“I aim to please,” she grinned. “Oh, one more thing—Ash and I were talking yesterday after I sent over the physical evidence. We concur that the killer fired directly at their face. Not at their forehead or back of the head, but the face. Don’t know if that means anything from a psych point of view, but to me it stands out.”
“How far away?” Jerry asked.
“At least two feet, not more than four,” Julie said. “And from the angle, Ash and I concur that the killer was standing over the victim, one foot on either side of the body.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mostly sure. The trajectory would be different if the killer was anywhere else.”
“The face, not head,” Lucy muttered.
“Not much of a difference,” Jerry said. “The face is his head.”
“But the killer took away their identity. Like he wanted to obliterate their face. Hatred? Guilt? It seems so personal.”
“That’s your job,” Julie said. “I’m just giving you the facts as I know them.”
Lucy asked, “Can you send me the photos? The comparison of injuries? I want to study them in depth.”
“No problem. I have some more work to do on Mr. Garcia here, and I’ll send them off by tomorrow morning.”
* * *
Jerry and Lucy met up for coffee at the university adjacent to the morgue. “I don’t want to take up your Sunday,” Lucy said, “but I think we should discuss what we learned.”
“I never turn down coffee,” he said. “I don’t know that it’s important that Garcia was dead before the beating.”
“It’s important because the killer had to finish the ritual. The beating—especially the hands—then the Taser, the shot to the face. It’s a pattern. But even in the pattern, there are inconsistencies.”
“Such as?”
“If Julie and Ash are right and James wasn’t hit with the Taser until after he was dead, why use the Taser at all? We assumed the killer used it because Standish fought back, and the brief jolt of pain enabled the killer to regain the upper hand. With James he didn’t need it. Was he holding it? Was it on the ground? These crime scenes make no sense.”
“I’m not following you.”
“The killer appears full of rage, but kills methodically. Standish was beaten more severely likely because he was larger and the only victim who fought back. The attack was a surprise, from behind, and there was no hesitation. Attack, pound, kill. Why smash the hands? Why stun the victims when they are already on the ground and hurting? To torture them? Then to stand over them, one foot on either side, and shoot their face. The killer looked his victims in the eye and shot them. That is cold. But with Garcia, there was no need. He was dead. The killer had to have known he was dead when he was beating on his body. If he didn’t—I guess I don’t see how the killer might just think he was unconscious. His head was at an odd angle, the body wouldn’t feel the same when hit. Yet the killer still stood over the body and looked into his face and shot him.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” Jerry said.
“Maybe the killer wanted his face to be the last thing his victims saw. And the thing is—I don’t think Standish, and maybe not Garcia, knew who the killer was. But James did.”
“Because he wasn’t hit from behind.”
“Exactly. So either there are two people working together—one who lures the men to pull over, and the other who kills—or there is one person whom only Steven James personally knows. Because he didn’t have his back turned to the killer, and he didn’t have injuries on his back. Yet all the other violence to the bodies is nearly identical.”
“So why?”
“We really have to talk to the wives again. Wives, friends, family, employers. These men made someone mad, and they may not even have known it.”
“I’ll make the calls.” Jerry had a far-off look now, as if he was thinking about something specific.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He didn’t say anything for a second, sipped his coffee, put it down. “Susan Standish is a kindergarten teacher. Sweet thing. I believed for a long time—until Steven James was killed four weeks later—that her husband was into something illegal. Didn’t really know what, just fishing, really. But a beatdown like that tells me he was punished. Drugs, screwing around with his best friend’s wife, maybe some corruption scandal with his employer. There were a lot of folks who were scammed after Harvey hit Houston. Contractors who came in, promised the moon, absconded with people’s life savings. Scumbags, all of them, if you ask me.” He sipped his coffee again. Lucy resisted pushing him to finish his thought. He was a slow and methodical cop, and she had to let him work it out.
Finally, Jerry said, “I asked Susan Standish if she thought her husband might have been having an affair. It wasn’t the first angle I looked at—by all accounts they were happy, high school sweethearts, and he had a history of misdemeanors when he’d been drinking, but no accusations of fooling around. Bar fights and whatnot, nothing serious. Most people said he was a good guy and worked hard—good at his job. Quality work. Strong work ethic. I was looking more into the jobs he’d done, to see if someone sued him, or maybe he didn’t do something he was supposed to, or it was shoddy work. Talked to everyone he’d ever been in a fight with. And nothing stuck. I looked at a gambling problem—he liked to bet on sporting events. But word was it was small bets, nothing over a hundred bucks, nothing that would get to serious payback. So I went back to the wife, asked about her husband having maybe an affair. She flat out said no.”
“You think she was lying.”
“Not at the time. At the time I’d say she was indignant, stunned, hurt that I would malign his name like that. But maybe now that she has thought about it, she might have some different thoughts.”
“And that helps us how? We have two other victims who probably weren’t having an affair with the same woman. And based on Garcia’s schedule, I don’t see how he would have the time.”
“Just one more angle to look at.”
Lucy nodded. “Let’s look. Maybe you’re right. And maybe these men aren’t the upstanding citizens we think they are.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe this is a vigilante killer. Someone exacting their own brand of justice. I came up against one before. Justified every cold-blooded murder he committed because those he killed had hurt others.” She didn’t mention that they were sex crimes. “Or these men were a witness to something. Maybe they witnessed the same crime.”
“We haven’t put them together in the same place yet, but my people are looking.”
“You need more manpower, let me know. The FBI has some great tools at our disposal.”
He didn’t respond, drained his coffee. Did he think that she was trying to take the case? Nothing was further from the truth. Today had been a good day working together, they’d learned so much more about the crime scenes and had agreed on an approach. “I’m going to light a fire under Ashley’s butt tomorrow morning on ballistics—we need the confirmation, so at least the sheriff has something to tell the press. And I’ll ask Ash to run through some scenarios on that fancy computer of his. I’ll call the wives and let you know when we can talk to them.”
“All right. I have a morning staff meeting, and then I’ll head out to your office.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Did we lose the conference room?”
“No.”
“Good. I want to go over everything again, look at the differences of each crime scene again, and see if there is a pattern we’re not seeing.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
She tilted her head. “Why would you?”
He didn’t respond.
She swallowed a confrontational comment and said, “See you tomorrow, Jerry.”
* * *
After church, Jesse had lunch at the boys’ home, then pulled Michael aside. “I heard Brian tell Ruth that he’s going to the park for extra soccer practice. The
re is no extra practice.”
“Shit,” Michael said.
“Didn’t you talk to him?”
“I tried—he told me I’m wrong. But I’m not.”
“We need to find out what he’s doing.”
“Come on.” Michael went downstairs and found Ruth. “Where’d Brian go?” he asked.
“Soccer again. Extra work, he said.”
Michael glanced at Jesse, nodded. He wanted him to lie to the nun? Was that a sin? He wasn’t Catholic, did it matter?
“Oh, I forgot that was today. We’ll catch up with him.”
“Back by five,” Ruth called out.
They went outside and Jesse said, “I feel like shit lying to her.”
“You didn’t really lie.”
“Feels like a lie,” Jesse muttered.
They started walking toward the practice field, which was only a mile away. But Jesse saw a dark sedan drive by, and he recognized the driver. “That’s the guy who was talking to Brian. I think Brian is in that car.” They turned left at the corner—away from the park, but toward the neighborhood where the Saints hung out.
“Can we use your Uber app? We’ll walk back, but if Brian is in trouble—I need to know.”
Jesse agreed. They caught a ride to a Starbucks that was only a few blocks from the house where they’d staked out Brian and his brother before.
Sure enough, the dark-brown sedan was right out front.
They went to the park they’d been at yesterday, and watched the house. Gangbangers came and went. With each one, Michael grew more agitated.
“I don’t understand what he’s doing,” Michael said. “He knows what kind of life this is. Why would he choose it?”
“You know, maybe you should just ask him. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“The Saints were disbanded until recently. I heard a few were out of prison but I didn’t think they could regroup so quickly, especially without a stable leadership.”
Where had Michael heard about the gang? From Sean? Someone else?
“I need to know what’s going on inside,” Michael said.
“I can—”
“No, you don’t fit into this neighborhood. I’m already worried that we’re being watched here, that the Saints will know us.”
“I was going to say, I can text Brian and ask him what he’s doing. That we’re at the soccer park but he’s not there.”
“Oh. That’s a good idea. And then?”
“Get him away from Jose at least, right? Maybe he’ll just come and meet us, then we can talk to him.”
“Okay, text him, we’ll see what he does.”
Jesse sent Brian a text message.
Ruth said you went to the soccer park to run drills—where are you? I’m here, you’re not.
He showed it to Michael, who nodded, then Jesse sent it. They waited.
A couple minutes later, Brian sent back one word: later
That meant nothing.
“What’s going on with him?” Jesse said, showing Michael the message. “Do you want to go in? Talk to him?”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Do these guys just kill people for no reason?”
“They would have a reason.” Michael glanced at him. “What did Sean tell you about how we met?”
“I know about the general and the crappy prison in Mexico and how you helped Sean and Kane rescue Dad’s friend the DEA agent. I mean, I know what you were forced to do and shit like that.”
“One of the things that I did was steal information that helped the police and Kane shut down the Saints. Plus, one of their leaders was in Mexico and got dead.”
“And they know it was you?”
“They know I stole the information.”
“What are you doing even sitting out here?”
“Jose and his people don’t know what I look like, I don’t think. I’m not afraid of them, but I can’t be sure that no one else knows. I need to talk to Brian, get him to come clean, and walk away. If he can’t—if he wants to and can’t—then we’ll talk to Sean. Okay?”
Jesse liked this less than yesterday, but what else could he do?
“Fine.”
Jesse’s phone vibrated twenty minutes later. It was Brian.
I’ll be there in thirty if you want to hang.
Jesse showed it to Michael. “We can walk it,” Michael said.
“Too hot. Back to Starbucks and we’ll get an Uber.”
* * *
Brian wasn’t at the soccer park in thirty minutes, and Michael grew increasingly frustrated. “Did he know? Did he see us?” Michael wondered out loud.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m tired of this. His lies. His games.”
“He could be in trouble. Maybe he walked. It would take thirty minutes to walk here.”
Just then they saw Brian crossing the field to where they were sitting under a canopy of trees. He was alone. “Hey,” he called out. “Sorry, I was meeting a friend from school, I didn’t want Ruth to get all worried.”
“You lied to her,” Michael said.
“No.”
“You lied to me.”
Brian didn’t look hot and sweaty—no way he’d walked from the Saints house. Jesse looked around—on the street, he saw the dark sedan. It was far away, he couldn’t make out if anyone was in the car, but it was parked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you’ve been with your brother.”
Brian paled. “I—no.”
“You lied to Ruth, you’re lying to me.” Michael was livid, and Jesse thought for a second that he was going to hit Brian.
The car pulled away from the curb and drove slowly off.
“Who was that, Brian?” Jesse asked.
“Stay out of this, Jess.”
“You’re going down a dark road,” Michael said. “A road you’ve been on against your will. You think it’s better when you’re not in chains?”
“It’s not like that. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about! You need to decide if you’re one of them, or if you want to live.”
“That’s not the choice.”
“That you can’t see that after everything that happened, after what you saw. What you did. What we all had to do … you’re not that blind.”
“Just—leave me alone.”
Brian started to walk away, and Michael spun him around, held him by the arm. “Is that what you want?”
Brian stared at him, obviously confused.
Jesse saw the same car drive by again.
“Michael, they’re coming back.”
“Do they know about me? About Saint Catherine’s?”
“N-no. Of course not.”
Jesse wasn’t sure Brian was telling the truth, and it was clear that Michael didn’t believe him, either.
“Let’s go,” Michael said. “The back way. I’m not leading anyone to our sanctuary. The only place any of us have ever felt safe. If you bring them to our doorstep, Brian, I will never forgive you.”
“I wouldn’t do that, I swear.”
But in that admission, Brian realized that now he had outed himself: He had essentially confirmed that he was communicating with his brother.
“Jose has changed, Michael.”
“People like him don’t change.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Follow me or go back to your brother and never return to Saint Catherine’s.”
“I—I’m coming,” Brian said, and the three of them ran through the park to the opposite street.
The car was circling around, but they had the advantage of being on foot. Michael said, “We cut through those apartments. Follow me, don’t look back, and don’t slow down.”
They ran.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sunday Late Afternoon
Lucy drove to St. Catherine’s to pick up Jesse. She was irritated by how the conversa
tion had ended with Jerry. At first they were getting along, brainstorming, and then he was rude.
She rubbed her eyes. She didn’t want to make something from nothing. It wasn’t nothing, but maybe she was creating a bigger problem than there was.
Sitting in her car in front of the boys’ home, she considered who she could ask about the case that Walker had worked on with the FBI—the one that had made him so hostile toward her. Well, she really couldn’t call him hostile, because she thought they were developing a rapport, but he became irritated at things that made no sense to her—like her wanting to go through the files again. What was wrong with that? There was a lot of information, and as soon as they had the final results from Garcia’s autopsy, they would need to go through everything again and compare. Investigations took time, they took diligence, they took reviewing evidence over and over in case something was missed. Especially in a situation like this where all three crime scenes were outdoors, at night, and brutal. They would need to re-interview witnesses, ask different questions, make sure they had all relevant statements and then think bigger.
They were dealing with a serial killer just on the fact that there were three similar murders with a cooling-off period in between. Lucy had studied and investigated enough serial murders to know there was a reason the killer was targeting these men. It appeared random, but it wasn’t. The victims might be chosen at random, but there was a specific reason the killer targeted men like them. He stalked his prey. Watched them. The killer knew they would be alone at the time of the attack.
How did the killer know Steven James’s travel plans?
It was only twenty minutes from the airport to the James home. Steven James had parked his car in short-term parking, even though he had been gone since Monday. More expensive, but also more convenient. The killer most likely knew what flight he was on and tracked that information through the website, so knew when the plane landed. Knew what car he drove. Was able to steer him off the road, get him to pull over, something in order to kill him. But unlike Standish, which was in a remote area; or Garcia, which was adjacent to a closed park; James was killed in the suburbs, a stone’s throw from a movie theater that still had people inside. On the edge of a golf course parking lot where there were no security cameras.
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