by Rita Herron
“Did he touch anything?” Hatcher asked.
“Said he didn’t. He got close enough to see that the man was beyond help, then called nine-one-one.”
“Did he see anyone around? Another car? A runner or anyone leaving the scene?”
The officer shook his head. “He was pretty shook up. Apparently he’s squeamish around blood. Threw up in the bushes over there.”
At least he hadn’t contaminated the crime scene.
“Did he know the vic?” Detective Brockett asked.
The officer shook his head again. “Said he’d never seen him before. I got his contact information. Should I let him go?”
“I want to speak to him first,” Hatcher said.
Korine stooped down to study the victim’s face. He was midforties, a square jaw, pudgy belly. His wavy dark hair was combed back with some kind of gel. His white golf shirt was soaked in blood, as were the thick ropes holding his arms to the steering wheel.
Same kind of rope that was used to tie Whiting down.
“Victim probably bled out from the amputation and gunshot wound, although I can be more specific once I get him on the table,” Dr. Patton said. “Of course, I’ll run a tox screen to see if he was drugged or had alcohol in his system.”
“The hands were severed while he was still alive?” Korine asked.
Dr. Patton nodded.
“He’s a big man, probably two fifty,” Korine said. “The unsub probably held the gun on him and made him get in the car. My guess is he was shot trying to escape. Once he was injured he couldn’t fight back, so the unsub tied his hands to the steering wheel, then cut them off.”
Korine addressed Cummings. “Look for signs that another vehicle was here,” Korine said. “Tire tracks, an oil leak, anything that might point to the unsub.”
The evidence team fanned out to run a grid search. Detective Brockett had been surveying the parking lot, then veered to the right toward a pavilion for picnickers and recreational activities. Korine wasn’t sure whether he’d seen something, but they needed to keep their eyes open for anything unusual. A hair, a button, discarded drink bottles—anything could help.
A white van roared up, and Hatcher strode toward it, a frown marring his face. Korine tensed as the passenger door opened, and Marilyn Ellis, clad in a pristine gray pantsuit, vaulted from the vehicle. A cameraman followed, his microphone ready, as he raced to keep up with Marilyn.
She was sharp as a tack, and a shark when she wanted a story.
“Special Agents Davenport and McGee, you have a third murder here?” she called.
How had she heard so quickly?
Hatcher held out a warning hand to stop her from ducking under the crime scene tape. “Stay back and do not photograph the victim.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and motioned for the cameraman to focus on the car. “Is this murder connected to Judge Wadsworth’s death and the murder of escaped prisoner Pallo Whiting?”
Korine went still, her pulse hammering.
“Where did you get that idea?” Hatcher asked, his expression neutral.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Marilyn pressed. “It’s also true that you suspect a vigilante killer committed both crimes. One who has now murdered three men. One who’s cleaning up after the cops when they fail to do their jobs.”
Irritation crawled through Korine. “We can’t comment on an active investigation and you know it.”
“You can’t run that either,” Hatcher said in a cold voice.
The woman didn’t give up easily. “The public deserves to know the truth. And if there is a vigilante killer, a serial vigilante killer, they should be warned.”
Maybe they did deserve to know. But flashing that story all over the media would create panic and possibly cause the killer to bolt.
Korine didn’t want any more murders. But if the unsub decided to lie low or move to another area, they might lose their chance at catching him and putting him away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Louie Hortman had deserved to die. No one would be crying at his funeral. Even his wife had gotten sick of his smarmy ways years ago and left.
He’d screamed like a baby when he was shot. He’d begged and pleaded for his life. Promised not to touch another girl ever again.
But he’d lied. If he’d lived, he would have gone right back to his piglike ways. Pressuring girls into sex for a passing grade.
Exposing himself to shock the innocent young virgins, then promising that he’d teach them the right way to please a man so they’d be popular.
His dick would never see another girl again. And no other female would have to look at it or touch it or be mauled by his filthy hands.
Those fucking Feds were asking too many questions, though. Getting too close.
She was the Keeper—she had to let the others know. She was doing their work. Exacting justice.
Those nosy agents had to be stopped before they exposed the truth.
Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Collateral damage.
Korine Davenport had been spoiled by her daddy. Spoiled with those damn dolls and that music box.
It was time for the truth to come out.
Korine was nothing but a two-faced liar. She deserved to die . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hatcher shoved the microphone away. “Listen to me, I don’t know where you got your information, but no one has said anything about a vigilante killer, and if you announce that, I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a criminal investigation and reporting false information.”
The reporter lifted her chin. “Those charges will never stick and you know it.”
“Maybe not, but I can keep you locked up until we solve this case.”
She glanced at Korine as if she thought she would be softer, but Korine gave her a cold look. “Let us do our jobs, and when we make an arrest, you can have the story.”
A tense minute stretched between them. “All right,” Marilyn said. “But at least tell me what you have here.”
“We can’t release the victim’s name until we contact next of kin,” Hatcher said.
“Understood,” Marilyn said. “But you are investigating Judge Wadsworth’s murder and believe it’s related to Pallo Whiting’s death.” She pushed the microphone in front of Hatcher. “What about this murder? Do you think it’s related to the other two cases you’re working?”
He did, because of that justice symbol on the man’s forehead. But he didn’t intend to share that information with this media maniac. “It’s too early to tell at this point. But, as Special Agent Davenport said, when we have information available, we’ll contact you.”
Hatcher motioned toward the crime scene tape. “Now, stay back and keep that camera off our victim.”
Hatcher strode back to the car where Drummond was searching the interior. “Find anything?”
She lifted a Baggie. “A strand of black hair. Short. Looks unnatural, but the lab will have to analyze it.”
Adrenaline surged through Hatcher. If they could get the DNA, they could hopefully find a match and identify the hair. Although if Hortman used his personal car in the driving school, the hair could belong to a student. Another question for the school. He punched Cat’s number and filled her in. “Send us info on the girls who reported Hortman for sexual harassment. Also, contact the private driving school where he worked and see if there have been any complaints about him. We need to know if he scheduled a lesson for today and if so, who it was with. Also, ask if he used his personal car to give driving lessons.”
“On it. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” Cat said. “By the way, I got a warrant to search for IP addresses of people posting on that blog. There are a couple who have interesting connections to our victims.”
“Send me the information and copy Agent Davenport, and we’ll follow up.”
Korine studied the information Cat had sent.
“This is odd,” Korine s
aid as she and Hatcher climbed in his SUV for privacy. “The first two names on the list, Liz Roberts and Laura Austin, help other women and children through their jobs. It’s hard to imagine either one of them taking a life, especially in the brutal ways we’ve seen.”
“Maybe they’ve heard enough horror stories that one of then snapped,” Hatcher suggested.
“Hmmm, I don’t know.” Although when she’d first seen Andi after the rape, she’d wanted to find the son of a bitch who’d attacked her and kill him.
But she hadn’t.
These women might not have done anything but express that same feeling, and they’d done so on a blog they thought was a safe haven.
“We know Austin worked with Lynn Green and her foster daughter, Lottie. What about Roberts?” Hatcher asked.
“Liz Roberts counseled two of the girls who claimed Hortman sexually harassed them.”
“There’s motive. How about the last two names?”
“Rachel Willis is a parole officer. No doubt she’s seen the dregs of society and probably been threatened herself. Same with Beverly Grant, the court reporter. We met her at the judge’s office that day we picked up the files.”
“She acted suspicious to me,” Hatcher said. “Like she didn’t want to talk to us.”
Korine logged on to the police and federal databases, then ran a search on each of the women’s names.
“Liz Roberts has a master’s in counseling, worked two years with children in at-risk homes through the county school system before joining the court system. She currently works as a victims’ advocate and counseled two of Hortman’s victims.”
“Domestic violence cases are frustrating,” Hatcher said. “Hard to get vics to testify. Even harder to break that cycle of abuse.”
As evidenced by the fact that Hortman’s victims had dropped the case against him.
“I’m sure she’s seen the system fail,” Korine said, as she continued to skim for information. “This is interesting. Two of her cases were in Judge Wadsworth’s court. One of them was dismissed when the judge badgered the victim. The victim ran from the courtroom in tears. Committed suicide the next day.”
“Holy shit,” Hatcher said.
“Laura Austin, the guardian ad litem who worked with Lynn Green and Lottie, had another troubling case. Against her advice, a child was returned to an abusive father, who left the child in a hot car a week later. The child died.”
“Reasons to be bitter,” Hatcher said.
“Not as bitter as the mother.” Korine sighed. “She shot and killed the husband the day they found the child dead. She’s sitting in prison now.” Which seemed totally unfair.
“Still, it’s hard to imagine these good women risking their careers and lives to take another.” Korine searched for information on Beverly Grant but found nothing incriminating. Still, she’d worked on numerous cases Judge Wadsworth presided over so had seen his rulings firsthand.
“What about Willis?” Hatcher asked.
“Rachel Willis’s father was falsely imprisoned for years.” Just as Banning’s son had. “Father got hooked on drugs in the pen. After finally being exonerated and released, he had trouble acclimating. Without an education, he couldn’t get a job. Died of an overdose.”
“So we have four women who’ve seen justice fail, but none have any kind of record or history of violence?”
“Not that I’ve found.” Korine’s phone buzzed. Cat.
She quickly connected. “Someone just posted a cryptic message on that Heart & Soul blog.”
“What did it say?”
“To meet in the KR?”
“What is that?”
Cat sighed. “I followed the link to a private message board called the Keepers.”
“Jesus,” Korine muttered. “The Keepers—Keepers of Justice?”
“Exactly. I’m forwarding the link to the page to you.”
“Did you trace those four women from Tinsley’s blog to this group?” Korine asked.
“I’m working on it, but it’s complicated. For anonymity and privacy, people use fake names and identities, secondary email addresses, or reroute their entries to make it difficult for them to be traced.”
She would find it, though. Cat was an expert hacker. “Keep us posted. Meanwhile I’ll look at the message board.” She ended the call and relayed the information to Hatcher.
Hatcher scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I’ll get officers to pick up those four women for questioning. And I’ll have Hortman’s family notified.”
He stepped from the car to make the calls just as the transport team from the morgue arrived.
Marilyn Ellis and her cameraman were still lurking around, hoping for the scoop. Korine frowned as the woman raced toward the ME. She’d seen the way the reporter handled the Skull case and didn’t trust her.
Dr. Patton deftly avoided her as he veered toward the transport team.
Korine clicked on the link that Cat had sent. Her eyes widened as she encountered a black door and logo with double SS, the lines blurred and smudged as if they’d been painted in blood.
She clicked on the door, and it opened, revealing the name the Keepers, also in red.
Her pulse jumped. Someone in this group might be the unsub.
Hatcher phoned the station and requested officers pick up the four women Cat had identified from the blog comments.
When he ended the call, he got back in the car, started the engine, and headed toward the Savannah Police Department. Korine had grown quiet, her expression troubled. “What are you looking at?”
She exhaled sharply. “Cat discovered a private message board where a group who call themselves the Keepers gather.” She angled the iPad for him to see, and he glanced at the web page. His heart pounded at the image of the bloody SS.
“The justice symbol is identical to the one on our victims,” Korine said.
He nodded, teeth grinding. The Keepers of Justice—no doubt a group who thought the system had failed.
“Cat is still working on analyzing the page and locating the individuals who posted. Listen to this,” Korine said.
The moment I saw her face, battered and bruised, and her eyes swollen shut, her jaw wired, burn marks on her torso from where he’d held a cigarette to her, I decided he had to die.
I knew she wouldn’t testify against him. She was too weak to stand up to him. Too terrified that he’d kill her.
Too full of self-deprecation. She thought it was her fault he hit her.
I vowed to help people. To save the women and children. The innocents.
I used to be innocent, too.
But now my heart is filled with agony from the brutal images of the victims. And my hands are covered in blood.
He used his fists to beat her. And a hunting knife to carve his name on her belly. The slash mark he drew on her neck took thirty-five stitches and almost severed her carotid artery.
She begged me to let her die when I found her.
He has to die instead.
Hatcher’s pulse clamored as his gaze met Korine’s. “If whoever posted that is planning on murder and Cat can get us an address, maybe we can stop him or her before it happens.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
An hour later, Hatcher asked the deputy to get coffee for the four women they’d brought in for questioning.
He wanted them to be comfortable and relaxed so they would talk.
And he wanted that damn news anchor’s head on a platter. She’d already blasted the story about Hortman’s death.
“I took screenshots of the conversations in the Keepers’ chat room,” Korine told him as they stood outside one of the interrogation rooms. “If they are collaborating, it means they’re organized and know enough about crime scenes not to leave evidence behind.”
The deputy returned with coffee, and Korine took a cup for herself and one for Liz Roberts inside room one. As they entered, the thirtysomething blonde looked up at them from behind the table, her sparkling blue
eyes assessing them as they approached. She was not only a professional but also a drop-dead gorgeous woman who looked so sweet she couldn’t possibly have a violent streak inside her.
“Miss Roberts,” Hatcher said. “I’m Special Agent Hatcher McGee, and this is my partner, Special Agent Korine Davenport.”
She nodded, acknowledging them.
Korine set the coffee in front of the woman, and she immediately reached for it.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Hatcher asked.
“Not exactly,” Roberts said. “Did something happen to one of my clients?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because I’m worried about one of the women I work with. She was beaten nearly to death by her ex and was released from the hospital today. Her ex made bail and threatened to come after her if she testified against him.”
Hatcher fought a reaction. “I’m sorry. I can check and verify that she’s all right if you want.”
“Thank you,” Roberts said. “I’ve phoned her several times and left messages, but she hasn’t returned my calls.”
“What’s her name?” Korine asked.
“Latoya Clinton. I can give you her phone number and address.”
They paused a second for her to write down the information, then Hatcher stepped outside and asked the deputy to check on the woman.
“You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?” Korine asked.
The counselor shrugged. “If you’d seen what this man did to her, you would be, too.”
Hatcher stepped back into the room. “The deputy is going to check on her.”
“I appreciate that.” She glanced at Korine, then folded her arms and stared at him. “All right, if this isn’t about Latoya, it must be about that driver’s ed teacher who was murdered. I’m sure you’re aware that I counseled two of the teenagers who accused him of sexual harassment.”
Hatcher raised a brow. She was direct. He liked that. “That’s true.”
“You have a difficult job,” Korine said. “Counseling victims. It must get to you sometimes.”
