"Gets better. Look at the account activity from this year. Pre-authorized wire transfer dated for December 1st. That's 11 days from now, for $247,800. Memo, estate settlement, Nell Pruitt." "He scheduled the transfer before Nell was even declared dead," Pitchfork said.
"Not before, the same day. Look at the timestamp. October 10th, 9:43 a.m., 2 hours after he filed the death certificate." The room went cold.
"Layer two, the connection. There's more," Flintlock continued. "Email thread between Voss and someone identified as S O, Sandra Oaks, the EMT. Subject, protocol confirmation. Sent October 7th, 2 days before the accident." He pulled it up on screen.
Email from S O to R V, October 7th, 3:14 p.m.
"Confirmed. I'm on rotation for Route 9 coverage, October 9th to 12th. If anything happens in that window, I'll handle intercept. Standard protocol. Subject secured, official response delayed minimum 15 minutes. Enough?"
Email from R V to S O, October 7th, 3:52 p.m. "15 is sufficient. Payment on completion as discussed. $18,000 cash. Leave forwarding address, then disappear."
Driftwood, standing at the back, spoke quietly. "They planned it. The accident wasn't opportunistic. They were waiting for it." "Or they caused it," Chainsaw said.
"Layer three, previous victim, different numbers." Flintlock pulled up a second estate file. "Eugenia Voss Halcourt. Detailed records. Eugenia's payout was $163,400. Voss was appointed executor in Adams County Probate Court on March 3rd, 2021."
"Eugenia's official date of death, May 11th, 2021. That's 69 days after Voss took executorship. Right at the edge of Mississippi's probate review window." "Same playbook," Pitchfork said. "Exactly, but here's the kicker." Flintlock opened a scanned medical document.
"Eugenia had a care plan through Natchez Memorial. Documented visits every two weeks. But starting February 18th, 2021, two weeks before Voss took executorship, the visits stopped. Reason listed, patient relocated to private care at family request. The private care facility had no license, no oversight. It was a duplex in Natchez owned by..."
"Delta Line Holdings," Chainsaw finished. "Bingo."
The room was silent for eight seconds. Then Hawthorne, who'd been standing in the doorway holding Nell, said very quietly, "How many others?" Flintlock closed his eyes.
"I don't know yet, but Delta Line Holdings has been active since 2018. That's 6 years. If Voss ran this scheme even once a year, we're looking at six to 10 victims," Chainsaw said. "Minimum."
Judge Foster Greer lived in a colonial-style house on Magnolia Drive. White columns, manicured lawn, the kind of house that screamed respectability. Coldwater and Chainsaw arrived at 4:15 p.m., knocked on the door. The judge answered in khakis and a polo shirt, reading glasses perched on his nose. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" "We need to talk about Randall Voss," Chainsaw said.
"And the executorship petition you approved in 4 days instead of 30."
Judge Greer's face went carefully neutral. "I don't discuss court matters with... with Hells Angels?" Coldwater finished. "We're not asking about court matters, Your Honor. We're asking about shortcuts. We're asking about why a man you've used as a funeral director three times in 10 years got an executorship approval in 4 days when state guidelines require 30."
"The family requested expedited processing." "What family?" Chainsaw asked.
"Mrs. Pruitt was dead. Mr. Pruitt, Hawthorne, never made that request. We've checked. So who requested it?"
Judge Greer's jaw tightened. "Randall Voss, acting as the family's representative." "Voss requested his own expedited approval." "That's not irregular. In cases where the deceased has no immediate family present to..." "Nell had a father," Coldwater interrupted.
"Hawthorne Pruitt. Alive. Capable. Never contacted. You approved Voss's executorship without confirming that the child's living parent had been notified or consulted." "I relied on Voss's representation that..."
"You relied on a man who'd done three funerals for your family. A man you trusted. A man you didn't question because questioning him would have been uncomfortable."
Judge Greer opened his mouth. Closed it. Chainsaw leaned forward.
"Here's what's going to happen, Judge. You're going to tell me everything. Every shortcut you approved. Every expedited filing. Every time Randall Voss walked into your office and you signed something without secondary review because he was a friend. And you're going to do it now on the record, or I make one call and the FBI is at your door asking why a sitting probate judge facilitated a child kidnapping scheme."
Judge Greer went white. "I didn't know," he said. "I swear to God, I didn't know what he was doing." "But you didn't check." "No." "How many times did you approve executorships for Voss?"
The judge sat down heavily in a chair by the door. "Seven. Over six years. I approved seven executorship petitions for Randall Voss." The number hit like a stone. "Names," Chainsaw said.
Judge Greer went inside, came back with a folder, handed it over. "These are the files. Every petition I approved. I kept copies because..." He stopped, swallowed.
"Because part of me wondered. Part of me knew something felt wrong. But I told myself Randall was trustworthy. I told myself I was just being paranoid." Chainsaw opened the folder. Scanned the names.
Eugenia Voss Halcourt. Eleanor Pritchard. Samuel Oaks. Margaret Dean. Robert Talmadge. Vivian Cross.
Nell Pruitt. Seven names. Seven people Randall Voss had positioned himself to control.
This is the part that made every man in that room feel something heavier than anger. Not the predator. The predator was easy to understand. A man who made a calculation, saw vulnerable people as dollar signs, and executed a plan. But Judge Foster Greer? He wasn't evil.
He was comfortable. He was a man who'd spent 22 years on the bench learning that the system worked best when you trusted the professionals in front of you. When you signed the right paperwork and moved the cases along and didn't ask uncomfortable questions that might make a colleague defensive. He'd convinced himself that speed equaled efficiency. That trust equaled competence. And now seven people were dead or missing because he'd chosen comfort over diligence.
At 5:30 p.m., a gray sedan pulled into the clubhouse parking lot. A woman stepped out. Mid-40s. Practical navy blazer. No makeup. The kind of tired that came from working a case too long with too few leads.
She walked to the clubhouse door. Knocked. Pitchfork answered. Looked her up and down. Didn't move to let her in.
"Special Agent Meredith Keane," the woman said. "FBI Financial Crimes Unit, Jackson Field Office. I'm told you have something relevant to an open federal investigation." Pitchfork crossed his arms. "Depends on what you're investigating." "Randall Eugene Voss, Delta Line Holdings LLC, estate fraud, possible elder abuse and child endangerment spanning 6 years across three counties."
Pitchfork looked back at Hawthorne. A decision was made without words. He stepped aside.
Agent Keane walked into the back room. Saw Chainsaw, Flintlock, Coldwater, Driftwood. Saw the monitor with financial records pulled up. Saw the folder from Judge Greer on the table. Hawthorne stood. Didn't extend his hand.
"How long has your office known about Randall Voss?" Agent Keane met his eyes.
"14 months. We've been building a financial case. Wire fraud, probate fraud. We had the money trail. We didn't have the victims." "14 months."
Hawthorne's voice was flat. "My daughter was in a warehouse for 49 days. You had 14 months."