Don't Cry (13 page)

No wonder she understood Hart so well and repeatedly forgave him.

While they ate, Porter continued to talk, the conversation ranging from the warm weather in late September to his purchase of tickets for the Chattanooga Symphony on Friday night.

“It's Rimsky-Korsakov's
Scheherazade,
” Porter said as he wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

“Porter, I don't think I can make it this Friday night,” she said.

“Why can't—?”

The waitress reappeared, asked if she could remove their plates, and inquired if they wanted dessert.

“No dessert,” Porter told her. “But I'd like coffee, please. Cream. No sugar.”

“And you, ma'am?” the waitress asked.

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Porter waited until the waitress left to prepare his coffee, then asked, “Does your not being free to attend the symphony with me on Friday night have anything to do with the talk you want us to have?”

He sounded upset. She thought he might be, but knowing him as she did, she felt certain he wouldn't make a scene. Nor would he beg her not to end their going-nowhere relationship.

She reached across the table and laid her hand over his. His gaze met hers, head-on.

“You're breaking up with me, aren't you?” He drew in a deep breath and released it on a soft moan, as if he were in pain.

“Porter, I'm very fond of you. We're great friends. But…that's all we are. Friends. Anything else just won't work for us.”

“If you're referring to sex…” he said in a hushed tone, well aware that if he spoke louder, he might be overheard. “We haven't even given that a try, yet. And so far, our relationship has been quite satisfactory, or so I thought.”

“Do you love me?” she asked point-blank.

His eyes widened with surprise. “I—I'm very fond of you.”

“And I of you, but I don't love you. And if we haven't had sex by now, then I think that should tell us both something, don't you?”

“Then there is someone else, isn't there?” He jerked his hand away from hers. “Someone you want to—”

“No, Porter. I told you that there is no one else. I simply think we both deserve more from a relationship than being friends, than just being compatible. I've sensed that you want more from our relationship and I…well, I don't.”

“I can wait.”

“No, I don't want you to wait. I want you to be free to find someone else, someone who can give you what you deserve in a relationship.”

Dear God, he looked as if he was going to cry. Did she actually mean that much to him? Could she have misjudged the depth of his feelings for her?

“Porter?”

He swallowed. “I'm quite all right.”

He didn't look all right. He looked devastated.

The waitress returned with his coffee.

“I suppose we can still be friends, can't we?” he asked, his voice slightly unsteady.

“Of course, we can still be friends.”

“And since neither of us is involved with anyone else—not yet—there's no reason why you can't go to the symphony with me Friday night, is there? Just as friends, of course.” Forcing a fragile smile, he looked at her pleadingly.

She knew that a clean break would be best for both of them, but for the life of her, she couldn't say no to his request. “All right. Just as friends.”

 

The deeper he dug into the Baby Blue cases, the more intrigued J.D. became with the complicated, convoluted story the files told. He was fascinated by Regina Bennett, mesmerized by the unsolved mystery of the missing toddlers who were never found, and puzzled by several aspects of the old case. He understood that after a certain amount of time, neither the FBI nor local law enforcement had enough manpower to continue working on seemingly unsolvable cases. And he didn't doubt everything humanly possible that could have been done more than two decades ago had been done.

No stone unturned. No question unasked. No lead not followed.

So why was it that his professional instincts urged him to find out more, to dig even deeper, to do his damnedest to unearth any still-buried secrets?

His gut told him that the DNA tests would prove the tiny skeletons found with the two recent murder victims belonged to two of the Baby Blue toddlers. When the test results came in, then the old case would be reopened.

When J.D.'s cell phone rang, he answered immediately without checking caller ID.

“Don't forget to pick me up today,” Zoe told him. “We're getting pizza on the way home and you're helping me with my geometry. I have a test tomorrow.”

“I'm heading out in five minutes,” he said. “I didn't forget about the pizza or the geometry test.” He was lying, of course. He had forgotten. And he knew that Zoe knew he had.

As soon as he hung up, he gathered the documents, photos, and reports scattered on top of his desk, lifted a cardboard box from the floor, placed it in his chair, and stuffed everything into the box. After Zoe went to bed tonight, he intended to go over several files more thoroughly, especially the file on Regina Bennett. He wanted to know everything about her that the old information could reveal. Tomorrow morning at nine, he had an appointment—arranged by his superior—at Moccasin Bend Mental Health Institution, where Regina Bennett had undergone her initial evaluation and where she had spent the last twenty-three years of her life.

Wayne Sherrod hadn't seen or talked to Steve Kelly in nearly fifteen years. When he'd made a few inquiries, he had learned the guy was divorced from his third wife, worked as a bartender, and lived at the Cedar Creek Mobile Home Park off Lee Highway. Steve's son Devin had been the boy abducted the year before Blake disappeared, and Wayne had gotten to know the man when he'd shown up at Enid's funeral and introduced himself. For several years, Wayne and Steve had been drinking buddies, both men single, grief stricken, and filled with rage. They had revealed more of themselves to each other during a few drunken binges than men would normally share.

“If I could kill that bitch over and over again, I'd do it,” Steve had said when Regina Bennett had been arrested for kidnapping Jeremy Arden. “She killed my Devin and she killed your little Blake. You know she did. She killed our boys and God only knows what she did with their bodies.”

Wayne had made a few illogical, irrational comments himself, threats that, like Steve, he had never carried out. Anger and pain combined with too much liquor made a man say all sorts of crazy things.

As Wayne turned off into the Cedar Creek Mobile Home Park and drove slowly, searching for Steve's lot number, he asked himself what the hell he was doing there. It wasn't as if they had remained friends, as if he owed Steve anything. But then again, maybe he did. They'd seen each other through some pretty rough years…way back when. Maybe he owed it to Steve to tell him there was a possibility that two of the missing toddlers had been found. If the DNA tests proved the identities and the info leaked out, he'd hate for Steve to find out by reading it in the newspaper or hearing it on TV.

Maybe he had no right to reveal information that the CPD hadn't shared with the press, even if he believed Steve had a right to know. But in this case, he made the decision as a father who had lost a son and not as a former police officer.

He found Steve's trailer, an older model, but neatly painted and well maintained. After parking, he got out and walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened to reveal a tall, skinny redhead, probably around forty. She wore a pair of tight jeans and a halter top that revealed a lot of skin and several tattoos.

“Yeah?” she asked, scowling at Wayne.

“Steve around?”

“Who wants to know?” She studied Wayne as if trying to figure out if he was trustworthy.

“An old acquaintance.”

She hesitated for a minute and then said, “Steve's not here.”

“Know where I can find him?”

“Maybe.”

“Look, I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to talk to Steve.”

“Are you a cop?”

“I used to be,” he told her. “I'm retired.”

“Why do you want to talk to him?”

“It's personal.”

She glared at Wayne, sized him up, and grunted. “He's over at Callie's Café. You know where that is?”

Wayne nodded.

“He has breakfast with his brother there a couple of times a week. That's where you can probably find him this morning.”

“Thanks.”

Without another word, she slammed the door.

Wayne returned to his truck, hit Lee Highway, and backtracked, going southwest until he reached Shallowford Road where Callie's Café was located. As he got out and walked toward the entrance, he wondered if he'd recognize Steve or if Steve would recognize him. The last time they'd seen each other, they'd both been in their late forties.

After entering the café, a seat-yourself establishment, he glanced around, taking in the counter area first before scanning the booths to the right and the tables to the left. That's when he saw Steve sitting alone at a table near the front windows. He held a white coffee mug cradled in both hands. When Wayne approached the table, Steve glanced up, did a double take, and then grinned.

Steve set the mug on the table and stood. “As I live and breathe, if it's not Sergeant Wayne Sherrod.” He stuck out his hand. “My God, man, it's good to see you.”

Wayne shook his old drinking buddy's hand. Steve looked every day of his fifty-nine years, his face haggard and marred with deep lines caused more from hard living than the passing of time. His once light brown hair was now entirely gray, but he was still slim, actually almost skinny.

“Sit down. Have a cup of coffee with me.” Steve indicated the chair across from his.

“Yeah, sure,” Wayne said.

Steve snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and then ordered a refill and a fresh cup for Wayne. “Talk about a coincidence. Imagine after all these years, running into each other here.”

The waitress poured their coffee and asked Wayne if he wanted a menu. “No, thanks,” he replied. “Coffee's fine.” He looked at Steve. “Actually, it's not a coincidence. I went by your place and a…uh…lady told me where I could find you.”

Steve chuckled. “That would be Juanita. We've been shacking up for a couple of months now.” He stared at Wayne, his gaze slightly puzzled. “Why'd you look me up after all these years?”

It was on the tip of Wayne's tongue to tell him the reason and then suddenly he realized that telling Steve about the toddler skeletons wasn't the only reason he'd come looking for him. For an instant, an insane thought had crossed his mind. What if Steve was acting out his old, liquor-induced threat and was killing Regina over and over again? Only it wasn't Regina he was killing, just women who looked like her. Or looked the way she had two decades ago.

“Remember how you used to say that you'd like to kill Regina Bennett over and over again?” Wayne said, keeping his voice low.

“I said a lot of things back then. But yeah, I remember.”

“Still feel that way?”

Steve didn't respond immediately. He waited as if giving Wayne's question a lot of thought. “Yeah, I guess I do. Don't you?”

“Sometimes, maybe. When I let myself think about the past too much.”

Just how crazy are you to think that Steve might have killed Jill Scott and Debra Gregory?

Steve was no more a killer than he was. And no way would Steve have had any idea where Regina Bennett had hidden the toddlers' bodies.

Steve shrugged. “I don't see that it makes any difference one way or the other. Even if we'd both still like to punish her, we can't. That bitch is dead now. But if you ask me, she didn't suffer nearly enough for what she did.”

“Maybe we don't know how much she suffered. How do you judge the suffering of an insane person?”

“You're getting awfully philosophical on me, aren't you, old friend? What's really going on? Why did you look me up after all these years?”

“I'm sharing this information with you only because you're Devin's father, just as the police shared it with me because I'm Blake's father.” Wayne watched Steve closely as he said, “You've heard about the two Rocking Chair Murders, right?” Steve nodded. “What you don't know is that the bundle found in each woman's arms was not a doll. It was a toddler's skeleton. They're doing DNA tests on the skeletons now to see if the bodies belong to two of the Baby Blue boys.”

Steve simply stared at Wayne, his face scrunched in a disbelieving frown. Finally, he breathed deep and hard. “You think there's a chance that those bodies…those skeletons belong to Devin and Blake? Is that it?”

“It's one theory. There is a possibility that they could be two of the missing toddlers, but not necessarily Blake and Devin. Of course, the odds are that the skeletons don't belong to any of the Baby Blue victims.”

“My God! When will we know?”

“Soon,” Wayne told him. “Maybe tomorrow. Early next week at the latest.”

“But how? Why? What's the connection? If whoever killed those two women put the skeletons of a couple of Baby Blue boys in their arms, then that means the killer knows what Regina Bennett did with their bodies after she murdered them.”

“The police have no idea, nor does the TBI, about any possible connection. They just don't have enough information. Not yet.”

Steve took a hefty swig of coffee. “Do you ever wonder if there's even the slightest chance that maybe Blake isn't dead? I know I think about it sometimes. What if Devin's not dead? What if Regina didn't kill him? What if he's out there somewhere, a grown man, nearly thirty years old?”

Wayne sucked in a deep breath as pain ripped through his gut. And the pain was momentarily as fresh and agonizing as it had been twenty-five years ago when Blake had disappeared. Gradually, with each heartbeat, each passing second, the paralyzing pain subsided, leaving only an aching sadness.

Wayne finally managed to say, “Yeah, sure. I've wondered.”

“If the DNA tests prove one of the bodies belongs to Blake, that settles it once and for all,” Steve said. “No more wondering. No more hoping beyond hope that he's still alive.” Steve paused for a moment and the two men stared at each other. “Do you want it to be Blake? Do you want to know for sure?”

“I don't know,” Wayne admitted. “I honest to God don't know.”

 

J.D. had spent the past couple of hours at Moccasin Bend. He had spoken to several doctors and nurses and various attendants. He couldn't find anyone who had worked at the facility twenty-three years ago who specifically remembered anything about Regina Bennett, other than her story had been front-page news for weeks after her arrest. Regina had spent nearly a quarter of a century confined at the Mental Health Institute after being ruled criminally insane. She had confessed to killing her toddler son, Cody. A mercy killing to end his suffering. And when the FBI had rescued Jeremy Arden, Regina had insisted that the toddler was her son, that he was her little Cody. Although she had rambled almost incoherently about people stealing Cody from her and that she had been forced to find him and bring him home again and again, she had never admitted smothering anyone except Cody. And she had adamantly refused to tell anyone where she had buried her child. Five minutes alone with the woman and anyone could see she was crazy. That had been the opinion of everyone who had worked on the case.

To this day, there was nothing but circumstantial evidence that Regina had killed the other five toddlers or that she had actually kidnapped them.

J.D. had made a request to see Regina's medical records. The TBI had used their subpoena power to compel the hospital to release copies of her files. He had been assured that the copies would be ready for him in twenty-four hours.

“Would it be possible for me to find out if Ms. Bennett had any visitors and who those visitors were?” J.D. asked.

“I see no reason why not,” Ms. Milsaps, the office clerk said. “The visitor's log isn't confidential, and Dr. Lassiter has told us to cooperate fully with the TBI.”

“What about the logs that go back a couple of decades? Do y'all still have those?”

“I'm not sure, but I believe our records as far back as the mid-seventies are now on computer files. I can check for you, if you'd like.”

“Yes, please, thank you.”

Half an hour later, J.D. had completed searching the files that listed each patient's visitors. Year, month, day, and hour. During her first year of confinement, Regina had not been allowed any visitors except for her lawyer, her aunt, and FBI agent George Bonner. After a couple of years, Bonner hadn't visited again, nor had her aunt.

Keith Lawson's mother and father had visited once, as had Chase Wilcox's mother and Shane Douglas's mother. Wayne Sherrod had come to see Regina twice, as had Devin Kelly's father, Steve. All these visits had been years ago, less than two years after Regina's confinement.

Bereaved parents pleading with a crazy woman to tell them if she had killed their child, and if she had, where she had buried the body.

After those first few years, there were no visitors. Not until last year, a few months before she died. Steve Kelly had visited her less than a week before her death. Why would Devin Kelly's father, after all that time, pay Regina another visit?

But even more curious were two other visitors who had come to Moccasin Bend, one on a weekly basis for several months.

Jeremy Arden had visited every other Saturday morning for two months and had spent between thirty minutes and an hour with Regina each time.

Why?

The other visitor's name puzzled J.D. There was no mention of him in any of the FBI records.

Corey Bennett.

“Ms. Milsaps.” J.D. turned to the clerk who had been helping him search files containing the visitor's log. “Do you have any idea who Corey Bennett is?”

“Yes, I believe he's Ms. Bennett's nephew. I vaguely remember meeting him once when I was working on a Sunday afternoon.” She pointed to the computer screen. “As you can see, he always visited her on Sunday afternoons and stayed several hours.”

Nephew? But Regina didn't have any siblings, no known relatives other than the now-deceased aunt and uncle. Or did she?

“Do you happen to remember anything about him? Hair color? Eye color? Age? Build?”

“If I recall correctly, he was average looking and he was young, I believe. I'm not sure, but perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. He didn't have black hair. It was brown, I think, or possibly blond. I believe he had a mustache and wore glasses. But my memory isn't always reliable. I encounter so many people in just one day's time.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“No, probably not.”

“Do you have any record of his address or a phone number?”

“I doubt it, but I can check.”

J.D. stood and stretched while he waited.

What difference did it make if Jeremy Arden had visited Regina several times? Maybe the young man had needed to confront the woman who had kidnapped him. Maybe he had found a way to forgive her for what she'd done.

The existence of a nephew no one knew about puzzled J.D. There was something off about that bit of info, but he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what. A mysterious, unknown nephew appeared out of the blue only a few months before Regina died and began visiting her on a regular basis. Where had he been all those years? And why had he suddenly decided to visit his criminally insane aunt?