Chapter 3 - The Paperwork Of Evil
Rain was still hammering against the stone facade of the Financial District when William’s SUV pulled into the alley behind Arthur Pendelton’s office building at 4:15 AM.
Bear forced the rear service lock with a crowbar. They took the service stairs up to the fourth floor, avoiding the lobby cameras.
Arthur Pendelton was working late—or rather, burning documents. The faint smell of scorched paper drifted into the hallway beneath his door.
Bear kicked the door off its frame.
The heavy oak panel crashed onto the Persian rug. Pendelton, a fat man in his fifties with thinning hair and a grease-stained collar, shrieked, dropping a stack of Manila folders into a steel wastebasket.
Before he could reach the desk drawer where his snub-nosed revolver lay, Bear crossed the room, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him face-first against the mahogany desk.
William walked in slowly, closing the door behind him. He stepped over the broken frame, pulled out a leather chair, and sat down calmly.
“William... Mr. Castellano,” Pendelton gasped, his eyes bulging against Bear’s grip. “This is a burglary! I have connections with the District Attorney!”
“I know your connections, Arthur,” William said softly. He pulled out the wet transfer paper and laid it flat over Pendelton’s face. “Do you recognize this seal?”
Pendelton whimpered as Bear lifted his head slightly. The attorney’s eyes darted across the text. “I... I prepare hundreds of custody documents a year. Private arrangements between consenting adults—”
“She’s eight years old,” William interrupted. His tone was deceptively quiet, carrying a lethal weight that made the air in the office feel ten degrees colder. “Her mother was paid fifty thousand dollars in cash and wire transfers. Tell me about Margaret Whitmore.”
Pendelton went pale. “I can’t. Attorney-client privilege—”
Bear applied pressure to the base of Pendelton’s thumb. A sharp CRACK echoed through the room, followed by the attorney’s shrill scream.
“Attorney-client privilege doesn't apply to human trafficking, Arthur,” William remarked, leaning forward. “Tell me about the girl before Diana.”
Pendelton was sobbing now, sweat washing grease down his neck. “I don't know her name! I swear to God! Six months ago, Margaret Whitmore came to me. She said she needed an immediate, private placement. No state agencies, no background checks. She offered two hundred thousand dollars for a healthy child with no living father.”
“Where did you find the first girl?” William asked.
“A runaway from Milwaukee,” Pendelton babbled. “Her mother was an addict. We paid her seventy thousand. Margaret took the child to her estate in Lake Forest.”
“And what happened to her?”
“I don't know!” Pendelton wept. “Two months ago, Margaret called me in a panic. She said the child had... experienced a severe medical collapse. She paid a private crematory in Gary, Indiana, fifty grand to dispose of the body without an autopsy.”
William felt a sickening chill settle in his chest. “Why did she buy Diana?”
“Because Margaret’s biological son—Julian Whitmore—has a rare autoimmune disease,” Pendelton blurted out, breaking down completely. “His bone marrow is failing! He needs continuous, fresh bone marrow extractions and blood transfusions from a matched pediatric donor to survive until he’s old enough for an experimental procedure!”
William sat frozen as the horror of the realization settled over him.
The Whitmores weren't adopting children to raise them. They were buying human livestock—living, breathing organ and marrow farms to harvest in secret in their private estate, discarding them when their small bodies finally gave out under the agony of repeated, illegal medical extractions.
Diana’s words echoed in William’s mind: “She said this time, I needed to last longer.”
William slowly stood up. He walked over to the steel wastebasket where Pendelton had been burning files. He used the tip of his shoe to overturn it, revealing half-charred documents bearing medical charts, blood typing results, and financial receipts signed by Richard Whitmore.
“Bear,” William said calmly.
“Yes, boss?”
“Take the files. Put Pendelton in the trunk.”
May you like
Pendelton shrieked in terror. “Where are you taking me?! You can’t do this!”
William looked down at the pathetic lawyer with utter, unadulterated disgust. “You sold two children to be carved up alive in a Lake Forest mansion, Arthur. You’re going to help me tear that family down to the ash.”
