How many times were you one of them? How often would you have done anything for a story? How many bereaved people did you interview looking for that little gem in their personal catastrophe, that unique angle that would push you onto page one.
Her stomach heaved and she thought she might be sick. If there was any way that Simone could have survived…if the Grave Robber had just once shown some mercy…but she knew better. The tape proved it all.
She stared through the watery drizzle on the windshield as Metzger and the others craned their necks for a better view and shoulder cameras were elevated in hopes of a glimpse of the Grave Robber’s work. Overhead, the sound of a helicopter’s blades indicated that a television station was going airborne for a panoramic shot of the graveyard with a zoom lens focusing on the police sifting through the evidence, exhuming the coffin, perhaps opening it. Grief and guilt tore at her soul.
Her stomach roiled again and she flung open the door and threw up on the bent grass. She didn’t care if anyone saw her. Didn’t even notice the tears streaming down her face as she coughed and wiped her mouth. She was too focused on what she had to do. She couldn’t just let the bastard get away with this. Couldn’t let him terrorize the city and kill again. The damned Grave Robber was communicating with her. Using her. It was time to turn the tables.
She had to find the son of a bitch and nail his sick hide to the wall. No matter what it took.
They had to wait until all the evidence had been collected around the grave site before they could remove the coffin. Shoe prints were measured, photographed and cast, the surrounding grounds searched and the dirt sifted for anything that might lead to the Grave Robber’s identity. Savannah police officers worked side by side with the FBI. Along with an agent named Haskins, a skeletal-looking man with a freckled pate and hooked nose, Morrisette directed the investigation, Cliff Siebert in close attendance, his expression dark and unreadable. At the sight of Reed he visibly tensed.
Reed stood nearby in the hastily constructed tent, knowing with a steadfast certainty who shared the grave of Tyrell Demonico Brown, one more juror in the Chevalier trial.
Tyrell Brown, Morrisette had already informed him, had died barely a month earlier. Single car accident on the interstate. A blown tire coupled with a high alcohol content in his bloodstream and lack of a seat belt had combined to send the thirty-seven-year-old father of two to this grave.
“I assume you’re videotaping everyone who shows up here,” he said to Morrisette.
She shot him a look that told him he should know better. “Yeah. And we’ll compare it to the other tapes we’ve got of the other crime scenes to see if we have any special guests.”
“Good. And you’ve checked out Sean Hawke and Corey Sellwood.”
“Still working on those, but yeah, we’re looking into them.” Her lips tightened over her teeth as she added, “Even though we know Chevalier is our man.”
“Right.” Reed couldn’t disagree. Chevalier was the glue that held this case together. And it made sense that Chevalier would be contacting him because he helped with the collar. The senior detective, Clive Bateman, was already dead, alcoholism having sent him to an early grave at fifty-eight.
Reed remembered the case all too clearly and the incidents leading up to Carol’s brutal slaying. How many times, before he’d been assigned to Homicide, had Reed or some other detective been called out to the Chevalier home, a small, run-down cottage with an overgrown yard and a dog tied to a tree? How many times had he seen Carol or her children battered? How many times had she refused to press charges? He remembered vividly one incident as he had stood on the porch of that little house.
Flies and mosquitoes had buzzed around his head, the dog had barked and Carol’s three children had been hanging out. Marlin, the eldest boy, had been working on a dilapidated old Dodge that had been rusting in the driveway. His hair had fallen over his eyes and he’d studied Reed suspiciously and wiped his hands on an oily rag. The younger boy, Joey, had been at his brother’s side, peering beneath the hood at an engine that, Reed had guessed, hadn’t started in a long, long while. Joey, too, had turned his eyes on Reed as the detective had urged their bruised mother to press charges.
Carol’s daughter Becky had been insolently smoking a cigarette on the porch and swatting at the flies. “She won’t do it,” Becky had interrupted, tossing her streaked hair off her shoulders.
“Hush. This isn’t your business.” One of Carol’s eyes had been swollen and bruised, the white part bloody and red. Her nose hadn’t been broken that time, nor her jaw, but she’d still looked like hell.
“Not my business?” Becky repeated, smoke filtering out of her nostrils. “I suppose it’s not my business when that fat old turd—”
“Stop it!” Carol had turned back to Reed. “Please leave, Detective. You’re just upsetting my family.”
“I’m not what’s upsetting them.” Reed’s gut had churned. He was certain the whole damned family was suffering under Chevalier’s quick temper and he
avy fists.
“Get the hell out.” Marlin had strode to the porch and placed himself squarely between his mother and Reed. “She don’t want any help from the police.”
“But he’s right,” Joey had said. He was thin and gawky and had crept up the porch steps behind his brother. His eyes were round with worry. “The detective’s right.”
“Ms. Legittel, for the sake of your children and your own safety, please don’t back down now.”
“Just leave, Detective Reed. This is family business.”
“Dad wouldn’t do this to you!” Joey said stubbornly. “He wouldn’t make us—”
“You don’t know what your father would do,” Carol burst out. “He’s a psycho.”
“But he wouldn’t—”
“Shut up, Joseph! You don’t know your father. Not the way I do.”
“I want to go live with him.”