“What about where they live? Go to church? School? Where their wives work? Truly random victims are rare. Men as victims of a serial killer are rare. Something connects them, maybe even a location where the killer picked up their scent. Or the killer knows all these victims and is killing them in an act of retribution.”
“I base my conclusions on evidence, little lady. Facts.”
She didn’t comment; she wasn’t going to take the bait.
He continued. “They all live in different areas. James upper middle class in Olmos Park, Standish barely holding on to his double-wide on a couple acres southwest of the city. Garcia here lives on some acres in Bulverde, about five, six miles up the road. Cheaper to live up there and find some land for elbow room.”
“So he was on his way home.”
Walker nodded. “He left his restaurant at eleven thirty last night. His wife was asleep—woke up at three thirty and realized he wasn’t home. His body was found just after seven this morning by a park patrol officer.”
She did a mental calculation. “It would take what, thirty, thirty-five minutes at night to get from downtown to Bulverde?”
“Thereabouts.”
“These murders seem personal to me.”
“Personal?”
“Why focus on the hands? Why beat the victim with a blunt object then shoot him? Why not simply shoot him in his car? Did the killer want information? But if the victims were interrogated, the killer wouldn’t use duct tape on their mouths. Or did he beat the victims out of rage? Yet—there’s no rage here. Not uncontrolled rage, at any rate. It was … methodical. Planned.”
“Beating a guy to a pulp tells me there is plenty of rage in this killer.”
“But they weren’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Beaten to a pulp. The damage to their hands was extensive, but very specific. Focused.”
Lucy was onto something, though she didn’t know exactly where she was going with it. “I read the autopsy reports, but I want to talk to the ME for some clarification. The first victim was hit from behind, but the second victim was not. It’s possible that one or more blows to the groin could have come from behind. It would definitely stun the victim, send him stumbling forward or to his knees. All three victims have electric burns to their shirt, indicating that at some point the killer used a close-contact device, likely a Taser without a cartridge in stun mode, either to hurt them—as part of his routine—or because the victim was fighting back. Only the first victim had clear defensive wounds on his forearms. Maybe the victim grabbed the killer and the stun gun was used to make him let go. But that wouldn’t completely immobilize someone. As soon as the charge is extinguished, he can shake it off—especially, I’d think, if his adrenaline is pumping from the attack. Might think he’s being carjacked or robbed, or maybe he knows the killer and suspects he’s going to be killed. He’s going to try to crawl away or fight back.”
“So the killer hits him in the groin. I can tell you that would incapacitate any man, with enough force.”
“And the first thing you would do is bring your hands down to protect yourself—unless they were restrained.”
“If the killer hit the victims in the groin first. There was no duct-tape residue on the hands or wrists. Maybe our victim is trying to protect his privates and the killer smashes his hands instead, making this more sex-related than we think.”
“We need to talk to Ash—he can look closer at the clothing. Maybe the wrists were bound over their shirts. Something to keep the hands on the ground—there was evidence of dirt and rocks embedded in the skin. The restraint wouldn’t even need to be that secure—the killer didn’t keep them alive long. Less than five minutes between first blow and the gunshot to the face. Or the first hit was to the groin, the victim reacted by protecting himself with his hands as you said, and the killer continued to attack that area, shattering the hands. But I would have to study the autopsy report in greater detail, because I would expect to find more damage to the surrounding area.” She wanted to look at the photos, talk with Julie Peters the assistant ME, and run through some scenarios.
“Well, now, your theory makes sense, but that still doesn’t tell us anything about these victims or the killer.” He paused. “Or killers. Perhaps one guy held him down.”
She nodded. “It’s certainly possible. But this crime tells us everything about the killer.”
“Well, unless you know his name, it doesn’t. Guess your crystal ball didn’t tell you that.”
“Walker,” she said as calmly as she could, “I am doing my best here to work with you, but this animosity has got to stop. I’m a good cop, and I read your service record—I know you’re a good cop, too. You said you were a man of your word and would give me a real chance—so please start now.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. What now?”
“Talk to Garcia’s widow, go back to the other two widows and re-interview now that we have more information. Ask the lab to reinspect clothing and any trace evidence. But something else is bugging me, and it slipped away.” Likely because she was spending all her time battling this cop.
“Well, if the thing that’s bugging you is bugging me, then we’re on the same page.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did the victims stop? There was nothing mechanically wrong with their vehicles. They all pulled over right on the road—at least the first two—and this park is just off the road. And the victims all had the driver’s-side window rolled down.”
The blood drained from her face. “You’re thinking a cop.”
His face hardened. “Yes, I am, Agent Kincaid. But for now I’d like to keep this between you and me.”
A cop. It made sense. Drivers would turn to the side of the road, or into a parking lot, if they were being pulled over.
She hoped and prayed that they were wrong.
“Maybe,” she said slowly, “it’s someone impersonating a cop. Or it’s a driver who flagged them down.”
“May just be that,” Walker said. “But we have to look at the evidence wherever it takes us, and right now I don’t like where it’s leading.”
“Still,” Lucy said, “if it is a cop or someone with an official vehicle, there will be GPS tracking. We could discreetly look at the logs and determine who was in the area during the killing window.”
“Perhaps, but something like that wouldn’t stay secret for long.” He paused and they watched the coroner load Julio Garcia’s body into the back of the van. “I can probably do it discreetly.”
“The killer could pretend to have car trouble. Waves him down.”
“That’s possible, too.” He rubbed his eyes and said quietly, “I need to notify Garcia’s widow.” He wasn’t a soft man, but she heard compassion in his voice and she pushed aside her earlier frustrations.
“I’ll join you.”
“You don’t need to do that. Death notifications are never fun.”
“Another thing we agree on. But I’ll do it with you. It’s not easy, but it’s easier with a partner.”
Walker looked at her. “You can call me Jerry.”
“I’m Lucy.”
“Short for Lucille?”
“Lucia. But I only respond to Lucia when it’s my mother, so please call me Lucy.”
He grinned. “If you want to leave your vehicle here, we can go up to the Garcia spread together and I can fill you in on the rest of the details.”
“Thank you.”
Dillon was right. More flies with honey—honey and spine.
CHAPTER TWO
Saturday Mid-Morning
The first thing Lucy noticed when Marissa Garcia answered the door was that she was very, very pregnant. The second thing was the six-year-old boy pressed up against her legs.
This was the worst death notification of her career.
Walker took off his hat. “Mrs. Garcia? I’m BCSO investigator Jerry Walker and this is FBI Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. May
we come in?”
Marissa’s bottom lip quivered.
A voice with a thick Spanish accent called from the back of the house. “Marissa? Who is it? Is it Julio?”
“No, Mama,” Marissa said, but her voice barely carried. “Please, please—no.” She clutched her son.
Lucy stepped in first and put her hand on Marissa’s elbow. “Marissa, let’s sit down.”
The woman allowed herself to be led to the back of the house to a comfortable, cluttered family room where an older woman sat in an easy chair, her leg in a cast. Two younger women immediately hopped up and went to Marissa’s side.
“Sit, Issa,” one of the women said. “I’m Sandra, Marissa’s sister.” She looked at the other girl and nodded toward the boy. “Anna.” She tilted her head again.
“Dario, let’s start lunch,” Anna said, her eyes darting from Lucy to Jerry.
Dario clutched his mother tighter. “Mommy?”
Marissa didn’t move. She stood there shaking with her spine as straight as it could be considering her condition.
“Just tell me,” she whispered. “Just tell me.”
Jerry said, “We regret to inform you that your husband was killed late last night.”
“Dear Lord, no,” the old woman sobbed loudly and crossed herself. “No, no, no! My Julio!”
Anna knelt next to the woman and took her hand.
“Wh-what. Ha-happened.”
Sandra led her sister to the couch and urged her to sit. Sandra sat next to her and Dario climbed into his aunt’s lap.
“He was so tired, so tired working to support his family!” Mrs. Garcia said. “Coming home so late at night, so late! Working overtime! I told you, Marissa! Too many hours.”
Lucy cleared her throat. This situation could quickly get out of control. Jerry looked uncomfortable.
“May we sit?” Lucy asked.
“Of course,” Marissa said, waving to a couch. “Just—what happened?”
“I told you!” Mrs. Garcia said.
Marissa rubbed her eyes. “Mama, I’m sorry.”
“Marissa, you didn’t do anything,” Lucy said. “Julio was murdered.”
“Julio worked so hard, six days a week,” Marissa said, evidently not hearing what Lucy had said. “We were saving up for the kids. Dario’s school. The house. College. We wanted them to have what we never had, we wanted our children to have a real education. Julio loved his job, but it was many hours and he was so tired. It was only until the baby starts school. Then I can go back to work.”
She hadn’t heard, but Sandra did. She said, “How?”
“We’re still investigating,” Lucy said cautiously. She wasn’t going to give any of the details of the crime yet. Dario was old enough to understand, and she didn’t want those images in his head.
Jerry said, “He was killed at a park off two eighty-one close to the interchange last night. We confirmed with his employer that he left at eleven thirty, and we suspect he was killed shortly after.”
“Killed?” Mrs. Garcia said. “Murdered? Who would murder my son? Who, Marissa?”
“I don’t know,” Marissa said.
Because Jerry didn’t suggest it, Lucy had to do something to prevent this situation from getting out of control.
“Anna, Mrs. Garcia, let’s take Dario into the kitchen for a minute so Investigator Walker can talk to Marissa,” Lucy said.
“No,” Mrs. Garcia said firmly. “I want to hear exactly what happened to my son. I deserve that!”
Marissa was fighting not to cry, and Sandra stared at her sister’s mother-in-law with fierce displeasure. Sandra glanced at Lucy, then stood, picking Dario up with her. “We leave them alone now, Beatrice. You’re upsetting Marissa, and I won’t have that.”
Mrs. Garcia objected, but Sandra took charge and handed her a cane. “Don’t do this,” Sandra said quietly to the old woman, “not around Dario. Not now.”
The woman grumbled and complained but went with Sandra and Anna.
Lucy was relieved, and it appeared Marissa was, too, as suddenly she started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Lucy handed her a small package of tissues. “Nothing to be sorry about, Marissa.”
“What happened to my Julio? I really don’t understand why someone would kill him. We don’t have a lot of money.”
Jerry said, “We don’t believe that this was a robbery. We are still investigating, but there are some similarities between Julio’s murder and those of two other local men. Do you know Billy Joe Standish or Steven James? Standish works in construction and James is an accountant.”
She seemed completely befuddled. “I don’t know them. At least—I don’t think so. I don’t know the names. I don’t know. Oh God.” She clutched her stomach.
“Are you okay?” Lucy moved to sit next to Marissa. She took her hand. “How many months are you?”
“Thirty-four weeks. My baby—she’ll never meet her papa.”
Jerry stood and said, “We’ll come back later, Mrs. Garcia. You should rest.”
“Why would someone kill Julio? Everyone loves him. He would give you the shirt off his back. If he was mugged, he would give his car or wallet. He wouldn’t fight back. He wouldn’t risk being hurt. He was a good man. A great man. I—I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll find out what happened,” Lucy said. “But you need to remain calm for your baby. She has a few more weeks she needs to grow.”
“Mama—she will never believe me. She blames me.”
“Blames you for what?” Lucy asked.
“Everything. That Julio works so many hours. She thinks it’s because I want things, but I don’t. I don’t want anything. I just want my family. Julio and Dario and Baby Bump.” She smiled through her tears. “Julio calls her Baby Bump because we don’t want to name her until we see her.”
“That’s sweet,” Lucy said.
“I just want my family. They are all I care about. And … he’s gone. He’s gone. Julio is my true love. My soul mate. My … my … I can’t.”
Lucy looked at Jerry and said quietly, “Tell the others what we told her, and ask her sister to come in.” To Marissa she said, “Deputy Walker is right, we can return when you’ve had a chance to rest. I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
She shook her head. “When I woke in the middle of the night and Julio wasn’t home, I couldn’t sleep. He called when he was leaving work, and I should have stayed up. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
“There was nothing you could have done, Mrs. Garcia,” Lucy said. “He was already dead when he was expected home.”
Jerry stepped out of the family room and into the adjoining kitchen. He was clearly uncomfortable with the intense emotions and family conflict. Death notifications were hard, but this situation—the absolutely senseless act of violence that had ripped Julio from the people who loved him—was disturbing on multiple levels. Lucy didn’t know how she remained calm, but she would pay for it tonight. When everything came crashing down and she felt the loss that rolled off Marissa in waves of grief as she processed her tragedy.
“I want you to think about your baby right now, your baby and your son,” Lucy said. “I know this is not going to be easy for you or your family, but your children need you to be strong. Especially this little one.” She rested her hand on Marissa’s stomach. Almost immediately she felt the baby kick. She took a deep breath and held it. Then slowly let it out. It wouldn’t help Marissa or the investigation if she became emotional.
“I—I don’t know how to go on.”
“Sandra and Anna are your sisters, right?”
She nodded.
“What about your parents?”
“My mom—she’s been gone for a long time. A car accident when I was in high school. Sandra took over. She was in college and she left to take care of me and Anna.”
“And your father?”
She shook her head. “We all believe he died of a broken heart.” Sh
e stared at Lucy, anguish clouding her face.
“Why? You said it wasn’t a robbery.”
“We don’t know why yet.”
Sandra led the way back into the family room, and Mrs. Garcia hobbled behind her. Anna and Dario weren’t with them, which was probably a good thing. “I’ll take care of my sister,” Sandra said. “If you need anything from us to find out who did this—call me.” She handed both Jerry and Lucy a business card. ROBERT & SANDRA VALLEJO, REALTORS.
“We’ll have more questions,” Jerry said, “and I’ll call before we come by.”
“When can I bury my son?” Mrs. Garcia said.
“Mama,” Marissa pleaded. “Not now.”
“I need to call Father Paul. We have to make arrangements.”
“The coroner will contact you when they release his body,” Lucy said. She wrote the number on the back of her card and handed it to Sandra. “That’s me, and the number on the back is the coroner’s office. But it will be at least forty-eight hours. There is nothing you need to do today except relax.”
“Thank you,” Sandra said. “I need Marissa to lie down.”
“We’ll let ourselves out, ma’am,” Jerry said with a nod to each of the women, then motioned for Lucy to go first.
They left. “Well, damn,” Jerry said quietly as he climbed back into his car.
“There are few truly random killers out there—especially with weeks between murders,” Lucy said. “But I don’t see a motive. A loving family man, a close family? We need to dig into the pasts of these three men. Maybe … maybe it’s something that connected them long ago. They may not have grown up in the same town, but maybe they were at the same place at the same time. An airport. A conference. A vacation. Something has to connect them.”
“It would be more likely that if the murders aren’t random, San Antonio is what they have in common. Meaning, perhaps it was an event or situation here that they were involved in. That narrows it down to the last eight years.” He paused. “I really hate senseless violence.”
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