David watched the elevator-floor indicator count down as they descended. “That poor kid.”
Roxanne said, “He’s luckier than the rest of them. At least he got away.”
The sheriff nodded and looked down at the floor. “The look on his face when he saw Matt’s photo… sheer terror. I’ll dream about that for a long time.”
“He’ll probably have nightmares about that man for the rest of his life. We can only hope he’ll find a way to put him out of his mind, and that’s going to take a lot of support and counseling.”
“And a very supportive family, which he’s lucky to have. Connor is so devoted to him, protective like a big brother should be. Heather is strong and independent, used to working hard to get what she needs. Even the dog, not that there is any chance in the world he’s a service dog”—David grinned—“is going to be there for him every step of the way.”
The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors slid open to reveal Harold Lathan waiting to go up. The collar of his fleece-lined denim coat was turned up, his John Deere hat pulled down low over his head. David spied the reporters milling outside the entrance of the hospital and guessed the reason for the incognito look. “Harold, if you’ll let me know when you’re coming in, I can get a deputy to help you pass them.”
Harold glared directly into the sheriff’s eyes before stepping back to let them pass. “I can manage without your help.”
David ignored the angry tone. “I was coming to find you. If you have a few moments, I can give you an update about the case and what we know.”
Anger raged under the surface of Harold’s face. “A reporter from the Asheville paper called me. Asked if I had any comment about you finding the house my son was held in, right here in Miller County. Is that true?”
“Damn it.” David and Roxanne exchanged glances. He was frustrated the reporters were already digging up the story before they had a chance to control it. “Sorry, I didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
David paused before answering. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Was it a McGregor?”
The sheriff cocked his head and studied Harold’s face. “Did you know Matt?”
Harold stepped back. “Damn it, you still think I had something to do with it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I saw how you looked at me.” Harold shoved his hands in his pockets. “No, I didn’t know them. They were older. Gone from high school before I got there. I knew they were a source of liquor and drugs—everyone knew that—but I was pretty squeaky-clean in high school, believe it or not. Some beers at parties was about it.”
“You never bought meth from Mark?”
“No. I didn’t get messed up with drugs until after my second tour. Mark blowing himself up was legend by then.” Harold looked at David with disgust. “The reporter also said you found a dozen or more graves.”
“We don’t have a count yet.”
“So more than the hiker and his friend Kevin Jax told us about? ’Cause I figure you can count that high. I’m guessing you found a bunch of kids that maniac killed.”
David swallowed and glanced around to see who was listening. He guided Harold to a corner of the waiting room and lowered his voice. “Yes. More than two. We honestly don’t have a count yet.”
“I guess I’ll find out from the newspaper when you do know.”
Harold turned to walk away, but David reached out and grabbed his arm. “Look, I’m sorry. I stopped by to update Heather and the boys and haven’t had a chance to catch you. I’m trying to keep all of you informed, but I didn’t know the media already had some of the details. You should never have found out that way, and I’m sorry. I’ll be glad to answer any questions you have and help your family in any way.”
Harold spun back, his face red and his eyes narrowed. He spoke in a fierce whisper, spittle flying from his lips. “Help? Sheriff, we needed your help ten years ago. You were so busy blaming me, trying to bury me under as many charges as you could dream up, you couldn’t even look around your own damn county while some pervert did God knows what to my boy. Guess once you get a count, we’ll find out how many little boys lost their lives because you were too busy blaming the wrong man. Maybe you should go explain to those families why you let their kids die.”
Harold stomped to the elevator bank and slapped the call button hard enough to make people in the lobby jump and stare. When the doors opened, he stepped inside, spun around, and glared at the sheriff.
When the doors closed and hid the view, David felt his body go limp. He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. “That went well.”
“Victims’ families are often angry. You know that.”
He shook his head and looked out the window, anything to avoid Roxanne’s eyes. “I’m used to their misplaced anger, but this is different.”
“How so?”
“Because it’s not misplaced.”
“That’s not fair. He was a suspect, not the suspect, but he was a very good suspect. Estranged father. Known mental health issues with his PTSD. Drug and alcohol problem. You know how often that profile turns out to be the right suspect, and no one saw anything that gave us any other leads. What else were we to do?”
David leaned his forehead against the glass windows that overlooked the parking lot and sighed. They could have done something. He had stood in Matt McGregor’s trailer and talked to the man. Listened to his denials of involvement and his promise of straightening out his life. David had taken McGregor’s willingness to have his trailer searched as a sign of innocence.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the pain of regret, but he knew the truth. “I failed that kid.”