I immediately called Detective Nelson. I had a hunch.
“Detective Nelson. . .”
“Hey, it’s Bobby. We just caught Greta Little at the Hatchery. It seems she has been a naughty girl. It also seems she has been doing it to protect someone else.”
“And you know who that might be?”
“Her husband, Reverend Little. Quick question Detective, did our dead killer have any visitors in prison while in Oregon?”
“He spent his time in solitary, not GP. Too dangerous I think. I’ll check the file and get back to you. What are you thinking?”
“The good Reverend may have been giving spiritual guidance to prisoners down there. He may have been privy to some special information, if you catch my drift.”
“I catch it, Agent. It would explain a lot.”
He hung up.
After a couple quick calls to SAC Hinch, Ransom and I raced back to town hoping to prevent a tragedy.
We needed to find and apprehend Robert Little.
How this unassuming preacher committed a series of home invasion/rapes without getting caught was mystifying.
It made Greta’s actions seem almost logical. A preacher’s wife protecting her family by creating a huge distraction whenever her husband was out brutalizing young girls made a certain amount of sense to me.
But it could only have been a matter of time before someone put the pieces together. Detective Nelson had already begun to dig, in spite of a Mayoral mandate to leave it alone.
The Detective was already at the Little house when they arrived.
“You were right. The Little’s have only been in Poulsbo for 10 years AFTER spending 10 years in Salem, Oregon, serving guess where?”
“Yep. The State Penitentiary.”
“The good Reverend, it seems, made a friend in prison. Damn. We need to secure the house.” I made for the front door.
“There is no one here. I have already secured the house.”
“WHAT?!” Greta screamed from the back of the patrol car.
“Where’s Billy? Where’s my Son?!”
I asked, “You’re sure you checked everywhere?”
“Unless he’s hiding, yeah.”
Ransom had a suggestion. “You guys keep looking for any clues here. I’ll talk with Mrs. Little.”
After mutual agreement to the plan, we pulled our sidearms and made their way back into the house.
“BILLY!?” Eric called.
“I think he prefers William. WILLIAM!?” I tried.
“How do you know that? He doesn’t talk does he?”
“I don’t know. I could just tell. He reacted differently when I used a more grown up name with him. It’s an old trick I learned years ago as a babysitter.”
“Hey, there is a message waiting on the answering machine.” The Detective pressed the “listen” button.
Next – A Babysitter’s Worst Nightmare.