Debra Webb - A Deeper Grave

Devine had conducted face-to-face interviews with the teenagers on the short contacts list in Fern’s cell phone. According to those few, there was a long list of newly unfriended teenagers on Facebook and Instagram who should be interviewed as well. The feds had already pushed their way into the homicide investigation and were interviewing potential suspects who had been wronged by either Nigel Parker or his wife. The FBI’s involvement was understandable since the Parker fraud case had been theirs. If Fern had been abducted they would be lead on that aspect of the case. Special Agent Michael Hadden from the Montgomery field office would work as a liaison between the MPD and the agent in charge, Ronald Vincent, of the Parker case. Hadden promised to provide any names of persons of interest the MPD didn’t have in an effort to ensure all bases were covered.

Bobbie had tasked Devine as liaison with Hadden. Chief Peterson had made it clear that his detectives and the Montgomery Police Department would remain lead on the investigation until the homicide aspect of the case was solved. According to the chief, Special Agent Vincent, who’d come all the way from New York, hadn’t been too happy about it but he’d let it go quickly enough. As much as Bobbie wanted to focus solely on who had decided to use a dead serial killer’s MO, her top priority was to find Fern.

The possible motives for the murders were easy enough to deduce. Both Nigel Parker and his wife had made serious enemies. Nigel by stealing from his clients; Heather by having affairs with at least four of those married clients and arranging secret lovers for many more of her husband’s friends. Fern was the big question mark in Bobbie’s mind. If the killer was levying vengeance, what had the girl done to deserve to be taken? What was her shame? Or was she simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, ending up collateral damage? Until she was found all they had was speculation.

“Detective Gentry.”

Bobbie pushed aside the troubling thoughts and focused on the tall man dressed in a guard’s uniform who had entered the waiting room. When she’d arrived she had gone through the usual routine of signing in and then turning over her handbag, badge, weapon and all other personal items the same as any other visitor. Eventually she had been sequestered to this small private room.

“That’s me.” She stood, smoothed a hand over her jacket. She felt more than a little naked without her department issue Glock at her waist and the backup piece she kept strapped to her right ankle. She’d left her backup piece as well as the knife she carried in the trunk of her car. Leaving her Glock in the car was out of the question.

“I’m Malcolm Clinton. I apologize for your wait. The warden had to approve your visit and he was in a meeting when you first arrived,” the guard explained. “Apparently Mr. Zacharias failed to mention that you’re a detective.”

“No problem. Can I see Weller now?” Another zing of anticipation rushed through her. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from Montgomery had given her plenty of time to come up with a number of questions she wanted to ask the infamous doctor. She had every intention of requiring his cooperation if he wanted hers.

“Yes, ma’am.” Clinton gestured to the door. “This way. We have certain procedures as you likely know. The inmate will be fully restrained during your visit and there will be two guards outside the door. If at any point you feel uncomfortable or if an issue with the inmate arises, all you have to do is call out and the guards will assist you.”

Bobbie had visited her share of prisoners, mostly in county lockup. A federal prison like this one was a first for her. “I understand.”

She followed Clinton along the somber corridor, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. As much as the knowledge that Randolph Weller was a sadistic killer sickened her, she wanted to know all she could about Nick. If he was in trouble, she owed it to him to help in any way possible. He was the main reason she was still breathing. On top of saving her life, he had helped her to see a life beyond the vengeance she had wanted so badly.

Gaylon Perry, aka the Storyteller, had murdered nearly two dozen people and no one had even come close to figuring out who he was much less catching him. Nick Shade had learned more about the psychopathic serial killer than anyone else. After discovering one of the victims had survived, Nick had come to Montgomery to wait for him. Like Bobbie, he had known the Storyteller would be back for her—the one that got away. Nick was the only reason she had survived that showdown.

“Let the guards know when you’re done,” Clinton said, drawing her attention back to the present. “You’re not to touch him or pass anything to him. He’ll undergo a full cavity search after your visit.”

Bobbie had no desire to get any closer than necessary. “Does he have visitors often?” The answer didn’t really matter, she was curious about one particular visitor.

“The only visitors he has are the two agents from the FBI who show up every week or so.”

“His son doesn’t visit?”

If Clinton was surprised by her question he kept the reaction to himself. “In nearly fifteen years his son has been here only once and that was about two months ago.” The guard eyed her for a moment before unlocking the next door. “Are you working on a case that involves Dr. Weller somehow?”

Under normal circumstances visitors for a serial killer like Weller would be strictly controlled. Based on the attorney’s call Weller was evidently allowed some amount of leeway for his ongoing cooperation with the FBI. Bobbie wondered what other privileges the monster had managed to negotiate. As much as the idea sickened her, every cop understood the value of a good source.

Under the circumstances she saw no point in concealing her reason for the visit. “His attorney, Mr. Zacharias, called and asked me to come. Apparently Weller has a message for me.”

Clinton’s gaze narrowed. “You are aware that Weller is a psychopath who murdered forty-two victims, including his own wife?”

“I’m aware of his crimes,” Bobbie assured him.

“Before being incarcerated he was a highly respected psychiatrist,” the guard went on. “Let me be frank with you, Detective, you cannot trust him in any capacity.”

“Don’t worry. I learned that lesson the hard way.” Sometimes she didn’t even trust herself. Like now. Her hands shook when she had no reason to be afraid or even nervous for that matter. She squeezed them into fists.

Apparently satisfied with her answer, Clinton opened the door and waited for her to go ahead of him. As he’d said, a guard was stationed on either side of the interview room door. Bobbie thanked him and before she entered the room where Weller waited she took a breath. Once she opened the door and walked in, she didn’t hesitate.

“I’m Detective Bobbie Gentry.” She paused a few feet away from the chair on her side of the table standing in the center of the room. “You requested a meeting with me.”

Randolph Weller’s arms were manacled to the belly shackle at his waist. Beneath the table his ankles were chained together, and then to the floor. The table was long and narrow. A chair sat on either side. Four other chairs waited at the south end of the reasonably large room. There were no windows. Only the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights illuminated the space.

Bobbie didn’t wait for Weller to speak as he seemed satisfied to study her for the moment. She took the final few steps, pulled out her chair and sat down directly across from him. She had Googled Weller and read all she could find on the investigation that took place fifteen years ago after his own son turned him in. Weller’s gray hair had receded with age. Unflattering lines carved across his forehead and creased his mouth. His skin was ashen from the lack of sunlight, but it was his eyes that disturbed her the most. Deep, dull hazel that looked more gray than hazel, like the headstones in the old cemeteries back home. Those eyes hadn’t stopped analyzing her since she entered the room.