by Debra Webb
Bobbie laughed. Nothing could be further from the truth. “No one wants Weller back in prison more than Nick.”
Kessler smiled. “We’ll see. Keep in mind, Detective Gentry, we’re watching you closely. One misstep and you’re mine, are we clear?”
Bobbie turned to Troy. “Did that sound like a threat to you?”
“Definitely.” He stood. “Agent Kessler, at this time we don’t require the FBI’s assistance on this case. At any point that we do, I’ll contact Agent Ellis. If you have any additional questions regarding our investigation, you can take them up with the liaison officer or the chief.”
Kessler held his gaze for a moment before she stood. “I’ll speak with the chief.”
Troy gave her a two-fingered salute. When the door closed behind her, he muttered, “Bitch.” He glanced at Bobbie. “Excuse my French.”
Bobbie gave her head a shake. “I was thinking the same thing.” She hesitated a second. “I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of my private war. I’ve never met Kessler before, but she strikes me as the kind of agent who isn’t going to walk away without a battle.”
Troy shrugged one shoulder. “I can take care of myself, Bobbie.” He settled back into his chair. “So if this Dr. Weller was involved with Treat Bonner, does that give you some idea of why he would risk coming to Savannah now?”
“Not yet, but it’s a starting place.”
Troy leaned forward and searched her eyes as if he worried she might hold out on him. “Is there a chance Weller killed the Sanderses?”
“The manner of their deaths is not his MO, but it’s possible he had someone else do it for him.”
“What about his son? Is he a killer, too?”
“No.” Bobbie wished Nick could be here. Working together, they might be able to ferret out Weller far more quickly. Lieutenant Owens was right—the FBI wanted to turn him into something he wasn’t. “He’s a hunter. He’s taken numerous serial killers out of play.”
Troy nodded slowly.
“It’s a lot to absorb.”
“Is there something between the two of you?”
Bobbie wished she knew how to answer that one.
He held up a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal.” He frowned. “I guess I still don’t get why Weller would come to Savannah. Doesn’t exactly seem like the place to go when on the run from the cops and the feds.”
“If he’s here, and I believe he is, he has an objective. He won’t stop until he accomplishes that objective.”
“Which means—” Troy slumped back in his chair “—there will be more bodies.”
Bobbie nodded. “There will be more bodies.”
He stood. “Well, I guess we’d better get out there and figure out how your serial killer is connected to my case.”
It sounded so much easier than Bobbie suspected it would be. The one thing she knew with absolute certainty was that they would need Nick to get this done.
Seventeen
Anderson Street
11:10 a.m.
The Bonner home was small with an even smaller attached garage surrounded by trees on a larger than average city lot. The neighborhood was probably considered up-and-coming since a handful of properties were under renovation. The rows of houses badly in need of maintenance reminded Bobbie of the one she rented in Montgomery. According to Troy the Bonners had lived in the house for fifty years—from the day Mr. Bonner had carried his new bride over the threshold.
Bobbie noted the wheelchair ramp on the far end of the porch as she climbed out of his Tahoe. Troy also mentioned that Mr. Bonner had suffered a spinal cord injury just before the couple’s only child had been born, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. A stroke last year left him unable to speak or to communicate in any way.
Troy was right about Lucille Bonner having had it rough.
Even so, the woman seemed to have a green thumb. Bright red and purple mums overflowed the pots stationed on the steps leading up to the porch. Autumn’s fallen leaves had banked against the boxwoods that bordered it. Green, yellow and orange pumpkins were stacked on either side of the door. As Troy knocked, Bobbie stood back and allowed him to take the lead. He knew the Bonners. They would feel more comfortable with him than with a stranger. The distance would give Bobbie an opportunity to observe Lucille Bonner’s reactions to Durham’s questions.
When she opened the door Lucille Bonner didn’t appear the slightest bit taken aback. “Troy, what a pleasant surprise.” She immediately opened the door wider in invitation. “Y’all come on in. The air this morning’s got a bite to it.”
Troy waited for Bobbie to go in first. As she did, he said, “This is Detective Gentry from Montgomery.”
Lucille’s smile widened. “What you doing so far from home, Detective Gentry?” She closed the door behind them. “You thinking about moving down here?”
Bobbie propped a smile on her lips. “No, ma’am, just visiting. I’m assisting Lieutenant Durham with a case.”
He leaned toward Bobbie and said, “Troy.”
“Troy,” she echoed with a nod.
A dog—a beagle—struggled to his feet and trotted over to inspect the new arrivals.
“Go on now, Jelly. Don’t be sniffing the company.” To Bobbie and Troy, Lucille said, “Please sit down.” She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh my. Forgive the mess.” Lucille hurried to the sofa and gathered the scattered gossip magazines. “Thomas and I just got back from Atlanta late last night. I was too worn out to pick up the place this morning.”
“How is Mr. Bonner?” Troy asked.
“Oh, he’s all right,” Lucille said. “They want him to get back in physical therapy. His poor old body is just wasting away. Lord knows I do all I can.” She clasped her hands as if she might pray. “I’ll just have to try and do more. I’m all he has, you know.”
While the two discussed how Troy’s parents were getting along, Bobbie took a seat on the sofa. The dog, Jelly, made several circles around his bed before deciding to plop back down. The home had that closed-up smell as if the windows were never opened and the blinds were always drawn tight. Nothing particularly bad, just a little musty. The decor and furnishings were slightly faded, a couple of decades old but still serviceable. Other than the pile of magazines, the living room was tidy. Framed photos of their son, Treat, sat here and there. Several more hung on the walls. The final photos, obviously taken just prior to his disappearance, showed a young man with a big, furry dog.
“That was our boy,” Lucille said, following Bobbie’s gaze. She picked up a framed photo and sat down in one of the two matching, well-worn recliners. “He was such a handsome young man. And that’s Shep.” She laughed. “Treat said the big old furry animal looked more like a sheep than a dog.”
“Anytime I saw Treat, I saw Shep.” Troy settled on the sofa next to Bobbie. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Bonner, we wanted to talk to you about Treat.”
When Lucille set the photo aside and looked up, her eyes were bright with emotion. “I could talk all day about my boy. He was my angel for the short while we had him. What would you like to know?”
“Looking back,” Troy said, “is there anything you recall that should have been investigated more thoroughly?”
While Lucille spoke frankly about Detective Mike Rhodes’s incompetence, Bobbie studied her. She was an attractive woman. At sixty-eight she appeared fit. She dressed well and her shoulder-length hair was freshly colored a light brown. No telltale gray roots. The touch of pink on her cheeks suggested she still liked to wear makeup. Her nails were recently manicured and accented with a soft shade of pink, as well.
The lull in the conversation gave Bobbie an opening. “Just before his disappearance, did anyone make threats against Treat or your family?”
Lucille blinked rapidl
y for a second or two as if needing to keep the tears at bay or to hide her surprise at the question. “Why so many questions after all these years? Have you finally found him?”
“I’m sorry,” Troy rushed to clarify. “We haven’t, but there has been a major development in the case of the missing children.”
Though a number of children had gone missing in the past thirty or so years, he didn’t have to explain which children he meant. Lucille’s expression instantly closed. “Oh? What do you mean, a development?”
Bobbie held back more of her own questions and waited for Troy to explain. She reminded herself that this was not her case, not her jurisdiction. She was here solely at his invitation. He could rescind that invite at any time if she stepped on his toes. Though she doubted he planned to do so.
“I realize you’ve been out of town. No one called you?” he asked.
Lucille shook her head. “Why would anyone call me? Please, Troy, just tell me what’s happened?”
“Dr. Sanders and his wife were murdered.”
For several endless seconds Lucille didn’t move. Bobbie counted each moment. Shock and something like horror peeked past the older woman’s casual demeanor. “What on earth? Was it a robbery?”
Troy shook his head. “No, ma’am. You know those statues he made to help folks remember the children who went missing?”
She nodded, the movement jerky.
“I guess whoever murdered the Sanderses wanted to reveal a dark secret they’d been keeping. They pushed over some of the statues and damaged others enough for us to find the bones hidden inside. The coroner has already identified three sets of the remains. Braden Cotton, Heath Wilson and Alice Cortland. They’re reasonably sure the fourth set belongs to my sister, Brianne.”
Lucille’s hands went to her mouth. “Sweet Jesus.” The words were muffled. The tears she’d been holding back rolled down her cheeks.
When the silence dragged on with her soft sobs, Bobbie said, “We’re in a race against time, Mrs. Bonner. The man I believe may have murdered the Sanderses is extremely dangerous. You probably remember him from when he interviewed Treat. His name is Dr. Randolph Weller.”
Her breath caught and her hands fell back to her lap. “The psychiatrist who turned out to be a serial killer?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bobbie confirmed.
“He’s here?” She looked from Bobbie to Troy.
“Yes, ma’am.” Troy gave a nod. “We believe he is. If there is anything you can tell us about the time he spent with Treat, it could be useful in helping us determine his intent.”
Her fingers entwined and twisted nervously. “I wasn’t allowed in the interviews.” Her lips quivered. “Mike wouldn’t tell me anything. He treated my boy like he was guilty from the moment that charlatan told him about her vision.”
The bitter edge in her voice when she said the deceased detective’s name told Bobbie that in addition to considering Rhodes incompetent, there was no love lost between her and the man in charge of the Foster girl’s rape and murder case. Nor did she have any warm and fuzzy feelings for Amelia Potter.
“So you never saw or spoke to Dr. Weller?” Bobbie asked.
Lucille shook her head adamantly. “I can’t believe he escaped prison.” She kept her attention on Troy. “Should we be afraid?”
Though her eyes widened, Bobbie didn’t hear any true fear in her voice.
“We can’t be certain why he’s come to Savannah,” Troy said. “But we can assign a surveillance detail to your home if you’d feel better.”
“I just can’t believe it.” Lucille pressed her fingers to her cheeks again instead of responding to his offer of a detail. “Bill is dead. Murdered.”
“Were you close to Bill Sanders?” Since she didn’t mention the wife, Bobbie didn’t either. Troy had said the Bonners and the Sanderses attended different churches. Clearly their tax brackets were vastly different. Where was the connection between them?
Lucille blinked repeatedly. “He...he took care of Shep. Treat loved him.”
“Do you have any thoughts on who might have been responsible for Treat’s disappearance?” Bobbie pressed.
The woman stared at Bobbie for a long while before answering. “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times over the past three decades. I wish I knew.”
Bobbie opted not to pursue the answer the lady clearly didn’t want to give.
“No one has tried to contact you about Weller?” Troy asked, framing the question he’d ask before slightly differently. “Or about Mr. and Mrs. Sanders’s murders?”
“We...” Lucille shrugged. “We don’t have a cell phone and I’ve never cared for watching the news. I can’t even remember the last time I watched television.” She gestured to the old-fashioned floor model television. “That old thing was Treat’s. He loved his cartoons.”
“Mrs. Bonner,” Bobbie said gently, taking another approach, “we know what happened to Treat was wrong. He was falsely accused based on circumstantial evidence. It was a terrible, terrible mistake. Do you believe someone related to the Foster girl hurt him somehow?”
The older woman’s expression shifted to one of surprise. “Of course not. The Fosters were devastated by what happened to their precious daughter, but they knew my boy didn’t hurt her. I don’t know who took him, but it was not the Fosters. They suffered the same way Thomas and I did.”
The answer wasn’t the one Bobbie had expected but if the woman sincerely felt that way, it was a good thing. “Do you believe Treat’s disappearance had anything to do with the children who went missing scarcely three weeks later?”
Bobbie hoped Durham didn’t feel she was trying to take over the interview. Maybe she was. She should back off and let him lead from here.
“I do,” Lucille said to Bobbie’s surprise. “It was too big a coincidence otherwise. We all thought they had been taken like those other children. You know, the ones that were murdered by that cult group over in Charleston.”
“If we operate under that theory,” Troy pointed out gently, “we would be assuming Dr. Sanders was part of the cult you’re referring to and that he took Treat.”
“No!” Lucille’s face flushed with something like outrage. “Bill—Dr. Sanders would never have hurt Treat.”
“But he did hurt the other children,” Durham reminded her.
Lucille covered her face with her hands for a moment. Her shoulders shook with more of her soft sobs. “It had to be his wife.” She wiped her eyes and lifted her gaze to Troy’s. “He would never have hurt anyone. It had to be that crazy bitch.”
Lucille broke down then, not even attempting to hide her weeping. While Troy moved to her side, kneeling next to her chair to comfort her, Bobbie tried to piece together the puzzle. Why would Lucille despise Sanders’s wife so much that she felt completely ready to blame her for the murder of the children? Was there bad blood between the two? The human element was the most difficult aspect of a cold case. Memories faded. Those that remained were often jumbled or recalled the way the person wanted to remember the moments in question rather than the way they actually happened.
The decades that had elapsed between the abductions and the discovery of the remains made this case all the more difficult. One glaring detail was undeniable: Weller had been involved, at least on the fringes.
Lucille promised to make herself available for any other questions they might have. She also assured them that she would call if she remembered anything else potentially useful.
Outside, Bobbie asked, “Questioning Mr. Bonner isn’t possible? He can’t write with either hand?”
“He can’t,” Troy confirmed. “Before his stroke he tried to take his life a couple of times. Lucille has always been very protective of him.” He opened the vehicle door. “Since he can’t communicate with us, I don’t see any point i
n upsetting his daily routine.”
When she’d climbed into the SUV and fastened her seat belt and he’d settled behind the wheel, he turned to Bobbie for a long moment before he worked up the courage to ask the question she suspected was coming next.
“I noticed the scars.” He touched his wrist. “Will you slug me or pull out that Glock of yours if I ask about those?”
Bobbie stared out the windshield for a time. Until a few weeks ago she wouldn’t have answered a question about that part of her life except to her shrink—and she only talked to him because it was required for her to stay on the job. But she’d learned that if she ever intended to get on with her life, she had to be willing to touch the past. To acknowledge that it happened and that those years before...were the best in her life so far and that she missed them with all her heart.
“After I was released from the hospital, the only thing I wanted to do was die.” The chilling memory sliced through her like a knife. “My husband and my little boy were gone. I was the one who brought home the monster who took their lives. I didn’t deserve to live.”
He drew in a deep breath, then released it. “I know that place.”
Bobbie nodded. “You were a child. I was a grown woman who was more focused on her job than on her family.”
“I’ll be sure to tell myself that next time I’m drowning in a bottle of Jack.”
“Unfortunately alcohol never worked for me.” She was relatively confident he’d had an encounter of the eighty-or ninety-proof kind last night. Bauer had tried drowning his grief that way, too. God she missed him.
“Lucky you.” He started the SUV.
The curtains in the front window of the Bonner home shifted as if someone had been peeking out. “Where to next?” Bobbie made a mental note to ask Potter if she was aware of any tension between Nancy Sanders and Lucille Bonner.
There was something about Amelia Potter that made Bobbie want to take a closer look at her background, as well. She should ask Troy but she didn’t want to tip her hand about her prior knowledge of the woman.