The Coldest Fear. Debra Webb
sort of case. If Newt had taken a call from this department he wouldn’t have given her name as a point of contact without telling her.
Although both cities were positioned next to a river, Savannah and Montgomery had little else in common. The many manicured parks and the ornate antebellum architecture made Savannah a definite tourist destination. The city’s label as one of the most haunted places in the world didn’t hurt tourism either. Savannah had a slow, genteel feel about it, far more so than Montgomery. The politics of being a state capitol gave Montgomery a not always pleasant underlying intensity Savannah didn’t suffer. She and James had spent a few days here before Jamie was born—a babymoon, her husband had called it.
Like the receptionist said, the drive scarcely took ten minutes. The half dozen official vehicles and the crime scene tape were visible as soon as Bobbie hit the intersection before her final turn. Two news vans had been pushed back a block from the scene. As she stopped for the uniform at the perimeter, she noted a coroner’s van. Definitely a homicide. Not surprising. For a city so laid-back and steeped in history and tourism, Savannah had an inordinately higher than average violent crime rate.
Bobbie showed her badge to the officer. “Lieutenant Durham is expecting me.”
The uniform stationed at the outer perimeter nodded and pointed to the side of the road beyond the house and the more modern clinic where all the official vehicles were gathered. “Park anywhere over there.”
Bobbie rolled forward, easing off the road and onto the grass. The veterinary clinic had been built next to an older craftsman bungalow, probably historic, much like the ones back home. The typical oak trees dripping with moss surrounded it. The house appeared well maintained and the lawn was nicely manicured. The same was true of the clinic. Pumpkins sat near the doors while witches and ghosts hung from a couple of trees. A sign advertising a church trunk-or-treat was posted in the front yard of the house. She showed her badge again as she approached the inner perimeter of yellow tape that draped around the property. The uniform gave her a nod and lifted the tape.
Since the activity was focused in the grassy area slightly beyond the clinic, Bobbie bypassed the sidewalk that forked, one side going toward the clinic and the other toward the house, and followed the stepping stones around the corner of the clinic. The yard was larger than expected. Dogs yapped in the fenced-in kennels behind the clinic. Between the clinic and the woods was a small park. Wait, no. As she moved closer she recognized headstones. Not a park, a cemetery. The small cemetery could have been any one of the thousands of family cemeteries that dotted the Old South. An old-fashioned iron fence surrounded the space. More of those big old trees with low-hanging limbs shaded the slumbering residents. Bobbie surveyed the first of the small headstones she encountered. Except this cemetery was for pets. The statue of an angel partially covered in moss watched over the rows of markers. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around the iron fence, the breeze making the plastic flop back and forth against the metal.
Two guys in suits, detectives she suspected, as well as a couple of forensic techs dressed in full protective gear stood around a grouping of small statues in the center of the cemetery. Another man, this one wearing protective clothing, as well, knelt next to a broken statue. Now that Bobbie looked more closely, all the statues were damaged in some way. An arm broken off, the head missing. The statues ranged in size from three to five feet—children. The intricately detailed pigtails and wide skirt of a little girl as if she were skipping along. A perfectly formed baseball cap on a little boy with bat in hand. The sculptor certainly showed a talent for capturing the essence of children at play.
She hadn’t spotted a body but there had to be one around here somewhere. As if she’d said as much aloud, a man turned and looked at her. His cowboy boots, jeans and button-down shirt told her little, but the weapon in the shoulder holster, the shield clipped at his waist and the weary look on his face said plenty. This was Lieutenant Troy Durham. The cell phone he held at his ear was likely the reason he had turned from the activity. Maybe to hear better or maybe because he’d received a call to say Bobbie was headed his way.
He tucked the phone into his back pocket and walked toward Bobbie, meeting her a few yards from the ongoing activity. Thrusting out his hand he said, “Troy Durham. Glad you could make it, Detective Gentry.” Confusion or something along those lines furrowed his face. “I apologize for staring, but I had you figured for male and a whole lot older.”
As tired as she was, Bobbie smiled. “And I was certain you would be a little older yourself and maybe a lot shorter.” Durham was probably late thirties. Very tall, blond hair, blue eyes. The way his shirt and jeans fit, it was clear he spent a good deal of his off-duty time at the gym. His current attire made her feel loads better about her own.
He laughed, the sound as fatigued as the lines around his eyes. “I guess I had that one coming.”
“So what’s going on?” If he felt her driving all this way rather than simply calling until she reached him was odd, he kept it to himself.
He glanced back at the damaged statues. Bobbie watched as a trace sheet was spread on the grass and bones—small bones—were placed one by one onto the sheet by a forensic tech or a coroner. Near the statue with the missing head was another trace sheet with a lone human skull placed on it. A child’s skull.
A lump formed in Bobbie’s throat. What the hell happened here?
“Why don’t we go inside where we can speak in private?”
Bobbie drew her attention back to the lieutenant and followed him across the yard. The dogs in the kennels yapped even louder as they passed along the backside of the clinic. Durham led the way straight to the back porch of the house that was apparently part of the crime scene. More of that yellow tape adorned the perimeter. Durham tossed his keys to a passing officer and asked him to bring his briefcase inside. As Durham opened the door another forensic tech exited. Inside, the kitchen was clear of bodies and official personnel. No sign of foul play. No coppery smell of blood. The room was clean save for the scattering of dust used for collecting prints. Apparently, all the trouble was outside.
Durham settled his attention on her once more. “I guess I’m a little confused.”
“Because I’m a woman or because I’m younger than you expected?” Maybe there was another detective somewhere with the name Bobbie Gentry. But it was her cell phone number Durham had called.
“Have you ever consulted on a case in this jurisdiction?”
Bobbie shook her head. “Never.”
Maybe the call from Durham had been sheer coincidence. She thought of the name and address LeDoux had given her. No way. Whoever had given her name and number to Durham wanted her in Savannah as this case broke. But why? Wouldn’t be Nick. Weller? He was the most likely possibility. Could be LeDoux, but that option was doubtful. He’d already given her a reason to come to Savannah.
The officer returned with Durham’s briefcase and keys. Durham thanked him and placed his briefcase on the floor. He dug out a brown file folder. The edges were dog-eared as if the contents had been rifled through a thousand times. He spread the folder on the counter and flipped through a collection of photos—photos of children. The children ranged in age from three to five or six. Three boys, two girls. There was no particular consistency to their appearance. Dark hair, light hair, brown, blue, green eyes. With each photo Bobbie’s heart rate increased and the lump in her throat expanded.
The photos of the children were stamped with the word MISSING. She thought of the broken statues and the bones outside. Not anymore. These children were dead. Their remains were right out that door.
Damn.
A sheen of sweat rose on her skin.
“See here.” Durham pointed to a handwritten note in the file. “Detective Mike Rhodes, the detective in charge of this case back when the kids went missing, mentioned you in his notes.”
Sure enough, there was Bobbie’s name and cell phone number at the bottom of one of the detective’s reports. Her mouth dropped open when she read the date. Thirty-two years ago. Bobbie laughed. “I’m certain you don’t need