Wounded at Work

by Mitzi Pool Bridges

  “You each have a key to the house and the security code. Help yourselves.”

  Matt hurried to his SUV.

  “Is there any food in the house?”

  “I doubt it, Dirk. Pick up something on your way.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Matt pulled into a parking space at the FBI’s downtown Houston office building. As was his custom, he took the stairs. When he stepped onto the floor, he was stopped before he got to his office. “Boss wants to see you. Small conference room.”

  “Now?” It was still early, and though the timing couldn’t be worse, apparently another case was about to be dropped in his lap.

  He opened the door to the conference room to see Special Agent In Charge of the Houston office, David Nelson, sitting at the head of the table. Matt’s friend, Agent Carl Sweeney, was to Nelson’s left. Matt had no idea what was going down. There were many cases coming in, so it could be anything. “Sit, Montgomery.”

  “What’s up?”

  He looked at Carl, but his friend gave a slight shrug, which told Matt he didn’t know.

  Nelson stood and went to the white board behind him. “HPD found a woman last night with knife wounds to the heart—wounds that match those of another murder victim a few months back. After some research, HPD found an earlier victim killed with the same MO in Dallas. It looks as if we might have a serial killer on our hands.”

  Matt and Carl exchanged a glance.

  There were three photos on the board. Nelson used a laser pointer to indicate one, then the other. “The first victim in Dallas had several stab wounds to her chest. The autopsy showed that any one of the wounds would have killed her, as every one hit her heart. The second victim was found here in Houston three months ago with the same type of wounds.” He turned to face them. “Last night’s victim was killed with the same MO. Dallas authorities have hit a dead-end. HPD didn’t do any better with the first local Vic. When her picture was put in the paper to see if anyone could identify her, someone called in anonymously that she was seen in a bar on the northeast side of Houston called Magee’s. Check and see if both local victims were customers. So far, HPD has found nothing useful. We don’t know if the first victim was into drugs or prostitution. If so, she never came onto the radar.” He looked up. “Get their backgrounds. What are their names? Did both visit the same bar? Were they there the night they were killed? So far we have nothing to go on.”

  “Where were the bodies found?”

  “In Memorial Park, not too far from the walking trail.”

  “Interesting.” Not too far from downtown Houston, the park was known for its many walking and jogging trails; its golf course was a recreational favorite for thousands.

  Coop kept his eyes on his boss. “From the look on your face, you seem to think this was unusual.”

  “It wasn’t where they were found that was unusual.”

  “The pictures aren’t clear. Do you have a description? Anything?”

  “Here you go, Montgomery.” The SAC slid a folder their way. “For the moment, they are Jane Doe One and Two. I’m appointing you as Special Agent In Charge of the case. The folder holds all I know and all HPD knows. Sweeney will be on your team. Others will be assigned as needed. Questions?”

  “Who has the case for HPD?”

  “Detective Ben Seton. His number is in the file.”

  “Has an autopsy been performed on the latest victim?”

  Nelson looked at his watch. “In thirty minutes.”

  Standing, Matt grabbed the file and hurried out with Carl close behind.

  “I want a daily report,” the SAC called out just before the door shut.

  Twenty minutes later, the two opened the double doors at The Institute of Forensic Sciences for Harris County. “Do you think we’re on time?”

  “Pray we are. I understand the medical examiner is a stickler for punctuality.”

  Down the hall they saw a man and a woman waiting at the door to the morgue. “I think we made it.”

  They hurried to catch up when the door opened.

  “I see the FBI is in on this one.” Standing in the doorway, the medical examiner surveyed the group. “I’m Doctor Jane Alahandra. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

  “Detective Seton, HPD.”

  “Agent Sweeney and Special Agent in Charge Montgomery. FBI.”

  “Detective Candace Hopkins, HPD.”

  “Do people call you Candy?”

  She gave Carl the evil eye. “Not if they want to live.”

  There were a few chuckles.

  Matt gave her a close look. Small boned, not too tall, blue eyes and black hair. Nice. His gaze went to the medical examiner. She was a tall brunette in her forties, with the dark eyes and complexion of her Hispanic ancestors. A green gown, hairnet, and paper shoe coverings covered her street wear. A pair of half-glasses sat on the end of her nose. “Suit up.” She pointed to a table. “Three minutes.”

  When they walked into the cold room, dressed as if ready to perform surgery, she was standing over a steel table. Carefully, she lifted the lightweight sheet from the victim.

  “If anyone is faint of heart, leave now.”

  No one moved.

  Detective Hopkins spoke up. “I could gut a deer by the time I was twelve.”

  “Let’s get on with it.”

  Matt gave the doctor his full attention as she weighed, measured, and checked the victim. After removing the paper bags from the victim’s hands, the doctor carefully took nail scrapings, then photographed, and examined the entire body.

  Red hair. Quickly, he checked his file. The first victim had red hair and green eyes as well. “Doc. Can I ask a question?”

  “Go for it.”

  “From the Dallas victim’s file and your autopsy on our first victim, both had red hair and green eyes, does this one as well?”

  “She does. However, the hair on our first victim and the one in Dallas was dyed.”

  “Pubic hair as well?” Detective Hopkins wanted to know.

  “Yes.”

  “And this one?”

  The doctor took a sample of hair from the victim’s head and pubic area and moved to a microscope. “Dyed.”

  “What does that mean? If anything?” Detective Hopkins asked.

  “We’ll talk after we finish,” her partner hissed.

  “See to it, Detectives.” The medical examiner’s tone was hard as she turned away from her recorder. “Otherwise you and your friends are going out the door.”

  “Sorry, Doctor. The dyed hair got my attention.”

  “As it should.”

  Matt cleared his throat.

  The medical examiner looked at him over her glasses. “What?”

  Obviously the doctor wasn’t happy with interruptions, so Matt kept quiet.

  “Can we get on with it now?”

  Matt nodded. But he had dozens of questions. The first one being, if the killer targeted women with dyed red hair, how did he know it was dyed?

  The doctor measured the wound, glanced over her glasses at them. “I performed the autopsy on the first local victim. It seems that both died from a clean, deep cut made by a six-inch knife with a one-inch base.”

  “I would like to find that knife.” Matt spoke in an undertone, but the others heard and nodded in agreement.

  The doctor gave him a look before she turned back to her work. For the next two hours, her voice took on a monotone, as she carefully went through the procedure of opening up the victim, weighing and checking the woman’s organs, while at the same time, speaking her findings into the mike.

  Matt was more than glad to have her close the body and call the autopsy concluded.

  As they were removing their protective gear, Detective Hopkins spoke up. “Why don’t we have lunch and compare notes?”

  “Good idea.” Sweeney jumped on the idea.

  Matt wondered if Hopkins was the detective in charge? He had thought it was Seton.

  They met up at a sandwich shop
two blocks away. But Matt’s mind was going in many directions. The nightmare that came out of nowhere—the problem with Reed, and now a serial killer case. The day that started out on a bad note was only getting worse. His appetite left him.

  “…I think it’s pertinent,” Detective Hopkins noted.

  “What?”

  “You’re a million miles away. I hope that’s not how the FBI conducts an investigation of this scope.”

  “Sorry, you were discussing the victims’ similarities? Though not the same height, they were all small boned, all attractive, all had dyed red hair and green eyes. What are you thinking?”

  “It’s par for the course, isn’t it? Mommy is a redhead and doesn’t treat her son as well as he thinks she should. Maybe she beats him, berates him, or makes him feel invisible. So every woman who looks like mommy turns into a victim.”

  Seton grinned at his partner. “You’re much too young to be so jaded.”

  “Hah!”

  “She could be right.” Sweeney put his hoagie down and looked at Matt. “What do you think?”

  Matt gulped half his drink before he answered. “I’m not jumping to conclusions with nothing to go on.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Detective Seton stared at each officer in turn. “Should we put a warning in the paper that all red-haired, green-eyed women are to stay at home until the killer is caught?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “C’mon, Seton. You know better. There would be a run on hair color.”

  “Cute, Hopkins. Cute.”

  “All in a day’s work, Seton.”

  The two detectives’ bantering made Matt feel stiff and ill at ease.

  He had been told more than once he was too reserved—too exact—that he expected too much even from himself. But he was who he was. His brothers were easygoing and comfortable in any situation. Matt was antsy when out of his orbit, uncomfortable in certain situations while Coop and Dirk would sail through them without a second thought. Except for those who were looking for a wealthy man to take care of them, women didn’t flock to him as they had his brothers. Though off the market since settling down with their wives and starting their families, they still had a charisma he didn’t. For that, he envied them.

  “Are you going to eat your hoagie or look at it?”

  “If you want it, Sweeney, just ask.”

  Sweeney snapped it up.

  A few minutes later, Matt stood to leave. “We have to get back.” He handed each detective a card. “Call if you learn anything.”

  The detectives dug in their pockets to produce their own cards. “Do the same.”

  “Of course.” Would the FBI come up with anything more than HPD? He only hoped someone did. And fast. No one wanted a serial killer on the streets.

  They went to Matt’s SUV. “Detective Hopkins gave you the eye. Why didn’t you give her one back. She’s one luscious-looking lady.” Sweeney looked over at Matt. “My wife says you should already be hooked up. So what’s the deal?”

  Matt grumbled. Sweeney laughed.

  “It’s too bad you’re an old married man, isn’t it?”

  Sweeney settled into the passenger seat. “Yeah. The least you could do is get an exciting love life so I can relive my youth.”

  “Like you’re so old.”

  “I’m at the half-way mark. If I’m lucky.”

  “Fifty isn’t that old, my friend.”

  “Yeah! You haven’t hit forty yet. Just wait.”

  “Study the file and tell me what you find.”

  As they pulled into the parking garage, Carl straightened the papers and put them back in the folder. “Not much here.”

  “I guess the next stop will be Magee’s bar.”

  “Maybe. Let’s check and see if anything has come in.”

  They trudged upstairs, each to his office.

  Matt looked at his watch. He had to take time to fax the papers to the Trust attorney. He hoped the old man didn’t have a heart attack.

  Chapter Two

  Carrie Sullivan put a final touch on the undercover persona she would take on for the duration of her new case and examined her handiwork in the mirror. She had twisted her long red hair in a ponytail and slathered on more makeup than usual. Her tight T-shirt had a too-low neckline. She checked to make sure her scars didn’t show. They didn’t. With tighter-than-tight, black leggings, a matching vest, and knee-high boots with heels, she pronounced herself hot.

  That was the idea. She wanted attention, which usually brought information. If she didn’t get it looking like this, the idiots were brain-dead.

  She checked out her left arm; raised it as high as she could, rotated it, then swung it back and forth. Not perfect. It never would be. But it was better. It should be, with her rigid exercise regimen.

  Carrie didn’t want to think of the day she and her army buddies had been walking out of their quarters, only to have an IED in their path, one that killed two of her teammates. It still pissed her off. She was grateful, though; she could have lost her arm. Better yet, she was still alive. Thick, rope-like scars went from under her arm down her side, ending at her waist. They could be improved with more surgery, but Carrie had decided she’d had enough and didn’t want to endure one more stay in the hospital. The scars didn’t bother her, but they had bothered Baxter. A nice looking attorney she’d met while on a case, had had a few dates before they ended up in bed. That’s when Baxter offered to find her a good plastic surgeon who could fix her up.

  And she’d thought they were doing so well. As far as Carrie was concerned, she didn’t need fixing.

  That was the end of Baxter and the end of dating.

  After three surgeries, she had wanted to get back in action, but the army turned her down. She went to college instead, came out with a degree in criminal justice, and considered herself fortunate that Browning Investigative Services had hired her right after graduating.

  She’d started out doing surveillance. Undercover assignments came gradually when they saw how easily she could change her appearance and persona.

  Three years ago, she’d gotten her PI license. It hung proudly in their small conference room right beside Coop’s, Dirk’s, Marshall’s, and Buster’s.

  Coop had given her a missing person case that morning. A mother had hired the firm to find her daughter, Amy Strong. The daughter’s friend, Lizzie, had called and told the mom that Amy hadn’t been to their apartment in three days. It wasn’t like her not to let her friend know she would be late or was sleeping over. The two of them reported it to HPD, who put their detectives on it right away. But no one had seen or heard from Amy, and after checking with everyone at her workplace, the neighborhood, an old boyfriend, and the two young women’s favorite bars, HPD had come up with a big fat zero.

  To settle her mind HPD had done its job, Carrie started out by going over old ground all morning. She had knocked on neighbors’ doors until it was a toss up which hurt the most, her knuckles or her feet, but no one had a clue where Amy could be.

  Now it was time to go undercover.

  Carrie was excited. There was nothing she liked better than getting into another persona, playing a part. Hadn’t she been doing just that since she was a kid? Being someone else? Tamping down her very self? No one knew the real Carrie Sullivan. Maybe the reason she liked playing a part was because she didn’t know who she really was. Having alcoholic parents would do that to you. She had taken on the role of an adult when she was six by pretending she was older, just so she could handle the situation at home.

  She gave her head a quick toss as she studied her latest guise, only to turn away from the mirror with a frown.

  Carrie, as well as Coop, Dirk, and the other PIs, Marshall and Buster, had met that morning as usual. When Coop and Dirk explained what Matt was up against, with his Trust in jeopardy, she wasn’t too surprised. Reed pressured Matt for money several times a year.

  Matt never said no. He was too good-hearted, and Reed took advantage. She
wanted to help, and maybe she could. A plan was forming. She knew it would work, and if she could help Matt, it would make her feel better.

  When the Brownings realized she didn’t have family, they took her under their wing and treated her as their own. She took part in every holiday dinner, every birthday celebration, and Sunday dinners, off and on throughout the year. Helping Matt would be one way to partially pay them back.

  She’d never known a family like them. Sober. Loving. Caring. And she often wondered what it would have been like to grow up in such an environment.

  Not one of her undercover assignments was as hard as the first eighteen years of her life.

  She leaned into the mirror once more, added a little more cherry-red lip gloss, and decided she was ready to get this job rolling.

  In her pocket were five twenties, her fake driver’s license, and a small picture of Amy Strong. Bright blue eyes stared at her. Tousled blonde hair framed a pretty face. Where was she?

  Carrie hurried to Doc Louise’s house, where her Harley was stored. It wasn’t but a couple of miles away, and the bike was safer there than in the apartment’s parking garage. Doc wasn’t there, but Carrie had a remote for the garage door. She also had a bedroom Doc labeled Carrie’s home away from home, where she kept an extra change of biker duds and a couple of other outfits. She never knew when time would be of the essence. Carrie believed in covering all the bases.

  It didn’t take long to leave her car in the driveway and switch to the bike. Minutes later, she was on her Harley that was registered in her bogus name, and took off.

  Eating up the miles—the wind blowing in her face, Houston’s hot summer days didn’t feel so bad. She left the freeway when the five o’clock traffic backed up, and took a side road. She planned to visit the half-dozen bars Lizzy had named as frequently favored hangouts.

  The first was a real dive. Carrie looked around at the grungy floor, walls that needed a good cleaning, a jukebox some gorilla was hitting with a fist to make it work, and wondered why two nice-looking, young ladies would even cross the threshold.

  Young and stupid, was all Carrie could come up with.

  She sat at the bar and crossed her legs. Every male eye in the room zoomed in on her.