Closer Than She Knows

by Kelly Irvin

  “We’re just covering all our bases here. We have officers canvassing the entire area. If the weapon is still there, we’ll find it.” Detective Siebert’s tone held thinly masked impatience. His gaze bounced to Max. “I need to see the note.”

  “What note?”

  Max gripped her hand. “Let’s sit on your steps.”

  “Max.”

  No response. He strode ahead, forcing her to trot on unsteady legs in his wake. At the small porch he sat and then pulled a creamy-beige folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He held it out.

  Siebert plucked it from his hand with gloved fingers before Teagan could react. With great care he unfolded the single sheet of paper and held it up. “Have you seen this before?”

  “No.” She inched forward. The words were etched in black calligraphy that looked as if it might come from an old-fashioned fountain pen. An invitation? A poem?

  A letter.

  Dear T,

  I’m sorry about the officer.

  Not really.

  Serial killers aren’t capable of remorse.

  If dear Evelyn was too close to home,

  Just wait.

  Tell the reporters I want a proper name.

  Aren’t letters a quaint way to converse?

  I’ll be in touch soon.

  Cheers!

  Your friend Francois Bonaparte

  The author had signed the name with an ornate flourish.

  The world spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl. Teagan had never been a fan of carnival rides. She plopped onto the steps. Gorge rose in her throat. She swallowed against the acrid burn. “You need to get Detective Chamberlain over here.”

  “He’s up to his eyeballs with Kris Moreno’s case.” With a ginger fingertip touch, Siebert handed the letter to the CSU evidence investigator, who slid it into a paper bag. “Do you know this Francois Bonaparte?”

  “Justin’s case is connected. The writer wants us to know that.” She sucked in a long breath. “Francois Bonaparte is a fictional character in Raymond Fuentes’s first Jay Southerland novel, The Code. He leaves notes with every woman he kills after assaulting them, outlining the so-called moral code that should be used by all serial killers. Like never kill anyone you know, never change your mind once you start, always dispose of weapons properly, and don’t be stupid or careless.”

  All very good rules for killers who didn’t wish to get caught.

  Max sat next to her, so close their shoulders touched. His solid presence steadied her. He stared at the dried blood on the hand he rested on his grass- and dirt-stained jeans. “How does it connect to you?” His hoarse voice delivered the question in a carefully neutral tone. “What do a young police officer, an elderly woman, and a court reporter have in common?”

  “I have no idea, but we need to figure it out.” Teagan gripped her hands in her lap and stared up at Siebert. “Did you know Officer Moreno?”

  “Not personally, but she was a police officer. A decent one who’ll never have a chance to get really good at it.” He stared into space, but his expression left no doubt he was imagining her death. “It stinks.”

  “It does. I’m so sorry for every officer who has lost a colleague today. This creeper is comparing himself to fictional killers like what he does isn’t real.”

  “But there was no letter in Kris Moreno’s killing.”

  “He’s used one letter to connect the two murders. It’s like he’s introducing himself to me.” Despite the heat, Teagan shivered. “As a fictional killer. Is it because of my job as a court reporter, or does he know I read mysteries and suspense?”

  “Don’t try to apply logic to the thoughts of a psycho.” Max rubbed her back and let his hand drop. “It’ll only make you crazy.”

  That seemed to be the idea. Francois Bonaparte aka Serial Killer wanted to frighten her.

  Teagan straightened. She refused to play the victim.

  A man who hid behind a fake name was a coward.

  Bring it on, Franky.

  5

  Murder turned a home into Grand Central Station. Teagan’s tiny house bulged with an onslaught of law enforcement types. She led the way into her home so they could confirm the perpetrator hadn’t entered it. She corralled poor Tigger. The dog knew better than to jump on her, but she licked Teagan from forehead to chin, whimpering the entire time. After feeding and watering her, Teagan shut her into the kennel with repeated promises to make it up to her soon.

  A CSU investigator told her to wait outside. Curbing a surly response, she obeyed. Another CSU guy took photos of Max, head-to-toe, then asked for his clothes. Max grabbed his saddlebags from his bike and went to the guest bathroom to change.

  Seconds later Justin’s unmarked Crown Vic skidded to a stop behind the SAPD units. Gracie’s Ram and Billy’s Tundra rolled in behind him. Gracie’s undignified streak across the yard didn’t give Teagan much time to brace herself. Her stepsister, almost six feet tall to Teagan’s five-five, swooped in for a crushing hug followed by twenty questions.

  Billy’s more reserved approach involved a glaring review of her person followed by a short, hard hug. By the time Max returned, dressed in gray boxing gym sweats, a T-shirt with ragged cut-off sleeves that showed off his eye-popping muscular biceps, and dirty Nikes, her front yard looked like a cop convention.

  A review of the killer’s calling card resulted in worried stares and curses—mostly from Gracie, who would defiantly toss dollar bills into Teagan’s swear jar later.

  “Poor Evelyn is close to home, but it sounds like he’s planning to get even closer.” Her stepsister’s hand went to the Smith & Wesson M&P40 on her hip. In her SAPD uniform, dark-brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, she looked every inch the cop she was. More than one perp who tried to take advantage of a female officer had lived to regret it. Her black belt in karate helped. “The guy plans to torment you specifically. Why?”

  “I have no idea. I’d never met Officer Moreno until today. But Evelyn . . .” Teagan choked on the name. Sweet with a pinch of vinegar. That’s the way Mom would’ve described her neighbor. A firecracker. Teagan gritted her teeth. “Suck it up, kid,” is what Dad would say. “What kind of psycho kills a defenseless elderly woman to make a point with me?”

  “A monster.” Billy stripped off the Nitrile gloves he’d used to examine the missive. “He’s telling us he’s a serial killer. An arrogant son of a gun. And he’s made it clear he’s not done.”

  “We need Dad here. I’m calling him.” Gracie tugged her phone from her pocket. “I remember him telling stories about a couple of cases he’s investigated involving serial killers.”

  “The department has all kinds of resources for that. It doesn’t have to be Dad.” Teagan was already neck-deep in concerned family members. Adding her father—Billy and Gracie’s stepfather—to the mix would only complicate the matter—and her life—more. “Don’t you have a profiler?”

  “Dillon will have a personal stake in this. He’ll throw everything he’s got at it.” Max’s voice floated from behind her. “And he’s retired now, so he has the time to do it.”

  Supposedly Dad had retired six months earlier. As retired as a guy could be who consulted for law enforcement agencies across the country, taught classes, and wrote true crime books. Some men played golf. His hobby was crime.

  “So what exactly did you see, Max?” Justin didn’t bother with pleasantries, which suited Teagan fine. They were all tired, and given the history between the two men, it would be hypocritical. “Siebert says you weren’t particularly forthcoming.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “It’s okay.” Taking his sweet time, Max handed the paper bags containing his shirt, jeans, and boots to the investigator. He nodded at Billy and Gracie, who returned the favor. If they were less than enthusiastic about Max hanging out with their stepsister, they’d had the good sense not to mention their reservations to Teagan. “Any chance I’ll get those boots back? They’re not cheap.”

  The invest
igator shrugged and trotted away. Max shrugged and turned to Justin. “The light from Mrs. Conklin’s back porch doesn’t reach the rear fence. I bet your buddy will let you tour the scene if you don’t believe me. I heard sounds, looked up, and saw someone dart from the bushes that line the fence. I took off after him—”

  Billy’s hand shot up like an eager student who wanted to be teacher’s favorite. “It was a man?”

  “I can’t be sure. It’s just an impression. I know it’s a cliché, but it happened so fast and it was so unexpected.” Max rubbed bloodshot eyes. “Believe me, I wish I could be more specific. Dark clothes, a hooded sweatshirt maybe. He-She catapulted over the fence like a high jumper, so someone physically fit.”

  “And you didn’t see anything in the alley?”

  “It was pitch black. He whacked me before I had a chance.”

  “We found an old piece of wood—like a table or chair leg—on the ground next to the trash cans,” Siebert added. “It may be the weapon used on Max. CSU collected it, but the chances of getting fingerprints are slim to none.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t stab you too.” Nausea pummeled Teagan. She worried every day about losing Gracie or Billy to violence on the street. She never expected to have to worry about a youth minister who’d turned into her closest friend. Someone who occupied her thoughts more than she cared to admit to him or to herself. “It would’ve been my fault for asking you to come over here.”

  Justin snorted. He stuck his pen behind his ear. “So why didn’t he stab you? Why not kill you? The note makes it sound like he wants to hurt people . . . close to Teagan.”

  Teagan studied the books in her Little Free Library. Time to add some of the paperbacks she’d picked up at a library fund-raiser. I can’t lose anyone else, God. How much do You expect me to take? She got it. Nothing was guaranteed. Live every day like today was your last day. Live for eternity. So take me. Not Max.

  Intellectually the concepts were easy to grasp. Emotionally they resulted in train wrecks.

  “T?”

  She met Justin’s gaze head-on. “The author of the letter knows things. Personal things. Like the fact that family members call me T. Family, close friends like Max. How could a killer know that? Has he been stalking me? Does he listen in on my conversations?” Her voice rose. She stopped. More teeth gritting was needed.

  “We’ll get him, Sissy.” Gracie edged closer.

  “That’s a promise.” Billy crossed his arms and glowered. “Take it to the bank.”

  His face ruddy, Justin shifted his feet. “So that means you’re both in danger. We can’t offer much in the way of protection. T, you can stay at your dad’s—”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m a big girl.”

  “He’s headed over. We’ll talk about it when he gets here.” Billy used that calm negotiator voice he’d probably learned in a class at the academy. “But try not to be a stubborn horse’s behind when he gets here.”

  Billy did a better job of policing his vocabulary in front of the youth minister than Gracie did. That he tried usually made Teagan smile. Not today.

  “You should probably consider taking a leave of absence from your jobs, Max.” Justin’s unsolicited background check when Max came into Teagan’s life still rankled. That he had good intentions wasn’t lost on her or Max. “Do you have some place you could go until we get this creep off the streets—relatives out of state?”

  Max had been the late-life child of a couple who’d been more like grandparents than parents. They had passed away after a few years of living the quiet life of golf-loving retirees in Fort Myers, Florida. He had no relatives, only a tight-knit church family. “I’m good. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  “That’s what most people think, until they end up dead.”

  “I won’t endanger people I care about.”

  “Take a road trip then.”

  The testosterone overload in her front yard made Teagan’s headache ratchet up a notch. The clusters of neighbors and other rubber-neckers behind the crime scene tape had begun to disperse with the lateness of the hour and the lack of discernible activity. Still, her neighbors didn’t need more fodder for the grapevine. “Can we focus on next steps, guys?”

  “It’s mind-boggling that he or she stayed around to watch Max find the victim, call for help, and perform CPR.” Gracie slipped behind Teagan and kneaded her shoulder and neck muscles. Teagan lowered her head and closed her eyes, but no amount of massage would remove the tight knot of anger, confusion, and heartache stuck in her throat. Gracie’s hands slowed. “He took a huge chance of being caught. Why would he do that?”

  “He’s an adrenaline-rush junkie,” Justin offered. “He thinks he’s smarter than the police. Most killers do.”

  “Why leave the note at all?” Billy squinted as if staring into the distance. The setting sun haloed his wiry dark-brown hair. “It’s obvious we have an attention seeker. He wants the media to give him a good name.”

  “If he’s calling himself a serial killer, then there may be other victims we don’t know about yet.” Gracie’s hands tightened. Teagan moved and Gracie let go. She slid around so Teagan could see her face. “Or more to come. You really do need to move back to the house, T, until we catch this guy—”

  “Just remember, this is my case,” Siebert interjected. “You’re PD, but you’re also family members. I’ll keep you in the loop—”

  “We’ll keep you in the loop.” Justin tapped his pen on the slim, reporter-style notebook he favored. “I talked to Sarge. He agreed. We’ll team up with a combined investigation into both murders. If it’s really a serial killer, it’ll be all hands on deck, task force, you name it. Let’s get the jump on it before they decide to involve the Feds.”

  “I don’t care who does what. Just do it fast”—Max threw the words down like a gauntlet—“for everyone’s sake.”

  “That’s the plan.” Justin picked it up with a fierce smile. “This is what I do for a living. Just stand back and watch.”

  No challenge there.

  On that note, Dad rolled onto the scene in his retirement gift to himself—a brilliant blue Charger, fully loaded with a hemi, leather seats, and the latest, greatest stereo system. Officer Diaz obviously knew him. Teagan’s father traversed the crime scene tape with barely a pause, whereupon he parted the waters of the tight group surrounding Teagan and made directly for her.

  His bone-crunching hugs were legendary among the kids. Teagan might be his only child by blood, but he treated the three he inherited when he remarried after her mother’s death like his own flesh and blood.

  His pale crystal-blue eyes sharp, Dad gazed into her face first. His fingers touched the baby bandages on her cheeks and forehead. Fierce emotion towered in his normally granite, clean-shaven face. “I’m sorry, T.” He kissed her cheek tenderly and wrapped her in a hug that squeezed breath from her body. “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

  The choked emotion in his words invited tears. Teagan dug deep to keep them from escaping. “Thanks.”

  He studied her face and nodded. “You’ll come through this like the champ you are.” He turned to the others. “So what do we have?”

  They took turns reciting the basic facts. He wouldn’t want or need embellishment.

  “Let me see the letter.”

  The lines around his eyes and wide mouth tightened as he read. He ran his big hands over his silver military-style crew cut. He cast his gaze up and down the block. “We’ve got a big problem. I’ve seen letters like this before. We thought we caught the guy. It seems we may not have.”

  His gaze settled on Teagan. “Either a serial killer has my daughter in his crosshairs or we have a copycat out there. Either way, she’s in danger.”

  6

  Everyone moved at the same time. Max grabbed Teagan’s hand and tugged her toward the house. “Why are we standing outside where you’re a sitting duck?”

  Dad propelled her from behind. Gracie and Bil
ly closed ranks in their wake. Lockstep into the house, where her father directed traffic with the efficiency of a man who’d spent fifteen years in the Army CID before joining local law enforcement. In minutes they were seated at Teagan’s pine table strategically placed across from the granite-topped peninsula that separated the breakfast nook from her kitchen. Billy made the coffee and Gracie served it.

  “Here’s the deal.” Dad sipped black Costa Rican blend from Teagan’s favorite stoneware mug. “Certain details of the Leo Slocum case were not made public. He wrote a letter to his victim Olivia Jimenez after he killed her. He had a few sheets of fancy stationery in his van, along with a fountain pen and ink. That and a number of other details tie him to numerous other murders across South Texas, mostly in the Valley. He was a pharmaceutical salesman based out of San Antonio. The murders occurred along or near his sales route.”

  “The guy convicted of kidnapping, assaulting, and murdering the UTSA student?” Billy scratched his head and frowned. “He’s in prison, isn’t he?”

  “Last time I checked he’d been transferred to Corpus. They think they can get him on a murder charge there—maybe two.” Dad stared into his cup as if divining something there. “It’s possible he’s killed women in Corpus Christi, McAllen, Weslaco, Harlingen, and Brownsville over the past thirty years.”

  “But he’s in jail,” Billy said a second time.

  “Yes. There was a witness to Olivia Jimenez’s kidnapping. A guy who stumbled out of the bar at the wrong time looking to take a whiz before he walked home. Slocum had a stolen revolver, a butcher knife, and a garrote in the back of his minivan at the time of his arrest, as well as the writing tools. He got sloppy. He had a shtick he did with women. He told her he was security for the bar and that someone had tried to steal her car. At least one person overheard the conversation. When they got out in the parking lot, he forced her into his van. He didn’t realize the guy was there leaning on a truck, doing his duty. The guy was three sheets to the wind, but he came forward when law enforcement made a public appeal for witnesses.”