by Debra Webb
Miss you.
Since she couldn’t call Newt and checking in with Sergeant Lynette Holt, her immediate supervisor back in Montgomery, was out of the question, Bobbie had to rely on her memory and so far she hadn’t recalled ever assisting a Savannah detective on any sort of case. If Newt had taken a call from this department he wouldn’t have given her name as a point of contact without telling her.
Although both cities were positioned next to a river, Savannah and Montgomery had little else in common. The many manicured parks and the ornate antebellum architecture made Savannah a definite tourist destination. The city’s label as one of the most haunted places in the world didn’t hurt tourism either. Savannah had a slow, genteel feel about it, far more so than Montgomery. The politics of being a state capitol gave Montgomery a not always pleasant underlying intensity Savannah didn’t suffer. She and James had spent a few days here before Jamie was born—a babymoon, her husband had called it.
Like the receptionist said, the drive scarcely took ten minutes. The half dozen official vehicles and the crime scene tape were visible as soon as Bobbie hit the intersection before her final turn. Two news vans had been pushed back a block from the scene. As she stopped for the uniform at the perimeter, she noted a coroner’s van. Definitely a homicide. Not surprising. For a city so laid-back and steeped in history and tourism, Savannah had an inordinately higher than average violent crime rate.
Bobbie showed her badge to the officer. “Lieutenant Durham is expecting me.”
The uniform stationed at the outer perimeter nodded and pointed to the side of the road beyond the house and the more modern clinic where all the official vehicles were gathered. “Park anywhere over there.”
Bobbie rolled forward, easing off the road and onto the grass. The veterinary clinic had been built next to an older craftsman bungalow, probably historic, much like the ones back home. The typical oak trees dripping with moss surrounded it. The house appeared well maintained and the lawn was nicely manicured. The same was true of the clinic. Pumpkins sat near the doors while witches and ghosts hung from a couple of trees. A sign advertising a church trunk-or-treat was posted in the front yard of the house. She showed her badge again as she approached the inner perimeter of yellow tape that draped around the property. The uniform gave her a nod and lifted the tape.
Since the activity was focused in the grassy area slightly beyond the clinic, Bobbie bypassed the sidewalk that forked, one side going toward the clinic and the other toward the house, and followed the stepping stones around the corner of the clinic. The yard was larger than expected. Dogs yapped in the fenced-in kennels behind the clinic. Between the clinic and the woods was a small park. Wait, no. As she moved closer she recognized headstones. Not a park, a cemetery. The small cemetery could have been any one of the thousands of family cemeteries that dotted the Old South. An old-fashioned iron fence surrounded the space. More of those big old trees with low-hanging limbs shaded the slumbering residents. Bobbie surveyed the first of the small headstones she encountered. Except this cemetery was for pets. The statue of an angel partially covered in moss watched over the rows of markers. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around the iron fence, the breeze making the plastic flop back and forth against the metal.
Two guys in suits, detectives she suspected, as well as a couple of forensic techs dressed in full protective gear stood around a grouping of small statues in the center of the cemetery. Another man, this one wearing protective clothing, as well, knelt next to a broken statue. Now that Bobbie looked more closely, all the statues were damaged in some way. An arm broken off, the head missing. The statues ranged in size from three to five feet—children. The intricately detailed pigtails and wide skirt of a little girl as if she were skipping along. A perfectly formed baseball cap on a little boy with bat in hand. The sculptor certainly showed a talent for capturing the essence of children at play.
She hadn’t spotted a body but there had to be one around here somewhere. As if she’d said as much aloud, a man turned and looked at her. His cowboy boots, jeans and button-down shirt told her little, but the weapon in the shoulder holster, the shield clipped at his waist and the weary look on his face said plenty. This was Lieutenant Troy Durham. The cell phone he held at his ear was likely the reason he had turned from the activity. Maybe to hear better or maybe because he’d received a call to say Bobbie was headed his way.
He tucked the phone into his back pocket and walked toward Bobbie, meeting her a few yards from the ongoing activity. Thrusting out his hand he said, “Troy Durham. Glad you could make it, Detective Gentry.” Confusion or something along those lines furrowed his face. “I apologize for staring, but I had you figured for male and a whole lot older.”
As tired as she was, Bobbie smiled. “And I was certain you would be a little older yourself and maybe a lot shorter.” Durham was probably late thirties. Very tall, blond hair, blue eyes. The way his shirt and jeans fit, it was clear he spent a good deal of his off-duty time at the gym. His current attire made her feel loads better about her own.
He laughed, the sound as fatigued as the lines around his eyes. “I guess I had that one coming.”
“So what’s going on?” If he felt her driving all this way rather than simply calling until she reached him was odd, he kept it to himself.
He glanced back at the damaged statues. Bobbie watched as a trace sheet was spread on the grass and bones—small bones—were placed one by one onto the sheet by a forensic tech or a coroner. Near the statue with the missing head was another trace sheet with a lone human skull placed on it. A child’s skull.
A lump formed in Bobbie’s throat. What the hell happened here?
“Why don’t we go inside where we can speak in private?”
Bobbie drew her attention back to the lieutenant and followed him across the yard. The dogs in the kennels yapped even louder as they passed along the backside of the clinic. Durham led the way straight to the back porch of the house that was apparently part of the crime scene. More of that yellow tape adorned the perimeter. Durham tossed his keys to a passing officer and asked him to bring his briefcase inside. As Durham opened the door another forensic tech exited. Inside, the kitchen was clear of bodies and official personnel. No sign of foul play. No coppery smell of blood. The room was clean save for the scattering of dust used for collecting prints. Apparently, all the trouble was outside.
Durham settled his attention on her once more. “I guess I’m a little confused.”
“Because I’m a woman or because I’m younger than you expected?” Maybe there was another detective somewhere with the name Bobbie Gentry. But it was her cell phone number Durham had called.
“Have you ever consulted on a case in this jurisdiction?”
Bobbie shook her head. “Never.”
Maybe the call from Durham had been sheer coincidence. She thought of the name and address LeDoux had given her. No way. Whoever had given her name and number to Durham wanted her in Savannah as this case broke. But why? Wouldn’t be Nick. Weller? He was the most likely possibility. Could be LeDoux, but that option was doubtful. He’d already given her a reason to come to Savannah.
The officer returned with Durham’s briefcase and keys. Durham thanked him and placed his briefcase on the floor. He dug out a brown file folder. The edges were dog-eared as if the contents had been rifled through a thousand times. He spread the folder on the counter and flipped through a collection of photos—photos of children. The children ranged in age from three to five or six. Three boys, two girls. There was no particular consistency to their appearance. Dark hair, light hair, brown, blue, green eyes. With each photo Bobbie’s heart rate increased and the lump in her throat expanded.
The photos of the children were stamped with the word MISSING. She thought of the broken statues and the bones outside. Not anymore. These children were dead. Their remains were right out that door.
> Damn.
A sheen of sweat rose on her skin.
“See here.” Durham pointed to a handwritten note in the file. “Detective Mike Rhodes, the detective in charge of this case back when the kids went missing, mentioned you in his notes.”
Sure enough, there was Bobbie’s name and cell phone number at the bottom of one of the detective’s reports. Her mouth dropped open when she read the date. Thirty-two years ago. Bobbie laughed. “I’m certain you don’t need me to point out that this report is dated three months before I was born. How many people had cell phones back then?”
Durham shrugged, his expression warning he was as stumped as she was. “Honestly, whether this was a cell number or a landline didn’t occur to me.”
“May I?” She indicated the note.
“Be my guest.”
Bobbie gingerly picked up the report and studied the handwriting in the upper portions and then her name and phone number. Whoever had added her contact info had taken great care to match the handwriting.
“This is a copy.” She placed the report back on the folder. “If we had the original we could prove my information was added more recently.” Like yesterday. She examined the pile of documents in the folder. Most appeared to be originals. Why was this one a copy?
“Yeah, I noticed that, too.” Durham considered her for a moment. “Why would anyone want me to call you about this case?”
Where to begin? “Well, Lieutenant, I’m afraid the only explanation I can give you will take some time and it’s complicated. Worse, I can’t guarantee you it’s the right one.”
Durham closed the file and tucked it back into his briefcase. “You had a long drive. Did you have a chance to stop for lunch?”
Food was the last thing on her mind. “I didn’t, but I’m good.”
“Well, I’m not. There’s a hole-in-the-wall café a few blocks from here. Why don’t you fill me in over lunch and my unit will take care of things here for half an hour or so.”
Bobbie would prefer to be out there determining how many sets of remains had been discovered and what they could possibly have to do with Weller, but this was Durham’s case and his town. “Just one question. Is the person who lives here or runs the clinic somehow involved in what’s happening in the pet cemetery?”
“Unfortunately that’s what it looks like.” Durham hitched his head toward the other room. “See for yourself.”
She followed the lieutenant into the living room and then down a narrow hall. At the first door on the left he gestured for her to go in ahead of him. Bobbie stalled in the open doorway. An adult male victim was on his knees in front of the toilet, his body was nude and his head was deep in the bowl. Bobbie leaned nearer to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was. A grayish powder was splattered on the white vinyl floor. Urine had trickled from between the vic’s legs and joined the powdery substance. As she leaned closer still, her eyebrows went up. The toilet bowl had been filled with what appeared to be concrete and the vic’s head had been shoved into the mixture and held there until it hardened.
Bobbie glanced back at Durham. “Homeowner?”
Durham nodded. “Dr. Bill Sanders. He’s lived in Savannah his whole life. He built the veterinary clinic next door. His motto was to never turn away a sick animal whether the owner could pay or not. He was a highly respected member of his church. The first to volunteer whenever help was needed. We’re all in shock.”
“Does he live here alone?” Her mind instantly ran down the possibilities of how this man, Sanders, could be connected to Weller.
“The wife’s down the hall, in the other bathroom. They just got the body out of the tub. The coroner is having a look at her. We called in both coroners for this one.”
Bobbie was surprised they had two coroners. Montgomery was lucky to have one part-time coroner.
“Nancy Sanders was a retired elementary school teacher. No children. Everybody always said the animals were their kids,” Durham went on. “Neither of them ever had so much as a parking ticket. Their killer didn’t seem to be interested in anything of value in the house. Her jewelry is on the dresser. A couple hundred bucks in cash was left in his wallet. Credit cards. As best we can tell, nothing’s missing.”
Like the scene at Zacharias’s home...except with bodies and the remains.
Durham showed Bobbie the way past a small bedroom to the end of the hall where what had likely once been two bedrooms had been remodeled into a master suite. Two men, one carrying a portable jackhammer and the other armed with a large crowbar, filed out of the room. A trace sheet had been placed on the floor near the bed. The female vic, early-to mid-sixties, was stretched out there. Most of her nude body was covered in bits and pieces of gravel-like fragments. The grayish film and fragments coated her hair and face.
“They had to jackhammer the concrete from around her. She was submerged up to her eyes.”
Gruesome way to go. Had the victims, including the children, still been alive when they were encased in that concrete? Suppressing a shudder, Bobbie shifted her attention back to the lieutenant. “Have you spoken to the original detective in charge of the case?”
“He died five years ago. Both the primary detectives who investigated those missing kids back when the case was active are gone now. Last year we started a new Cold Case Unit but they hadn’t gotten around to this one yet.”
“Were the Sanderses persons of interest thirty-two years ago?”
Durham shook his head. “According to the file, they were instrumental in organizing community search parties and raising awareness of what folks should be doing to keep their children safe.”
“Obviously they were instrumental in a whole lot more.”
“Obviously.”
“The remains found in those statues are the children you showed me?”
“We haven’t started the official ID process but we have reason to believe they are, yes.”
“Why were the statues here—in a pet cemetery?” Bobbie assumed the statues had been some sort of tribute to the missing children but it seemed an odd place for a memorial. Besides, the cemetery appeared far older than the clinic.
“The way I always heard it Dr. Sanders insisted he was concerned the community would forget about the children so he created a memorial to them. Three of the five kids who went missing brought their pets to his clinic. That pet cemetery had been in his family for generations.” He glanced at the dead woman on the floor. “This is completely crazy.”
Murder was always heinous, but when it involved a child it was unspeakable. What did this decades-old case have to do with Weller? Or Nick? Or her, for that matter? There had to be a connection, otherwise Bobbie would not have been drawn into the investigation. “Lieutenant, I’m guessing you know who Dr. Randolph Weller is and that he recently escaped the federal prison in Atlanta.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with this.” He shrugged, glanced around as if to ensure no one was listening, then added, “But I damned well intend to find out. You ready for that lunch now?”
“Sure.”
Bobbie assumed he had his reasons for wanting to keep their discussion off the record. Durham claimed his briefcase, informed another detective that he needed to take a break and then he ushered Bobbie to his vehicle, a silver Chevy Tahoe.
The barking dogs had her glancing back at the kennels.
“We fed all the animals this morning,” Durham explained as he opened the passenger-side door for her. “As soon as we’ve removed the bodies and the...remains, we’ll contact the owners to pick up their pets.”
When they’d driven a couple of minutes, Bobbie recognized they weren’t heading back toward town. Instead he drove to the Bonaventure Cemetery and parked.
“I hope you meant it when you said you weren’t interested in lunch because I couldn’t eat righ
t now if my life depended upon it.”
Bobbie considered the man. “Is there someone in your unit you don’t trust?” She glanced around. “I’m sure you didn’t bring me here to show off one of your famous tourist spots.”
He shook his head. “The detectives in my homicide unit are the best. This case has haunted Savannah for a long time. The idea that those missing children were right under our noses all these years is hard to swallow. Jesus. Bill Sanders sculpted those statues and dedicated them to the children.” He looked away. “How sick is that?”
“People show you the face they want you to see.” She had learned that lesson the hard way. “Sometimes it’s very different from who they really are.”
Durham exhaled a heavy breath. “Right now my main objective is to keep the whole thing quiet until we understand what the hell happened.”
Bobbie had a feeling that keeping this investigation quiet would not be in any way easy. She imagined most of his department was composed of locals who had known those kids or who knew their families.
“And frankly,” Durham added, “I’m struggling with who may have tampered with this file. No offense, but what could you or this Randolph Weller possibly have to do with my case?”
Where to begin? Keep it simple and to the point. “Nearly a year ago I worked with the FBI on a joint task force to stop the Storyteller. Heard of him?”
Durham nodded. “He was—oh hell. You’re the victim who survived.”
Bobbie cleared her throat of the lump still lodged there. “That’s me.” The image of those small bones back there flashed over and over in her head. “He murdered my husband. He was the reason my little boy and my partner died.”
“I’m sorry.” Durham shook his head. “I’m even sorrier you had to see what we found in that cemetery.”
Bobbie stared out the windshield at the headstones of the famous cemetery standing tall beneath the moss-draped oaks. “I’m a cop. We see things.” She turned to him. “The Storyteller’s dead, but what happened with him drew another serial killer’s attention my way.”