Forgotten (8 page)

“I’m fine for now,” Portia smiled at the man, and after he left the table, she urged Cannon to continue. “Go on. This is getting interesting. How did you get the case?”

“I had the luck—good or not so good, depending on how you look at it—to stop in to the judge’s chambers at the exact moment when he was trying to decide who to assign. He told me later he’d asked three other defense attorneys, all of whom claimed a schedule conflict. I was relatively new, the judge knew I hadn’t been practicing long enough to have so full a calendar that I couldn’t take on the case. The defendant needed a lawyer, I was right there, in his face, asking for a favor. The favor was granted and Woods got representation.”

“What was the favor?”

He shrugged. “I was asking for an extension to file some papers. Which I would have gotten anyway.”

“So you get assigned to the case, you talk to Woods, then what…Woods said, ‘How ’bout I offer to tell them where I buried some of my victims if they’ll agree to a life sentence instead of lethal injection?’”

“Not exactly.” He started in on his salad, his head down, avoiding her eyes.

“Then what?” She took a sip of beer. “If I’m not out of line. Or, if you think it’s none of my business…”

For a few moments, his attention appeared to be on the plate in front of him. When the waiter reappeared and asked him if he’d like another beer, he nodded and said a quiet “Thank you.”

Portia figured she’d overstepped, and opened her mouth to apologize. Before she could speak, he said, “At every hearing, there were parents, siblings, grandparents, friends—of the boys Woods was suspected of killing. The DA didn’t have enough evidence to charge him with those killings. The bodies were never found, so the defense would have been that there was no proof that the kids were even dead, let alone that they’d been victims of Sheldon Woods.”

She set her fork down on her salad plate. “You didn’t really think he was innocent of all those murders, did you?”

“It didn’t matter what I personally thought of him, or what I suspected he did or didn’t do. What mattered was that I was obligated to give him the best possible defense I could.”

“I guess I can understand someone coming out of law school, being idealistic…”

“I’d do the same thing today,” he told her with out hesitation or apology.

“Because everyone deserves a fair trial. Innocent until proven guilty.” She rolled her eyes. “I think we’ve already had this discussion.”

“Then there’s not much point in having it again.” He smiled. “My opinion hasn’t changed. I suspect yours hasn’t either.”

“True enough.”

They finished their salads in silence, and watched the waiter remove the plates and serve their entrées with more interest than either of them felt.

“Well, you were right about the chicken,” she said, after a few awkward moments. “It is exceptional.”

“At least there’s one thing we can agree on.”

“I suspect there may be more than one.”

“Based on…?”

“The fact that you did show up at the prison to accompany Woods to the farm.” She cut another small piece of meat. “And the fact that you did make the deal for the thirteen bodies to be re turned.”

She glanced up at him and caught him watching her.

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Cannon…”

“Oh, I think we’re past the ‘Mr.’ and ‘Agent’ stage,” he said. “Let’s go with Jim and Portia from here.”

“All right, Jim. You said that Woods didn’t want to give up names and locations of his victims. But he did. Thirteen times. So how did he go from ‘no,’ to ‘here’s thirteen’?” She put down her fork and touched the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “It obviously wasn’t his idea. I’m going to guess it was yours.”

“I suppose it was.”

“Was that your way of providing the best possible defense for your client? A means of saving him from the death penalty?”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” He was trying hard to be cavalier. Portia saw through his act.

“You know what I think?” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I think you’re a sham. I don’t think you took the case to make sure he got a fair trial. I don’t think you gave a shit whether he got life or not.” She lowered her voice even more. “I think you took the case so you could talk him into giving up his victims.”

“And that would be a bad thing because…?”

“Well, he hasn’t had to answer for any of those murders. He wasn’t even charged with any of them. Do you really think justice has been served?”

“Do you really think that makes a difference to the families whose sons and brothers were returned to them?”

“But given time, they might have been able to build strong enough cases against him to have charged him.”

“And who do you think was going to do that?” He pushed his plate aside. “John Mancini? He was off somewhere repairing his damaged psyche after going toe-to-toe with Woods for all those months.” Cannon shook his head. “Everyone knew there were more victims, everyone wanted those bodies recovered. You referred earlier to those kids as ‘lost boys.’ That’s exactly what they were. They were lost, and without Woods, none of them would ever have been found. He buried them in out-of-the-way, ingenious places…”

She thought of the grave where they’d found Christopher Williams and the still-unidentified boy.

“…and there are more bodies out there, as you well know. If Woods had been executed, it’s unlikely any of them will ever be found. As long as he’s alive, there’s always the chance he’ll want something badly enough to give up another one now and then. Just like he did this week. Do you think the family of the Williams boy cares if Woods is ever charged with his murder, as long as they get his remains back?” He’d picked up the teaspoon that sat next to his plate and began to tap it on the table. “You asked me if I thought justice was served. Hell yes, but unfortunately, not for everyone whose child was taken by this monster. If I thought for one minute he’d given up all his victims, I’d have injected him myself. As it stands, as long as there are other names on that list of yours, there’s a chance they’ll be found, as long as Woods is alive. So yes, justice was served. It was damn well served.”

Portia sat quietly, feeling chastised, not sure why, and not liking the feeling at all.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “No other questions.”

“Then tell me about the second boy.”

“There’s nothing to tell, except that he was in the grave with the Williams boy.”

“You’re positive one was Christopher?”

“Well, we won’t know for certain until the ME checks the dental records, but I’m pretty sure he was the larger of the two. I can’t imagine Woods giving us anyone else in his place.”

“But he gave you Christopher, knowing you’d find a second victim. He didn’t say who the boy was?”

“No. As a matter of fact, he totally shut the door on that subject.”

Their plates were cleared. She leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in the palm of one hand.

“And he said the oddest thing,” she continued. “He said, ‘That one is mine.’ Strange, don’t you think? I have a call in to one of our profilers to see what she thinks of that statement. If you could have seen his face…he looked totally defiant when I brought it up.”

“Maybe the boy in question had been a favorite of his. Or the first. Or the last. Who knows what goes through that perverted mind of his?”

“Anyway, the purpose of this meeting was to have you go over the list, see if you recognized any names,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d have some information, that maybe he’d told you something, or said something in passing…”

“I’m sorry, no. I wish to God I could help you, but as I said, I had to fight for every last name we got. He wouldn’t have given me anything for free.”

“Well, it was worth asking.”

“It was certainly worth it for me.” He smiled, and for the first time since she sat down, there was real warmth there. “I got to have dinner with you.”

“Even if we don’t see eye to eye on certain legal issues?”

“It helps to know that you’re willing to concede when you’re wrong,” he grinned.

“When did I concede anything?” She frowned, trying to remember what she’d said.

“When you didn’t have a snappy comeback after I said that justice was better served by making a deal with Woods and letting him live in return for the names and locations of his victims, rather than going to trial and letting him get the death penalty.”

“I still think he has to answer for his sins, Jim.”

“With any luck, maybe someday someone will find a way to make him do just that.”

NINE

J
eremy Potter. Age nine in 1997. Disappeared from a playground while waiting for his older sister’s softball game to end. His mother told the police that one minute he was there, the next minute he was gone. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. As if he’d never been.

Steven Craeger. Age twelve in 1996. Older than Woods’s usual victims, but according to reports, he was small for his age. Disappeared from a parking lot where he was waiting for his father to come out of a drugstore.

David Chandler. Age seven, 1998. Disappeared while on his way home from school, three blocks from his home. His older brothers were walking ahead of him and claimed to never having seen or heard a thing. He was behind them when they got off the bus, but he never arrived at the house.

And on it went, article after article, story after story, boy after boy. A knot settled in the back of Portia’s neck and a painful lump balled up in her throat. Her fingers trembled on the keyboard, and with every new name, she found herself hoping against hope that this next child might have somehow escaped to tell a story of survival. But none of the boys on the list had survived. She’d known that when she’d turned on her laptop that morning. Still, the knowledge hadn’t kept some small part of her mind from holding out for one happy ending.

But there were no happy endings when Sheldon Woods was involved.
Unless, of course, you considered recovering remains a happy ending,
she thought wryly. For some families, that was as close to
good
as they were likely to get.

The amount of suffering caused by this one small man was incomprehensible. When you counted the children who still had question marks next to their names, it was beyond horrific, beyond unspeakable.
How in the name of God do abominations like Sheldon Woods exist?

She took a long drink from a bottle of spring water and cleared her aching throat.
What,
she wondered,
had he been like as an infant? Had he been a sweet baby, an inquisitive toddler, a charming young child? Had something monstrous happened that transformed him into the devil he’d become? Or had he been born with the hideous seed within him? Had he been terrorized as a boy, or had he been born to terrorize others?

Nature or nurture,
she thought. It always seemed to come back to that.

Portia put down the newspaper articles she’d printed off the Internet and rubbed her eyes. She’d been reading since she got up that morning, and it was now almost eight at night. The loud rumblings of her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, which explained why she had such a pounding in her head.

There was chicken in the refrigerator, leftovers from the meal Miranda had prepared a few nights earlier. Portia heated up a generous portion and ate it on the little back porch where she found a small table and two chairs.
Just perfect for the two of them,
she thought as she sat on one chair and rested her feet on the other, and noted there were no extra chairs for guests.

She’d need to make some decisions, and soon, she reminded herself. She was wondering if it was possible to find a three-month lease when her cell phone rang.

“Cahill.”

“John Mancini, Portia.” John wasted no time getting to the purpose of his call. “I just got off the phone with Tom Patton, the ME up there in Oldbridge Township. Lisa Williams drove her brother’s dental records up to him yesterday, and he got right to it.”

“And? Did he find a match?” Her heart rate sped up, anticipating the news.

“He sure did. It’s Christopher Williams, no doubt about that,” John told her. “He’s a good man, that Patton. Went to work right away, X-raying the skull and making impressions. Called me as soon as he’d made a positive ID.”

“Terrific. That’s wonderful news. Who’s going to tell Madeline and Lisa Williams?”

“I am, first thing in the morning. Would you like to accompany me?”

Portia hesitated, then said thoughtfully, “No, I think this is yours, John. It’s always been yours.”

“You found him, Portia. You’re entitled to be there when I give them the news.” He hastened to add, “And you’d be welcome.”

“Thank you for offering to include me, but this is something between you and Madeline Williams. You’ve both waited a long time for this moment. As much as I appreciate your offer to include me, I think I’ll pass.”

“If you change your mind between now and tomorrow morning, give me a call. Make it early, though.”

“Will do. Thanks again. Have a safe trip.”

Portia disconnected the call, placed the phone on the table, and turned her attention back to her dinner. It would be wonderful to be there when someone got some good news for a change, but she’d meant it when she’d said this was a moment for John and the Williams family to share. She’d have felt like an outsider there. She may have found the remains of the missing boy, but it had been John who’d kept Christopher and his mother in his heart all these years, John who’d arranged the meeting where the killer gave up the location. Convinced she’d done the right thing by passing on the invitation, Portia took her plate back into the kitchen, rinsed it, and stacked it in the dishwasher. She poked around in the freezer for the carton of almond fudge ice cream she knew was in there, and scooped out a few tablespoons before she talked herself out of it. She took the bowl outside and sat on the back steps, which were still warm from the heat of the day.

Fireflies were just starting to light up the tiny backyard, and the cicadas were still humming. Before she knew it, she found herself envying her sister’s life.
It must be really nice to sit out here and watch the seasons with someone you love,
she thought. From the yard next door, she heard the hushed voices of children as they stalked and caught fireflies. From the steps she watched the specks of yellow light dance across the air, and remembered other summers, when she and Miranda were the kids chasing the small flying insects, catching them in cupped hands, studying their glow before setting them free again.

Thinking of the games of children reminded her of the boys she’d been reading about all day, boys who had probably chased lightning bugs on summer nights. Boys who’d laughed and played with their friends, who had been young and innocent, until their paths had crossed with a soulless man who took their lives without shame or remorse.
How is it possible to do such unmentionable things,
she wondered,
to cause such terrible pain to so many people, and simply not care?

Tired of asking such questions of herself, she went back inside, and called the only person she could think of who might have answers. The number rang several times before the recording picked up.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Anne Marie McCall. I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a number so I can call you back.”

“Oh, damn, Annie, I missed you again.” Portia sighed with frustration. “This is Portia Cahill, and I was hoping to maybe pick your brain about…”

“Portia?” A breathless Annie picked up. “I’m sorry. I left my phone in a pocket and couldn’t remember where I put the shirt. I know you’ve been trying to get me; I’m sorry I didn’t return your call sooner but I was out of town and just got back a little while ago.” Annie took a breath. “So how does it feel to be back on the A team?”

“It’s okay. Different from what I’ve been used to, but okay.”

“That bad, eh?”

Portia recognized a touch of what sounded like disappointment in Annie’s tone, and hastened to explain.

“No, no, not bad. Just…different.”

“How are you adjusting to the change?”

“I’m adjusting.”

“If there’s anything you want to talk about, even off the record, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Annie. I appreciate that. If I ever felt I needed to talk something out, you’d be the first person I’d call.” The offer had made Portia smile. Annie was a friend first, a psychologist second, and a highly respected profiler third. She never hesitated to help a friend or a colleague. It comforted Portia to know that she was there. “Actually, I was calling you for help, but not for myself.”

“Sheldon Woods.” Portia could almost see Annie’s eyebrows knit together in thought. “Yes, I certainly do remember the case. I didn’t get the call on that one; I was too new at the time. But I remember it. What has he done to put him in your crosshairs?”

Portia explained the events of the past week.

“Shit,” Annie said. “I’d never heard that he’d been suspected of killing so many children. Interesting that he responded so strangely to your inquiry about the unidentified boy. Are you sure he wasn’t just holding off in hopes of making another trade?”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“What impression did you get?”

“That this boy is someone he’ll never give up.”

“Which of course implies that the boy is very special to him.”

“We’d thought of that. That maybe the boy was his first kill, or his last.”

“Maybe. It’s obvious that this one was very personal to him.” Annie paused before asking, “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to find out who he is. One way or an other, I’m going to give him back his name,” Portia told her without hesitation. “I was just hoping you’d have some insights into the case. Or into Woods.”

“Without reading all the reports, I’m afraid I’d be blowing smoke, and I really try to avoid doing that. The best advice I can give you is to speak directly with the profiler who handled the case back then.”

“Dr. Rollins is retired but I can probably get his number from someone at headquarters.”

“Don Rollins? I have his number. I just spoke with him a week or so ago. Give me a second to find it…”

Portia heard some rustling of papers before Annie got back on the line and gave her the number. Portia repeated it to make sure she had it right. “I’m going to call him right now. I’m sure he’ll re member the case.”

“No doubt. This was one for the books, literally. At one time, I’d heard Don was planning to write a book about Woods. I don’t know if that ever got past the talking stage, though.”

“There are quite a few books out there on the case. Maybe one was his.” Portia thought for a moment. “But we probably would have heard about it if one of our own published.”

“Most likely. I’m sure he’ll be happy to discuss the case with you. Give him a call.”

“I’m going to do that right now.” Portia bit her lip, then asked, her voice almost breaking, “Annie, what happens to make people turn out like that? Like Woods? Why this insatiable need to inflict such pain? To brutalize a child?”

“Honey, that’s a question for the ages. If I told you I had the answers, I’d be lying. Each case is different, and yet there are always similarities in their backgrounds. For killers like Woods, the history almost always reveals terrible abuse. I don’t know his story, but Don would have details.” There was a long silence before Annie spoke again. “I’ve spent my life studying human behavior, and I’ve come to believe there is no one explanation, no stock answer. When it comes to the predators, the sociopaths, we take them one by one, and try to make some sense of the chaos. I wish I had a better answer for you, but the truth is, there isn’t one.”

“It’s so depressing.”

“Yes, it most certainly is.” Annie sighed deeply. “Let me know if I can help out in any way. I’m heading to Maine tomorrow but you can always get me on my cell if you need me.”

“My sister left for Maine yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll see her there. I heard she was assigned to the case.”

Annie proceeded to discuss the case in Maine for another minute or so, but Portia’s heart wasn’t in the conversation. She wanted to get off the phone.

The minute they hung up, she immediately dialed the number Annie had given her for Don Rollins.

The number rang five times, and though disappointed, Portia was mentally preparing her speech for voice mail when a gruff male voice answered.

“Dr. Rollins?” Portia asked.

“Yes? Who is this?”

“My name is Portia Cahill. I’m a special agent with John Mancini’s unit, and I…”

“How is John these days?”

“He’s very well. I called because…”

“And that pretty wife of his?”

“Genna’s fine. They’re both fine.”

“Good, good. Now, which one of my old cases are you calling me about?”

“Actually, I was calling about Sheldon Woods.”

Ther silence on the line lasted so long, Portia was prompted to ask, “Dr. Rollins? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. I’m still here.” Portia heard a sharp intake of breath, as if he’d been taken by surprise. “What exactly did you wish to talk about?”

“A few days ago, Woods gave up the location of another grave, and we recovered another of his victims.” She explained the circumstances, then added, “Actually, we recovered two of his victims, but he refuses to identify one. When I asked him for the boy’s name, he said, ‘This one is mine.’”

“‘This one is mine’?” Rollins repeated the phrase thoughtfully.

“Yes. I thought it was an odd choice of words.”

“Odd, but not at all out of character for Sheldon Woods. He was—apparently still is—a controlling little son of a bitch. And yes, before you ask, that was my diagnosis back then.” Rollins sighed. “Sheldon Woods is as typical a pedophile as you’ll ever meet. He fits the stereotype so closely one might think he’d posed for the poster. Low self-esteem, though he hides behind a veil of arrogance. He likes to appear to be in charge, likes others to think he’s a powerful personality. He’s a bully in this respect. Sexually, he’s inadequate. Can’t form mature relationships with women. Started abusing other boys when he was twelve.”

“What was the family history?” Portia asked. “I know it’s in one of the files somewhere but I haven’t come across it.”

“Again, it’s exactly what you’d expect. He claims to have been sexually abused as a child, but refused to identify his abuser. He would never go into de tail, wouldn’t discuss what exactly had happened to him or when.”

“Do you believe the abuse actually occurred?” Portia asked thoughtfully. “I mean, if some terrible things had really happened to him as a small child, wouldn’t that have been his excuse for what he’d done later? Wouldn’t he have hidden behind that?”