by Jordan Dane
“Did Evangeline have any history of mental disorders? Was she on medication for depression or anti-psychotics?”
“Uh, yes, I think.” Sinead flipped through her notes until she found something. “At one point, she’d been diagnosed as bipolar. She was on meds after she moved to Kansas City, but after she went dark, I don’t show any other prescriptions. She either stopped taking them or found another way to get her hands on them under another name.”
“Not likely. Those scripts are given under a doctor’s care.”
Women suffering from bipolar disorder were more prone to have four or more episodes in a year. Doctors called it ‘rapid cycling.’ Women could have a mix of symptoms, from mania to depression during those episodes.
Evangeline could have suffered from PTSD after being married to an abusive Whitaker. After that, she lost a husband suddenly and relocated her family when she didn’t find what she was looking for, or didn’t feel safe.
Bram had been the oldest. It was hard to fathom what he’d endured with a potentially unstable mother on the run and isolated.
“Was she drug or alcohol dependent?”
“Not from what I found, but if she sought treatment, it would mean she’d have to seek help from strangers. That would’ve been hard for her.”
“Impossible.”
When I thought of other ways she’d be forced to reach out to strangers, I had more work for Sinead.
“Two things I need you to check into. It won’t be easy. I don’t have a warrant.”
“Since when has that ever stopped me?”
I smiled and wisely had nothing to say.
“I need you to follow the money. She may not have had bank accounts, but she earned enough to keep those kids fed and a roof over their heads. You might have to dig into her taxes.”
“Okay. That’s one. What’s the other thing you need?”
“She had a gun. It’s in evidence. Work with Detective Hanover, but I want to know how she got it. Did she have a legal permit in her name or did she acquire it another way?”
“Yeah, I’m on it.”
What made Evangeline want a gun? Did she fear someone in her slim circle or had she planned exactly what happened, according to the police?
I couldn’t imagine what it had been like for her. She had three young children to protect from a potentially abusive husband with a loathsome criminal record—convicted of a heinous crime against children. She ran and probably didn’t trust her judgment when it came to men. When Anton entered her life, she might’ve felt a sense of relief that she wouldn’t be alone. Losing him could’ve devastated her again.
If that weren’t enough, she battled a disease that attacked her from within, the ultimate betrayal. On the run, she must’ve felt isolated and alone. Paranoia can make things worse. That could’ve pushed her over the edge, but enough to hurt her own kids?
Although I had a soft spot in my heart for mothers, I couldn’t let that bias me.
Had Bram blocked out the sexual abuse from his biological father? Or had he been too young to remember? If Bram had buried more than memories of the night his family had been slaughtered, what would a protective older brother have to face if I recreated the murder of his little brother and sister?
“Evangeline had been careful to break off all ties with Max Whitaker, Ryker.” Sinead sighed. “I’m sure that’s why Bram went into foster care. Even if Children’s Protective Services had known about Whitaker, the authorities would never have allowed Bram to be claimed by a convicted pedophile.”
“We’re still missing pieces, but this is starting to make sense. Good job, Sinead. Thank you.”
“I’ll keep digging. I’ll call when I have more answers for you. Take care.”
“You, too.”
After I ended the call with Sinead, something struck me. For the first time in my life, I longed to reach out and summon the dead, instead of waiting for them to find me. If I could stand before Evangeline Cross, would I feel her guilt or innocence?
Bram had mustered the courage to face his past. He’d grown tired of hurting and he trusted Jax Malloy. Hell, he had faith in me, a virtual stranger, but I had my doubts over what would happen if I encouraged him to cross a dangerous line—one where there’d be no going back.
I feared for Bram.
Chapter 7
Dallas Police Department
North Central Division
Afternoon
Ryker Townsend
Max Whitaker’s last known address had been in New Orleans near the French Quarter. After he’d been released from prison, he moved back.
I wondered what had drawn Evangeline to him before he got arrested by police. Whitaker only had to appear normal until he gained her trust enough to marry her. When she became pregnant with his children, did a switch flip in his mind, to take him from father to predator? I hoped not, for Bram’s sake, but I had to be prepared if the kid had dark memories beyond the murders.
Sinead dug through public records and hacked DMV to find Whitaker moved from New Orleans to Dallas two months before the murders and he stayed—only a few blocks from where the killings happened. Given all Evangeline’s precautions and her frequent moves, I wondered if she knew the wolf had come to her door.
At four years old, Bram had been too young to remember Whitaker at the time of his arrest. With Bram grown up and years later, would he have even recognized his father on the street? That thought sickened me.
Normally I resisted the urge to demonize the serial offenders I hunted by calling them names or being repulsed by them. I couldn’t afford to give in to the impulse, because I had to get into their heads and keep an open mind to understand them, but imagining Max Whitaker sidling up to a single woman to get her pregnant and assault his own children in secret, turned my stomach.
Since Whitaker hadn’t been registered as a sex offender, then or now, DPD didn’t have him on their radar and had no idea he had any connection to Evangeline Cross until the hit they got on familial DNA from his arrest record. Police never even had him as a ‘person of interest.’
First thing that morning, Detective Hanover issued a BOLO alert on Whitaker and took a special interest in locating him. Beyond questioning him on Evangeline, Whitaker would have to explain why he hadn’t registered as a sex offender, a federal crime.
For that he would face fines and up to ten years in prison, but if he had committed a felony with the murders of Evangeline and her children, he faced up to thirty years under the Sex Offender Registration and Notification Act alone.
Hanover would have a good case for incarcerating him again, but the detective had a bargaining chip to negotiate a full confession from Whitaker. The man might consider taking a plea deal to get years off his sentence for his failure to register as a sex offender. Either way, Whitaker could end up in prison for the rest of his life.
Dallas police had the man in custody by late afternoon. I watched him from a darkened room with a two-way mirror between us as I sized him up.
Max Whitaker made Nick Nolte’s mug shot look good. Age lines creased his oily, sallow skin and his eye sockets were dark hollows, stripping him of any humanity. His long straggly hair had streaks of gray. Greasy strands defied gravity. The man needed a shower.
He wore stained trousers and a T-shirt with holes at the sleeve and at his armpits. Black oil under his fingernails gave away his work as a car mechanic and gas station clerk, when he was employed.
Sinead had found earlier photos of the man, when he looked healthier. At one point in his life, he cleaned up well and passed for handsome, but not today.
Bram looked like his mother.
“The guy makes decomp on a floater smell good. Be thankful you won’t be in there.” Detective Sam Hanover had slipped into the observation room and stood next to me, watching Whitaker. “It’s gonna be a long afternoon.”
I glanced at the detective as he stared at Whitaker through the glass. Could Hanover be objective with his brother’s case?
I didn’t know the man well enough to have a definitive answer, but I’d spent sufficient time to have my doubts.
“You think Evangeline killed her kids and took her own life. Can you be impartial when it comes to the role Whitaker might’ve played?”
“I know how to do my job, Townsend, but if you want a piece of this guy, I can be the big man and let you into the interrogation. No worries. Come on.”
As I followed Hanover out of the observation room and headed into interrogation, I thought of Jax Malloy and Bram.
I hadn’t told Jax about Max Whitaker. I wanted him to ease Bram into his new life without fearing what would come. Jax, Skye, and Bram had enough to worry about. If the Whitaker interrogation yielded answers, I wouldn’t have to force Bram to relive the horror of that night. Therapy might be a better option, but so much hinged on Max Whitaker and what he would say.
If Evangeline had indeed killed her children, for her own reasons, I needed to know that before I put Bram through hell.
Detective Hanover initiated the interrogation of Whitaker. An hour later, he hadn’t made much headway except to rile the man whenever he’d push him to make a mistake. I took my jabs, but Hanover had control.
“I didn’t kill Evangeline and my kids. I would never do that.”
“Most people wouldn’t sexually assault a child, either.” Detective Hanover glared at him. “Yet here you are. You’re a piece of crap and baby batter doesn’t make you a real daddy.”
“I’ve got a sickness, but being a father is different,” Whitaker spat. “Evangeline took those kids from me. They were my children, too. I fathered them. I had rights and that bitch and the damned courts stole them from me.”
“You think being a sperm donor gives you rights?” Hanover raised his voice. “You’re a pervert.”
The detective recognized his temper flare and glanced at me. He clenched his jaw with his chest heaving. He’d hit the red zone. I couldn’t blame the man for having a weakness where kids were concerned.
“I need to hit the head,” Hanover said to me. “You take it from here. I’ll be back.”
A head-on confrontation hadn’t worked. After what Sinead had learned from the background checks of Evangeline and Whitaker, I decided on a different tactic.
“You moved to within a few blocks of her house in Dallas. Did she know that?”
“How would I know? I’m not a mind reader.”
“So, you didn’t confront her? You were right there. Surely you didn’t move to Dallas to sit on the sidelines and watch. She took your kids. You had a plan, didn’t you?”
Whitaker slouched back in his chair and refused to look me in the eye.
“She’d never let me near those kids if I had. I kept watch over them. That’s it.” His eyes watered. “After what happened, I wish I’d done more. I didn’t think she had it in her, but Evangeline had her dark moods. A real head case.”
“So you’re saying you never confronted her, you never went inside her house…”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” he screamed, but I kept talking.
“…because you were afraid she’d move again, is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, exactly. Are you hard of hearing?” Whitaker raked fingers through his hair. “I kept my distance, just to see those children, but I never stepped foot in her house. How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
“Then explain how your DNA ended up inside Evangeline’s house, a place you said you’ve never stepped foot in.”
The man stared at me as if I’d slapped him. His chest heaved and his hands fidgeted, unable to settle. He’d been caught in a lie and as his mind reeled, I pushed him harder.
“You were there that night.”
Whitaker shook his head and repeated, “No. No, I wasn’t. No.”
“You confronted her. She took your kids. You served prison time because of her.”
“No. You’ve got this all wrong.”
“Then how do you explain the presence of your DNA inside the house?”
“You’re trying to frame me. Evangeline always liked men. That could be anybody’s jizz on her bed.”
“I only said we found your DNA. I didn’t say where we found it or that it was semen.” I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table between us. “Let’s start with something easy. How did your sperm end up on her bed? Was she even home at the time?”
Whitaker’s face flushed, realizing what I’d insinuated. He gritted his teeth and kept his silence until I thought he wouldn’t respond.
“Okay, okay. I know this was a stupid thing to do, but I snuck into her house when she wasn’t there and looked around,” he said. “I got mad and stole a little money she had stashed.”
“And?”
“Okay.” He grimaced. “I put my mark on her bed, but that doesn’t mean I killed her or my kids.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you think. I did not kill my children, or my damned ex-wife.” Tears trailed down his cheeks.
I didn’t respect Max Whitaker. His conviction made it impossible for me to be objective, but in that moment when I stared into his eyes, I believed him.
“Did Evangeline ever own a gun while you were together? Did she know how to use one?”
“Not with me.” He shook his head and sank deeper into his misery.
I wanted to shake him up one more time.
“You never registered as a sex offender when you moved to Dallas.” I took a sip of water from my bottle and watched his reaction. He sank deeper into his chair. “You’re still not registered. That’s a federal crime. We’ve already got you for ten more years in prison. You won’t be leaving here a free man.”
I let that bad news settle into his head, before I piled on.
“But with your DNA in the house of that heinous slaughter of a young family, your failure to register jumps from ten to thirty years. That’s not even counting what you’d face for the murders. You’re done.”
“No. This can’t be happening. I didn’t do it. I swear.”
“If you make a full confession, you could negotiate a deal on the failure-to-register violation. You could knock off some serious time.”
Given the heinous nature of the crime, if Whitaker’s case went to court, he wouldn’t see the light of day ever again, but I was curious what he’d do if he thought he could cut a deal. Would he confess?
The man sobbed and broke down.
“I didn’t do it, I swear,” he cried. “Yes, I broke into her house and jerked off in her bedroom, but I didn’t kill my ex-wife and kids. You gotta believe me.”
Whitaker had stuck to his story, even when he knew police had his DNA at the murder scene and he could negotiate years off, he didn’t waver. When Hanover came back into the interrogation, I stepped out to watch from the observation room next door.
The man never confessed. He’d explained the presence of his DNA and the police had no other evidence that placed him at the murder scene the night Evangeline and her children were killed. Without any other new leads, all I had left was Bram and his memory as a traumatized twelve-year-old boy. If the kid still wanted answers and pushed for them, I had no choice.
Bram Cross would have to relive his worst nightmare and I’d be the one responsible for how it turned out.
Chapter 8
Malloy ranch
Next morning
Ryker Townsend
I made the drive to the Malloy ranch for breakfast. The miles of rolling graze land, cattle, and barbed wire fences gave me time to think. It would be the first time I would see Bram since our strained meeting in the interrogation room in D.C.—a traumatic experience for a seventeen-year-old kid, accused of a murder he didn’t commit.
Since Bram left D.C., things were looking up for him. Although he still would be plagued by fugue triggers and emotional upheaval, he had Jax and Skye to guide him. They’d given him a stable place to call home, something he hadn’t known even with hi
s mother. As much as I believed he would thrive in a healthy living environment, I worried more that I could screw things up for him.
I had to be sure Bram understood the risks.
I drove onto the property and pulled up to a welcoming home. Before I killed the engine of my Jaguar, Skye and Jax were already on their porch and coming to meet me. I got out of the vehicle with a smile.
“You weren’t kidding,” I said. “This really is Green Acres.”
“We even have a pig named Arnold Ziffel.” Skye grinned and hugged me. “Glad you could make it. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Definitely.”
Jax punched my arm and said, “She’s pulled out all the stops for you, city boy. Welcome.”
Their black lab, Rodeo, greeted me with a wagging tail.
“Hey there, boy.” I bent over and stroked his head. “You’re one lucky dog.”
When I stepped into the homey ranch house, every room beckoned me. The home had an undeniable woman’s touch, a warm and welcoming place with a good mix of Jax and Skye’s family memories and keepsakes.
Best of all, the air smelled of baking. It made my stomach grind and kick into high gear.
“What’s that aroma? It’s amazing.” I filled my lungs and shut my eyes to take it in.
“Skye runs her catering company from our kitchen,” Jax said. “She’s made a mountain of cupcakes, just for you and Bram. You can take some back with you to the hotel.”
“Great. I’m famished.”
Skye hooked her arm in mine and pulled me into the kitchen. Bram had on an apron with ‘Real Men Don’t Use Recipes’ across the front. Skye had him frosting the cupcakes—a sight I never would’ve imagined from our first encounter.
“Hey, Mr. Townsend.”
“I see Skye’s put you to work,” I said. “Not a bad gig.”
“No, sir. It isn’t.”
Bram washed and dried his hands before he came over to shake my hand. I thought about asking him to call me Ryker, but I had a sense that Jax and Skye were instilling Bram with a Texas-sized dose of manners. I didn’t want to meddle in their game plan.
