CHAPTER 87

At the prison, we didn't have any idea what had happened at the Wultz house. I was on my rounds and passed Leewood's cell at 4:42 a.m., and spotted him on the floor of his cell, struggling to breathe. At that time, his skin had turned blue, and he had defecated himself. I immediately called it in, and we moved him into the med bay, who then transferred him to hospice.

—Lawrence Booth, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

The word spread through the neighborhood like a virus, one initiated and fed by Julie Scott, who didn't wait until dawn to start calling her friends. By the time the sun cleared the tree line, there was a crowd of neighbors huddled in our cul-de-sac, their invasion held at bay by a line of officers and sawhorse barricades.

It was the most excitement Brighton Estates had ever seen, and the rumors were swirling, with everything from a heart attack to a sex party gone wrong to a cannibalistic ritual. The preteens were still asleep, their slumber at risk of interruption by Julie Scott, who had opened the door to their room, peered in, then loudly shut it at regular intervals over the last three hours.

Bridget's parents were now in the Scotts' living room, their attorneys on speakerphone, possible legal strategies being discussed and initial filings being prepared. Everyone was a possible defendant, including the Scotts, though they had held off that discussion until the couple had gone outside to mingle with the growing crowd.

Bill was outlining the entire thing in his mind as a novel and envisioning this as the launchpad for his writing career. This had big book deal written all over it, especially if he could dress up the facts a little bit. Sophie, for example, should be pregnant, and maybe the nanny and Perla had been engaged in a salacious affair, one that Sophie had discovered. Grant was the guilty party, clearly, and had probably been embezzling funds from his employer while hiding a gambling problem and a growing debt with some unforgiving Italians. It would come out in hardback, and a book tour would be needed, along with a snazzy headshot for the back cover. Maybe he should wear the fedora that he'd bought at that Panama hat store in Key West, a purchase Julie had protested over but would finally see the value of now.

If any neighbors had been unaware of Grant Wultz's tragic family history prior to this morning, they had since been briefed in full, and theories spread among the early-morning dog walkers and lookie-loos. Phones were pulled out and Wikipedia articles read aloud as facts about the Folcrum Party murder were shared and then hypothesized about. It didn't take long for connections to be made between last night's event and Jenny Folcrum's twelfth-birthday party, and the excitement rose to a new fervor.

This was almost better than a cannibal ritual or sex party. A tie to one of the most famous murders in history, happening right here inside their jeweled enclave.

Another hour passed, and the first of the media trucks arrived at the neighborhood's guard gate, where their access was blocked. They parked on the road's shoulder, one stacking beside another, until the entire entrance road was paved in them. Like a sea of locusts, drones popped into the air above the news vans and then buzzed over the gates and toward the Wultz home.