.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to say goodbye,” the counselor said. “Then I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Davenport.”
Kenny shoved the chair back so hard it toppled over. The counselor didn’t seem surprised or upset at all by his moodiness.
“I don’t need time,” he said, swinging toward Korine. “Just throw me away so you don’t have to bother with me anymore. Here I am, sis. Happy now?”
Korine blinked back tears. “I am anything but happy, so don’t put this on me. You made the choices that landed you here. I love you, or I wouldn’t have brought you for help.”
“Love?” he barked. “You have no idea what love is.”
She ignored the hateful barb. He was always belligerent when he was hungover. And judging from his shaky hands and dark eyes, he needed a drink bad.
“I do love you,” she said softly. “But this is it, Kenny. If you sneak out or leave this time, you’re on your own. I want you to stick it out so you can get healthy and happy again. So you can have a future that’s not at the bottom of a bottle.”
She didn’t bother to wait for a response. She spun around and strode out the door. His curse words echoed behind her.
Korine sympathized with the counselors and staff. They had their work cut out for them. Then again, their work was their calling, just as tracking down murderers and rapists was hers.
Guilt gnawed at her. How could she help her brother when she was partly the source of his rage?
There had to be something deeper bothering him, something besides sibling rivalry or the fact that he’d thought their father favored her.
He’d had a bike wreck when he was ten; maybe the concussion had caused damage. Or he might have some kind of psychological disorder that triggered his need to self-medicate.
The counselors would figure that out.
Her phone buzzed. Hatcher.
A longing stirred inside her, one that made her ache for him.
She rolled her eyes. Lord help her, she was weak. Kenny craved the bottle. She craved Hatcher’s physical touch.
Maybe she needed therapy.
She quickly connected the call. “Agent Davenport.”
“Banning lawyered up and is out on bond. I set up a briefing with the ME, local sheriff, and Cat to discuss both cases, but first I want to talk to the warden at Coastal State Prison. Maybe he can shed some light on how Whiting escaped.”
“Good. I’ll meet you there.”
She rushed out the door, grateful to breathe in the fresh salty air. But emotions clogged her throat, and she turned one more time to glance at the facility, Serenity.
Instead of a cold sterile hospital, the rustic structure had been built to resemble a retreat center with warm blue tones, a wraparound porch complete with rocking chairs, and hiking and biking trails that covered the twenty-five-acre spread. Set against the marsh with the sea oats swaying in the wind and the Spanish moss draping the ground like giant spider webs, it epitomized a tranquil atmosphere for healing and self-discovery.
Hopefully, here Kenny would uncover the demons that fueled his self-destructive behavior and learn techniques to deal with it and find peace.
If he didn’t get help, he might end up in a cell like the criminals she locked away.
Or in the graveyard with her father.
Hatcher met Korine at the entrance to the Coastal State Prison. The medium-security facility housed over eighteen hundred beds, provided mental-health services, and also offered a program for reentering the workforce.
Whiting had been targeted because he was a pedophile and was being transferred to Hays when he escaped.
Damn bastard had learned what it felt like to have a man twice your size force himself on you.
Korine looked exhausted, but she squared her shoulders as she approached him. “Banning didn’t confess?” she asked.
He shook his head and opened the door to the facility. “His lawyer made it clear she’ll paint him and his son as victims of the justice system. We’ll probably have to cut a deal with him and let him go.”
Korine shrugged as they approached security. “If his son was innocent, I can understand the man’s bitterness. But taking the law into his own hands isn’t right.”
Hatcher balled his hands into fists. Was she making a statement about what he’d done?
He didn’t care. He didn’t regret killing his wife’s murderer.
“We have no proof that he did that,” Hatcher said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to dig for it either.
Korine folded her arms. “We have to do our jobs.”
He glared at her. “You don’t need to lecture me. I’ve been in law enforcement a lot longer than you.”
His comment seemed to strike a nerve. She shot him a cold look, then stepped up to security. They put the topic on hold as they were escorted to the warden’s office.
Warden Johnson was a big man, tall with an imposing physique. Thick black brows framed a solemn face and a no-nonsense look.
Hatcher and Korine flashed their credentials and introduced themselves. “You’re here because of Whiting’s escape, aren’t you?” Warden Johnson asked.
“Yes, as it may pertain to his murder,” Korine filled in.
The warden gestured for them to sit, and they claimed two chairs facing the man’s massive desk. Framed documents attesting to his military service and professional qualifications hung on the wall behind him, while security cameras in the corners of the room logged everything that happened inside his office. He pressed an intercom button, then made a request to an assistant.
“I want mental health in here while we talk,” he said. “Whiting’s counselor may have insight that I don’t.”
Five minutes later, an attractive brunette with funky blue glasses appeared and introduced herself as Reba Boles.
“Tell us about Whiting,” Hatcher said. “What kind of prisoner was he?”
The warden clicked some keys on his computer and glanced at the file. “He kept to himself, but word spreads quickly when a pedophile comes in.”
“Did he brag about what he’d done?” Korine asked.
Boles crossed her legs, her expression neutral. “Mental health records are confidential—”
“He’s dead,” Korine cut in. “We have reason to believe that someone assisted in his escape in order to get revenge on him.”
“I’m not sure I can help.”
“He made enemies in here?” Korine asked. “Did he discuss them with you?”
“We talked about his conviction and his urges,” she said, her tone controlled, void of judgment. “He knew the other inmates hated him.”
“Did he express remorse for what he’d done?” Hatcher asked.
Boles adjusted her glasses. “Not exactly. He said he would agree to medication to control his urges in exchange for his release.”
Korine made a small sound in her throat. “You believed him?”
“I did, but not because he was sorry for his behavior,” Ms. Boles said. “He was terrified of the other inmates. He knew they would destroy him. Transferring to Hays is usually an inmate’s worst fear, but Mr. Whiting thought he’d be safer there because he’d be in a private cell.”
“Did he have visitors while he was here?” Hatcher asked.
The warden consulted his computer. “One visit shortly after he was brought in.”
“His brother Ernest?” Hatcher asked.
The warden shook his head no. “The brother’s wife. Donna Whiting.”
Hatcher narrowed his eyes. “And the nature of that visit?”
“I think she needed to make sure he was locked up,” the warden answered.
“Can you add anything, Ms. Boles?” Korine asked.
The therapist consulted her notepad. “According to him, his sister-in-law threatened to kill him if he was released and came near her daughter again.”
Hatcher shifted. “Who could blame her?”
Boles pursed her lips and refrained from comment.
“Did she have any further communication with him?” Korine asked. “Letters? Phone calls?”
The warden shook his head no. “We log in all mail and communication. They had none.”
“Did he mention any other threats?” Hatcher asked the counselor.
“Just the typical gang activity. Usually inmates make alliances. No one wanted to be Whiting’s ally.”
Korine leaned forward, hands on her knees. “Do you think his sister-in-law hated him enough to arrange his escape so she could kill him?”
The counselor and warden exchanged looks. “I can’t say,” Ms. Boles replied. “I never talked to the woman myself. But you have to understand that it’s not uncommon for families and friends of victims to make threats in the heat of the moment. Emotions are running high. In situations like this, parents deal with guilt, anger, fear, shame, and the feeling that they’ve failed their child. Carrying out those threats is a different story.”
“You’re right,” Korine said. “Helping to break Whiting out of jail would require planning. Whoever did it would need help. She would need to know timing of the transfer and the route of the prison van.”
“We take every precaution necessary,” the warden said. “Transfers are kept quiet until shortly before they occur. The inmates aren’t even told. When it’s time, the guards go in and give them only minutes to pack their belongings and prepare to leave.” He rubbed his forehead. “Besides, why would a woman go to the trouble of breaking him out when he was locked up and would probably die in prison anyway?”
“We’ll check her alibi,” Hatcher said. “Warden, anything else you can tell us about Whiting?”
The warden folded his hands on the desk. “He killed Banning to prove he was tough. He thought the inmates would leave him alone after that, but it didn’t work.”
“That’s the reason he was being transferred?” Korine asked.
The warden nodded. “Hays is more secure.”
“What happened during the transfer?” Hatcher asked.
The warden leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “According to the driver, who gave a statement seconds before he died, a dark truck rammed into the front of the prison van. He tried to right the van, but it spun and rolled. Chaos, then. The windows shattered, his legs were trapped, and the prisoners inside took advantage. One grabbed his keys while the second stabbed him in the chest. Whiting unlocked their cuffs, then he disappeared with the truck.”
Korine turned to the warden. “What about the guards or another employee? Would one of them have helped him escape?”
The warden stiffened. “There have been times when we’ve caught staff members sneaking contraband to inmates, and four years ago, a female nurse fell in love with an inmate and aided in his escape, but we’ve tightened our security and staff since. And like I said, no one wanted to help Whiting.”
“If the guard knew whoever was going to break out Whiting planned to kill him, he might have taken a bribe to leak information about the transfer,” Hatcher suggested.
Once again the warden and counselor exchanged looks. “I don’t think so,” the warden said. “But I’ll look into it and talk to the other staff members.”
Korine thanked them, and Hatcher followed her into the hallway. A guard escorted them to security.
As soon as they stepped outside, Hatcher texted Cat and asked her to check Donna Whiting’s alibi.
“Cat’s on it,” he said a minute later when they reached the parking lot.
“Good. There’s still the issue of the justice symbol,” Korine said. “Unless someone from the bureau or ME’s office leaked that information, this Whiting woman couldn’t have known.”
“That’s been bothering me, too,” Hatcher commented.
“I want to talk to Tinsley Jensen again.”
Hatcher narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Just a hunch,” Korine said. “Last night I read through some posts on her blog.” Korine reached inside her pocket for her keys. “Some of the comments are disturbing.”
“I imagine so,” Hatcher said.
“I’m worried there’s more going on than just venting,” Korine said.
He touched her arm, but she stiffened and drew away from him.
“What are you saying?” he asked, irritated that he’d forgotten his own rules by touching her again.
Worry creased her face. “A couple of comments sounded like confessions of murder.”