Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  Thatcher started to take a sip of coffee, then set the cup down. “Since Monday, we’ve investigated three deaths by a serial killer. In case you haven’t noticed, our best suspect’s in jail with an alibi. Is the motivation money, power, or revenge?”

  “A solid profile would be good, but I know there isn’t one. We take what we know and do comparisons.” She turned to her legal pad, recalling a report conducted by the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. “The NCAVC is on this, but it’s our job as investigators to feed them information.”

  “Bethany, slow down the analytics for a moment. HPD and the FBI are working every angle on these killings, and daily briefings are there for everyone’s benefit. Our killer doesn’t have to be a child-abused, chemically imbalanced loner who’s looking for blood. He fits into society and may have a family and friends. The community consider themselves lucky to have him a part of great things. It goes deeper than a spreadsheet.”

  “I’ve studied the reports.” Annoyance clicked at her nerves. “We haven’t done the comparisons with similar crimes around the country that are unsolved.”

  “Our killer could decide today he’s done with his game. With the lack of evidence to tie the crimes together, it could very well happen. Motivation that results in bizarre behavior.”

  “Okay, I get it. I want evidence and you want to understand why he acts.”

  “Wrong. We need to bring Scorpion down. In most homicides, the victims have a relationship to the offender.” He sighed. “I’m frustrated.”

  “Me too.”

  “The boot print I found tonight matches up with the other one. We’re looking at a small man, possible Asian or Hispanic or a teen.” He snapped his fingers. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.”

  “Thatcher, you’re punchy. Not making much sense.”

  “Hear me out. We have a wealthy older woman, a middle-aged professional, and a homeless man. Different cultures who were targeted by one killer, a scorpion. He planned their murders, which means it’s what they represent that got them killed. We need to widen our investigation beyond the past few months, dig into our victims’ backgrounds and those close to them. Find out who was imprisoned with Ansel Spree. How long had he been homeless? Where did Alicia work before Danford? What did Ruth Caswell do when she was healthy? Every list has potential. We search for the one common factor that got them all killed the same way.”

  She stared into his face, admiring his commitment. “We’ve taken a magnifying glass to reports, looking for something that either we’re blind to or it isn’t there.” She folded the legal pad to a clean page. “Earlier you sent a request to expedite the ballistics report. We’ve confirmed the victims were not gun owners, except for Paul Javon’s .22, which we’ve verified was in a repair shop. So you give me what you need for the FIG, and I’ll record it.”

  “With a little grace, we could have something substantial in a few hours.”

  He said grace, not luck. She was too wound up to analyze it.

  For the next two hours, the line to the FIG burned hot with requests.

  “Houston has the only killer who uses a scorpion signature.” Bethany leaned her head back and closed her eyes while a dull pain beat against her temples. “Maybe we should look at the habits of a scorpion.” She caught herself. “I’m beginning to sound like you.”

  “That’s not a bad thing. Our killer might have taken the persona of a predator. Those findings could be instrumental in identifying our killer.”

  “As in studying their habits?” She’d lost it for sure, but she had to do something or fall asleep. She stood and googled the creature on his computer and read a few paragraphs. “I’ll share this with you in a second—just let me wrap my brain around the information first.”

  “We kids with no siblings have problems with patience, especially when you’re using my computer.”

  “Get over it, Thatcher.” She smirked. “Okay, scorpions have been around for thousands of years and are virtually indestructible, as in survivors. In our case, we have a predator.”

  “A given. What else?”

  “About fifteen hundred species, and twenty-five of them have venom strong enough to kill a person.” She took a sip of coffee—bad stuff, tasted like dirt.

  He chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Watching you in action. Your processing is fascinating.”

  She ignored him. “We already know where your gut-instinct methods can take you.”

  “Ouch. Thanks for saving my hide. The kiss was good too.”

  “Very funny. We have three murders and an upset SSA.” She continued to read. “Scorpions are nocturnal. Interesting info. Listen to this—they basically eat insects, the kind humans don’t value. The larger ones eat smaller scorpions.”

  “Scorpion views his victims as useless, dispensable. Obvious in our case.”

  “They have poor eyesight. Some species have the ability to slow down their metabolism if they can’t find anything to eat.”

  He stretched neck muscles. “Sounds like the perfect time to disable them.”

  She’d want to think about this one. “Not really. They can snap to the hunt if lunch walks by. Here’s an unusual fact. Stick a scorpion under an ultraviolet light, and it’s fluorescent.”

  “Anything else?” he said.

  She blinked, her eyes stinging as though sand had taken residence. “They need loose soil to exist.” She read further. “Freeze one overnight and watch it thaw and come to life the next day. And they’re difficult to control with insecticides. Now I’m curious about the types in Texas.”

  He jotted a few notes. “Am I rubbing off on you? This is sort of out there in the investigation.”

  “Theoretically, no. Do you want to hear about the Texas varieties?”

  He laughed. “Go ahead.”

  “Not much info here. The striped bark scorpion is the most common and lives in the hill country. Their venom isn’t strong enough to kill unless the person has an allergic reaction or goes into anaphylactic shock.” She held her Styrofoam cup and stared across the cubicle into the hallway while her mind searched for meaning. “We’re working on pure exhaustion here, but you’re taking notes. What do you have?”

  He picked up his pad of paper. “Our species has no problem eliminating his victims. I don’t think bad eyesight applies.” He tapped his finger on the desktop.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m looking at the ability to slow his metabolism. For all practical purposes, the scorpion looks lazy, but he’s using a self-preservation method that works. Could say he has a good cover. No one suspects him as long as he stays hidden.”

  “That’s true of most serial killers. Thatcher, have we lost it?” She glanced at the traits. “The one thing scorpions do for us is eat insects we deem useless or a nuisance. Including their own.”

  “Back to a profile—the victims don’t have to fit into anything logical as long as it makes sense to Scorpion. In his world, our three victims have no value to him alive.”

  “We have a little time before our meeting with SSA Preston. Should we go home and shower so something besides our investigation doesn’t stink?” she said.

  “Good idea. Meet here at seven thirty?”

  “Yes, and pray for a solid theory.”

  Her cell buzzed with a text. She knew the sender before looking.

  Spree could have been u or Graves.

  7:25 A.M. FRIDAY

  Thatcher longed to blow the cobwebs out of his brain and shine light into the corners of the city to find Scorpion. Media demanded answers about the murders, accusing the FBI and HPD of not doing their jobs.

  As he’d often contemplated during the past months, where did God fit in the evil of this world? Why didn’t He stop the useless victimizing? The answers were there, and someday he’d find them. For now he asked for wisdom and guidance.

  Bethany stood in the doorway of his cubicle and handed him a Starbucks.
“Black like the dead of night,” she said, echoing a remark he’d made in the wee hours of the morning.

  “Thanks. Are you wide-awake?”

  The circles under her pretty eyes answered for her. “Do you want the good news first or the bad news?”

  A groan spread through him. “No more deaths, right?”

  “No.”

  “Then bring on the good.” He took the coffee. “Thanks. I know what it is—you put a tracer on your brother’s texts.”

  She glanced down, not like Bethany. “Thatcher, when this is over, I’ll handle the business with Lucas. Until then, I’ll tolerate his trash.”

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  Her impersonal expression told him exactly what he wanted to know. How would Bethany feel if she knew how well he read her?

  “He’s all mouth,” she said.

  “Not from his criminal history. Be careful and contact me immediately if trouble escalates.”

  Her eyes softened the way they had when he showed her the snacks in his loaner car. “I’ll behave. I passed SSA Preston in the hall. He doesn’t want a briefing this morning, but he requested a detailed report of last night, which we have. Oh, he knew we pulled an all-nighter.”

  “The bad news?”

  She held up her phone. “Someone forwarded me a note posted on the Chronicle’s website. No sender. The title is ‘Who’s Minding Houston’s FBI?’

  “A serial murderer walks the streets of our city claiming three known victims. Every citizen is afraid and should be. Neither HPD nor the FBI have an arrest or a single clue. I don’t blame our men in blue. They do their best while the FBI has two of the most inept agents on the case. Special Agent Thatcher Graves has worked violent crime long enough to have ended these killings on day one. Special Agent Bethany Sanchez is a reject from the civil rights division. Guess they had to put her somewhere. What a pathetic excuse representing Houston’s elite bureau.”

  She looked up as though to gauge his reaction.

  “Finish it.”

  She resumed reading.

  “Our tax dollars pay for this? I have a few more conclusions about these incompetent agents. In point, who is responsible for the lack of law enforcement? Another note on Agent Graves—he’s trigger-happy. Take a look at the bodies in his rearview mirror. He’s a legal gunman, and Sanchez got her training on the northeast side of town. Wouldn’t want either of them watching my back. Has anyone done the math? As in ‘on the take’? Graves and Sanchez deserve whatever happens to them while a serial killer preys on the innocent of our city. Houston’s FBI SSA Preston needs a replacement. He might be their poster child for supervision, but he has the intelligence of a gorilla. My advice? If you’re in need of help, don’t contact the FBI. Buy a gun. When are the citizens of our city going to take a stand and take back our city?”

  “Good morning, Houston,” Thatcher said.

  “Imbécil.”

  “Something stronger than moron just crossed my mind.”

  “Mine too, but I try not to use the language. Who else got this fabrication other than the media?”

  “The whole world. I’ll put a tracer on it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  9:05 A.M. FRIDAY

  Bethany and Thatcher entered the upscale dry cleaner’s near the Galleria, the one Ansel Spree had robbed. The business had a plush lounge area in warm brown tones, complete with a coffee bar, bottled water, and fresh fruit. Those who frequented the establishment had the income to pay a substantial price for services and in turn expect preferential treatment. Bethany desperately wanted to give SSA Preston and the community something solid from this interview. She despised the editorial letter casting doubt on the FBI’s reputation.

  Jafar Siddiqui, a gray-haired man of Middle Eastern descent, greeted them as the owner of the dry cleaner’s.

  Thatcher introduced himself and Bethany, and the two displayed their badges. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ansel Spree,” he said.

  Siddiqui stiffened. “He robbed me a few years ago and went to prison.”

  “Are you aware he’s dead, a probable victim of a serial killer?”

  “Yes, sir.” He rubbed his forehead. “What does his death have to do with me?”

  Thatcher showed him the photos of Ruth Caswell and Alicia Javon. “Are either of these women familiar?”

  The man examined both pics, then asked their names and typed them into his computer. “I don’t recognize them, and neither woman is in our client history.” He swallowed hard. “No one deserves to die at the hands of a killer.”

  “We agree, sir.” Thatcher dropped his phone into his jacket pocket. “Can you tell us what transpired at the time of the robbery?”

  Alarm flashed across his face. “It’s all in the court records.”

  Bethany recalled Thatcher’s theory on body language. The man was either nervous or hiding something.

  “If you don’t mind, we’d like to hear it from you,” Thatcher said.

  “Is there a problem? I’m a law-abiding man. Pay my taxes. And this Scorpion . . . will he come after my family?”

  Bethany complimented the decor in an effort to calm the man. Did he think he was a suspect in the murder case? “This is not about you, sir. We’re seeking additional information about Ansel Spree. We have no family for him. Perhaps something you remember will help our investigation.”

  He relaxed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been reading about the killings, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. My memory isn’t as accurate as when the robbery occurred.”

  Bethany smiled and caught Thatcher’s nod to continue the questioning. “We understand. According to your testimony, approximately four years ago Ansel Spree robbed you at gunpoint. The unusual aspect is you stated Mr. Spree apologized for the crime.”

  “A peculiar thing,” Siddiqui said. “While he waved a gun in my face, he told me he didn’t want to take my money, but he had no choice.”

  “Did you ask why?” she said.

  “No. My wife and granddaughter were with me, and I was concerned for them. Afraid for myself too. I believe the court report said Mr. Spree wished there’d been another way.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” she said.

  He slowly shook his head. “Mr. Spree came to see me about two months ago. Apologized and claimed he’d never break the law again. Brought my wife flowers. Very interesting. Never heard from him again until I read about his murder this morning.”

  Bethany pulled out her business card. “If anything else comes to mind, would you please contact our office?”

  The man’s fingers trembled as he reached for the card.

  Bethany met his gaze. “What are you not telling us? We want to help.”

  He gripped the counter. “Mr. Spree said something else when he apologized and brought the flowers.” He stared at the counter, then regained eye contact. “I should have asked him what he meant. Maybe I could have prevented his death.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to make up for the wrongs before he was killed. He said he’d rather die than rob anyone else.”

  Bethany didn’t believe Spree’s remark was flippant. “Thank you,” she said. “We appreciate your time.”

  “Do you think my family needs to take precautions?”

  Thatcher stepped forward. “Sir, we see no reason for you and your family to be afraid. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Once in Thatcher’s loaner car, Bethany studied the dry cleaner’s storefront. “If Spree knew he was about to be killed, did the other victims?”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Thatcher started the engine. “I want a background on Jafar Siddiqui.”

  “Why? He repeated exactly what was in the original report. It’s not necessary.”

  “Maybe in your opinion.”

  She bit back a retort. “What are you thinking?”

  “How many violent crimes have you solved?”

  She’d angered him again. �
��None, and I’m sorry.” She pulled out her phone and typed in the request.

  Thatcher drove toward the office. Fifteen minutes later, the FIG responded to both phones.

  “This is rich,” she said. “The week after Ansel Spree was sentenced for the robbery, Jafar Siddiqui was investigated for money laundering in connection with a terrorist group in Pakistan. He was later cleared for lack of evidence.”

  “What about his family? Shouldn’t take long to have the FIG get back with us. Would you send them the request?”

  “This has nothing to do with the Caswell or Javon cases,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  She obeyed but failed to understand his reasoning. By the time they reached the office parking lot, they had the report on Siddiqui’s family. His brother had fled the country when Jafar fell under investigation. The case had been reopened.

  “Ansel might have stumbled onto more than a few dollars out of Siddiqui’s money drawer,” Thatcher said. “I’m staying on this.”

  “There’s no remote connection between a Pakistani terrorist group and Scorpion.”

  “In your opinion.”

  She chose to say nothing.

  CHAPTER 25

  1:05 P.M. FRIDAY

  Thatcher had the virus called ineffectual. Talking heads were all over the media with their profile of Scorpion, but these so-called professionals were nothing more than reporters attempting to gain recognition. The editorial letter from earlier went viral, like someone had opened a scab on every FBI agent in the city.

  Law enforcement sought a small man. He could have faced a stigma because of his size and not feel like a real man. By breaking the rules of society, killing could offer him a sense of power and control.

  Thatcher’s stomach had rumbled since midmorning, and ignoring it didn’t make the pangs disappear. Bethany had to be hungry too and just as exhausted. He found her at the squad board, arms crossed over her tiny frame as she studied the victims’ faces.