The Coldest Fear

by Debra Webb

  “No trouble or disputes between the Sanderses and the Fosters or the Bonners?”

  “None we’ve found or that were listed in the case file.” Durham shook his head. “The neighbors and family friends we interviewed this morning insisted the Sanderses were kind, honest, salt-of-the-earth folks. ’Course we didn’t reveal what we’d found in that pet cemetery.” He ran his hand through his hair and exhaled a big burst of frustration. “There’s even a special prayer meeting tonight at the church. The members are all torn up because two such fine Christians and neighbors have been murdered. Several of their most prominent friends have already been nudging the mayor to get this case solved.” He laughed a frustrated sound. “None of it makes a lick of sense. How could two God-fearing folks have murdered those children?”

  Bobbie had recently learned unexpected surprises about people she had known her entire life—her parents in particular. Nick had warned her that everyone had secrets, even the people who brought you into this world and raised you.

  Even you, Bobbie.

  “Everyone has secrets, Lieutenant. I have mine, you have yours. Some are just more shocking than others.”

  Durham grunted. “No kidding.”

  Dr. Sanders had made all the headstones and statues in the pet cemetery. One neighbor had stated that Sanders occasionally made animal statues for those who wanted a memorial for a family pet to keep in their own yard. Bobbie hoped like hell the Potter boy’s remains weren’t out there in a statue in someone else’s landscape.

  She asked, “There’s no way to track down all the statues Sanders created that didn’t end up in his cemetery?”

  “We could ask for anyone who has one to come forward.” Durham shrugged. “Sanders didn’t keep any records about how many pieces he’d done or where they were all located.”

  “No other unsolved missing children cases in the area?”

  “Not one.”

  If a serial killer abruptly stopped killing, there had to be a compelling reason. Usually it was because they were deceased or in prison. That wasn’t the case with Sanders. He could be the rare killer who simply stopped, but Bobbie’s instincts weren’t settling for that answer. Was he even a serial killer? Five children in one event. No question the more reasonable conclusion was that Sanders was a mass murderer. What was his motive? Every killer had a motive. Why make the big kill and then keep it to himself?

  Moving on for the moment, Bobbie ventured, “Brianne Durham, was she your sister?”

  She had wanted to ask him about the child for the past two hours. She’d seen the parents’ names but most of the reports related to the Durham girl were not in the file, which suggested the answer was yes. Typically cops were the only people who had direct access to case files. Then again, someone had added Bobbie’s name and phone number to this one.

  If Weller had a contact in this department...no if about it. There simply was no other explanation. Somehow Weller had reached into this department in the past twenty-four hours or so and maybe thirty-odd years ago, as well.

  “She was.” Durham reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a folder. “This is what you’re looking for. I pulled all the reports related to Brianne from the file when the case was turned over to the Cold Case Unit. I guess I didn’t want anyone reading about my personal hell. I figured if they uncovered who took the other children, we’d know who took Brianne. No need to keep questioning my family.” When Bobbie would have spoken he held up a hand. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have, but I did. It wasn’t like they were taking a second look at the case right now. They have hundreds of others.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Bobbie understood how it felt to be the object of scrutiny in a situation like this one. How many times had she asked herself if she had done something differently would her son still be alive? “You were what, five or six years old?”

  He nodded. “Six. I was supposed to be watching her. It was the fall festival at the elementary school I attended. My folks were volunteering in the cafeteria, helping raise money for a new playground, and it was my job to take care of Brianne. But I was only interested in playing the “shoot a duck out of the water” game. I wasn’t worried about my baby sister.”

  Bobbie could imagine the hurt and suffering he’d endured every day since. She doubted anyone had blamed him more than he blamed himself.

  “We should speak to any cops or detectives who were in the department back then—they could have useful insights. Beyond finding the missing set of remains,” Bobbie went on, “it’s imperative that we learn any changes in marital or financial status among the players around the time the children disappeared or shortly after. We’re looking for intersections.”

  “Intersections?” He leaned back in his chair.

  Bobbie nodded. “The places where aspects of each family’s life intersected with another player involved. So far, we have attendance at the same church and tax bracket. The only one who doesn’t intersect in those two places is Potter. For now, we’ll leave Christina Foster and Treat Bonner out of the equation since there’s no evidence of an actual link between the cases.”

  “I wouldn’t call my family wealthy—not like the Cortlands or the others anyway.” He hesitated a moment. “I suppose they were closer to the Cortlands than to Potter.”

  “Exactly,” Bobbie explained. “Position in the community is something else the Cortlands, Wilsons, Cottons and Durhams have in common over Potter. Thirty-two years ago that likely didn’t feel relevant. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty for a reason. Looking back, it may be easier to see what no one could see beyond the haze of emotions at the time.”

  “There were plenty of high emotions. Everyone took sides. Those involved suspected each other. My old man had to break up more than one heated argument at the church.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Durham braced his forearms on his desk and studied her. “While you were reading through my case files, I did a little reading myself.” He looked away a moment before meeting her gaze once more. “I don’t know how you get up every morning and go on with your life. What you survived is unthinkable. I can’t imagine adding to that the incredible loss you suffered. There were a lot of years I couldn’t look myself in the mirror, it’s still difficult.”

  Bobbie had expected him to do his research. “We do what we have to do.”

  He shrugged. “Guess so.”

  “Your parents are still alive?” Shifting the conversation while staying on subject was a maneuver she’d mastered during the past year.

  He nodded. “Luke and Heather Durham. I have dinner with them on Sundays. My mother proclaimed that edict as soon as I moved back to town. Ironically, like me, my father was the homicide unit lieutenant before he retired ten years ago. He and I don’t talk much.”

  “Have you given anymore thought to who in the department may have tampered with the file?” Bobbie disliked bringing up the subject, but Durham couldn’t let that part of this investigation slide.

  “I have.” He searched her eyes, his hopeful. “Don’t take offense, but that’s something I need to do on my own.”

  Bobbie held up her hands. “I completely understand. It’s difficult enough to deal with this kind of issue; you don’t need an outsider poking through department business. I only ask because things are likely to get even more complicated when the FBI and the GBI show up. Following up on that issue might get lost in the frenzy.”

  “Point taken.” He reached for his cell. “Durham.”

  Bobbie surveyed the photos on the case board. All those smiling faces. The preliminary exam by the coroners hadn’t noted any visible cause of death. However those children died, she hoped like hell it had been in their sleep. Don’t let him have tortured those babies.

  “Thanks. We’re headed that way.”

  Troy stood as he tucked his phone away.
Bobbie followed his cue.

  “Dr. Weston has an update for us.”

  “You’re lucky to have a real coroner’s office.” Montgomery’s part-time coroner worked out of her small family-practice clinic. She was a damned good one, but if an autopsy was required the body had to be sent to the state lab. There was never enough money for the needed facilities or a full-time staff.

  “I’m not sure luck has anything to do with it.” He grabbed his keys from his desk. “Supply and demand, Detective. Supply and demand.”

  East Sixty-Seventh Street

  5:50 p.m.

  Four cold steel tables draped with trace sheets lined one side of the room. The two coroners, Weston and Mather, had painstakingly reconstructed the remains. A picture had been placed near the skull of the three they had identified.

  “Alice Cortland, Braden Cotton and Heath Wilson,” Carol Mather indicated each table in turn. Mather looked to be around forty. She wore glasses and kept her brown hair in a meticulous knot on top of her head. “Cortland and Wilson had dental X-rays available which made identification reasonably easy.”

  “Braden Cotton,” Lloyd Weston said, “didn’t have dental records but his right humerus as well as his clavicle were fractured in a fall from the back deck of their home when he was three. His pediatrician hand delivered the X-rays. We studied them at length and we’re as sure as we can be this one is the Cotton boy.”

  Weston couldn’t be far from retirement age, Bobbie decided. His gray hair had thinned on top. He stood about the same height as Mather, around five-nine. Both were trim and wore running shoes. Beneath the white lab coat Weston wore a white shirt and gray tie that matched his gray trousers. Mather, on the other hand, wore a colorful paisley print blouse with a tan skirt that hit a couple of inches below the knee. She imagined both had been their respective class nerds back in school.

  “What about this one?” Durham indicated the final table. “Is it the Potter boy or...is it Brianne?” The agony in his voice was palpable. Everyone in the room felt his pain.

  “We can deduce certain things,” Weston said. “Based on the age of the child at the time of death and the size of the bones, we do believe this is Brianne but, let me be very clear, we cannot confirm that conclusion. At such a young age it’s difficult if not impossible to make that call primarily because the bones in the pelvic region that would generally tell us the gender of a set of remains aren’t developed enough to be conclusive.”

  “If we had a documented injury or dental X-rays for comparison that would help,” Mather offered, “but according to the files there are none. We’re hoping the lab will find some trace element that will help us with identification.”

  Bobbie asked, “What about DNA?” DNA could be extracted from bones centuries old, surely they could find something in those only a few decades old.

  “We will certainly try that avenue, as well,” Weston explained. “As soon as we’ve done all we can here, we’ll send the bones to the lab in hopes of finding enough DNA for a comparison.” He surveyed the small sets of remains. “Unfortunately, that process takes time.”

  “We’ve waited thirty-two years,” Durham noted.

  The two coroners gave somber nods.

  The children’s clothing appeared to have been removed before they were encased in the concrete. Hair and other small fragments found with the remains were being prepared for shipment to the lab. Bobbie hoped some bit of trace evidence would be discovered that could provide speedy closure.

  “I appreciate your hard work. Both of you have gone above and beyond today. Anything on cause of death?”

  Weston shook his head. “Not the slightest fracture beyond the Cotton boy’s previously documented injuries. The bodies appear to have been intact when they were entombed.”

  Durham rubbed a hand over his jaw and muttered into his hand. “Son of a bitch.”

  “And the Sanderses?” Bobbie asked, shifting the discussion away from the children for a moment. “Were they alive when they were submerged into the concrete mixture?”

  “No indication of a struggle on either body,” Mather said. “It’s too early for the lab results, but I suspect they were immobilized or rendered unconscious by one drug or another. Both had small amounts of the concrete mixture in their nasal passages and throats. With the husband, some amount may have entered those passages when his head was forced into the mixture—which likely included a fast-setting ingredient to speed up the hardening process. The wife, on the other hand, was submerged in a different manner. The amount in her throat and nasal passages definitely suggests she attempted to breathe after submersion.”

  Durham set his hands on his hips. “It’s hard to find any sympathy under the circumstances.”

  Bobbie doubted anyone in the room would argue with him.

  “I should let the families know and then I guess it’s time to have a press conference.” Durham glanced at Bobbie. “We’ve been dodging the media all morning.”

  Bobbie had to give him credit, Troy Durham was very good at fielding questions and giving evasive answers without angering the media. The reporters they had encountered so far appeared to adore the homicide unit commander. Bobbie had stayed in his shadow as much as possible. Any connection made to her would only shift the focus of the investigation. Never a good thing.

  Durham thanked the coroners again and Bobbie followed him out of the building. For a moment he hesitated. “Maybe we’ll get lucky with some of that trace evidence. I suppose any kind of confirmation is better than none.”

  “It’ll take some time.” Time was never a friend in a case like this. Bobbie sympathized with how desperately he and his family as well as the others needed closure.

  He opened the passenger-side door the same way he had every other time they’d gone anywhere together. He scanned the street. “Even after all these years I’m not sure this is the ending anyone expected.”

  It never was.

  When he’d settled behind the wheel, he said, “Damn, I really dread giving the news to Mr. Cortland.” He shook his head. “His wife drowned at their lake house on Tuesday.”

  “It’s pretty damned cold to be swimming.” Bobbie had intended to mention her thoughts on the woman’s death earlier. It wasn’t as cold as it could be for the time of year, but it was damned well too cold to go skinny-dipping.

  “Yeah. With Tuesday being the anniversary of the abductions and her husband having been diagnosed with terminal cancer a couple weeks before that, I figure she had no intention of making it back to shore. She took off her clothes on the bank and, as best we can tell, just walked out into the water. When she didn’t come home that night, a friend took Mr. Cortland looking for her. The scene was pretty clear-cut. The coroner found no indication of foul play.”

  “That will be a hard notification to make,” Bobbie agreed. “Does he have any other family?”

  Durham started the SUV. “The Cortlands had no other children. Mr. Cortland’s only sibling, a brother, was killed in an accident when he was about forty. There’s a nephew, Justin Cortland, a few years younger than me. He came down from St. Louis to help Cortland with his wife’s final arrangements.”

  Bobbie didn’t envy the task in front of Durham. “I should keep going through the case files while you do what you need to do.” She felt confident the families wouldn’t appreciate a stranger showing up to help deliver this painful news.

  “Delores will give you whatever you need. Once I make the notifications and give a statement to the press, I’m going home and getting drunk.”

  Bobbie tried to laugh but the weary sound fell considerably short. “I can’t say as I blame you.”

  His gaze lingered on her a moment before he spoke. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  She mustered up a smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I still have to find a place to stay and I should ch
eck in with my LT.” The latter was something she seriously dreaded, but she couldn’t keep Lieutenant Owens in the dark any longer. The chief would be worried even though she sent him a text letting him know she was fine. Sergeant Holt, the only other surviving member of their small major crimes unit, probably didn’t give a damn if she ever heard from Bobbie again.

  Not fair, Bobbie. Holt was hurting right now. Bauer had been her partner for many years. She was grieving the same way Bobbie had when Newt died. Like Newt’s, Bauer’s death sat squarely on Bobbie’s shoulders.

  “I’ll give my aunt Lou Ella a call.” Durham’s voice interrupted Bobbie’s self-pity session. “She runs a bed-and-breakfast over on Hull Street. She’ll set you up and charge it to the department.”

  “You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” Bobbie argued. She preferred to find a place a little more off the grid. Besides, when Durham learned the full circumstances of her appearance in his jurisdiction, he might not be so excited about the department paying for her stay.

  “No trouble.” He sent her a smile, the first real one she’d seen since her arrival. “Just so you know, the place is supposed to be haunted.”

  “The story of my life, Lieutenant.”

  “Troy,” he corrected her. “My friends call me Troy, you should, too.”

  “All right, Troy.” She nodded. “Then you should call me Bobbie.”

  He flashed her another smile. “When I was a kid, my momma used to listen to that singer you’re named after.” He belted out a line from one of Gentry’s most famous songs.

  Bobbie laughed and shook her head. She decided not to bother explaining that Gentry was her married name. “I get that a lot.”

  He braked for a traffic light and turned to her. “I can see how you would.”

  Bobbie recognized that look. He’d spent a lifetime hoping his baby sister would be found alive and living with the guilt that her abduction was his fault. Now, with the knowledge that she was in all probability dead, he desperately needed the escape of alcohol and the comfort of sex. Oddly, after losing her family she hadn’t wanted either...she’d felt too numb beyond the overwhelming desire for revenge. She had focused solely on her work and had done all within her power to close out everything else. Eventually Troy Durham would learn as she had that there was no escape. There was only the learning to live with a new reality.