A Deeper Grave--A Thriller

by Debra Webb

  Seven

  Criminal Investigation Division

  6:50 p.m.

  They were going to need a bigger case board.

  In the conference room turned command center Bobbie stood back and surveyed the notes she had added to her side of the whiteboard. Photos of the victims in the Parker case were taped on the board. She had added details beneath each one. Next to the photo lineup was a list of thirty-eight persons of interest with motive to want one or both dead. Beneath Fern’s photo was the list of known enemies provided by her friends.

  Holt capped the marker she held. “I’ve found no connection so far between Manning and the Parkers.” She exhaled a weary breath. “Even the message to you can’t be tied to the Parkers beyond the theory that their murders are what the killer meant by yet.”

  “We do have another missing female,” Bobbie reminded her.

  “Un-fucking-fortunately,” Holt muttered.

  A decade old VW Jetta had been found on the street about a block from Manning’s house. After having the vehicle unlocked, a purse and cell phone belonging to Vanessa Olson were found in the trunk. Her final text had been to Manning letting him know she was there. The time stamp showed she arrived at his residence at midnight last night. Carroll put Manning’s time of death at about 2:00 a.m. Olson was a no-show today at the gym where she worked as a fitness coach. Bad news any way you looked at it.

  Bauer and Devine were conducting interviews, attempting to make a dent in the growing list of POIs. Manning’s as well as Olson’s friends and family had been added to the list that seemed to be growing longer by the hour. So far there wasn’t a single common motive for wanting any one of the three dead. Not one of those interviewed who knew the Parkers knew Manning or Olson. The Parkers were known by many of Manning’s and Olson’s friends but only through what they’d seen or read in the news.

  “The manner of death is different.” Bobbie tapped the marker she held against her chin. “They have no friends or relatives in common that we’ve found. They lived in different neighborhoods. Manning was not married and had no children. Olson is twenty and single.”

  “That leaves us with the theory that this is a copycat who’s reenacting murders committed by high-profile serial killers who’re already dead or incarcerated. Based on the note at the second scene we can assume that for some reason he’s attempting to impress you or to lure you into his fucked-up game.”

  “Yay me,” Bobbie muttered. Carroll had called half an hour ago. She couldn’t determine if the same weapon had been used on Manning. The tissue where the incisions were made on Manning’s body wasn’t thick or dense enough for the blade to leave sufficient striation.

  At first Bobbie hadn’t recalled a case involving the Manning MO but a quick search of a couple of databases, including ViCAP, and an exact match popped up. The Pretty Boy Killer. The killer, Lewis Wilton, sixty, had a lethal scorn for popular younger men. Wilton had spent his youth being the hotshot high school football star hoping to play college ball and to eventually move on to pro ball. Right after graduation a freak car accident had basically castrated him—rendering him incapable of having an erection—and damaging his right hip so badly that his football aspirations were over. On top of all that his fiancée dumped him. Eventually he finished college and became a high school history teacher and coach. Twenty-five years later after murdering six young men, recent graduates about to launch their college sports careers, Wilton was caught with his seventh victim hanging much as Manning had been. His bitterness and envy had festered, triggering a plunge into the violent psychopathy from which killers were born.

  Bobbie would need Nick to confirm, but it made sense that Wilton was another of his takedowns. The idea that whoever was behind these murders, maybe this Consortium Weller mentioned, could keep dropping bodies for God only knew how long was not lost on her.

  You definitely have my attention.

  She couldn’t keep Weller’s warning under wraps much longer.

  “We know the Parkers were chosen because of their alleged crimes,” Holt noted, surveying the faces on the board. “That’s in keeping with the sort of victims the original Seppuku Killer had chosen. Manning fits the profile for the Pretty Boy Killer for the most part, except his football career extended into college rather than ending in high school. The question is, what’s the connection to you? Did our killer or killers become obsessed with you because you beat the Storyteller? Does he see you as some sort of challenge?”

  “Sucks to be me right now,” Bobbie said, avoiding the question. Guilt stabbed at her again. She had to talk to Nick soon.

  The victims are counting on you, Bobbie.

  She would not let the victims or their families down. If there was any truth to Weller’s warning, was there really no way to stop this so-called Consortium? A nameless, faceless evil that could be anyone anywhere?

  Hanover’s offhanded comment echoed amid the other worries whirling in her head. How did he know her mother? Why did his announcement that he did feel somehow threatening? Before Bobbie could add any more questions to the mounting list her cell vibrated, dragging her attention away from the troubling thoughts. She hoped Devine and Bauer had found a lead. Or maybe Nick wanted to talk. When she was done here she intended to call him if she hadn’t heard from him.

  Uncle Teddy.

  My office. Now.

  Her groan of frustration had Holt demanding, “What?”

  “The chief wants to see me.” She should have known this was coming.

  “Go. We’ve done all we can for now.” Holt checked her watch. The face was big enough for Bobbie to see that it was past seven already. Holt’s wife had given it to her after the baby was born. To remind you of all you’re missing with each passing hour. “I’ll check in with Bauer and see where he and Devine are with the interviews.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Bobbie turned to go.

  “One more thing, Bobbie.”

  She hesitated and glanced back at her sergeant.

  “We’re a team,” Holt reminded her a third time. “I don’t mean to keep beating a dead horse, but no secrets this go-round.”

  Bobbie nodded.

  Only one.

  Montgomery Police Department

  320 North Ripley Street

  7:35 p.m.

  Chief of Police Theodore Peterson stood well over six feet. For a man who’d passed sixty a while ago he still carried himself like the star football player he’d been at the University of Alabama back in the day. He and Bobbie’s father had been best friends. They’d grown up together, married the same year and served side by side as cops for better than two decades. When her father died, the chief had tried to step in and be a father figure for Bobbie. As much as she loved Uncle Teddy, Newt was the one who had eventually felt like a second father to her.

  Then again, maybe she’d pushed the chief away because of the job. No one liked a teacher’s pet in school and the same applied on the job. Bobbie went to great lengths to see that not a soul in the department could accuse her of capitalizing on any perceived favoritism from the chief or his office. There were a few who might make the occasional remark about nepotism, but not one could back it up.

  Bobbie shifted in her chair. She’d been sitting in front of his desk for five long minutes. When she’d arrived, Stella, his administrative assistant, had told her to go on in. The chief had been on the phone so Bobbie had waited quietly. A full two minutes ago he’d ended the conversation and still he hadn’t so much as acknowledged her presence.

  Finally, he laid down the pen he’d been using to make notes and looked up at her. “Dr. Sanger says you’re doing great. He’s very pleased with your progress.”

  Really? Had he seriously called her in his office to discuss what her shrink had to say? Play the game, Bobbie.

  “I feel great,” she said. Those wor
ds were what he wanted to hear. She knew this. She also knew him well enough to understand there was more.

  He braced his forearms on his desk and clasped his hands. “Tell me about these two homicide cases and the missing women.”

  “Lieutenant Owens didn’t brief you?” That was like asking if the sun would come up tomorrow. Of course the Major Crimes Bureau commander had briefed the chief. The question directed at her was his way of segueing into what he really wanted to ask.

  Since he continued to glare at her without uttering a word, she answered the question that was really on his mind. “I don’t know any of the victims. I have no idea who killed them or why the person or persons responsible left a message for me on Manning’s back. Fern Parker is still missing and now we have a new missing person, Vanessa Olson. I don’t know her, either.” When he would have spoken, she forged on. “Nothing is going on in my personal life that you don’t already know about.” That last part wasn’t entirely true.

  “You left work early yesterday.”

  Now there was a statement she hadn’t seen coming. “I had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “It was a female checkup.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  Every woman comprehended the power of that statement. Tell a man you had female issues and he was ready to change the subject faster than you could blink. She did need to have one of those. The doctor’s office had called her six or seven months ago to remind her to schedule an appointment but she’d never bothered. Physicals and routine exams were not something a woman who wanted to die thought about adding to her calendar.

  But you didn’t die, Bobbie.

  She would make the appointment—as soon as these cases were solved.

  “Joanne said she spoke to you about putting your house on the market.”

  Joanne Rogers was the sister to Sarah, the chief’s wife. Deceased wife. Her aunt had been in a nursing home until her death a few weeks ago. Aunt Sarah stopped recognizing Bobbie or anyone else except on rare occasions ages ago. Her death was a bittersweet end. Sarah Peterson had been a wonderful woman. She’d taught Bobbie many of the things a mother usually taught a daughter. Bobbie had always hated dressing up. She’d been too much of a tomboy. When the cutest boy in her class had invited her to junior prom, she’d wanted to go so badly it hurt. But Bobbie Sue knew nothing about wearing high heels and makeup. Her daddy didn’t have a clue how to help a seventeen-year-old deal with becoming a woman. Aunt Sarah had given her a crash course. No matter that Sarah and Teddy Peterson weren’t related to Bobbie by blood, they had always treated her like the daughter they never had. As frustrating as that connection could be for her career on occasion, she loved the man waiting patiently for her answer. They just didn’t always see eye to eye.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Bobbie admitted.

  The house had been sitting empty for nearly a year. Only in the last couple of weeks had she worked up the courage to box up the things she wanted to keep. She supposed it was time. She couldn’t bear to live there. The home represented a life that no longer existed. She couldn’t go back. A fresh start was the smart way to go. Did that make her a coward?

  “You can’t keep living in that Gardendale dump.” The chief leaned back, resting his hands on the arms of his chair. “You deserve better, Bobbie. It’s time you realized as much.”

  The shrink repeatedly told her the same thing. To some degree she had come to terms with the idea that James’s murder and Jamie’s death weren’t her fault. James had been murdered by the Storyteller. Their little boy had died trying to escape the slaughter. Bobbie was only guilty of doing her job—maybe too well. Still, it was difficult not to feel remorseful about surviving and moving on.

  “I’ve been looking for something new. Something manageable and in a neighborhood near work.” It was true. She’d even talked to Bauer about it. She couldn’t live in an apartment building like his, though. D-Boy needed a yard. The dog was the first step in allowing herself to commit to another living creature and she wasn’t going to let him down.

  Peterson nodded. “I’m glad. I want you to be safe and happy.”

  She knew this. Both he and Sarah had always been there for her. “What about your happiness?” She wasn’t the only one who needed to move on.

  He looked away. “I’m fine.”

  Sarah had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s around ten years ago. She hadn’t lived in their home in two years at least. He had to be lonely. “The best leaders lead by example,” she reminded him. “How can you expect me to move on with my personal life if you don’t.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. “I spoke with LeDoux.”

  The name echoed through Bobbie, hitting those dark places she preferred not to think about anymore. The Storyteller had damaged him, too. LeDoux didn’t have the physical scars Bobbie carried but he had scars nonetheless. “How’s he doing?”

  “He claimed he’s fine, the same way you always do.”

  Bobbie ignored the off-the-cuff accusation and waited for him to admit why he’d really spoken to Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. For six years, from the time a victim had been left on his front doorstep, LeDoux had been point on the Storyteller case, but it wasn’t until after Bobbie’s escape that the killer’s identity had been uncovered. His return to Montgomery had drawn LeDoux into the same darkness as Bobbie.

  “Why did you call LeDoux?” She had a sneaking suspicion the answer was one she didn’t want to hear.

  “Actually, he called me,” the chief said. “He heard something about you and thought I should know.”

  Tension trickled through her muscles. “I haven’t been involved in any high-profile cases since August. Why would he hear anything about me?”

  “Let’s not play games, Bobbie. You and I both know that someone is targeting you again. The media focus on you for the past year may have drawn the attention of those who enjoy doing others harm.”

  “The same can be said for the whole team,” she argued. “All our faces were in the news. LeDoux’s, as well.” And Nick’s, she didn’t add.

  “I haven’t seen anyone else’s name written on a dead man’s back,” the chief countered.

  “Are we going to do this again?” The whole conversation sounded like a rerun of two months ago when the Storyteller was wreaking havoc in the city. When would the chief stop trying to protect her? She could take care of herself.

  “You show me proper respect and I’ll do the same.”

  Bobbie stood. “Yes, sir.”

  He pointed to the chair she’d vacated. “I haven’t told you what LeDoux said.”

  With a sigh she hoped conveyed her impatience, Bobbie lowered back into the chair. She didn’t need a crystal ball to know what was coming next. Damn it!

  “Surely you’re aware the FBI monitors certain high-value prisoners. Particularly those who provide intelligence on a regular basis.”

  Her stomach sank. She opened her mouth to explain and he held up a hand to stop her.

  “You left early yesterday to drive to Atlanta for a visit with Dr. Randolph Weller.”

  And there it was.

  “Don’t bother denying it,” he interjected before she could rally an explanation. “The entire conversation was recorded and played for LeDoux and he passed it along to me. My question is why would you not tell me about this, Bobbie? Do you somehow believe our personal relationship exempts you from following the rules?”

  He was angry. The flicker of fury in his eyes was telling enough, but his posture had gone ramrod straight and his words hit their mark.

  “I was stunned by the call from Weller’s attorney,” she admitted with a halfhearted shrug. “I had no idea what he wanted from me but my curiosity wouldn’t allow me to ignore the summons. So I went.”

  He motioned
for her to continue, his frustration and anger making the movement stilted.

  “So much has happened today that I hadn’t gotten around to telling you.” He couldn’t deny she had a valid point there.

  “Weller warned you that his son was in danger. He asked you to contact him. Have you spoken with this Nick Shade?”

  No matter that Nick had been instrumental in saving her life, the chief still referred to him as if he were some thing rather than a person. “I’m hoping to have a discussion with him soon.”

  In her opinion the brief meeting they’d had this morning didn’t count. They’d hardly talked about what the chief wanted to hear. Just another white lie.

  “If you talk to him—if he comes into my jurisdiction—I want to hear about it.”

  Bobbie nodded. “Whatever you say.”

  “Do not force me to waste resources by adding a surveillance detail to you,” he warned. “Keep me informed or I will do just that.”

  She sure as hell had no desire to have a cruiser following her around again. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  “LeDoux mentioned the FBI is taking a harder look at Shade, which may explain why Weller is concerned.” The chief watched her closely as he continued. “They’re following up on some of the serial killers who’ve been murdered in the past decade or so. They think Shade may be a killer rather than the hero he would have you believe he is.”

  Outrage charged through Bobbie. “LeDoux knows that isn’t true. He would be dead—I would be dead—if not for Nick Shade.”

  “All I’m saying is that you need to watch your step, Bobbie,” he warned. “Three people are already dead. Two young women are missing. This city doesn’t need to be caught in the crosshairs of a battle between Nick Shade and the FBI.”

  Bobbie feared this battle was something far bigger than the chief or the FBI understood. Evidently LeDoux hadn’t mentioned the Consortium. Why would he keep that part a secret? Maybe it was time Bobbie reminded LeDoux that if a war between Nick and the FBI was coming he might want to keep her on his side.