Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  “I can see why the judge didn’t want to release him,” Hatcher said. “Did the brother help him escape?”

  “Not sure how the brother felt about Pallo,” Korine said. “It was his little girl that Pallo molested.”

  “Brother could have broken him out to get revenge,” Hatcher suggested.

  “That’s possible, although the record indicates that he didn’t visit Pallo.” Korine continued studying the file. “Looks like Pallo was targeted in prison for preying on kids.”

  “Not unusual.” Hatcher had zero sympathy for pedophiles. The bastard deserved to suffer for what he’d done to those children.

  “Why did the judge speak to the parole board?” Hatcher asked.

  “Says here that Pallo stabbed two other inmates to death. He claimed it was retribution because they raped him, but murder charges were added to his other charges. He was being transferred to Hays when he escaped.”

  Nobody wanted to go to Hays. The maximum-security facility housed the worst of the worst.

  Hatcher veered onto a country road leading to swampland. Late-afternoon shadows played across the road, the sea oats waving in the wind, the sky dark with storm clouds. Downed trees from the hurricane had been pushed to the side to clear the road, and blue tarps covered roofs that had sustained damage until insurance settlements ponied up to fund repairs.

  He barreled over the ruts in the dirt road until he reached a wooden shack that jutted up to the marsh. Senses alert, he scanned the property in search of the brother or Pallo. The last thing they needed was to walk into a trap.

  A rusted black pickup was parked beneath a tin-roofed carport to the side. Hatcher climbed out, hand on his gun, braced for Pallo or his brother to attack.

  Korine did the same, her posture alert, her eyes scanning. She’d been sharp in training at Quantico—not the first thing that had caught his eye, but impressive.

  They inched toward the house, guns drawn. Seconds ticked by, the wind whistling, gravel crunching beneath their boots as they crept to the front porch. The rotting wooden stairs creaked as Hatcher climbed them, and Korine stepped to the right to peek through the front window.

  “Dark inside, no movement,” Korine said in a low voice.

  Hatcher raised his fist and knocked, then twisted the doorknob. The door screeched open. He peered into a dark entry, then an outdated kitchen/living room. No sounds inside.

  He gestured that he’d check the hall and bedrooms, and she moved through the kitchen to the back stoop. A quick sweep through the dingy rooms, and he’d cleared the space. No sign the brother was on the premises. Or that a child lived in the house either.

  Korine’s shout echoed from the back. “Hatcher! Get out here!”

  Adrenaline shot through him, and he gripped his gun at the ready and raced to the back door. A gunshot blasted the air, and his stomach clenched.

  He pivoted, searching the yard for Pallo or his brother. Did one of them have Korine? Was he going to have to watch another woman die?

  A movement near the swamp caught his eye, and relief spilled through him when he spotted Korine. She was standing upright. No one holding a gun or a knife to her. Thank God.

  His heart pounded as he inched his way outside. A mangy-looking dog was slumped on the ground. At first he thought it was dead, but it howled and tilted its head toward him. It was alive, and blood dotted its nose.

  “Korine?” He moved slowly, eyes tracking the property, gun braced. Korine pivoted slightly. Then Hatcher spotted the reason she’d called his name.

  A man lay on the ground, naked, covered in blood. An alligator lay dead beside him.

  The gunshot. Korine had killed the gator to prevent it from sinking its teeth into the man’s carcass.

  Korine’s face paled as he drew closer. “It’s Pallo Whiting.” She stepped aside, giving him a better view.

  He halted. Pallo was naked, arms yanked above his head, tied to the tree, eyes wide in shock. Blood was everywhere.

  He’d been emasculated. Penis cut off.

  Body left for the gators to feast on as if he were nothing but roadkill.

  Hatcher quickly phoned for the ERT.

  Just like the judge, the killer had painted SS on the man’s forehead in blood.

  The scene disturbed Korine. Not because Pallo Whiting was an innocent who hadn’t deserved to die. Because his death had been violent. Sadistic.

  It was also fitting to his crimes.

  Judging from the fresh blood, she’d estimate he hadn’t been dead long. Meaning he could have killed the judge.

  So who had murdered him? His brother?

  A parent of one of his victims?

  She stooped to pet the dog and check it for injuries. It appeared fine. The blood on its nose had come from Whiting.

  She led it back to the porch, then tied it to the rail to keep it from contaminating the scene any further. Animal Control could take it to a shelter and find it a home.

  After she called Animal Control, she and Hatcher walked the property as they waited on the ERT, studying the layout of the land and looking for forensics.

  A few minutes later, it roared up in a blaze of lights and sirens. Hatcher went to greet them. It was Bellamy and Hammond again. They were keeping them busy this week.

  Korine snapped photos of the body, the rope, the way Whiting’s hands were stretched above his head, and the bruises on his face and torso. They could have come from prison, the bus crash, or his murderer. Pinpointing time of death would help. Hopefully the ERT would find forensics that would lead to the truth.

  The investigators fanned out to search the swamp, property, truck, and house.

  Hatcher approached, jaw clenched. “I’ve issued an APB for Pallo’s brother, Ernest.”

  “I can understand why he hated him,” Korine said. “But why would he have killed him on his own property and left him here for us to find? That wouldn’t be smart. It was like he was pointing the finger at himself.” She gestured toward the marsh. “Pallo’s body is only a few hundred feet from the swamp. Why didn’t he drag him out there and dump him in the water? The gators would have disposed of him, and no one would have ever found him.”

  “Maybe he figured the blood would draw the gators, and they’d finish him off.”

  “Leaving no evidence.” Korine twisted her mouth in thought. “But still, he could have disposed of him more quickly. His body might never have been found. We would have thought Pallo was still on the run.”

  Hatcher turned and surveyed the land, then walked to the edge of the swamp. “Maybe he planned to do that, but he was interrupted and decided to run.”

  Korine considered that theory. “That’s possible, I suppose. Although the judge’s killer did the same. He could have dumped the judge in the water and let the tides carry him out to sea. We might never have found him.”

  “Good point.”

  “Do you see any indication that another car was here?”

  Hatcher pointed to footprints at the edge of the swamp. “No, but the unsub could have come via boat and escaped the same way.”

  “The unsub had to be strong to subdue him, then tie him up out here. Whiting’s a big man. We know from his prison file he was a fighter.”

  “He had bruises,” Hatcher said. “The ME should be able to tell us more about the source and timing after the autopsy.”

  Korine nodded agreement. Speculation did no good. They needed evidence.

  “I’ll check with the prison warden, dig into the details of the bus crash.” The pieces were all connected in some way. And too coincidental not to be important.

  A white van bearing the logo for the local news station careened up, and Marilyn Ellis jumped out with a microphone in hand, a cameraman on her heels.

  Shit. The press would blast details they didn’t want revealed. Create panic.

  Drummond snapped a picture of the body. “No one’s gonna throw a memorial for that creep.”

  Korine tensed. Drummond was right.

>   But something about that seemed odd as well. The judge had a boatload of enemies. And so did Pallo.

  Now both were dead.

  The reporter made a beeline for Hatcher, and Korine ducked into the shadows. Hatcher could handle the barracuda, Marilyn Ellis.

  Right now Korine needed to watch. To think.

  If Pallo had killed the judge, one of the judge’s family members could have come after him as payback.

  But how would they know that Pallo had killed the judge when she and Hatcher had only learned about Pallo’s escape a couple of hours ago?

  From that crime-watch app Serena had created?

  She had to consider all the possibilities. If Pallo hadn’t killed the judge, they still had a mountain of suspects.

  The same for Pallo.

  Unless . . . the same unsub killed both men. The justice symbol on the victims’ foreheads indicated that was true.

  A chill slithered up Korine’s spine as a theory took shape in her mind.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As the crime scene investigators combed the yard and house, Hatcher phoned Wyatt and filled him in. Next, he called Cat at the bureau.

  “Pallo Whiting’s brother, Ernest, is not home. Do you have a work address or cell phone where we could trace him?”

  Computer keys clicked in the background. “No job. He was laid off from a construction gig because he was drugging. Oxy. No cell phone either.”

  Damn. “Is there another house or apartment he might go to?”

  Cat sighed. “Not that I have listed.”

  “What about his daughter and his wife?”

  “Wife divorced him and took the daughter away during his brother’s trial. She blamed her husband for what happened to the little girl. Denied him visitation or parental rights.”

  That would have been enough for motive. “Was there any evidence to support her belief that Ernest knew what the brother was doing?”

  A tense few seconds passed. He assumed she was skimming for information.

  “Ernest was called to the witness stand and testified that he had no idea.”

  “Did Judge Wadsworth rule in the custody hearing?”

  “No, he was strictly criminal trials. This was a family-court judge, Arthur Yale.”

  Hatcher scratched his head. “What did the judge base his decision on?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Hatcher scanned the property. Bellamy was taking a cast of the partial footprint by the swamp’s edge. It would help if they could find the murder weapon, but most likely the unsub had taken it with him or tossed it into the water.

  “Ernest’s wife claimed Ernest got hooked on Oxy after he hurt his back. On top of the Oxy, he drank, a bad combination,” Cat continued. “He sent her to the hospital with bruises at least twice. Judge Yale ordered Ernest to attend AA and anger management. He was supposed to review the situation in a year.”

  “My guess is Ernest didn’t follow through.”

  “There’s no record that he did,” Cat said.

  Hatcher made a low sound in his throat. “Maybe he blamed his brother for ruining his marriage and his life and decided it was payback time.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  He ended the call and went to catch up with Korine, but his mind spun with questions.

  Two vicious murders, two days apart. Two cases where no one would really mourn the dead. Two cases that might be connected.

  A feeling of foreboding engulfed him.

  The SS painted in blood on the victims’ foreheads indicated they were dealing with one unsub or . . . two, as in the case of the Skull. The symbols could be the unsub’s—or unsubs’—signature.

  Did they have a vigilante killer on their hands?

  An hour later, Hatcher parked at the Porters’ house on the outskirts of Savannah. The Porters’ daughter, Chelsea, had been molested by Pallo Whiting when she was seven. In the three years since, the couple had divorced.

  The thought of questioning this family gave Korine a bad taste in her mouth. “Apparently Chelsea has suffered from emotional problems since the molestation.”

  “No surprise there,” Hatcher muttered.

  “She’s in counseling. But the trial was hard on the family and tore the couple apart. Father moved to South Carolina. The mother, Polly, lives here with Chelsea. She’s a teacher at the local high school.”

  “Let’s find out if the father was in town,” Hatcher said.

  Together they walked up to the door on the front stoop of the duplex. Shadows fell across the weathered place, which sat on the edge of the marsh.

  A red Ford SUV was parked in the drive, and a low light burned in the front room. Korine knocked, her heart aching for the family.

  A thin woman with brown hair in a ponytail answered the door, wearing a sweatshirt and sweat pants. She barely cracked the door. “Who are you?”

  Korine and Hatcher quickly identified themselves.

  Polly exhaled sharply, then opened the door. Her expression turned wary as she looked at their identification. “This is about that awful man who hurt Chelsea, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Korine said.

  “I heard that he escaped.” She glanced past them, her gaze darting up and down the road nervously. “I’ve been scared to death he’d come here.”

  “Why would you think that?” Hatcher asked. “Have you heard from him?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “No, but we testified against him at the sentencing,” Polly said. “I told the judge I thought child molesters should get the death penalty.”

  “You wanted him dead?” Korine asked.

  “Wouldn’t you if he’d molested your child?”

  Korine couldn’t argue with that.

  A dark-haired little girl rounded the corner holding a spatula covered in pink icing. “Mommy, we need to finish!”

  Polly gave them a warning look, which Korine interpreted as a message to tread carefully in front of her daughter. Korine would do that anyway.

  She offered the child a smile. “That icing looks delicious.”

  “It is.” Chelsea swiped her finger along one edge of the spatula, then licked the frosting. “The teacher’s birthday’s tomorrow, so we’re making her a surprise.”

  “Honey. Go on back in the kitchen,” Polly said. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  Chelsea smiled and skipped back through the doorway to the kitchen.

  “She’s been through enough,” Polly said. “I didn’t want to tell her that sicko had escaped, so I kept her home from school today. She’s just recently started sleeping without nightmares.” Pain etched itself on her face. “I’m terrified that he’ll come after her. Please tell me you found him.”

  “Were you here with Polly last night and this morning?” Hatcher asked.

  “I’m always with her when she’s home, and I drive her to school so I can keep her safe. Why do you ask?” Polly cut her eyes between them. “Where is he? Is he nearby? Did someone see him in our yard?”

  The panic in the woman’s voice tore at Korine. This mother and her child had suffered enough. “No one saw him around here. But we did find him.”

  She heaved a sigh. “So he’s locked up where he belongs?”

  Korine gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry—he can’t hurt your daughter or anyone else. Pallo Whiting is dead.”

  Hatcher forced himself not to react as Polly Porter staggered backward and leaned against the wall in the foyer. The color had drained from her face.

  Korine gently touched her arm. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  It took Polly a second to respond, but when she did, relief flooded her eyes. “This probably sounds heartless to you, but I’m glad he’s dead. I testified because I didn’t want him to hurt another little girl the way he did Chelsea.”

  “No child should have to suffer,” Korine agreed softly.

  The woman gave her a grateful look, tears blurring her eyes. “It’s been awful. But now he’s dead, we’
re finally free, and I can stop looking over our shoulders.”

  Hatcher couldn’t imagine the horror of knowing your child had been abused. If it had been his little girl, he would have tracked down the bastard and made him suffer.

  Maybe a family member of one of Whiting’s victims had.

  But he didn’t think it was Polly.

  “Mrs. Porter, where’s your husband?”

  “My ex,” Polly said in a voice laced with bitterness. “He couldn’t handle Chelsea’s nightmares or mine. He left us and moved to South Carolina.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hatcher said. “Do you have a number where you can reach him?”

  She shook her head. “I could give you his cell, but he’s hard to reach. Howard’s an ER doc and in Honduras on a mission trip, giving medical care to the needy,” she said. “Ironic, but I think he tries to save others because he couldn’t save his own child.”

  Hatcher bit the inside of his cheek. Noble, but how could a man abandon his daughter when she needed him?

  “Besides, if you think Howard killed Pallo Whiting, you’re wrong,” Polly said. “He was enraged at the creep, but he’s devoted to medicine and saving lives. He’s also the most passive person I’ve ever known.”

  Hatcher remained silent. Maybe she was right. But someone had killed Pallo Whiting, someone who’d wanted him to suffer for what he’d done.

  No one had more motive than the parents of the children he abused.

  Hatcher thanked her, and he and Korine stepped outside. Dark clouds rumbled above, and lightning streaked the sky. Tree limbs swayed and bobbed in the gusty wind, raindrops pinging off the drive as they hurried to his SUV.

  “Who’s next on the list?”

  “The Green family,” Korine said. “Little girl, Lottie Forkner, was abused by Whiting a year ago. She’s a foster child. Foster mother, Lynn, works at a women’s shelter and took the child in when the birth mother died.”

  Hatcher gritted his teeth. Foster families got a bad rap. Abuse was a problem.

  He had to hold off on forming an opinion, though, until he heard what Lynn Green had to say.

  Night was setting in as they reached the Green’s home in an apartment complex not far from the Porter house.