Chapter Fifteen
Scottsboro Police Department
South Broad Street
Fowler made them wait a ridiculously long time.
While they waited, Chance had dug into the case in Fort Payne via the internet.
Again, masked intruders. Again, one victim was sexually assaulted and a number of items were taken.
Like the Henagar case, the glaring difference was that no one was murdered.
But the similarities were too great to ignore. Rory was furious no one had seemed to notice or care.
When the detective finally appeared in the lobby, Rory wanted to rant at him. But she kept her cool. Better not to put him on the defensive. He would go there fast enough when Chance threw the first question about the other cases at him.
“Come on back,” he said, looking somehow older and wearier than he had this morning.
Rory had no sympathy. She was tired too. If he had done his job the right way two years ago, they wouldn’t be here right now.
This time he led them to an actual office.
Maybe he’d gotten a promotion, or he’d borrowed someone else’s space.
At least they weren’t in that awful interview room.
Many of her nightmares over the years had revolved around that room where the detective had tried every possible tactic in his playbook to make her confess.
When they had all taken seats, he regarded first Rory, then Chance. “If you’re looking for answers about the house, you’ll have to wait until I have the report from the fire marshal. Right now, you know as much as I do.”
“We’re here,” Chance said, “about the Whitmore and Allston case.”
Fowler exhaled a big breath. “That case was not the same as yours,” he said to Rory. Then, turning back to Chance, he continued, “the cases were different. If you did your research, you know the one in Henagar was primarily a hate crime.”
“The man who was caught and charged,” Chance countered, “Rick Hill, where was he imprisoned?”
“Limestone Correctional Facility. I only tell you this because I know how easy it is for you to find out on the internet. And because,” he turned to Rory again, “going to see the perv involved is a waste of time.”
“It’s possible that it will be a waste of time,” Rory agreed, frustration and anger building inside her way too fast. “The two intruders in that case may or may not have targeted the victims specifically. It may have been about the coin collection they stole.”
“Don’t forget the hate crime part,” Fowler growled.
“Which means,” Chance interjected, “that Rory and her husband were likely the targets rather than anything they may have had in their possession at a rented house.”
Before Fowler could find whatever he wanted to say next, Rory pressed on, “There was another very similar case in Fort Payne just five months before the one in Henagar. Again, one victim was sexually assaulted. Both were drugged and things were stolen.”
Why did the man not see the similarities? The obvious connection!
“But,” Fowler argued, “as you have already discovered, there was significant property stolen in both.” His gaze settled on Rory.
“If—big, fat if—there was even any evidence someone else came into that cottage the way you suggest, the only items taken were your cell phones and car fob—but not the car. A very different scenario. And we all are acutely aware that there was no evidence to support your claim.”
“What evidence was found in the other two cases?” Rory demanded, her anger building.
“No prints for sure. The DNA you were able to retrieve at the Henagar home was an accident. If that one thing hadn’t been found, would you have insisted nothing happened there either?
That there were no intruders? That the victims stole their own stuff? ”
Fowler glared at her, his mouth shut tight.
“Perhaps what you’re not taking into consideration,” Chance said, “is that the Harris case was meant to look that way—different from the others. Because the White Cottage attack was not about property but about the people there that night.”
Fowler shook his head. “Mr. Rader, I can appreciate how this all looks to you and to Rory. But we went over all that. I interviewed Rick Hill myself—twice. He knew nothing about the Harris case. You’re both ignoring the most glaring difference in the other cases.
No one was murdered. And there was no supporting evidence whatsoever in your case,” he railed at Rory.
“Both of the other homes showed obvious signs of breaking and entering. Both had been ransacked. There were footprints found at one. Bodily fluids at the other. There was no—let me repeat, no—evidence at yours.”
“There’s this thing,” Rory snapped, “called escalation.” She and Chance had discussed the term and its meaning in cases like this.
“Someone died in my case and then the two intruders backed off their crime spree. In the attack where Hill was caught, he was working alone. Things had changed maybe because of that escalation.”
“Not to mention,” Chance said, “even if we set aside the possibility that Pete and Rory Harris may have been targeted, most repeat offenders learn from their previous mistakes. When they broke into the cottage where Rory and her husband were staying, they had at least two events to their credit. So they made sure there was no sign of breaking and entering and no evidence left behind. The murder was likely because one of the two got carried away—escalated—then the team split apart. Hasn’t that been your experience over your lengthy career, Detective?
Criminals often escalate. Those working together often go their separate ways. ”
“I suspect,” Fowler countered, ignoring Chance’s question, “the backing off was about one of the intruders being caught and—”
“Which didn’t happen,” Chance cut him off, “until after the attack on Rory and her husband. And only then because he attempted to assault another woman whose boyfriend came home just in time.”
“As I said,” Fowler repeated, “I interviewed Hill myself. He and the partner he refused to identify had nothing to do with the Harris case. We know what happened in the Harris case.” He set his gaze on Rory. “The only evidence in the whole place showed us what happened.”
Renewed fury roared through her. He would not be swayed. They were wasting their time. He intended for her to go back to prison whether she had committed murder or not.
“You’re saying,” Chance argued, “that Hill had an alibi.”
“He did. I confirmed it just to rule out exactly this. Someone coming along trying to tie that case to the Harris case.” He shook his head, his expression lifting a little with the triumph he felt.
“No connection whatsoever. No evidence that anyone other than Pete Harris and his new wife were in that cottage.”
“What about the unidentified partner?” Chance asked. “Did he have an alibi too?”
“As if I could know that.” Fowler threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I can see that I’m not going to be able to convince you.”
“What about the unidentified fibers?” Chance tossed out. “Any more theories on that evidence you did find at the cottage?”
“We’ve talked about that already, Mr. Rader,” Fowler tossed back. “There’s nothing new related to the carpet fibers Rory or her husband could have picked up anywhere.”
“So you’re not going to listen,” Rory accused. “Exactly like before. You never followed through. Just accepted that I killed my husband when I had zero reason to want to hurt him. For God’s sake, what was my motive?” She wanted to shake him. To scream. But it would do no good.
His gaze bored into Rory’s. “Drugs can do that, Ms. Harris.”
She stood, unable to listen to any more.
Chance stood as well. “Appreciate your time, Detective,” he said before following Rory from the office.
She stormed out of the building, away from the department that had let her down so completely when her husband was murdered and would no doubt do it again. Pete deserved justice, by God. She climbed into the passenger seat of the car and steamed.
The anger suddenly gave way to defeat and regret and so many other emotions she could barely hold back the tears.
When Chance slid into the driver’s seat, she turned to him, her soul aching. “I need to go to the cemetery. I haven’t been there since I got home.” She needed to be close to Pete for a minute.
He nodded. “I’ll take you there now.”
Rory sank deeper into the seat. She was so tired of fighting a losing battle.
So disgusted with the lack of support from anyone except Chance and the Colby Agency.
With effort she steadied her resolve. She could not give up.
Not until she found the truth and the people responsible for her husband’s murder were behind bars.
She suddenly wondered whether, she sat face-to-face with the man who assaulted her, she would recognize him. The one in Limestone Correctional Facility was the one who assaulted Alita Whitmore and the woman in Fort Payne. He could be the one.
“Are we going to that prison?” She looked to the man driving. If anyone could get her in to see that scumbag, it was Chance.
“We’re going to try.”
The thought filled her with sudden uncertainty. If they were right, Hill could hold all the answers. If they were wrong…then they were back to square one, and there was nothing in square one.
The notion of starting over was a physical pain in her being.
Either way, she had no choice but to continue. If she failed, she would undoubtedly be going back to prison. She couldn’t find the truth there…she couldn’t go back. Did the truth no longer matter to anyone but her?
How could Pete’s parents believe she had killed him? Why didn’t they at least want to look into the alternative? To be certain.
More painful to consider, why would anyone want to hurt her or Pete? If Chance was right, and she felt sure he was, what had she or Pete done to warrant murder? Right now, there appeared to be no other motive for what happened.
Which left only the conclusion that maybe Pete was the target since he was murdered and she was left alive. Whether for something he knew or had done or possessed or just to punish Rory. She had to find that truth.
But Louis Larson insisted there were no business issues at the time. Was it possible her husband had a terrible secret Rory didn’t know about?
She didn’t want to believe such a thing. Determination soared through her. She would not believe it. Not until she had no other choice.
Cedar Hill Cemetery
Cedar Hill Drive
Scottsboro, 1:00 p.m.
Rory knelt next to her husband’s grave and traced the words engraved on his black granite headstone.
Beloved Husband and Son. The ache in her chest made her lips tremble.
How had it been more than two years since she had stood right here and sobbed like a baby over this sweet man as his coffin was lowered into the ground?
Chance knelt next to her. “It’s a beautiful place.”
It was. Pete’s parents had bought plots in this cemetery long ago when the most beautiful locations were still available.
The branches of the grand old tree that stood nearby reached across Pete’s grave, lending shade in the long, hot Alabama summers.
The bench beneath the tree had been added by his parents.
She’d expected to come here often and visit, but that hadn’t happened because she had been in prison.
“They wanted him buried here.” She sat on the backs of her calves, suddenly too tired to hold herself up.
“I never considered the ramifications. This is a single plot. Their double plot is on the other side of the tree. They wouldn’t have wanted me buried next to him if I had died too.
” She laughed sadly. “I’m not sure what poor Austin and Lulu would have done with me. ”
To occupy her hands, she reached out and pulled away a random weed from the base of Pete’s headstone.
There were no flowers. His birthday would be coming up next month.
She should get flowers. Eudora no doubt would.
If she saw flowers from Rory, she would likely throw them away. Rory would need to put hers out early.
How could the woman not have seen how very much Rory had loved her son?
“Let me take you to lunch,” Chance offered. “Then we can stop by a floral shop and pick up flowers if you’d like.”
She turned to him, surprised that he would think of such a kind gesture. “I would love that. Thank you.”
His smile was so kind, so handsome. How had she been so lucky to have this man as the one to help her right this wrong?
“Besides your brother,” he said, “it’s been a long time since anyone was nice to you. You deserve someone to be nice to you.”
Her lips lifted in a smile of her own. “I’m so glad the Colby Agency sent you.”
His fingers curled around her hand. “Me too.”
He stood, pulled her up with him. “How about we go to that drugstore where you had your first job?”
“They have great milkshakes too.”
“Chocolate, right?”
“Always.”
Rory glanced one last time at Pete’s headstone. If she could do nothing else, she hoped she could make sure the person who did this to him was brought to justice.
The thought nudged her. “I’ve been thinking,” she said as they walked through the cemetery to where Chance had parked his car. “I figure whoever set fire to my house was someone like the guys who broke my window or used the paint guns. But what if it wasn’t?”
They paused next to the car. “You mean, what if it was the person who killed your husband?”
She nodded. “Maybe he was cool, going on with his life as long as I was in prison, but he could be getting nervous now.”
“I’ve considered that possibility,” Chance agreed. “Which is all the more reason not to let you out of my sight for an instant going forward.”
“Where will we stay?” They certainly couldn’t go back to her house.
“I still have that room. We could go there or another place if you prefer.”
“I’m good with whatever you think.” As long as I’m with you, she kept to herself.
She felt safe with Chance. She felt happy…in a tiny, unexpected way.