“Wait a minute, you’re not talking about my son, Joe, are you? Because Becky didn’t kill him.”
“No, I’m talking about a murder that just happened recently. Now, we’ve made inquiries. And we need you to validate our conclusions.”
Atkins’s face screwed up in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That your son and daughter-in-law kept Rebecca prisoner in a cabin in the woods and, from the looks of things, abused her emotionally and physically. She escaped from there. Your son was killed by, perhaps, his wife. And both his wife and Rebecca disappeared. And that you and your husband knew about it. And that you left Georgia after it all happened. And Rebecca is now calling herself El Cain.”
Atkins said accusingly, “You’ve talked to that Agent Pine, haven’t you?”
“Because that’s what she said as well, you mean?” interjected Spector.
“Yes. She seemed to have it all figured out.”
“How was Cain tortured?” asked Spector, drawing a sharp glance from Buckley.
“I . . . I’m not sure . . . ” Atkins stammered.
“We need the truth, Mrs. Atkins,” said Spector. “Or it will not turn out well for you. We are working with the authorities on this.”
Atkins glanced at her sleeping husband and said, “Desiree liked to burn things. And stick things with needles and carve . . . things with knives.”
“By ‘things’ you mean Cain?” said Spector sharply.
“Yes. When she was here Becky, I mean Mercy—”
“Mercy?” said Spector sharply.
“Yes. Agent Pine told me her real name was Mercy, and she was kidnapped from her parents and brought to us in Crawfordville, Georgia.”
“And her last name?” asked Buckley.
“She didn’t say.”
“Why would the kidnapper bring the girl to you?” asked Spector.
“He was an old friend of my husband’s. They fought in Vietnam together. But he said Mercy’s parents wanted her to die. But . . . but I guess that was a lie. The thing is, we believed him. And since we were too old to take care of a child, my son and Desiree took her.” She shuddered. “Mercy showed me some of the scars from what Desiree did to her.”
“The mental scars will be far worse,” said Spector, staring the woman down.
With another curious glance at his companion, Buckley interjected, “Do you know where Cain is now? Did she say where she was going after she left here?”
“I gave her Desiree’s phone number.”
“Do you know where Desiree is living?”
“No, I just had her number.”
“We’re going to need that,” said Buckley.
“I gave it to Becky. I don’t remember it.”
“Mrs. Atkins, let me remind you this is a murder investigation. If you obstruct the investigation in any way, you could go to prison.” He glanced at Len Atkins. “And then who would take care of your husband?” Buckley knew that if Atkins looked at this with calm reason, his explanation for their being here would seem ridiculous. He wasn’t the police. She needn’t tell him anything. And yet most people, particularly in stressful situations, were not even remotely calm or rational; they were, instead, vulnerable. And the power of suggestion went a long way with vulnerable people. As did a pile of cash.
But Atkins said, “I don’t have it. I gave my only copy to Becky.”
“I’ll give you another thousand dollars.”