Don't Cry (23 page)

When she didn't say anything, he added, “The other photo is of Jeremy Arden.”

“Go get the photographs. I'll have a couple of our officers take them and look through the crowd. But I can promise you that if Hart is out there, it's only because he's interested in the fact there's been another body discovered, along with a child's skeleton that could be his brother, Blake.”

“I understand,” J.D. told her. “Look, for what it's worth, I don't think Hart Roberts is our killer, but if I didn't even consider him as a possible person of interest, I wouldn't be doing my job.”

“I know,” Tam said reluctantly before turning and walking away.

 

When her doorbell rang at seven twenty that evening, the last person Audrey expected to find on her doorstep was J.D. Cass. For a split second she thought about slamming the door in his face.

“If you're here to tell me that Whitney Poole is dead, I already know.”

“I figured you did since you have an in with the CPD. Plus the fact that every reporter in the state showed up at the crime scene.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked.

“May I come in?”

Reluctantly, Audrey stepped aside so he could enter. Once he was inside, she closed the door, turned to him, and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought we should talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, I have a few things to say to you.”

“Please say them as quickly as possible and then leave.”

“You're pissed at the wrong person.”

Clenching her teeth and scrunching her face into an angry frown, she glared at him, and then after a hasty indrawn and released breath, she said, “No, I think I am, as you so eloquently put it,
pissed
at the right person.”

J.D. groaned.

She could tell that he was frustrated by her refusal to see things from his point of view. “If that's all—”

“No, by God, that's not all.”

She stepped back, afraid that he was going to grab her.

“I'd like to shake some sense into that pretty head of yours.” He growled the words.

“Don't you dare touch me.”

He huffed angrily. “I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

Sensing she was on the verge of tears, Audrey swallowed several times, hoping to control her emotions. “Will you please say whatever it is you came here to say.”

“I will be interviewing your stepbrother tomorrow. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“I see. All right, you've told me.”

“I'm also interviewing Jeremy Arden. And we're continuing our search for Corey Bennett.”

“Leaving no stone unturned.”

“That's right. Damn it, Audrey, you're a retired policeman's daughter, the niece of a CPD detective. You know that if I didn't consider every possibility, didn't question anyone who might know anything about these murders, I wouldn't be doing my job. Interviewing your stepbrother could easily eliminate him from the persons-of-interest list altogether.”

Audrey knew J.D. was right. He
was
just doing his job. But Hart was her brother and she knew he wasn't a killer. There was no way Hart could tell the TBI anything about the murders. Couldn't J.D. see that? No, of course not. J.D. didn't know Hart the way she did. To him, her stepbrother was simply a guy with emotional problems who had been in various kinds of trouble most of his life.

“I understand that you're just doing your job,” Audrey said. “What I don't understand is why you thought it necessary to come here and try to explain yourself to me.”

He didn't respond at first. He stood there and stared at her. And then he said, “Damn if I know.”

Without another word, he turned around, opened the door, and left.

Audrey released a pent-up breath and closed her eyes as they filled with tears. She hated J.D. Cass. Hated him, hated him, hated him.

No, you don't hate him. And that's why you're so upset.

J.D hadn't slept worth a damn. And it was more than concern about the seemingly unsolvable Rocking Chair Murders that had kept him awake. For the life of him, he couldn't get Audrey Sherrod off his mind, not last night and not this morning. For a smart woman, she sure as hell was acting stupid. She'd said she understood that by interviewing her stepbrother, he was just doing his job. And he understood that she loved and trusted Hart Roberts, that as his stepsister, she was extremely protective of her emotionally unbalanced sibling. Roberts was a borderline crazy who had been in and out of rehab numerous times, and since his teen years, he'd been in trouble with the law time and again. From what J.D. could find out about Roberts, the guy was a ticking time bomb who could explode at any moment.

Maybe he'd already exploded. Maybe that last screw in his mind had come loose and he was kidnapping and killing Regina Bennett look-alikes. For an unbalanced mind, it wouldn't be so far-fetched to seek a sick kind of revenge against the woman he believed had kidnapped and murdered his baby brother.

But how would Hart Roberts know where Regina had hidden the toddlers' bodies?

He wouldn't. Not unless there had been some type of communication between Regina and him. And there was no evidence whatsoever that the two had ever met or communicated in any way.

Unless Hart Roberts was the mysterious Corey Bennett.

But that was unlikely, wasn't it?

After spending the better part of the morning doing some reinterviewing in the field, he was finally on his way back to the office. First thing this morning, he had talked to Ms. Milsaps and several other Moccasin Bend employees. Then he had gone from the mental hospital to the Chattanooga Funeral Home's East Chapel and spoken again to Mr. Scudder, the funeral director. His last stop had been at Callie's Café, where he had spoken to the manager again. He had shown all of them photos of both Hart Roberts and Jeremy Arden.

“I recognize Mr. Arden,” Ms. Milsaps had said. “But not the other man.”

“You've never seen him?” J.D. had pointed directly to Hart's photo.

“No, I don't think so. But…Well, Mr. Arden and this man are very similar in looks, don't you think? And Corey Bennett, as best I can recall, is also fair, blond and has a similar look.”

“I thought you said Corey Bennett had brown hair.”

“Light brown, I believe I said. You know, the kind of hair that's a shade between blond and light brown. Just like Mr. Arden and this other man.”

J.D. had studied the photos. The resemblance between Jeremy Arden and Hart Roberts was entirely superficial. Blue eyes, brownish blond hair, medium height and build. Both of them were the pretty-boy type. He could see where the two men could easily be mistaken for each other if seen only from a distance or if someone was trying to recall their face from a past meeting.

A couple of the Moccasin Bend employees recognized Jeremy Arden's photo and vaguely remembered he had visited a patient there. But no one recognized Hart Roberts.

Mr. Scudder had taken his time looking at the photos, then shaken his head and said, “I don't think either of these men is Corey Bennett, although they do fit the description I gave you, don't they. And I suppose if you added glasses and a mustache…”

“Do you remember anything else about Corey Bennett, anything at all, even something you'd consider completely insignificant?”

Mr. Scudder had thought quite seriously for several minutes. “No, nothing. Well, maybe. I did think it odd that a man wearing an expensive suit and sporting an obvious professional manicure would be in need of a haircut.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“His hair was rather shaggy and hung down over his collar. Come to think of it, at the time, I wondered if perhaps he was bald or balding and was wearing a wig.”

One by one the pieces fell into place. Shaggy hair that could have been a wig. A mustache. And eyeglasses. The three items combined suggested a disguise, a disguise that would hide the man's true identity.

But the expensive suit and the professional manicure revealed a man who could afford both. Neither Jeremy Arden nor Hart Roberts had any money to speak of. Roberts didn't even have a job.

J.D.'s phone rang. He checked caller ID and groaned. It was Cara Oliver again. The woman had called a dozen times since Saturday night. She'd left a voice-mail message each time. If he didn't answer her calls or return them, maybe she'd take the hint that he was not interested in her.

Ignoring the call, he checked the time on the dashboard clock. Eleven twenty. He had asked the CPD to find Henry O'Neal and escort him to the TBI office for further questioning. O'Neal was probably there now, waiting on him. Running a few miles over the speed limit, J.D. headed toward McCallie Avenue.

When he arrived at the State Office Building, Suite 650, he found a uniformed officer standing watch over a seated Henry O'Neal inside J.D.'s office. Hard living and heavy boozing had aged O'Neal beyond his fifty-seven years. Apparently someone had gotten their witness some coffee because he cupped a mug between his shaky hands and barely managed to put the mug to his lips without spilling the contents.

When J.D. entered, the young officer nodded and introduced himself as Tom Bonds. O'Neal looked up through bloodshot eyes, his face a craggy mass of deep lines and heavy wrinkles.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. O'Neal,” J.D. said as he walked over and propped his hip against the edge of his desk.

“Don't know why you want to talk to me again. I told you and them other cops yesterday what I saw. I can't tell you no more today than I could then.”

“I understand. We won't keep you long, but I'd appreciate it if you'd take another look at the photographs I showed you. Only this time picture both men with longer, slightly darker hair, perhaps with a mustache and wearing glasses.”

O'Neal gulped down another hefty swig of black coffee, shook his head, and said, “I can't help you none. I told you that. I didn't see the guy's face.”

J.D. picked up a file folder from his desk, opened it, and removed duplicates of the photos of Jeremy Arden and Hart Roberts. “Take another look anyway.” He held the photos in front of O'Neal.

After looking over each picture for a few seconds, he grunted. “It could have been either of them. I don't know. It might not have been. It was dark. I didn't see his face.”

“But you're sure the driver was a man?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure.”

J.D. tossed the photos down on his desk. “What about the car?”

“It wasn't a new car. It was one of them big old cars, a Lincoln maybe.” O'Neal finished off his coffee and held up the mug. “I wouldn't mind another cup. And maybe something to go with it. A doughnut or a sandwich or—”

J.D. glanced at the uniformed officer. “Get Mr. O'Neal another cup of coffee, would you?”

With an offended look on his face, Officer Bonds took the mug from O'Neal and did as J.D had requested.

“Tell me more about the car,” J.D. said.

O'Neal shrugged. “Not much to tell. Like I said, it was probably an older-model Lincoln or Cadillac. Light color. Maybe white. And it was dirty; the tires were caked with dried mud like he'd been driving it off road.”

“You said it was an old Lincoln or Cadillac. Which was it?”

“Not sure, but I think it was a Lincoln.”

“How old? Ten years old or older?”

“Older. One of them big jobs from the eighties.”

Just as J.D. suspected, Henry O'Neal had seen a lot more than he'd realized, at least about the car if not about the driver.

“You saw the bumper sticker, but not the car tag, right?” J.D. asked.

“That's right. The sticker glowed in the dark.”

“Think real hard, Mr. O'Neal. You saw the car drive away, so why if you were bedded down behind the antique stores, didn't you see the car when it arrived?”

“I don't know.”

“Think about it.”

“I was asleep.”

“You were drunk.”

O'Neal nodded. “I—I didn't see the car or the man driving it until he drove off, but I might have heard something before then.”

“What did you hear?”

“Doors opening and closing. Car doors, I think. And I might've heard glass breaking. I'm not sure. Like you said, I was drunk. I was bedded down all snug and warm. I didn't want to be bothered. As long as nobody messed with me, it wasn't nothing to me what they was doing.”

J.D. continued questioning him while O'Neal downed a second cup of coffee, but within half an hour, J.D. knew he'd gotten all the information he was going to get. Less than he'd hoped, but more than he'd gotten yesterday.

The info he had acquired today added up, one detail at a time. Assuming that the driver of the old car Henry O'Neal had seen late Saturday night or early Sunday morning was their killer, then they knew he either owned, had access to, or had stolen an older-model vehicle, possibly a white eighties-model Lincoln. It could be a piece of old junk that he'd bought for practically nothing. Or it could be a restored classic. But just how many cars fitting that description were still on the road? Especially one with a pro-life, glow-in-the-dark bumper sticker?

The tires were caked with dried mud like he'd been driving it off road.
Off road. Out in the country? Possibly on a farm in Sale Creek?

J.D. was forming another hypothesis, one that put the killer on the farm where Regina Bennett had lived with her aunt and uncle. Was there a place on those hundred acres where he had kept Jill Scott, Debra Gregory, and Whitney Poole captive? Was there an area that the FBI had somehow missed in their thorough searches more than two decades ago, a place where Regina Bennett had hidden away the bodies of her son and five other little boys?

What were the odds that, without any real evidence to support his possibly far-fetched scenario, he could persuade a judge to issue a search warrant for the hundred acres and all the structures on the farm?

Slim to none.

J.D. picked up the phone and enlisted some help. A sketch artist could create pictures of Jeremy Arden and Hart Roberts each with long, blondish brown hair, a mustache, and glasses.

A quick check should reveal if either man or a family member owned an older-model Lincoln. Local antique car clubs might know of a car that fit the description. If the car was registered, had a tag, and was insured, they would be able to track it. And it wouldn't hurt to check out any cars that Regina Bennett or her aunt and her uncle had owned.

 

At one-thirty, Jeremy Arden and Hart Roberts arrived at the TBI office, along with their own small entourage comprising of two lawyers, Sergeant Garth Hudson, Officer Tamara Lovelady, and retired Sergeant Wayne Sherrod. Once all the introductions were made, Garth took Jeremy and his lawyer into his office and closed the door.

“This is an informal interview,” J.D. said. “Nothing more.”

“Nevertheless, my client prefers to have legal representation,” the lawyer, who had introduced himself as Edward Gates, informed J.D.

“Do you wear glasses, Mr. Arden?”

“No.”

“Contacts?”

“No?”

“Do you own a pair of glasses?”

“Sunglasses.”

“Prescription?”

“No.”

“Do you own a car, Mr. Arden?” J.D. asked.

“No. I have a motorcycle.”

“Have you ever been back to the farm where Regina Bennett kept you after she kidnapped you?”

Jeremy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No. Why would I want to go back there?”

J.D. let his gaze drift casually over Jeremy, from his blond hair to his faded jeans and worn corduroy jacket to his scuffed leather boots.

“Why did you visit Regina Bennett in Moccasin Bend several times shortly before her death?”

Jeremy's facial muscles tensed. He turned, leaned over, and whispered something to his lawyer. They talked quietly for a couple of minutes. J.D. looked at Jeremy's small, slender hands and his thin fingers. A couple of his nails were chipped, one broken into the quick, and there was what looked like grease under one thumbnail. J.D.'s guess was this guy had never had a professional manicure in his life.

“I wanted to see her, talk to her, to come face-to-face with the woman who had kidnapped me. I guess you could call it an unhealthy fascination,” Jeremy said. “Every time I went to see her, she called me Cody. She was nuts and I knew that, but…I kept remembering things. Like her singing to me. And her rocking me.”

“Just how much do you remember?”

“Not a lot. And to be honest, I'm not sure if any of the memories are real.”

“Are we about through here, Special Agent Cass?” Edward Gates asked.

“Just a few more questions.” He focused on Arden. “Did you know any of the Rocking Chair Killer's victims?”

“What?” Arden's face paled.

“Did you, for instance, know Whitney Poole?”

Arden swallowed hard, then conversed with his lawyer again before answering. “I saw her a few times when I ate at the café where she worked.”

“Did you ever talk to her? Flirt with her?”

“Yeah, a couple of times, but I didn't kidnap her and I didn't kill her. I liked her. I'd been trying to work up the courage to ask her out when she disappeared.”

“So, it's just a fluke, just a weird coincidence that you were interested in dating one of the Rocking Chair Killer's victims. You, Jeremy Arden, the one and only Baby Blue toddler who was rescued.”

Arden became visibly upset. Sweat dotted his upper lip and his breathing quickened as he stood quickly and wrung his hands together.

Arden's lawyer intervened, calmed him down, and from then until the end of the interview consulted on every answer Arden gave.

J.D. continued the questioning, keeping his voice even and his attitude friendly. Jeremy was highly agitated and a few times he got rattled again and looked like a scared rabbit caught in a hunter's snare.