While making notes on steps to claiming Star and Godwin’s bodies, Rachel made a call to Dane. He picked up on the first ring.
“How is it going?” she asked.
“Not well,” Dane replied. “They are giving us the runaround.”
“Where are you?”
“Fluvanna Women’s Correctional. Can you believe they have misplaced Star’s possessions?”
“No. More likely searching through them before they are released to the family.” In the background, she heard Drake’s voice. “Drake’s giving them hell?”
“Damn right, and I’m not going to stop him. For once, he is right. Her cell was sealed, inventory of her possessions was taken, but no one can tell us who completed the task or where the items on her list were placed.”
“Did you not hear me say I am one of her sons?”
“Did I hear Drake say he was her son? He is not going to get anywhere lying.”
“He’s not lying. Star was Wade’s mother. We are Wade’s brothers, that makes her our mother, too.”
“I know … I know. One for all, all for one.” Rachel chuckled. “That works with me, but I don’t think it’s going to fly with the prison officials. Let me make a call to my sister. She’s a judge, maybe we can get her to sign a court order for both Star and Godwin’s possessions. You, get Drake out of there before they lock him up.”
“I’ll let him raise hell for a little longer. How soon do you think your sister can get the court order in our hands?” Dane asked with Drake still cursing in the background.
“Not sure. But I will have an answer before you get back here.”
Rachel disconnected the call just as the doorbell sounded. She sent a quick text message to her sister and was finishing her thought as she ran to the front door.
Winston Nadler was a fit fifty-something-year-old with an air of determination, standing in the doorway. The man was like a bulldog with a bone. He wasn’t letting go of this story until he was finished and ready to publish it.
“Rachel, I’m glad you called,” Winston said as he entered the room. “Did you hear? The husband was found dead in his cell last night.”
Rachel nodded, then stood back, allowing the man entrance into the house. “I afraid I did hear that. Come into my office. There is something you need to know before Wade comes downstairs.”
“Wade Tyson, the owner of Tyson Broadcasting?”
“He’s the son of the owner … let me change that. Wade is the adopted son of the owner,” Rachel said as she pointed to a chair in front of the desk. “It’s a little complicated, but you will understand before the day is over. Have a seat.”
Winston pushed his briefcase from his shoulder, placed it on the floor, then took the offered seat.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I’m good.”
“A number of facts have come to light since we last spoke,” Rachel sat behind the desk. “Star Bond is … was Wade’s biological mother.”
“Wade Tyson? Your Wade?”
“One in the same,” Rachel nodded.
“Isn’t that interesting,” Winston eyes grew big. “That makes Godwin Bond his father. His mother and father were both killed within twenty-four hours of each other?” He slid down a little in his chair. “Whew! Maybe I better take a cup of coffee after that bit of news. Do you have anything strong to put in the mix?”
“We do,” Wade said as he entered the room. “Monty, make that two coffees with a touch of scotch.”
“Two all the way. Be there in a minute,” Monty voice called back.
Rachel stood, as did Winston. “Wade, this is Winston Nadler, the reporter I told you about. Winston, Wade Tyson.”
“My condolences on your loss, Mr. Tyson.”
Wade shook the man’s hand with a nod. “Thank you. Please call me Wade.”
“This is not a coincidence, Wade,” Winston stated. “Just as what happened to my daughter and your mother was not.”
“I think we all can agree on that,” Monty stated as he walked in with a tray.
“Winston Nadler, my brother, Montrell Tyson.”
“Nice to meet you,” Winston shook Monty’s hand.
“Same here, Mr. Nadler.” Monty replied as he picked up his cup of coffee and took a seat. “You have a lot of questions whirling in your mind.”
“You can say that again,” Nadler took a sip of the coffee Rachel handed him, then shook his head. “Someone taught you well. This is just right,” he placed the cup on back on the tray. “Old school, Johnnie Walker Red.”
“My father,” Monty responded. “It’s the only way he will take his coffee.”
“I’ve been starting my mornings with a hit of my special blend coffee since this incident with my daughter,” Winston nodded. “It keeps me sane.”
“Your daughter?” Wade questioned from behind the desk. “Would you mind sharing details with us?”
“Not at all. You should know this is not just another story for me. In fact, it’s not a story, it is an investigation. My desired outcome is the person being placed behind bars for what they did to my daughter.”
As the man bent down to pull his laptop from his bag, Wade glanced at Monty. He gave a slight nod.
Rachel took that as Monty way of telling Wade to be open with the man. “I believe we all have the same desired outcome.”
“The fact that Star Bond is your mother is throwing me for a loop,” Winston stated. “In all the research that I did on this case, there was never a mention of a child. Even during our conversation with her the other day, she never mentioned she had a child.”
“It is my understanding that both Star and Godwin had their reason for keeping that bit of information under wraps,” Wade stated.
“I can only imagine how difficult the stigma of having parents who were convicted of murder can be on a child. But I will tell you this. I do not believe your parents were guilty of murder. Manslaughter or self-defense, but not murder.” He placed the laptop on the desk, then turned it towards Wade. “This is the timeline of my findings. You can follow along as I tell you the story.”
Monty placed his cup down, then walked to stand next to Rachel behind Wade.
“My daughter, Nannette Nadler, was a teacher in Bristol Elementary. She came home one weekend for a visit; we live in Roanoke. During her visit, she experienced some discomfort. Her mother and I were concerned. Not overly. But as overprotective parents do, we insisted that she go to the emergency room. After examining her, the doctor said it was routine to have cramping after eggs were extracted from a woman’s body.”
“Your daughter was going through the in vitro fertilization process?” Wade asked.
“No,” Winston stared him straight in the eyes when he made that declaration. “My daughter had plans to marry and have children and had no reason to go through the process. She never consented to have her eggs extracted.”
“His daughter was recently married and is expecting her first child,” Rachel stated. “This is what makes his story so compelling.”
“That’s true. She has been begging me for three years to let this investigation go, but the further I dug, the more curious I became. That weekend when we took our daughter home, she told me the only medical attention she had in the last year was a flu shot from a local clinic in Bristol. She remembered being a little out of sorts but made nothing of it because she was planning on making the trip home. For the weekend she took a few painkillers, and the next day was better. The next weekend—like I said, we are overprotective parents—I went to visit her in Bristol, just to make sure she was doing well. It was a blessing she was right back to her old self. We made a trip to the drugstore, which was across the street from the clinic where she had received the shot. Curiosity got the best of me; after all, I am a reporter. Instead of waiting in the car, I walked over to the clinic. I asked a few questions about what they did there, how many patients that saw in a day, just general questions. About ten minutes in, a doctor came out. He wanted to know why I was asking so many questions. I told him, my daughter had come there a week ago and had a reaction to the shot they had given her. I then told him what the doctor from the emergency room had stated. They of course said they knew nothing about that kind of procedure. They only provided the community with flu shots and basic care. But a curious thing happened when I was driving home the next day. I rode by the clinic, and it was closed down.”
“Closed?” Monty questioned.
“A ‘for lease’ sign and all. I looked inside, and every piece of furniture that was there the day before was gone. The place was completely empty. When I got home, I called my daughter to ask her about the clinic, and she was as surprised as me. She shrugged it off, saying, ‘I think the doctor in the emergency room was wrong.’ She just had cramps from her monthly period and no longer had any discomfort. I think I could let it go if it wasn’t for the fact that they closed the clinic a day after I questioned them about my daughter. The reporter in me could not let that go. But for my daughter’s sake, I did not question her anymore about the situation. I went back to visit my daughter about six months later, and lo and behold another clinic was in the building. There was a different name, but when I went inside, the same nurse that I spoke to months earlier was there, as was the doctor. I did not say anything to my daughter, but I began to dig deeper to research clinics in the area.” He sat forward and pointed to the computer screen. “As you can see here, there is a list of clinics that were opened then closed over the years. They may have been in different buildings on different streets, but they were all in the same general area.” He reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a binder. He placed it on the desk, then opened it to the first page. “This is the newspaper article about the murders that took place in a similar clinic some twenty years ago. That is what led me to Godwin and Star Bond. I felt compelled to talk with them, because what Mr. Bond said happened to his wife the day of the murders sounded very much like what happened to my daughter.”