Came Home From Deployment Early. Daughter Was Standing in a Hole. «Don’t Look In Other One!»
But Eric wasn’t bound by the same rules. He was a civilian now. A father protecting his daughter. And sometimes, justice couldn’t wait for the courts.
He pulled out his phone and called Derek.
«I need you to do something for me. It’s not legal.»
«I figured. What do you need?»
«Herman Savage. I need everything on him. Phone records, financial records, emails. Everything that proves what he did.»
«The FBI’s already getting that through warrants.»
«I don’t want to wait for warrants. I want it now.»
Silence on the other end. Then: «You know what you’re asking?»
«Yeah.»
«If we get caught…»
«We won’t. You taught me how to do this in Baghdad, remember? We’re just applying those skills here.»
Another pause. «When do you want to start?»
«Tonight.»
They met at Derek’s motel room with a laptop and equipment that definitely wasn’t civilian grade. Derek had connections from his army days—people who specialized in electronic intelligence.
«Herman’s security is decent but not great,» Derek said, typing. «Standard home Wi-Fi. Password protected. I can crack it remotely, but it’ll take a few hours.»
«Do it.»
«What about his phone?»
«Harder. If he’s smart, he uses encrypted messaging. But guys like him always think they’re untouchable. They get sloppy.»
While Derek worked, Eric researched. Herman Savage had been a judge for fifteen years. Before that, he was a prosecutor. Married twice, divorced twice. No kids. His house was a modest colonial in a nice neighborhood—not the kind of place you’d expect from someone who’d made three million dollars from child trafficking.
«He’s hiding the money somewhere,» Eric said. «Offshore accounts, probably. Caymans, Switzerland. Places the FBI can track, but it takes time.»
«We don’t have time.»
Derek looked at him. «What’s the plan here, Eric? Let’s say we get everything. What are you going to do with it?»
«Make sure he can’t escape justice. Make sure if the FBI case falls apart, he still goes down.»
«How?»
«I haven’t figured that part out yet.»
They worked until 3 a.m. By then, Derek had access to Herman’s home network, his email, and his cloud storage. What they found made Eric’s blood run cold.
Spreadsheets listing every child who’d gone through Myrtle’s program. Detailed notes about which ones were «problematic.» Invoices for «disposal services.» Emails discussing «inventory reduction» and minimizing exposure. These people had reduced children to line items in a ledger.
One email from Herman to Myrtle dated six months ago read: “The Chun girl is asking too many questions. Handle it.”
The reply from Myrtle: “Taken care of. No loose ends.”
Sarah Chun had died because she asked questions.
«Send all of this to me,» Eric said. «Encrypted. Multiple backups.»
«What are you going to do?»
«Insurance. If something happens to me, if the FBI case falls apart, if these people find a way to walk, this goes public. Every news outlet, every social media platform, every parent whose kid went through that program. I’ll make sure the whole world knows what they did.»
Derek nodded. «You’re playing a dangerous game.»
«They played a dangerous game with kids’ lives. Now it’s my turn.»
Over the next week, Eric built his case—not for a court, but for the court of public opinion. He contacted journalists, gave them background on the story without revealing his illegal evidence gathering. He connected with parents whose kids had gone through the program. He documented everything.
Emma was getting better slowly. Therapy helped. She could talk about what happened without crying now, and the nightmares were less frequent. But she still flinched at unexpected noises, and she refused to be alone in a room.
«She’ll heal,» the therapist said. «But it’ll take time. And she’ll always have scars.»
Eric knew about scars. He had plenty from his army service—the visible ones from shrapnel and bullets, and the invisible ones from watching friends die. You didn’t get over trauma; you learned to live with it. But he’d be damned if Emma had to live with it while the people responsible walked free.
The break in the case came from an unexpected source. One of the families Brenda had referred reached out to Eric directly. Ralph Terrell, a single father whose son had gone through Myrtle’s program two years ago.
«My boy came back changed,» Ralph said over coffee. «Quiet. Scared. He won’t talk about what happened. But he has nightmares. Screams about holes in graves. I didn’t know what it meant until I saw the news.»
«Did you know what the program was before you sent him?»
Ralph looked ashamed. «I knew it was harsh. Your wife said it was tough love, that my son needed discipline. She showed me testimonials from other parents saying their kids came back better. I was desperate. Noah was acting out after his mother died, and I didn’t know how to help him.»
«Did you pay Myrtle directly?»
«No. I paid a consulting firm. Behavioral Solutions LLC. They handled all the paperwork.»
Eric’s pulse quickened. That was the name Derek had found. The firm with no real office, no employees, just a P.O. box and bank account.
«Do you still have the paperwork?»
«Yeah. Why?»
«Because I think that firm is the key to everything.»
He was right. With Ralph’s documentation, they traced Behavioral Solutions LLC to a lawyer in Pittsburgh—a high-powered guy who specialized in setting up shell corporations for wealthy clients. The lawyer, when confronted by the FBI, claimed attorney-client privilege.
But Eric had another approach. He showed up at the lawyer’s office unannounced. Leon Donahue, the nameplate read. Eric walked past the secretary and into Donahue’s office.
«Excuse me, you can’t—» The secretary protested.
«It’s fine,» Eric said, closing the door behind him.
Donahue was a sleek man in an expensive suit, mid-fifties, with the kind of tan that came from ski trips and golf courses. He looked up, annoyed. «Who are you?»
«Eric McKenzie. My daughter was tortured by one of your clients. You set up the financial structure that let them hide millions of dollars from child trafficking.»
Donahue’s expression went carefully neutral. «I don’t know what you’re talking about.»
Eric pulled out a folder and dropped it on the desk. «Behavioral Solutions LLC. New Beginnings Holdings. Three other shell companies in the Caymans. You created them all for Myrtle Savage and Herman Savage. You helped them launder money from abusing and killing kids.»
«I create legal corporate structures for clients. What they do with those structures isn’t my responsibility.»
«But you knew. You had to know. Nobody sets up that many shell companies for a small-time religious retreat center unless they’re hiding something.»
Donahue leaned back. «Even if that were true, and I’m not saying it is, attorney-client privilege protects my communications with clients.»
«It doesn’t protect you from being an accessory to murder.»
«I haven’t murdered anyone.»
«No. You just made it possible for others to do it and get away with it. For a fee.» Eric leaned forward. «How much did they pay you? Ten percent? Twenty? How much is a dead kid worth to you?»
«Get out of my office. Or I’ll call security.»
«The FBI is going to tear apart your practice. Every client. Every account. Every document. And when they’re done, you’re going to prison right alongside the Savages.»
«I doubt that. I have the best lawyers in the state.»
Eric smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. «You know what’s funny? I found something interesting while researching you. Your son. Leon Donahue Jr. Fifteen years old. Troubled kid, from what I hear. Been in and out of therapy. Some minor legal issues.»
Donahue’s face went pale. «Don’t you dare.»
«I’m not threatening your son. I’m just saying, you helped Myrtle Savage hide the fact that she was torturing troubled kids. Your son is a troubled kid. How would you feel if someone sent him to a place like that? If he ended up in a hole in the ground, crying for his daddy, wondering why you let it happen?»
«You son of a…»
«Think about it. Then think about whether protecting your clients is worth protecting your own son from the same fate. Because people like Myrtle don’t stop. They just find new victims.»
Eric stood up. «The FBI will be here tomorrow with warrants. You can cooperate and maybe keep your law license. Or you can fight it and lose everything. Your choice.»
He left Donahue sitting there, shaking.
The next day, Donahue called the FBI. He wanted to make a deal. Within 48 hours, the whole financial structure unraveled. Donahue provided documents showing how the money flowed. Parents paid Behavioral Solutions, which took a cut and passed the rest to New Beginnings Holdings, which distributed to Myrtle, Herman, and Christina.
There were also payments to two other people: a local sheriff’s deputy and a state child services supervisor. The deputy, a man named Kent Booker, had been responding to complaints about Myrtle’s property for years. He’d always filed reports saying there was no evidence of wrongdoing. The supervisor, Christy North, had been the one who closed investigations before they could go anywhere.
The FBI arrested all of them in coordinated raids. Eric watched the news coverage with Emma on his lap.
«That’s Grandma,» Emma said, pointing at footage of Myrtle being led into a courthouse in handcuffs.
«Yeah, baby.»
«She looks smaller on TV.»
«Evil people always do when they’re caught.»
The trial wouldn’t happen for months, but the media coverage was immediate and brutal. Every news outlet ran stories about the «torture camp» and the «chamber of horrors» in the Pennsylvania mountains. Families of the victims were interviewed. The bodies of the four murdered children were given proper burials.
Brenda’s face was plastered across headlines: “Mother Who Sold Children for Profit.” She tried to claim she was a victim too, that Myrtle had manipulated her, but the evidence was too damning. The FBI had recordings of her conversations with parents, pitching them on the program, describing how effective it was, never mentioning the abuse.
Eric filed for divorce and emergency custody. The hearing was brief. Margaret presented evidence of Brenda’s involvement in the trafficking ring, her admission of child endangerment, and Emma’s statement that she didn’t want to see her mother.
The judge—not Herman Savage, who’d been suspended pending his own trial—granted Eric full custody with no visitation for Brenda.
«Mrs. McKenzie has shown a pattern of prioritizing money over her child’s safety,» the judge said. «Until she can demonstrate rehabilitation and remorse, she poses a danger to the minor child.»
Brenda didn’t fight it. She was too busy negotiating her own plea deal: five years in federal prison in exchange for testifying against Herman and the others.
But Eric wasn’t satisfied. Yes, they were all going to prison. Yes, justice was being served. But it wasn’t enough. These people had destroyed lives, had murdered children, had made Emma stand in a hole crying for her daddy. They needed to suffer the way their victims had suffered.
So Eric started planning. Not a physical attack—he wasn’t going to throw away his freedom and leave Emma without a father—but there were other ways to make people suffer. Ways to ensure they lost everything, not just their freedom.
He started with Herman Savage. The judge’s trial was set for three months out. He’d been released on bail—a million dollars, which he’d paid easily. He was living in his house, wearing an ankle monitor, pretending to be confident.
Eric started following him. Not obviously; he knew how to do surveillance from his army days. He learned Herman’s routine: grocery store on Tuesdays, lunch at the same restaurant every Thursday, golf on Saturday mornings.
And he noticed something interesting. Herman had visitors. Late at night, people would come to his house. They’d park down the street and walk up, staying for twenty minutes or an hour, then leaving.
Eric started photographing them, running their plates, building a network. One of them was a state senator. Another was a CEO of a pharmaceutical company. A third was a local businessman who owned half the real estate in town.
What connected them? Eric dug deeper and found the answer. They’d all sent their kids to Myrtle’s program. All of them had paid premium prices—$50,000 or more. All of them had gotten their kids back «fixed.»
But these weren’t troubled kids. These were kids who’d discovered their parents’ secrets. Kids who’d found evidence of affairs, embezzlement, abuse. Kids who’d threatened to tell. Myrtle’s program wasn’t just about discipline; it was about breaking children who knew too much.
Eric felt sick. This was bigger than he’d thought. It wasn’t just child abuse; it was organized criminal conspiracy to silence witnesses. And Herman was at the center of it.
He needed proof. Real, admissible proof that would stand up in court. So he did something he’d never thought he’d do. He became the thing he’d fought against his entire military career: he broke into Herman’s house.
It wasn’t hard. Herman’s security was basic, designed to stop opportunistic burglars, not someone with military training. Eric waited until Herman was at his Thursday lunch, disabled the alarm, and went in through a basement window. He had thirty minutes.
He used them well. Herman kept files in his home office—physical files, the old-fashioned kind that couldn’t be hacked. Eric photographed everything: correspondence with the parents, contracts, documentation of what the kids had known and how the program had handled them.
One file was labeled “Permanent Solutions.” Inside were death certificates for three children, all ruled accidents or suicides. All kids who’d been through the program. All kids whose parents were in those late-night meetings.
Eric felt his hands shake as he photographed them. These people had murdered their own children to keep secrets.
He found one more thing. A ledger showing payments from Herman to local media. Payments to kill stories. Payments to reporters to bury information. Payments to keep the whole operation quiet.
Eric finished with five minutes to spare. He reset everything exactly as he’d found it, slipped out the window, and drove away. That night, he made copies of everything. He sent encrypted files to three different people: Derek, Tony Pena, and Agent Morrison at the FBI.
The note said: “If anything happens to me, release this to every news outlet in the country.”
Then he went home and held Emma while she slept, thinking about how close he’d come to losing her. How many other parents had lost their children to these monsters.
The next day, he got a call from an unknown number. «Mr. McKenzie, this is Salvatore Bryant. I represent Herman Savage. My client would like to speak with you.»
«Tell your client to go to hell.»
«Mr. McKenzie, please. This isn’t a threat. My client wants to apologize. To explain his side of things. He’s prepared to offer a settlement in exchange for—»
«There’s no settlement. Your client is going to prison for the rest of his life.»
«If you’d just listen…»
Eric hung up. Ten minutes later, his phone rang again. A different number.
«Mr. McKenzie?» A woman’s voice, smooth and professional. «My name is Ingrid Francis. I’m calling on behalf of a group of concerned citizens who would like to resolve this matter quietly. We’re prepared to offer you five million dollars in exchange for your cooperation in—»
«Who are you?»
«I represent the families of several children who attended Ms. Savage’s program. They’re very sorry for what happened to your daughter. They want to make amends.»
«By paying me to shut up?»
«By compensating you for your trauma and ensuring this matter is resolved in a way that doesn’t harm innocent people.»
«Innocent people? Your clients murdered their own kids.»
«That’s a serious allegation without proof. And making such accusations publicly could be considered defamation.»
Eric laughed. «Are you seriously threatening to sue me for defamation? After what you people did?»
«We’re offering you a generous settlement, Mr. McKenzie. I suggest you think carefully before refusing.»
«I don’t need to think. The answer is no. Your clients are going to be exposed. Every single one of them. And when I’m done, everyone will know what they did.»
He hung up and immediately called Morrison.
«They just tried to buy me off. Five million dollars.»
«Who did?»
«Someone named Ingrid Francis. Said she represents families of kids who went through the program. They want me to keep quiet about what I found.»
Morrison was quiet for a moment. «Eric, what exactly did you find?»
«I can’t tell you that. Not officially. But hypothetically… if someone had evidence that Herman’s clients murdered their own children to keep them quiet about crimes, what would the FBI do with that information?»
«Hypothetically, we’d need that evidence to prosecute. And if that evidence was obtained illegally, then it wouldn’t be admissible in court. But it might point us toward legal ways to obtain the same information.»
«Check Herman’s home office. There’s a file cabinet, bottom drawer, labeled ‘Permanent Solutions.’ You might find something interesting.»
«We need a warrant for that.»
«Then get one. I’m sure you can find probable cause. Just get the warrant, Morrison, before someone makes that file disappear.»
