by Debra Webb
As they settled into the booth Nick and Bobbie exchanged a glance. Then Bobbie said, “I’ll have water.”
Tony’s jaw dropped. He laughed. “The two of you have news?”
Bobbie smiled. “I’m pregnant. We found out a few weeks ago but haven’t made the official announcement yet.”
“Wow.” Tony was so damned happy for them. “I’ll bet Amelia is thrilled.”
Amelia Potter was Nick’s mother. He’d always assumed the woman married to Weller was his mother but that turned out to be a lie. Nick had been stolen from his mother when he was three years old. Amelia had spent a lifetime praying her son would one day come home to her, and he had. The investigation had concluded with that rare happy ending.
Nick nodded. “She’s moving to Montgomery to take care of the baby after Bobbie returns to work.”
“We’ve been trying to lure her from Savannah for months,” Bobbie added. “It took a baby to draw her away from all she knows. We’ve promised to take her to Savannah often to see her friends.”
The pizza arrived, Tony ordered water for Bobbie, and then brought the two of them up to speed on what he and Jo had learned since he called Nick last night. He’d never been more thankful for backup. The idea that he could be allowing his personal attachment to his niece to get in the way of what needed to be done wasn’t lost on him.
After they’d polished off the pizza, Bobbie was the first to speak. “No ransom demands, no contact whatsoever. The victims simply disappear.” She turned to Jo. “Frankly, if I didn’t know your story and the story of the other victims you’ve followed, I would be leaning toward the human trafficking scenario.”
“Unless this is an entirely different perpetrator,” Nick said, “we can assume for the moment that this guy—perhaps Blume or someone he’s associated with—is gaining something else for his trouble.”
Bobbie looked to Tony. “Have you considered the most likely motives?”
“I have. After hearing Jo’s story, my first assessment was that our unsub was creating snuff films or gladiator-type videos for deep internet consumers. Then we found the sister of a very violent, mentally ill prisoner who was exposed to movies similar to the ones Jo and the others were forced to watch and I considered another possibility. Drug trials or unorthodox testing of some sort. We all know it happens. Usually in some foreign country where the laws are less stringent.”
“They exposed us to extremely violent images,” Jo explained. “Mrs. Ruley talked about her brother being exposed to the same sort of images. He told her that watching eventually relaxed him and depressed his violent urges, so to speak. But it also made him want to see more.”
“Soothing the beast,” Nick suggested. “I read a paper on research trials performed twelve or so years ago that suggested violent patients could be controlled if their urges were met with something that satisfied their cravings—like movies depicting the sorts of activities they desired to participate in. Exactly the opposite of what we’ve believed for decades about the impact of violence on the human psyche.”
“That’s the time frame of the abductions like mine,” Jo pointed out. “They took place over a five-year period starting eighteen years ago.”
“If I can locate the articles on those trials I might be able to find a name associated with the work. I believe the work was considered bogus and charges of misconduct were filed. Numerous studies have proven the theory wrong time and again.”
“Which begs the question,” Tony spoke up, “why repeat the trial? If the unsub who took Jo and the others nearly two decades ago is the one we’re dealing with today, why reenact the same scenario? Unless, he’s hoping for a different ending.”
“Maybe he’s using subtle differences or maybe this latest abduction has nothing to do with the previous study,” Jo offered. “Maybe his colleagues discovered a more lucrative option for the same work.”
“The film clips found on Conway’s hard drives may be just the beginning,” Tony interjected. “The little bit they were able to recover may only have been his secret cut. We could be looking at a much larger operation that is in no way related to the health or drug industry.”
The server headed toward their booth and Tony waved her away. “Let’s assume the new wave of abductions is not related to Blume or anything he’s involved with, but only to Conway and Houser. What if the two of them picked up where their former boss left off? What if there have been numerous other abductions we’re not considering? Hundreds of young women go missing in the Southeast every year. Many are never heard from again. This taking of two college students in the same manner as the older abductions may have been coincidence or a stupid mistake.”
“You’re right. We can’t assume,” Nick picked up from there, “that we’re dealing with the same scenario as eighteen years ago. This may be a whole different game.”
The realization shook Tony. Why hadn’t he seen that sooner? He’d grabbed onto the first feasible scenario and hung there for days. He knew better but he’d allowed his emotions to blind him. He’d wanted Tiffany’s abduction to be like Jo’s. He’d wanted to believe she was alive and would be coming back, battered and bruised but alive. How selfish was that?
He took a breath. “Tiffany and Vickie may not have any time left.” He looked to Jo. “They could be dead already.”
“No bodies have been found,” Bobbie argued. “We should still operate under the assumption they’re alive.”
Tony rode out the wave of knots twisting in his gut. “Right. The Bureau is working on the hard drives found in Conway’s apartment to see if they can pull off anything else. Houser had a laptop for her security system but there was little else on it. Her cell phone hasn’t been recovered. Conway’s either for that matter. In all probability both were taken by Sylvia Carson, their murderer.”
“What about Blume?” Nick wanted to know. “Has his office been checked? His home?”
“He cleared out his office at the college when he retired,” Tony explained. “Moved everything to his home.” He glanced at Jo. “We had a look around inside the house and didn’t find anything useful.”
“We couldn’t get into the safe room,” Jo reminded him.
“Safe room?” Bobbie asked.
“Yeah.” Tony nodded. “A part of his basement office was portioned off and the door was like one you would see on a bank vault. I’m working on local law enforcement to seek a warrant to have a look inside, but, as you know, that can be problematic when you don’t have probable cause or strong evidence.”
“Let’s put it all on the table,” Nick said. “We have two people—Conway and Houser—involved in abductions between fifteen and eighteen years ago. Their involvement was confirmed by multiple witnesses. Those same two people have been confirmed by eyewitnesses as a part of the most recent abductions. Our problem is, both are dead. So, we’re left with a single thread that ties to both sets of abductions.”
“Professor Blume,” Jo said.
Nick nodded. “We need inside that safe room. Today.”
Lands Drive, 7:30 p.m.
Tony’s insistence that Blume’s involvement could not be overlooked had paid off. No sooner than Nick had made the statement about needing to see in the safe room back at the pizza joint, Phelps had called. He had decided it wouldn’t hurt to take a look inside the Blume home.
Time was required for Phelps to assemble the necessary personnel. Finding a judge willing to sign the warrant ran even more time off the clock. While Phelps had taken care of the official steps, Tony had tracked down the company who installed the safe room.
As it turned out, the safe room was actually like a room within a room in the basement. Concrete walls eight inches thick with a web of rebar snaking around inside all that concrete. Ten feet by fifteen feet in size with the standard eight-foot ceiling height. Emergency lighting in case the power went off and hidden air intakes—not
large enough for anyone to climb through. The thickness of the walls had been the sticking point for Tony. Cutting through it would take hours. Blowing a hole in it might damage any potential evidence inside. That left one option—use the keys. The vault-style door required either a combination or a set of two keys. A whirlwind search of the house had not revealed the keys or the combination.
Fortunately, the owner of the company, Dennis Horton, who designed and installed the safe room had master keys to all the safe rooms he installed. The safe room as well as the installer was registered with the county. In the event of a disaster, tornado, fire, or whatever, if those inside were unable to get out of the safe room for any reason, the installer would be called to open the door.
By the time Phelps and his team were on-site, Tony had Horton standing by.
“This is costing the city a small fortune,” Phelps said. “I hope your hunch is right, LeDoux.”
“I guess we’ll see in a minute.”
Though Tony had explained that Bobbie was a detective from Montgomery and Nick was a special advisor for the Alabama Bureau of Investigation, Phelps insisted they stay outside the house with Jo.
In a strictly legal sense, Tony understood his reasons, but it was difficult to accept that edict when coming from a personal place. This was deeply personal for him and for Jo.
His sister and her husband were doing their part. Continuing to speak to the community through the media. They were working with the Partons and the students at the college in hopes of finding someone who saw something they didn’t know about yet. In Tony’s opinion Buckley was a genius for putting the parents in positions of responsibility working with students who wanted to help.
He hoped like hell he’d have something significant to share with Angie after this. He’d been here five days without making any measurable progress in finding Tiffany. This case had to start moving forward soon.
The locks clicked and Horton stepped back. “It’s ready to open. I’ll wait outside with the others.”
Smart man. There could be anything inside, including a booby trap. Not exactly what he would hope to discover in the home of a psychology professor and a scientist, but one never knew.
Tony and Phelps stayed behind a protective portable wall that had been prepared at the other end of the basement while the bomb squad checked out the situation.
Tony held his breath. No explosions. No orders to mask up due to a released potentially toxic gas. Bomb squad came out; two detectives went in. The door was left open this time and what did waft from beyond those thick concrete walls was a horrendous stench Tony knew all too well—that of at least one rotting corpse. His heart dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.
The chief and a two-man forensic team went in next. The chief didn’t much more than poke his head inside before moving away from the door and calling for the coroner.
“Suit up and have a look-see,” Phelps said to Tony. “Can’t say if it’s Blume in there, but based on the clothes should be male. Since he’s lived in Milledgeville his whole life, we should be able to round up dental and medical records and get an ID fairly quickly. Meanwhile, I’ll try to run down the wife. Obviously the two aren’t in Europe as their friends and neighbors believe.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you trusting my instincts, Chief.”
He gave a nod and started for the stairs, his cell already attached to his ear once more. Tony pulled on shoe covers and gloves and headed into the fray.
Inside the safe room were a small sofa, a desk, five four-drawer file cabinets and a couple of tall storage locker-type cabinets. At the desk the rotting corpse sat in the upholstered swivel chair. A pair of dark trousers and a man’s button-down shirt had collapsed against bone as the flesh and tissue beneath it dissolved. Body fluids had seeped into the upholstery and slid off onto the faux wood floor, forming a slimy puddle. A ring that had once been on a finger stuck up in the yellow, gooey mass. Tony recognized a Rolex watch still on the victim’s wrist.
“The Rolex will have a serial number,” he said to the detective.
The detective nodded his understanding. “Coroner’s on the way. We’ll be sure to take the watch into evidence as soon as he gives us the okay.”
“Thanks.” Tony put his forearm over his nose to help block the smell and used his cell to take a photo of the ring and the Rolex.
Amid the muck on the floor below the wrist with the Rolex was a Ruger 9mm. The right side of the skull was shattered, rotting tissue still hanging around the broken bone.
It was entirely possible the professor had shot himself in the head just as the scene would suggest. The question was, who locked him inside this room after the deed was done?
Tony moved on to the file cabinets. Most of the files were of students from the college. Blume had kept copious notes on the students with whom he worked. Tony flipped through the hundreds of names. When he’d gone through the cabinets without finding a suspiciously marked file or a name related to the case, he moved to the first of the two upright storage type cabinets. The cabinets were wood with two doors and a single lock. The second cabinet was not locked.
A detective joined Tony at the cabinet. “I’ll get this one open if you want to move on to the next one.”
“Thanks.” Tony sidestepped to the next cabinet and considered the three-inch binders stored there. He reached for the first one on the highest shelf. Test Subject #2 Ellen Carson.
The find sent a shot of adrenaline firing through his chest. He moved on to the next and the next. Files dating back eighteen years, including the other women in Jo’s scrapbook were there. There were a couple dozen files—women and men. Ages varied from late teens to midtwenties. Each was labeled with a Test Subject # whatever.
They were all here—except Jo’s.
Tony moved to the other cabinet the detective had opened. No binders in there. This one contained supplies. Reams of paper. Ink cartridges. Pad, pens. The usual.
Where the hell was Jo’s file?
Tony walked back to the desk and looked around. He picked through the papers until he found one with Jo’s name. He crouched down to look under the desk. He had to lean just so to see beyond what was left of the professor draped in the chair.
And there it was. Another three-inch binder on the floor far beneath the desk. Blume must have removed the contents and tossed the binder out of his way. Judging by the pages on the desk he’d been reading Jo’s file when he shot himself or someone else did the honors.
“LeDoux,” the second detective called from the other side of the room. “You’ll want to see this.”
What looked like a copy machine or printer sat on the table where the detective waited. He held two sheets of paper he’d pulled from the paper tray. The pages had been faxed from Dr. Ima Alexander’s office. Examination conclusions on Vickie Parton and Tiffany Durand.
Son of a bitch. One or both of the Blumes were involved. “Thanks.”
The detective nodded. “This is what we’ve been looking for.”
The detective was right. Tony turned back to the decomposing professor. Unless his wife was involved, how the hell would they find Tiffany now?
A forensic tech found Blume’s wallet in his trousers. Amid the mass of papers on the desk they also found what appeared to a suicide note.
I cannot live with what I’ve allowed to happen.
It was signed Orson Blume.
A handwriting expert would be required to determine if the signature was Blume’s. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t they have found this days ago?
Tony thanked the forensic techs and the detectives and exited the safe room. He peeled off the shoe covers in case he’d picked up something that might be scattered to other parts of the house, but he kept the gloves on. He headed upstairs, moving from room to room until he found what he was looking for. A photo that showed Blume’s left hand and right wrist.
The ring currently trapped in the goo and the Rolex on the skeleton’s wrist were the same. Had to be Blume. Despite the jewelry and the wallet, an official ID confirmation would be necessary.
Hopefully the coroner could confirm tonight.
From the conditions of the cool, dark room, maybe sixty degrees, and the decomp of the body, Blume had likely been dead three or so weeks.
Whatever happened in this house, one thing was abundantly clear: Orson Blume couldn’t have taken Tiffany and Vickie... He had an unshakable alibi.
He was dead.
44
Day Eleven
Eighteen years ago...
The lights are on—the walls are no longer black, they’re white. There’s a cage-like door with a big lock over the opening between this space and the one above us. I don’t know what this means.
It’s so bright we can’t bear to open our eyes for long. It burns.
Ellen is better. No more vomiting. The bleeding has stopped.
No water today.
No food.
I’m so hungry and thirsty. I tell myself not to think about it but it’s so hard.
I have come to realize that no one is coming to save us.
We will die here.
“My name is Carrie.”
I try to open my eyes and look at No-Name. “Carrie?” My lips split further even as I say her name.
Her knees are pulled to her chest. She lowers her face to her arms to shield her eyes from the light. “Carrie Cole.”
I shelter my eyes the same way. “Joanna Guthrie. My friends call me Jo.” She already knows my first name but she doesn’t know my last.
“Ellen Carson.”
Ellen is lying on her side, curled into the fetal position. She sounds so tired. So weak.
The light feels so hot, like the blaring bulbs in a tanning bed. My skin feels as if it’s blistering, too.
Don’t think about it. I say, “I have a brother named Ray.”