Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  Korine closed her eyes as if struggling to remember, then opened them and bit down on her lower lip. “No one except my mother and Esme. That’s what’s so puzzling.”

  Hatcher rubbed his chin. “No old boyfriend or a neighbor who might be stalking you? Perhaps someone you pissed off on the job?”

  She shook her head no. “Even if I had a stalker and somehow he’d gained access to my house, I don’t keep my dolls here. They’re at my mother’s. Esme said they haven’t been disturbed.”

  Hatcher scratched his head. “Were the dolls mentioned in the media coverage about your father’s murder?”

  Korine twisted her mouth in thought. “I think the press talked about it. And the broken doll would have shown up in the crime photos.”

  They both fell silent, contemplating the idea that her father’s killer might have put the dolls in her house.

  “But I haven’t uncovered any leads about Dad’s case, so why would his killer taunt me with the dolls now?”

  Hatcher made a low sound in his throat. “Good question.”

  “Maybe it’s our unsub, trying to scare me away from this investigation,” Korine suggested.

  “That’s a possibility,” Hatcher agreed.

  Bellamy appeared in the doorway. “We’re finished.”

  Hatcher checked his watch. “Thanks, keep us posted on the results of your analysis.” He touched Korine’s arm. “I need to make that briefing. If you want to stay here, you can.”

  She stiffened. “No way. I refuse to let anyone keep me from my job.”

  She strode back inside, her courage stirring his admiration for her even more.

  But worry nagged at him as he passed those damn doll heads. “Take those to the lab,” he told Drummond. He didn’t want Korine coming back home to see them again.

  He’d also make sure she had new locks installed. And a security system. If this creep broke in again, they’d capture his face on camera.

  Then they could put a stop to whatever else he had planned.

  As she and Hatcher entered the meeting room at the Savannah field office, Korine tried to shake off her anxiety over the fact that she had an intruder—or possibly that her father’s killer had resurfaced.

  Hushed voices sounded from the room, which was filling up fast. A thirtysomething detective named Ryker Brockett introduced himself and said he was coordinating information between the FBI and local police. Wyatt entered, his shoulders squared as he gripped his cane and limped to a seat at the table.

  Korine sympathized. Wyatt was obviously still in pain and needed physical therapy, but he wanted to work, not be replaced by her or anyone else.

  Introductions were made; then Bellows cleared his throat. “Let’s have a recap of what we have so far.”

  Hatcher stood in front of the whiteboard. “Our first murder victim, Judge Lester Wadsworth. He recently released the River Street Rapist. Body found on the dock by Tinsley Jensen’s cottage.” Hatcher attached photos of the judge and crime scene to the board, then gestured to the ME. “Official cause of death?”

  “Blunt force trauma to the head. After studying his injuries and the shape of the blow, we believe Judge Wadsworth was struck several times by a heavy wooden object, which caused bleeding to his brain. The size and shape of the murder weapon is consistent with a gavel.”

  “Time of death?” Hatcher asked.

  “Monday night between the hours of nine and eleven p.m.”

  “The man was dead when he was dragged to the dock the next day,” Hatcher said. “The question is how was he subdued? Where did the unsub keep him for those hours? Were there any forensics on his body?”

  “Nothing noteworthy,” Dr. Patton said, then verified the info with the evidence team leader, who nodded in confirmation. “Tox screen showed Rohypnol in his system as well as alcohol. My guess is the killer spiked the judge’s drink.”

  “Which suggests the judge knew the unsub well enough to get close to him.”

  Drummond held up a finger, indicating she wanted to speak. “We searched the judge’s home and his chambers for drugs that could have been used to sedate him but didn’t find anything. We’ll get warrants to pick up any alcohol in the house and analyze it.”

  “Thanks, keep us posted,” Hatcher said as he gathered more photos and displayed them on the board. “Now, let’s talk suspects.

  “First, the family. Daughter confirmed that the judge abused his wife, giving both of them and the son motive. But the housekeeper claimed the wife was at home. Son alibied out. The daughter’s alibi is weaker, but she seems too smart to kill her father. She pointed us toward the judge’s old cases, which we’ll get to in a minute. We also questioned the victims of the River Street Rapist.”

  He listed their names and added photos. “At this point, I don’t consider any of them persons of interest.”

  He turned to Wyatt. “Anything on the judge’s past cases or threats made to him?”

  “There were dozens of threats made in writing and others at trials,” Wyatt said. “I’ve cleared about half of them. I’ll let you know if something pans out.”

  Hatcher nodded and stepped to the second board, then attached Pallo Whiting’s photograph. “This is our second victim,” he said, although it galled him to call the man a victim. “Pallo Whiting was a convicted child molester. We interviewed and cleared the direct family members of Whiting’s victims, although Whiting’s brother, Ernest, is missing. He had motive—Whiting molested Ernest’s daughter. Ernest’s wife divorced him and took the child away, but we cleared her as well.”

  “We have an APB out for him,” Roger Cummings interjected.

  Hatcher placed photos of the child victims on the board and groans sounded through the room.

  “Bastard deserved what he got,” Cat muttered.

  Drummond mumbled agreement, and so did Cummings.

  “Whiting also murdered two inmates for abusing him. One—Tyrone Hubbard. He had a daughter, although they were estranged, so we cleared her. The more viable suspect was Ned Banning, whose son Gerard was stabbed to death by Whiting.” He paused. “Banning insists his son was falsely imprisoned. His lawyer concurred that new evidence had surfaced that would have exonerated the son. Although Banning openly admitted he hated Whiting, he denies the murder.”

  “What do you think?” Detective Brockett asked.

  Korine and Hatcher exchanged looks. “I tend to believe him. The fact that the unsub cut off Whiting’s penis suggests that the crime was more personal.”

  Korine cleared her throat. “Actually, both MOs appear to be tailored specifically to the victims. The judge was murdered with an object that we suspect was a gavel. Whiting molested little girls, so the killer cut off his penis.” She stood and pointed to the double SS on the judge’s and Whiting’s foreheads. “Both victims bore the symbol of justice on their forehead.” She paused for effect. “This is the unsub’s signature.”

  Director Bellows cursed. “Jesus. You think we’re dealing with a serial killer, don’t you?”

  Korine nodded. “Not just a serial killer, a vigilante.”

  The phrases vigilante killer and serial killer spiked Hatcher’s adrenaline.

  He let Korine take the floor to discuss the blog posts.

  The possibility made sense that they were dealing with one killer or a group who had a beef against the system and had murdered both the judge and Whiting.

  Unfortunately, it opened up a wide range of suspects, and without concrete forensics, investigating them would be challenging.

  “Do you have any leads?” Brockett asked.

  Korine added a screenshot of Tinsley’s Heart & Soul blog to the board, then connected her computer to the screen so everyone could see. “At this point, we haven’t narrowed down a suspect. However, the fact that the first body was left on a dock in clear sight of Tinsley Jensen, a victim of the Skull, led me to look at Tinsley more closely to see if there was a connection. She started Heart & Soul as therapy for herself and to of
fer a support group for other victims of crimes. She regularly posts about her experience and journey to recovery. Others respond to her experience or share their own. Most of the posts are anonymous, although some use names. Whether they’re real names or not we don’t know yet.

  “I started reading to see if the judge’s killer had sent Tinsley a personal message,” she continued. “So far, I haven’t found a specific entry regarding his death, but some of the comments are very disturbing.”

  “I can imagine,” Drummond said. “Those women were writing about their personal abuse or rape, or even worse, about their children’s.”

  “That’s true,” Korine said. “It’s not illegal to imagine or fantasize about destroying the source of one’s trauma, but at least two posts sound like murder confessions.”

  She clicked to display them on the screen, and silence descended as everyone skimmed the entries.

  “These are disturbing but not conclusive,” Brockett said.

  “I realize that, but at this point it’s something we should explore.” She glanced at Cat. “I need you to find the names and addresses of the people who posted these so we can run background checks and question them personally.”

  Hatcher threw up a finger. “I agree we should explore this, but something else occurred to me. Vigilante killers are often people in the community who have an elevated sense of community and society. These murders might not be personal at all, but the result of a citizen concerned about the nature of our society and the justice system.”

  Korine nodded, obviously contemplating his point.

  “We should look at people in law enforcement, employees of the legal system, members of the local government, anyone who has rallied or spoken out against the court system.”

  “What about the woman who created that safety app? It’s been all over the news,” Bellamy said.

  “The judge’s daughter,” Korine replied. “We’ve talked to her. I don’t think she’s our killer, but we’ll keep her in mind.”

  Hatcher’s mind raced. “This person may also have inserted himself into the investigation.”

  “You think one of our own had something to do with this?” Cummings asked defensively.

  “I’m not pointing fingers at anyone,” Hatcher said. “But take a look at your officers. Notice if anyone is vocal against the system’s failures. It could be someone who has been let down by the system himself or knows someone who has, or simply someone dedicated to making the world safer and a better place.”

  “Look at lawyers and clerks as well. Men and women who applied to the police academy and were turned down or failed out for some reason. A lawyer who lost a big case and watched his client be incarcerated because of it,” Korine said. “On the other hand, what if a lawyer knew his client was guilty and got him off? Even though he did his job, if he knows he freed a killer, he might want to make things right.” She paused. “If this person works in the system, he knows how to cover his tracks.”

  “You’re talking about dozens and dozens of possibilities,” Brockett said. “We could be talking about a crime scene cleaner, a cop, a Fed even.”

  Hatcher let the comment stand as unease settled through the room. “All the more reason we keep our eyes open.” He gestured toward Cat. “Get someone to help you look at the women who marched in the protest. Isn’t there a specific group advocating against domestic violence?”

  Cat nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and another agent appeared. “Excuse me, but I thought you’d want to know. We’ve got another one.”

  “You think it’s related to our current cases?” Hatcher asked.

  The agent nodded. “Nine-one-one caller said the victim has double SS painted in blood on his forehead.”

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.”