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“I’ll search missing person’s reports and send over what I find.”
She pushed her hair behind one ear. “Thanks. We need to speak for these young women.”
Yes, he wanted justice for them all.
Leaving Williams, the ERT and the recovery workers to do their jobs, he drove to the police station where the sheriff had taken Pockley.
He still had unanswered questions. And Pockley was the only one left who could answer them.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR
CROOKED CREEK POLICE STATION
A few minutes later, Derrick strode into the interrogation room and the sheriff brought Roland Pockley from the holding cell. He and Waters hadn’t always gotten along, but they were on the same side today and he gestured for him to sit in.
Pockley’s acne scars were highlighted by the reddening of his skin. He fidgeted, eyes darting all over the place, anywhere but at Derrick. His thin lips were tight, his leg jiggling up and down.
“You know we have you on first degree murder and conspiracy to commit several others,” Derrick said bluntly. “Police are searching your home as we speak and come daylight will be all over your office.” He paused and let that sink in. Hopefully they’d find enough to nail him. “It’s only a matter of time until we identify the victims we found at the morgue.”
Pockley’s bony shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug.
“Tell me who the leader was,” Derrick said. “Radcliff?”
A faint smile tilted his mouth. “He was our inspiration.”
“So you, Wahlburg, Waycross and Harvey met in Dr. Dansen’s class, then formed a chess club and called yourself the Brotherhood. There you made a pact and planned your first kills.”
A smug smile pulled at Pockley’s face.
“What I want from you now, is to know who was responsible for each woman’s death. And names of the other victims we just found at the hospital. Their families deserve closure and to give them a proper burial.”
Pockley rocked back in the chair. “Why would I tell you all that?”
“You wanted to be famous, didn’t you? After all, serial killers want a name, to be important, to garner the attention of the press,” Derrick said. “You were a loner as a kid, bullied, made fun of. You were invisible to the women.”
“Not invisible,” he said through clenched teeth. “They laughed at me.”
“And that pissed you off,” Derrick said. “Is that the reason for the bloody lips?”
Pockley shrugged. “Radcliff started that. But who’s laughing now?”
Anger seethed inside Derrick. He saw the faces of the victims, the bodies being carried out. The terrified twelve-year-old whose mother was a victim.
“And Harvey was part of it from the beginning?” Derrick asked.
Pockley fiddled with his glasses. “He filmed mock murders back then. But that got boring after a while.”
“So he filmed the real thing?”
Pockley grinned. “It made things more exciting.”
Derrick leaned closer. Those videos could help confirm that every victim was accounted for. “Now, names and dates.”
“Why would I tell you all that?” Pockley asked.
“If you don’t, I’ll bury you. No one will know your name or that you were part of this elaborate plan.” His tone was icy, condescending. “You won’t be famous at all. You’ll just be another loser inmate who’ll die in prison.”
Pockley’s eyes turned to steel. He took several deep breaths, wheezing out his frustration and twitching as he debated what to say. Finally, he stilled and looked at Derrick dead in the eyes.
