by Debra Webb
“The parents have had some time to digest the news—I say we interview each family and see what they may have recalled—if anything.”
Made sense to Bobbie. The search for more remains was ongoing. No new results from the lab. What else could they do but interview those who were involved in the case?
“I thought we’d start with Deidre and Hoyt Wilson and then move on to Shelia and Wayne Cotton before talking to Mr. Cortland. We can drop by Ms. Potter’s shop on the way back to headquarters.”
“Did you talk to your parents last night?” Bobbie noticed that he’d left them out of the lineup.
He pulled away from the curb. “I did but mostly my mother cried and my father just stared at me like he wished it was me who’d been murdered instead of my sister.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way.” The accusation was more of Troy’s guilt talking. Bobbie recognized the MO. Standard operating procedure for survivors, according to her shrink.
“Maybe.”
“All the players in this case, except Bonner and Potter, still attend that same church?”
“They do. First Baptist on Bull Street.”
“You’re a member?” Bobbie didn’t really need to know. She was curious.
Church had never been high on her priority list. She hadn’t set foot inside one since before her husband and son were taken from her. Except in the line of duty. It wasn’t that she blamed God for their deaths. Mostly she had blamed Him for allowing her to live. Slowly but surely she had regained the desire to keep living, or maybe to start living again. Nick had been a major part of that milestone, too.
“I used to be a member,” Troy confessed. “I haven’t attended since I graduated high school and left for the Marines.”
“What about the Sanderses?”
Troy braked for a traffic light. “Never missed a Sunday according to their neighbors.” He glanced at her, a frown marring his brow. “You think the church is related to the case.”
“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted. Troy was still frowning at the idea when she asked, “You said Bonner’s husband was in a construction accident?”
A moment passed before he nodded. “That’s right. He fell off a roof or something. Anytime I’ve ever heard it mentioned, it was followed by the adamant statement that it was a miracle he survived.”
Bobbie did a quick mental run-through of the background info she’d read on each player. “Was it mentioned somewhere in the case file that the Cottons owned a construction business?”
Troy nodded slowly, then glanced at her again. “Give me a minute.” He tugged out his cell and made a call. “Hey, Dee, what was the name of the construction company where Mr. Bonner worked?” He listened for a half a minute. “Thanks.” He ended the call and put his phone away.
“Well?” His surprised expression had a new surge of adrenaline firing in Bobbie’s veins.
“Cotton Construction.” He braked for another intersection. “Just another of those intersections you talked about.”
“That’s right.”
All they needed was to find the right one.
Eighteen
11:30 a.m.
Edward Cortland awoke in a pool of sweat and piss.
He shuddered, then groaned as it hurt so very badly just to breathe. For a moment he tried to determine what had awakened him. A beeping or something. Didn’t matter. Why oh why had he ignored the pain so very long? If Allison hadn’t grown worried about his weight loss and then noticed how jaundiced he was, he might still be wondering what the hell was wrong with him.
He was dying. Advanced pancreatic cancer... Allison had cried so hard when the doctor explained the damning test results.
His heart hurt as he thought of his dear, sweet Allison. He should never have told her the terrible, terrible secret he had been keeping all these years. He was a selfish son of a bitch. She would still be here with him if he hadn’t been so damned selfish. All of the pain and agony they had suffered was his fault.
No matter what Bill Sanders and that insane wife of his had done, Edward knew where the true guilt lay. He had killed their precious girl as certainly as he had his beautiful wife.
The sobs rocked his frail body for a few minutes, maybe several minutes. He could no longer judge the passage of time. He’d buried Allison on Thursday, today was... Saturday.
Had it only been two days?
He wished he was dead already.
A new crescendo of pain washed over him. He groaned with the agony of it. God, how was he supposed to live like this? The pain was overwhelming. His body betrayed him a little more every hour of every day.
A nurse came in each morning to feed and dress him. She would return this evening to prepare his dinner and to bathe him and put him to bed. Between her visits, he slept. He took his pills and he slept. Friends called but he was in no condition to have visitors. The nurse reminded him that soon he would require around-the-clock care.
Soon he would die. The sooner the better.
He groaned and reached for the bottle of pain pills on the bedside table. No visitors. He’d told the nurse he would accept no visitors and that he would be staying at home until he was carried out feetfirst. He’d seen his old friends at Allison’s funeral. That would be the last time until they gazed upon his thin, lifeless body in his casket.
Funny, the others hadn’t rushed to his home and demanded why he’d told his wife what they did all those years ago. So very odd. The pain pills made his thinking fuzzy. Maybe they had. The drugs also made him forgetful. Or perhaps Allison had not told anyone. Unlike him, she may have been strong enough to take their awful secret to her grave with her.
Edward was a coward. Always had been really. He was typically the first to come up with an idea but he preferred that others execute it.
He clutched at the bottle and dragged it toward him. He shook it. Empty. A frown pulled at his face. The nurse should have checked to see that he had all that he needed within reach before she left this morning.
Summoning all the strength he possessed, Edward threw back the covers and forced his failing body into an upright position. When he’d gained his balance, he stood. One staggering step at a time he made his way into the bathroom. He fumbled through the bottles on the counter. His heart beat faster and faster. Where were his pain pills?
A wave of fierce agony washed over him and he had to brace himself against the counter.
Where the hell had that stupid bitch put his pain meds?
Holding the wall, he made his way out of the bathroom and the bedroom and into the hall. The distance to the stairs appeared so very far, but he knew it was really only twelve or fifteen yards. Slowly, he made his way there. Sweat poured down his face by the time he sat down on the first step. His body had started to shake with the pain. Long ago, as a young man, he’d volunteered at a homeless shelter. He’d seen the pitiful old men who were drug addicts. The lack of nourishment and exercise had eaten away at their bodies, leaving nothing but flabby skin and brittle bone. Every step had been a mountain to climb, each breath a shallow draw. How their fragile bodies had shaken.
The memory was like looking in the mirror at what he had become in the past few weeks. Even his penis had shriveled into nothing.
One by one he scooted down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he had to sit for a brief period before he dared to stand. Slowly he hauled himself up and started toward his destination. He hit the table in the parlor, causing the large vase atop it to crash to the floor. He didn’t care. The housekeeper would take care of the mess. He needed to get to the kitchen. There was a newly filled bottle of meds on the counter next to the sink and two more in the cabinet next to it. His personal physician, an old friend, had ensured Edward had whatever he needed. Since there was nothing else they could do for him, keeping him comfortable was the goal
. Soon he would be totally bedridden and on a morphine drip, but he refused to be stranded that way until there was no other choice.
By the time he reached the kitchen, he was sweating profusely, his vision was failing and the ability to stand without holding on to something had deserted him. He overturned a chair on the way to the sink.
Edward froze. Ironically his vision cleared. The countertops were clean. Nothing, not a bottle or glass or anything at all sat on the gleaming white marble. Had the housekeeper been here this morning? She knew better than to touch his meds.
“Fuck.”
Outrage thundered inside him. Where was his cell phone? For the love of God! Had he left it upstairs? He reached for the house phone. There was no dial tone. He hit the necessary buttons and listened again. Still no dial tone. He tossed the useless instrument across the room.
He needed his goddamned pills!
Edward tore open cabinet doors and drawers. He flung contents aside...over the counters...onto the floor...wherever, he no longer cared. No pills! Where the hell were his pills?
Maybe the nurse or the housekeeper had put them in the refrigerator. It was the only place he hadn’t searched. Stupid cunts! Holding on to a chair and sliding it along with him, he made his way there. The pain screamed inside him. He moaned.
No pills in the refrigerator.
Edward dropped to his knees.
He was so tired. The pain was too much.
His body slumped to the floor and he flopped onto his back.
He stared up at the kitchen light. Each breath was a tremendous struggle. The pain was like a thousand knives cutting him up inside.
Something blocked the light.
He blinked. Tried to make out the face staring down at him.
“What happened Edward?”
He frowned, tried to say her name, but he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. Why was she here? His mind was going around and around just like the room. He must be confused.
“Don’t worry, Edward. I have what you need. What you deserve.”
He opened his mouth, whether in an attempt to speak again or for the promise of a pill that would provide blessed relief he couldn’t say for sure.
Fingers prodded his mouth open wider. He thought he saw another face in the light. Were his housekeeper and his nurse here? Something poured into his mouth. His tongue laved at the objects. His pills! He tried to swallow, but there were too many. The pills kept spilling into his mouth.
Oh yes! More! Thank God! He just needed to swallow.
“There you go,” a singsong voice resonated around him.
Edward tried to swallow...to close his mouth, but it was too full.
Fingers shoved the pills deeper into his throat. He gagged.
Can’t breathe...
As he choked and gagged and sputtered, a face lowered next to his. “Don’t worry, Edward, the others will be joining you soon.”
Nineteen
Myrtlewood Drive
12:00 p.m.
Troy parked on the cobblestone drive and turned to Bobbie. “I’m really sorry about what happened back there.” He shook his head. “Wondering where their boy was all these years is hard enough, but to reach this stage in your life and then discover what that bastard did to him—it’s hard. Really hard. The Wilsons are usually nice people.”
“I didn’t take their refusal to talk with me in the room personally. I’m an outsider. This is a painful time. I completely understand.”
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson had flatly refused to talk to Troy unless Bobbie waited outside on the porch. She’d spent the time researching Cotton Construction on Google. Savannah was a fairly large city but not so large that folks didn’t know one another. Like most cities the residents were divided into cliques by neighborhoods and churches. The parents of the missing children as well as the Sanderses knew each other beyond the tragedy they shared. In the South the connection of church was a strong one. For now Bobbie was more interested in the connection between the Cottons and the Bonners and that long-ago accident. It might be nothing, but she had learned from Nick not to overlook the smallest detail. The Foster girl’s murder and the Bonner family’s connection to that horrific event as well as to Weller was significant somehow.
“Besides—” Bobbie glanced at the man behind the wheel “—I didn’t really miss anything.”
What she was missing was Bauer’s funeral. Bobbie stared at the digital display of the time. The service had just started and she wasn’t there. Forgive me. I will make this right.
“I’m hoping they’ll change their minds when the shock wears off a little.”
“Maybe,” Bobbie allowed. She exiled thoughts of what was happening in Montgomery this afternoon. Here. Now. She could help stop more of the same travesty. Going back to Montgomery for the funeral hadn’t been an option.
Ultimately the Wilsons had insisted they were far too upset to discuss the horror they had suffered all those years ago. They’d politely instructed Troy to speak to their attorney. He would answer any questions the police or the FBI had.
Bobbie had seen folks shut down like that before. It was a defense mechanism. If they refused to answer the questions, they could pretend for a little while that whatever was happening wasn’t. If push came to shove, they would come around.
Like the Wilson home, the Cotton residence was a mansion of eight or so thousand square feet judging by the looks of it. While the Wilson home sat smack in the middle of downtown Savannah’s historic district, the Cotton home stood on a large lot facing the golf course and the water well outside the hustle and bustle of downtown. If the grand estate was any indicator of how well what was now called Cotton Brothers Construction had weathered over the years, the company had done well.
“Wayne Cotton retired about five years ago,” Troy explained, “but he still owns the company. His younger brother runs the day-to-day operations.”
“Fair warning, Lieutenant,” Bobbie said, “I’d like to know as much as possible about the time frame Bonner worked for the company.”
“I’ve been thinking about that and you’re right. The connection between the Fosters, the Bonners and this case is an overlooked lead that should have been explored thirty-two years ago.” He reached for the door. “I can only hope it was and that Rhodes failed to write up a report about it.”
As if he’d read Bobbie’s thoughts on the matter, he added, “A lot of his legwork and interviews seem to have been left out of the case files.”
“Maybe he felt what he was leaving out was more hurtful than relevant to the overall investigation.”
Troy hesitated as understanding dawned in his expression. “The same way I did when I removed the interviews with my family.”
“You’re human, your father is human, so was Detective Rhodes. All the players were closely acquainted,” she reminded him. “Back in the day it was a pretty common practice to ignore the technicalities of paperwork when it came to friends.”
“Excellent point, Detective.”
Bobbie climbed out of the SUV. “What about Detective Rhodes? Did he attend the same church?”
Troy met her in front of the vehicle. “You know, I think he did.”
“That closeness impacted the investigation.” Not in a good way. No need to say that part out loud. Troy was no fool.
As they walked toward the front entrance of the Cotton home, Bobbie realized she hadn’t properly thanked Troy for having her back that morning. “I appreciate your saying what you did to Kessler.”
“We’re cops.” He pressed the doorbell. “We have to stick together, especially with the feds.”
Not to mention the two of them shared the sort of pain few understood.
“Apparently she isn’t ready to let it go.” Kessler had gone to Metro’s chief.
&nbs
p; “Don’t worry.” He gave her a wink. “I know how to handle bullies like Kessler.”
Bobbie hoped he realized exactly what he was promising. Kessler wasn’t the only fed they had to worry about. Pitts, LeDoux’s superior, was apparently involved. She had expected that BAU would help with the search for Weller. What she hadn’t expected was to be one of their persons of interest. The worst part was the way they appeared intent on railroading Nick.
The door opened and Wayne Cotton stared at them. Bobbie didn’t need an introduction. The man had the same bright green eyes she’d seen in the photograph of his son. His dark hair had grayed but there was no mistaking the eyes or the chin. This was Braden Cotton’s father.
“Afternoon, Mr. Cotton,” Troy said. “Sergeant Lawrence should have called to let you know we were coming.”
Bobbie had met most of Troy’s unit. Freda Lawrence was about the same age as Bobbie. Divorced and attractive. She wore her adoration for Troy like a neon sign. Maybe the two had a thing like the chief and Owens back home.
“She did. Come in, Troy.” Cotton considered Bobbie a moment. “So this is the detective who came all the way from Montgomery, Alabama, that we’ve been hearing about.”
“Yes, sir. This is Detective Bobbie Gentry.”
Bobbie extended her hand. “I appreciate your taking the time to speak with us, sir. This is a difficult time.”
Cotton accepted her hand and gave it a quick, firm shake. “We appreciate any and all efforts to find justice for the children.” He closed the door behind them. “Unfortunately my wife won’t be able to join us.” He began moving away from the door. “A migraine hit her this morning and she’ll be down for the day.” He shook his head. “Poor thing. She’s suffered with those hideous headaches all her life.”
While Cotton led the way deeper into the home and Troy chatted amiably with him about the opening dates for deer hunting season, Bobbie scrutinized the place. The decorator had used a light hand. The discreet taupe on the walls was interrupted only by the occasional understated piece of art. An elegant table with a lovely vase was expertly stationed beneath a chandelier. Fine, thick rugs graced the rich hardwood floors. The furnishings in the great room they entered were equally elegant yet that lived-in look was evident. The leather was worn comfortable. Well-washed throws and soft pillows adorned the sofa and chairs. The mansion was grand but it was undeniably a home.
