Nothing to Hide

by Allison Brennan

  “It was easier than I thought. You throw everything into the pot and it cooks.”

  “I think it’s more complicated than that. Let me take a quick shower and change.” She ran upstairs. The meaty stew had her stomach growling, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours.

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Brad Donnelly.

  “Hey, Brad.”

  “Sorry, I meant to get back to you yesterday, but got swamped. I really hate being in charge.”

  “You’re good at it.”

  “I’m better in the field. There’s so much damn paperwork I want to scream. This was supposed to be temporary. It’s been over a year. Anyway, I didn’t call to complain. Nineteen seventy-six Chevy Chevelle, registered to Lee Sanchez, on East Santiago. I’ll send you his stats and address. Lee is a cousin of Jaime Sanchez, more or less keeps his nose clean. Did a stint for possession with intent more than ten years ago. Was out working on an oil rig last year when Jaime was killed.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “The two kids I saw in the car were early twenties, tops. Maybe late teens.”

  “I don’t remember if he has kids. Do you want me to look into it?”

  “No, it’s probably nothing.”

  “What did I say? Trust your gut. How’s this—see the car again, call me and I’ll dig around.”

  “Fair. Thanks.”

  “How’s Sean these days? I had drinks with Nate a couple weeks ago, he told me what went down, that Sean got custody over Jesse’s rich grandfather.”

  “They’re adjusting. Sean’s a good dad—I wish he’d see it in himself.”

  “And he has you. Win–win. Let me know if you need anything, and don’t be a stranger.”

  “You’re the one who was a no-show for our Fourth of July party.”

  “Work. Being in charge you’d think nine-to-five, right?”

  She laughed. “You would never be happy working nine-to-five.”

  “True. Next party, call me.”

  Lucy cleaned up and went downstairs. Jesse was texting on his phone at the table in the breakfast nook. “Do I need to put your phone in jail?” Lucy said.

  “What? Oh, no, sorry. Didn’t know dinner was ready.”

  He put his phone in his pocket. Lucy couldn’t very well ban phones from the dinner table—in an emergency she had to be reachable—but she and Sean had agreed that with Jesse here, they had to set the example, so phones could only be answered if they were in the middle of a case.

  Still, she popped hers in the charger and put the ringer on so she’d hear it.

  Sean put the tureen down and Lucy’s stomach growled. Jesse laughed. “I totally heard that.”

  “I smell good food and I can’t help myself,” she said.

  They had a nice dinner and Jesse seemed more relaxed and open than he had over the last few days. He talked about soccer and school. He got an A on his first essay for English, and a B+ on his second algebra test. He had a big project in history coming up, but he’d already started working on it.

  Maybe her conversation with him helped, she didn’t know. But the more normal and predictable their life, the better for Jesse, so she hoped to be home for dinner more often.

  After dinner, Jesse and Sean went to play video games, which was a good bonding activity for them. Maybe because Sean was so young—he’d be thirty-two next week—he still loved playing. Maybe it was something he’d never grow out of. He and Nate often played at night over the Internet, two grown men wearing headsets and chatting about everything from the game to cases they were working.

  Lucy went into Sean’s office because he had the best computer in the house. She had already sent Dillon a message that she wanted to Skype tonight. It was eight thirty her time, so nine thirty in Washington, DC.

  Dillon answered almost immediately. “Hello, baby sister,” Dillon teased. “It’s always good to see you when we talk.”

  Lucy leaned back in Sean’s desk chair. Not only did he have the best computer system, he had the most comfortable chair. “How are you?”

  “Good. Relaxing. Kate is in New York on a panel interviewing FBI candidates for the next two weeks. She’s not relaxing. I don’t think she likes big cities.”

  “DC isn’t exactly suburbia.”

  “But Georgetown has a quiet sensibility. Close to the city, but with a neighborhood feel. However, I’m going to fly up there for the weekend. Take Kate to a show, do fun things.”

  “Are you going to see Max when you’re there? Tell her I said hi.”

  “Actually, I was planning on doing just that. I wanted to see how she was adjusting with all the changes in her life.”

  At the beginning of the year, Maxine Revere, a reporter who also had a cable crime show, had uncovered new evidence into the murder of Lucy’s nephew Justin. Together Max and Lucy had solved the case and the murders of four other young boys spanning twenty years. Lucy hadn’t liked Max at first, but by the time they were done she’d grown to respect her. She was unlike anyone else Lucy knew, and while Lucy wasn’t certain she 100 percent trusted the reporter, she admired her tenacity. Dillon, on the other hand, had developed a friendship with Max and had helped her uncover answers about what happened to her mother more than a decade ago.

  Dillon continued. “When you sent me a message that you wanted to call, I assumed it’s for work—calling just to say hello to your brother doesn’t need an appointment.”

  “I know, I should call more.”

  “Alas, Jack has usurped me as your favorite.”

  “Not true,” she said. “I have no favorites.”

  “That’s what you say, but actions, sis.”

  “You trying to make me feel guilty?”

  Dillon grinned. “It’s so easy. Now tell me about your case.”

  “Possible serial killer.”

  “Possible? Two or more murders with a cooling-off period?”

  “Technically, yes, a serial killer.”

  “Why don’t you give me the scenario?”

  “First, I’m working with the sheriff’s office. My partner scoffs at behavioral science. There’s a deep disdain there that I can’t figure out yet. I’m working on it.”

  “I’ve faced it many times since I became a forensic psychiatrist. There’s nothing you can do except do a good job and hopefully people will come around. He’s likely a cop who believes in evidence, experience, and procedure.”

  “Yes, but he also trusts his instincts—and they’re good. So I’m hoping he’ll come around and allow us to formally consult the BSU. But I wanted to pick your brain, unofficially.”

  “Pick away.”

  She explained the three murder victims, the time line, what was done to them. “There are some differences in the process. For example, the first victim was beaten more extensively than the second and third. The second victim was stunned after he was dead. And the third victim was killed with the first blow to the back of his head, yet the killer went through the ritual of the beating and shooting. The ME confirmed that the first blow killed him instantly and everything done to the body after was postmortem.”

  “And the marks match up?”

  “Yes—same type of hammer—probably a mallet, steel head. Same gun. Ballistics came back on all three bullets as being fired from the same weapon. The forensic analysis says that the first victim went down fighting, but no one in his circle had any visible injuries after the attack. The second victim was the only one who didn’t have a blow to the back.”

  “Suggesting he either knew or wasn’t scared of his killer.”

  “But the other two men—they turned their back on their killer. We think, based on evidence found on the first victim, that he may have been helping with someone’s car.”

  “A trap?”

  “That’s what we think. So he may or may not have known the person, but felt secure enough to turn his back on him and look under the hood or squat by a tire. Based on the angle of the fir
st two blows, we believe the first victim was bent over a hood and the third was squatting.”

  Lucy took a sip of water and continued. “What really gets me is the gunshot to the face. The killer stands with one foot on either side of the victim. We believe the first two victims were incapacitated from the attack, and the third was dead—and he or she shoots the victim in the face. Almost straight down. That tells me he was looking in the victim’s eyes, as if he wanted the victim to know that he was killing him. That it was personal. A vendetta or vengeance or … I don’t know. It’s just so cold. When our crime scene investigator ran through a simulation, the first thing that came to mind was that it was a stage—like a setup for a play. When you watch all three men killed, it was as if each of the blows was planned, whether necessary or not.”

  Dillon didn’t say anything for a long minute, but Lucy could see him thinking and reviewing notes he’d taken while she talked. He finally asked, “Was the third victim more or less beaten than the first two?”

  “About the same as the second, which was less than the first. Except the second had cracked ribs—I don’t know if that means that he was hit harder, or if it was because of where the mallet landed on his body.”

  “And these men are upstanding citizens? No criminal record? No sexual assault accusations?”

  “Nothing in the system. Which isn’t to say that they are all innocent. The first victim had been in bar fights, misdemeanors, he’s rougher around the edges but no jail time and people generally liked him. He was known to be a good employee with a strong work ethic. The second victim an upstanding accountant, reserved, respected. We know that even respected people can have dark secrets. But the third victim? I don’t know him as well as the first two because we just started looking at his life, but everything we’ve learned so far is that he’s a hardworking family man. His wife is eight months’ pregnant and his mother moved in when she broke her ankle. Not one person has said he has done anything improper, and he has a clean record. He seems to be exactly as he appears: a devout family man who works hard to provide for his pregnant wife and mother.”

  “And he was killed instantly? That would take a lot of force.”

  “Julie, our assistant ME, explained that it wouldn’t—the angle that he was hit and where he was hit at the base of the skull sent his occipital lobe into his brain stem. I might not be explaining it accurately.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s very difficult to accomplish on purpose, though someone with skill and training could do it.”

  “Like in the military?”

  “Perhaps. But it has been known to happen on accident. There was a bar fight once where the bartender laid out a drunk patron with a baseball bat—the man had been beating up another guy. The bartender didn’t mean to kill him, he was just trying to stop the attack. He didn’t even hit him that hard, but it was the right angle.”

  “We think it was an accident. Based on the first crime scene, attack from behind, get them on the ground, smash their hands—which would prevent fighting back—shoot them in the face.”

  “You mentioned something about duct tape?”

  “Yes. The killer duct-taped the victims’ mouths at some point, then pulled the tape off and took it with him.”

  “To keep them from calling for help?”

  “Possibly. But the last victim was already dead. He wasn’t making any noise, yet the killer used duct tape on him as well.”

  “I agree—that is very odd.”

  “It’s not a sexual crime, even though the groin area was hit. I mean, it could be sexual and the killer is attacking other parts of the body to hide it, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. The hands … that’s unusual. But what is really bothering me is shooting the victim in the face. Looking him in the eye and killing him. Obliterating his identity.”

  “Like you said, it’s cold.” Dillon paused, then continued. “Cold, calculating, premeditated. The killer does not have any remorse, does not care about the victims. The killer wants their face to be the last thing the victim sees. Or it’s a way of dehumanizing the victim. ‘You’re nothing, you’re no one.’”

  “We haven’t figured out how the men are connected. If they’re not connected, then they should connect to the killer.”

  “Or one connects to the killer—but he is killing men who remind him of his primary target. In fact, none of them may be connected at all, and he’s killing men as a surrogate for his true target.”

  “The killer stalked them. Knew when they would be alone.”

  “So they somehow showed up on the killer’s radar.”

  “Exactly. They don’t know each other, don’t go to the same church, stores, their kids don’t go to the same schools, they don’t have the same doctors or live in the same neighborhoods. But there must be a place where the killer picked up their scent.”

  “You don’t need me on this, Lucy. I think you’re absolutely right.”

  “Maybe it’s just I miss you, big brother.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “But seriously—I’m not trained as a behavioral scientist. You are. I’d like you to talk to my partner. I just have to convince him that we can benefit from psychological insight.”

  “Your insight is as good as mine.”

  “Don’t humor me. You’ve been doing this a lot longer, and you have that M.D. after your name.”

  “Just means I went to school longer.”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. Dillon was always humble.

  “Seriously, if anyone can convince my partner, it’s you.”

  “I’ll talk to you off the record anytime you want, Lucy, but if you need an official profile, you’re going to have to go through channels.”

  “I will. Thanks, Dillon.”

  “Now—no more murder. Talk to me about you, Sean, and Jesse.”

  Lucy leaned back and they chatted about family before Dillon ended the call to talk to Kate.

  “Give her my best.”

  “Always.” Dillon smiled.

  Lucy leaned back and immediately her mind returned to the crime scenes.

  Cold.

  Calculating.

  Planned.

  You don’t matter.

  That’s what the killer thought. The victims don’t matter. They’re not important. They’re nobody.

  They’re not important. The murders are not important. Then why? Is this really a thrill killer? Someone who kills just because it’s fun? Then why the theatrics? Why the beating? The duct tape? The Taser burns? None of that led to death.

  It was an act, Lucy thought. The idea grew on her.

  The murders were an act, the crime scene the stage, the killer the writer, the actor, the director.

  If it’s an act, who is the show for?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wednesday Morning

  Lucy and Jerry had an appointment with William Peterson, Steven James’s boss, first thing Wednesday morning. At seventy-eight years of age, he no longer worked on accounts, but served on the board and came into the office four mornings a week.

  William was physically fit and played both tennis and golf, as evidenced from photos and trophies in his immaculate glass office overlooking downtown San Antonio and the Riverwalk.

  “Detective, I hope this meeting is good news.”

  Jerry introduced Lucy, and they sat down in the informal sitting area next to his desk where four comfortable leather chairs faced one another. “We’re still gathering information and weeding through witness statements, sir, but it’s been a difficult case because of the lack of physical evidence.”

  “I read a disturbing news report that there was another victim. And his wife is pregnant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  William sighed, removed his glasses, and took a moment. Lucy didn’t know if he was praying or simply trying to absorb the tragic news.

  He gathered himself and said, “What else can I do for you? Anything, though I don’t know how I can help.”

>   “Just a couple of follow-up questions,” Jerry said. “Initially, we believed that the victims were random, that they may have been killed spontaneously. However, we are exploring the idea that the killer knew the victims’ schedules, where they would be and when. Who had access to Mr. James’s schedule?”

  William stared at him. “You think one of my people could have done this?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. But someone may have known when he would land at the airport, and either they knew his route home and were waiting, or they followed him from the airport.”

  “Which could still mean it was random.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re not ruling that out. But based on all three cases, we believe that the killer had at least some knowledge of these men’s lives and routine.”

  William said, “Anyone on staff can access anyone else’s schedule. It’s on a shared system.”

  “Do you share that information when someone calls in?”

  “We would tell clients if someone was out of town, but not their itinerary.”

  “Mr. James was in California meeting with a client all week? ForceCom?”

  “Yes. They are a telecommunications company relocating their billing and customer service departments to Texas from the Silicon Valley. Steven was particularly adept at the complex tax issues that such a move creates.”

  “And anyone at that company would know that he was there and when he was leaving.”

  “I suppose. Though there are more than five hundred employees and I doubt that they would all have access to the information. I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “That a limited number of people could have known when he was returning from his trip. It’s a finite pool, and a pool we can question.”

  That wasn’t plausible, but if they had a list of names, they could compare those names with lists created from the other victims and see if anyone matched.

  “I see. I will give you the CFO’s contact information and you can work with them to find out if there was a security breach.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  William took a small moleskin journal from his pocket and made a note.

  “George Andres,” Jerry said. “He filed a lawsuit against this firm and named Mr. James personally. The suit was dismissed, but it was contentious. Did Mr. Andres threaten anyone here? Specifically Mr. James?”