“Whoever it was could’ve figured the threat of disrupting her Bel Air life would be enough to motivate payment.”
“Whoever it was,” he said. Another queasy look. “Bastard shows up and exposes the family history? Yeah, I can see that not going down well in socialite circles. But still, he’s putting himself in the crosshairs if she reports him.”
I said, “Sexual psychopaths get off on risk and reliving. This is someone he’s dominated before. If she told him to get lost, rage might’ve taken over. Why return empty-handed from the hunt? I’ll snag myself a trophy.”
The hand on his abdomen clawed. He winced, turned away again to hide his reaction.
I said, “If we’re talking a father or an uncle, he could be in his sixties or his seventies but still healthy. Physically. A brother or cousin would be younger.”
“Happy family,” he said. “So how did whoever the asshole is find her after all these years?”
I said, “Obviously, it took a while and I’m wondering if Richard Barlett had something to do with it. Meagin spoke to him months ago and two days after she died, he was dispatched exactly the same way. If she told Barlett where she was living and he passed it on, he could’ve signed his own death warrant.”
“Why would he rat her out?”
“Only thing I can think of is a connection to the bad guy. A close one. Barlett also changed his name and wiped out his past and he’s two years younger than Meagin.”
“A brother?” he said. “Two kids escaping the same hell.”
“He would’ve been sixteen when Meagin left, could’ve gone with her, or waited and done it solo. If they were together, their lives eventually diverged. Meagin grew progressively more confident and developed a steely resolve. Maybe Barlett didn’t.”
“So he rats her out to a psychopath?”
“Maybe he got conned.”
“Whatever... the whole thing is vile. She works her entire life to get it together then gets snuffed.”
Another wince. Reaching the fury that a lot of homicide detectives achieve as cases clarify.
I sat there, intellectually troubled but not allowing the emotional aspect to occupy my brain. It’s a skill I’ve acquired over a lifetime. At times it’s made me a better therapist. Able to focus on people needing help, providing genuine empathy without feeling their pain.
Sometimes I wake up at three a.m.
The man who’d closed over three hundred homicides, and still ached with every new one, got to his feet but made no move to leave. Instead, he used the shift in posture to stretch within the oppressive space.
I continued to sit, thoughts flooding my head.
Knowing what it was like to be trapped. The terror and joy of escape. Things I’d never told anyone and never would.
Thoughts allowed, feelings forbidden.
Milo sat back down, looking drained. “Anything else?”
I said, “Now we’ve got her real name.”
He sighed. “Time to excavate.”
Chapter 41
Milo and I typed away separately.
No gilmore references paired with copeland, fakahatchee, or naples fla.
The usual approach when searching is to keep narrowing focus. I did the opposite, broadening to gilmore case florida.
And there it was.
Twenty-four-year-old piece in archives of The Fort Myers News-Press. The resort town was nearly a hundred miles from Copeland but legal proceedings had shifted there due to a change-of-venue motion entered by a defense attorney named Meryl Rittenhouse.
Murder-Suicide in Ochopee Tied to Upcoming Abuse Trial
Samson Rodriguez, Staff Writer
Copeland police report that two bodies found in an Ochopee mobile home are those of the defendant in an upcoming child abuse trial and his common-law wife. Davis Gilmore, 44, released on bail after being charged with sexually abusing his 17-year-old daughter, reportedly fatally shot the victim’s mother and his longtime companion, Sally Rooney, 39, then himself.
Gilmore, a maintenance worker at the Fakahatchee Preserve with a history of drunk and disorderly misdemeanor arrests, was accused by his daughter of sexual abuse that stretched back over a decade. The charges, police say, were supported by physical evidence and resulted in Gilmore’s arrest. Gilmore’s trial, which could’ve landed the defendant a substantial prison term, was slated to begin in a week. Prosecutor John Bolt had protested the decision by Judge Razzie Clark to grant Gilmore an “inappropriately light” bail of $1,000, with a 10 % cash outlay and the remainder guaranteed by a bondsman.
Judge Clark, agreeing with Defense Attorney Meryl Rittenhouse that the absence of violence in Gilmore’s past and community ties to the rural Ochopee community made him an unlikely flight risk, had stood fast by his decision. Clark had received the case after Rittenhouse successfully filed for a change of venue, citing undue prejudice in Naples.
Immediately prior to Davis Gilmore’s release, the complainant along with two younger brothers, ages 15 and 9, were secreted in an unnamed county facility.
“Lucky for them,” said Copeland police chief Oliver Banks. “This guy might not of had much of a record but he was known to have a temper and he was clearly out for blood.”
Chapter 42
I sat as close to Milo’s screen as the stingy space permitted and watched as he hunted. Beginning with obituary shopping, because twenty-four years had passed.
Reporter Samson Rodriguez’s name pulled up nothing until Milo found him listed as a correspondent for a wire service, now stationed in Bangkok. No personal email listed. Milo sent a message to the service’s Asian headquarters, got an automatic away message, and moved on.
Copeland police chief Oliver Banks had passed on eight years ago, age seventy-seven. Predeceased by his wife and two of his eight children. Big church funeral.
Former defense attorney Meryl Rittenhouse had been working as a real estate agent at the time of her death twelve years ago. Age fifty-six, leaving behind a second husband and two children. In lieu of flowers, contributions to the American Cancer Society.
Judge Erasmus “Razzie” Clark’s demise was three years prior to Rittenhouse’s. Age sixty-four, no survivors listed.
Clark’s name also pulled up a twenty-year-old news story in the same Fort Myers paper. He’d been tossed off the bench after being implicated in “multiple illicit affairs leading to charges of favoritism,” his sexual partners three attorneys who’d appeared in his court.
Suzanne Volga, Pamela Barker, Meryl Rittenhouse. No mention of the lawyers’ fates but Rittenhouse’s career shift suggested disbarment.
Keywording prosecutor john bolt failed to reveal evidence he was no longer breathing. Nor did it indicate he’d remained an officer of the court in Florida. Pairing his name with district attorney, magistrate, or judge failed to produce a single word.
But again, spreading the net worked, and attorney john bolt pulled up three hits. A bankruptcy specialist in Toms River, New Jersey, a criminal appeals lawyer in Boston, and a man working “of counsel” to a midsized New York firm.
Milo said, “Criminal appeals sounds like a good bet,” and called the number. A massive robot-voiced voicemail menu with options for Spanish and Chinese finally connected him to Boston John Bolt’s extension. He was midway through his message when a young voice broke in.
“This is John. You’re probably looking for my dad.”