“It sounds more like playtime,” Megan said. “Pulling wings off butterflies.”
“Excuse me?” Richardson said.
“You’re right on the money.” Hans was proud. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yeah, they were playing. Torturing the victim as much to make him suffer as to derive satisfaction and pleasure from being in control of another’s pain.”
“And then they get tired and shoot him in the head. Quick and efficient, when there’s nothing quick or efficient about human torture.”
Hans said, “I think the dynamic between these two killers is critical. Which is the dominant personality? Which one decided the targets and how to take them out? Who pulled the trigger?”
“Metaphorically?” Black asked.
“Literally. Whoever pulled the trigger is the dominant killer. He may be the person torturing the victims, or both could be involved, but whoever uses the gun is in charge.”
“Essentially, playtime is over. Pick up their toys and go home.”
“Right.”
“Is there always a dominant killer in a partnership like this?” Black asked.
“In my experience,” Hans said. “Two dominant personalities would not last long together. One would kill the other, or they would go their separate ways. Someone has to make the rules, someone has to follow orders. This is a partnership in that the submissive partner does what the dominant partner wants. If the weaker of the two acts out, the dominant will slap him down.”
The intercom buzzed. “SAC Richardson, I have Agent Elliott on a ten-twenty flight to Texas.”
Megan glanced at her watch. “That’s barely an hour.”
“You’d better get going.”
Hans said, “I’m taking a military transport, I’ll meet you there. Be careful, Megan. I really don’t like the idea that the killers have your home address.”
“Neither do I.” Megan stood, then asked Hans before he disconnected, “What are the chances we can find them before another man dies?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Jack didn’t particularly want Padre tagging along, but it wasn’t like he’d tell the priest to back off. Scout had been his friend as well, and seeing him dead and naked would stay with Jack for the rest of his life. Scout had been family, closer than blood.
He asked Padre, “You okay?”
“Been better. Watch your back with Perez.”
“Fuck Perez and the jackass he rode in on. Dammit, Padre, you know Perez can’t handle this.”
Jack slowed his truck as he neared the rectory. “You want off here?”
“No.”
Jack hadn’t expected Padre to bail, and he pressed the accelerator. Driving too fast, he halted in front of El Gato, the bar on the city/county border where Scout had been last night.
Jack jumped out of the truck and his friend followed. Padre wanted to talk, but he couldn’t talk now. Not about Perez, not about anything. He focused on finding out what happened the night before, when Scout left, who he left with, and who he may have had a confrontation with.
The Hernandez family owned El Gato. Cece worked six days a week; her brothers Pablo and Carlos worked nights. They reluctantly shut down on Sunday as a nod to their devout mother, who had given her children the seed money to open the bar from the insurance settlement after her husband died on a construction job.
Cece’s eyes were rimmed red as she poured a draft for two men at the bar. “Señor Jack, Father,” she said when they came in. “What happened?”
“I need to talk to Pablo.” Jack didn’t care for Carlos, the youngest and laziest of the three siblings. He’d brought drugs into the bar and Jack quickly put an end to that. Still, he was wily and sly enough to keep dealing, just more carefully. Jack preferred to deal with Pablo. Though Pablo didn’t speak English, Jack was fluent in Spanish.
“Upstairs. He doesn’t know anything.”
Jack walked to the back of the bar and through a door that led to the apartment where Pablo lived.
It was noon and Pablo was sleeping. Jack didn’t fault him—the bar owner worked until two every night, but Jack had little patience for anyone today.
“Pablo.” In fluent Spanish, Jack said, “Wake up. Time to get up.”
Pablo moaned. Jack saw him reaching under his pillow. He had a hold on his wrist before Pablo could draw the gun.
The paunchy man rolled over and glared at Jack through eyes framed by overgrown brows and a face stubbed with a day’s growth of beard. “You should have said you were Señor Jack.”
“Scout’s dead. I need answers.”
Honest surprise lit Pablo’s face, telling Jack he didn’t know anything about it. He released the barkeep’s arm and stepped back.
“Señor Scout? How?”
“Someone broke into his house and killed him.” Jack didn’t go into details. “I need to know everyone who was in the bar last night. Regulars and strangers. Everyone.”
Pablo sat up, the sheet sliding away revealing thick legs and dirty boxers and a stained undershirt. He scratched his thick head of hair and said, “I can make a list.”
“Good.” He searched the room for paper and pen, not caring what fell to the floor.
Padre added, “Mucho gracias.”
Jack wasn’t in the mood for diplomacy. He knew enough about criminal investigations to know that if they didn’t catch a whiff of Scout’s killer soon, he would disappear. The more time that passed, the harder it would be to solve the case. And frankly, no one gave a shit about the poor citizens of Hidalgo, Texas. Jack knew Chief Art Dipshit wouldn’t call in the Rangers. He’d rather keep his jurisdiction intact than ask for help, even when he desperately needed it.
Pablo rose and shuffled to the living area where he found a torn envelope that had once held a utility bill, and started writing names. “All the regulars,” he said, “except Sam and Juan, and Juan Cristopher, Jorge’s son. They caught a job in Brownsville, could take two weeks.” He thought, wrote down a bunch of names. Xavier, Bella, Miguel. “Miguel. He only comes if Bella comes, and with the kids getting in trouble, she’s steering clear of my place. But that lousy husband of hers took the boys camping and she had a free night.”
It was common knowledge, except to Bella’s husband, that Miguel and Bella were having an affair. At this point, Jack didn’t care about their infidelity.
“Anyone else?”
“Tuesday night, mid-month. Slow time. Wait until May first, we’ll be packed for a week.”
“Strangers?”
“We always get a few here and there. You know, we got a good location, right off the highway, people going down to Reynosa, coming back up.”
“How many?”
“Last night—college boys. UTSA, from their I.D.’s. I carded them. Fucking gringos, paid in pesos and laughed. What am I going to do with pesos?” Pablo waved his hands above his head.
Probably coming back from a long weekend of whoring in Reynoso. Idiots. But if they were drunk enough, they might have thought it sport to murder someone. Thrill kill.
“How many? Were they drunk?”
“Three, and they didn’t drink more than two or three cervezas each. But I think they had a little”—he sniffed loudly—”happy powder.”
Carlos. Jack knew it like he knew his own name. Bastard. “What time did they leave?”
“Midnight.” He motioned side to side with his hand. More or less.
“What about Scout?”
“Just before closing. I make sure he don’t drive, just like I promised you, Señor Jack. No driving if he has more than two. But he walked here, and he walked home. I think he left alone. I didn’t see any of your other men.”
Lucky stayed in Reynoso with his girlfriend, and Mike lived in Brownsville with his wife and daughter. His other regulars didn’t live nearby, flying or driving down when an assignment piqued their interest—or the money was good enough. He had someone he could call in San Antonio to follow up on the college kids.
“What were the UTSA boys driving?”
Pablo knew cars. “Convertible Caddy, Eldorado. Late nineties.”
“Color?”
“Silver.”
Jack asked, “Anyone else?”
“A couple tourists.”
“What did they look like?”
“How am I supposed to remember? All gringos look the same to me. Cars, I remember. People, fuck— Don’t, Jack—”
Jack had stepped forward. He didn’t touch Pablo, but his fists itched.
“The tourists?” Jack repeated.
“Gringos. They came and left early. One couple, older. Gramps. Took pictures, had bottled water, left. The other, a woman, came in about the same time, had Jack straight up.”
“When did she leave? Or was she with the couple?”
“I thought she was their daughter, but she stayed longer. Maybe left at nine.”
“What did she look like?” Padre asked.
Jack glanced at him. He had almost forgotten the priest was in the room. He didn’t look well.
Pablo muttered under his breath. “I don’t remember. I swear, maybe someone else will remember. She had a ball cap on. That’s all I know. I swear. She could have been twenty or fifty, for all I know.”
“What was she wearing?” Padre asked.
“Clothes.”
Jack leaned forward.
“I don’t know!” Pablo exclaimed, pushing his sloppy handwritten list at Jack. “I don’t remember. Nothing that stands out. Jeans, maybe.”
“Did she talk to anyone?”
Pablo looked worried and relieved at the same time. “Carlos brought her the drink. Maybe he talked to her some. She was there, then she wasn’t. I don’t keep my eyes on everyone all the time. I have work to do, bills to pay, stock and cleaning. I’m not a babysitter. Talk to Carlos, talk to everyone. I’m real sorry about Señor Scout, but I don’t know anything else. I swear, Señor Jack, I know nothing.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Wednesday morning was a whirlwind—Megan barely had time to pack an overnight bag and arrange for her neighbor Jesse to take care of Mouse—and by three p.m. central time, Megan landed in Austin, Texas. Hans had called for a liaison to meet them from the FBI’s Austin field office. Renny Davis was a tall, thin man with a complexion and sharp features that suggested part Native American heritage.
“Thanks for picking us up,” Hans said after introductions.
“My pleasure,” Davis said. “I’ve heard great things about you. I’m signed up for one of your classes in the fall—advanced victimology—as part of ERT training.”
“I look forward to seeing you in class,” Hans said.
They made small talk as they walked to Davis’s car. As the Austin agent drove, Megan asked, “Have you been involved with the Johnson homicide from the beginning?”
“Nope,” Davis said. “No need to be. I didn’t even know about it, other than a cursory news program, until headquarters issued the hot sheet.”
Megan looked at her notes. “That was issued on Friday. Three days before Price was killed. Vegas ran the M.O. and up popped Johnson, so they contacted their local FBI office about a killer crossing state lines. That was … last Wednesday.”
“I contacted José when I got the sheet. He’s the detective in charge, I’ve worked with him before. He told me they had shit—excuse me—and were hoping that Vegas would come up with something more. You headed there next?”
Megan glanced at Hans with raised eyebrows. “Are we?”
“Yes. If we get what we need here, we’ll be on a plane tomorrow night. The Vegas file is pretty thin. Either there was no evidence or it hasn’t been processed. We might be able to help expedite on that end.”
Davis asked, “Do you think he’ll strike again so soon?”
“They will most certainly kill again,” Hans said, “and sooner rather than later.” He explained his theory to Davis about why the killers waited a longer time between killing Johnson and Perry than Perry and Price. “That’s why it’s doubly important to scrutinize this crime scene even more carefully.”
“They could have been waiting for a specific day,” Megan said, “or they didn’t have a good opportunity. Perry had an on-again/off-again girlfriend. There’s nothing here about whether they were on or off and for how long. Just that she hadn’t seen him in two days.”
“Exactly,” Hans said. “They want their victims alone.”
“What did local police think happened?” Megan asked Davis.
“For a while the thought was organized crime. The hamstrings, the torture—restraint. As if he knew something or hadn’t paid up, or maybe screwed around with another man’s wife. But nothing connected. Even his ex was shocked and had nothing but good things to say about him.”
“Then why’d they divorce?” Hans asked.
Megan knew there were many reasons to divorce, even if you liked your spouse.
Davis shrugged. “José might know. Johnson was well-liked by friends and family, thought to be moody, and had a few friends from his army days who took his death pretty hard. But no one with a beef, no one who knew of a problem, no disgruntled customers.”
“We’ll need to talk to his friends from the army,” Megan said.
Davis pulled up in front of the main Austin police station. He slid an official business placard on his dash and they got out.
José Vasquez was much younger than Megan had thought after speaking with him on the phone. He looked about twenty, but being a detective, Megan figured he had to be closer to thirty. He was short and wiry, completely antithetical to his deep voice.
He and Davis knew each other, and Megan could tell that having the local fed with them was a big benefit.
“I found you a conference room,” José said, “and all my files are there. Got photos, the coroner’s notes you asked for, Agent Vigo, witness statements, evidence reports. The whole nine yards.”
“Can we get out to the crime scene?” Megan asked.
“It’s been cleaned out. Everything was left to Johnson’s kids, and his ex is selling the place and putting the money into a trust for them. Probably best thing, I wouldn’t be too keen on keeping a place where someone I cared about was killed.”
“But we can still access it, right?” she asked.
“I’ll get us in, just takes a call. Why don’t you sit down, make yourselves at home—coffee is right around the corner.” He left.
Hans sat down, full of nervous energy. Very unlike his usually easygoing demeanor. “Something up?” Megan asked casually.
“There’s something off. I don’t know what. I need more information, as much as I can get, and maybe I’ll figure out what’s bothering me.”
“We got the parking garage security tapes back. Someone scrambled the digital code.”
“And no one noticed?” Davis asked.
“They’re not monitored twenty-four/seven. They’re supposed to be a deterrent.”
“Seems like the killers would have had to know that, otherwise they wouldn’t have been comfortable sitting there for hours. What about the switched license plates?” Hans asked. “Is Sac P.D. following up on that?”
“Yes,” Megan said, then explained to Davis about the security guard making rounds in the garage and taking note of the license plates of cars left overnight. She then said to Hans, “What I don’t get is, they obviously knew all about the security at the garage, but how did they know Price would be there? The guy’s homeless.”
“Maybe they picked him up. Or have been following him for a few days, finding out where he liked to walk or sleep. Where was he attacked?”
“In the stairwell of the garage.”
“Could he have been sleeping in there?”
“It’s possible,” Megan said. “Black and his people are talking to the victim’s friends. But the homeless don’t like talking to cops. So far he’s not getting a lot out of them.”
But it made sense that the killers had watched P
rice, just like they knew when Duane Johnson would be coming home from work.
“I haven’t studied homeless psychology in detail,” Hans said, “but many who congregate in an urban environment like this have mental problems, often including drug addiction.”
Megan nodded. “But here’s Price, who didn’t appear to be an addict, who was AWOL and even the army didn’t know where he was. So how did these two killers rout him out? He was a specific target. How did they find him?”
“That’s a damn good question.”
Megan pulled out her cell phone and dialed Detective Black. She posed her question to Black, and added, “There may be a witness. Someone who saw something, maybe someone following Price.”
“The homeless in this area have had regular skirmishes with the local police. They’re suspicious by nature. They’re not talking to me. I’ve been trying.”
“What about your friend Abrahamson? The guy who went undercover? Pose the dilemma to him, maybe he can come up with something.”
“Good idea. When will you be back from Texas?”
“Anyone’s guess. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Appreciate it.”
Megan hung up and told Hans about the conversation. He was deep into reading the files. She picked up the evidence report and pored through it. The victim, Duane Johnson, had left his restaurant, Duane’s Rib House, at just before eleven Wednesday night, February 11. This was habitual, the restaurant stopped serving at ten, according to his employees, and they were always out by eleven. Duane worked every day except Mondays and had an assistant manager who opened five days a week.
It was this assistant manager, Joanne Quince, who began to worry when Duane was late on Thursday. “Duane always comes in by four—I have to pick my kids up no later than five from the sitter. He’s never been late.”
At four-thirty, she called his cell phone, then his house phone, then his ex-wife, Dawn. Joanne left one of the waitresses in charge, picked up her kids, then left them with a neighbor and drove to Duane’s house. Dawn was already there, crying, and on the phone with the police department.
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