by Kelly Irvin
Yeah, he wanted control. How could he not?
One of the best things about driving Highway 16 was the speed limit. Sixty-five miles an hour felt good after the day he’d had. No slow-moving traffic held him up on the one-lane stretches. The poor truck shook with the effort to maintain speed on the dark, winding road. People who lived out here complained about frequent accidents, but that could be chalked up to slowed reflexes of the elderly and poor eyesight, others argued.
An occasional vehicle headed into town cast light on the dark asphalt. The lack of company didn’t bother him. He sang along with Mandisa, then Chris Tomlin, and Zach Williams.
“Fear, he is a liar.” That was the truth.
The bright eyes of a critter—possibly a possum—stared at him in the middle of the road.
He hit the brakes.
Nothing happened.
He swerved, missed the furry creature, and hit the brakes again. Nothing. Not good.
The speedometer needle inched up instead of down.
God have mercy.
He stomped on the brake. Nothing. Nothing.
Jesus, please don’t do this to Teagan. Spare her this.
The wheel spun. He fought for control. The truck careened to the right. He hit the grassy ditch doing seventy-five. The jolt knocked him against the window. His head banged.
The truck bucked, skidded, and hurtled through a wood post and barbed-wire fence. Still, they didn’t slow. Max spun the wheel to the left in time to avoid a massive live oak.
The truck slammed into a cluster of juniper trees. Pollen rained down on the windshield.
All movement stopped.
Yet the world spun off its axis.
15
If only walking through a door could turn back the clock. To be six again, dressed in a swimming suit, running full tilt toward the Slip ’N Slide. Teagan studied the framed photos in the hallway that led to the O’Rourke living room. Baptisms, birthday parties, prom pictures, graduation pictures, Christmas family photos—a multitude of landmark moments in the O’Rourke family from her baptism to Dad’s marriage to Jazz.
Amazingly, the photo of her dad and mom on their wedding day remained at the far end of the long hallway. She wore a full-length white dress with an empire waist and an endless train. A tiara of tiny yellow roses sat atop red hair pulled up in poufy curls. Dad looked young and dashing in his electric blue tux and ruffled shirt. They were the perfect couple. They should’ve been together forever.
“She did make a beautiful bride.”
Teagan faced her dad, who stood behind her, a longneck bottle of beer in one hand. She summoned a smile. “I’m glad it’s still here. I thought maybe after I moved out Jazz would take it down.”
“She gave me a gift when she agreed to live in this house that belonged to the woman I loved before her. I didn’t want to uproot you. She agreed. It was very gracious of her.” He popped the lid from the bottle, held it up as if to say, Cheers, and took a long swallow. “I’d offer you a glass of wine, but I assume you’re still abstaining.”
Teagan had signed a covenant that included abstaining from alcohol when she agreed to be a youth group lay leader. No more Friday night margaritas at Rosario’s. “You’re right. To be honest, I don’t think I could’ve done that.”
“She has a good heart. She did a good job raising three kids on her own for five years.”
Jazz’s first husband was a plastic surgeon who ditched his marriage for one of his medical assistants. Despite a successful practice, he regularly fell behind on child support payments and consistently missed the special occasions in his children’s lives.
No wonder they liked their stepdad better.
Teagan studied the photo taken the day her dad married Jazz.
His new bride wore a sleeveless, beaded coral dress with a plunging neckline that had caused Grandma O’Rourke to wonder if the bride had it on backward. Jazz’s black hair cascaded down her back to her waist. She weighed no more than one hundred pounds sopping wet, and every ounce was muscle. Dad wore a Western-style sport coat, bolo tie, jeans, and his best cowboy boots. In this photo he looked older and wearier but still happy. That man deserved to be happy. They gazed at each other with the kind of megawatt smiles that made photographers’ jobs easy. “She was a beautiful bride too.”
“Thank you for saying that. Billy and Justin told me about what happened downtown today.”
Of course they did. Billy was a major league tattletale. “Max’s PTSD isn’t a secret.”
“I was in the military. I have more than a passing understanding of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“So don’t judge him.”
“You know I’m not.”
Teagan traced her fingers over a photo of her with Justin and her two older stepsiblings. They wore swimming suits and held huge chunks of watermelon. “Sorry. Max is jumpy because he’s worried about me. That should endear him to the family.”
“Max is a good guy. He has problems. We all do, but right now I want people around you who can be counted on in a crisis.”
“He has the most important skill down. That’s praying.”
“Knowing how to take down a psychopath is the most important skill right now.” Dad turned and headed for the hallway that led to his office, his bare feet padding noiselessly on the hardwood floor. “I could use some fresh eyes on the Slocum cases.”
Teagan followed. The cramped office that held her dad’s extensive collection of crime-related textbooks, law books, biographies, writing craft books, fictional thrillers, suspense, and modern mysteries had been turned into a war room. A large dry-erase board on rollers sat behind the scarred oak desk that had graced the room for as long as she could remember.
Ignoring the rush of memories was impossible. She’d learned to read in an overstuffed chair that threatened to swallow her while her dad sat at the desk paying bills or studying case files, looking up every now and then to correct her pronunciation or applaud a particularly difficult sentence. She’d been four and insisted he teach her. Thank you, Daddy, for those days. They’d been less and less as she grew older and his job took more of his time.
Then Mom died. Then he remarried and three more kids shared the crowded spotlight. Resentment crept in. Her teen years had been full of shouting matches and long stretches of silence.
Teagan strode straight to the board. Faces of women—twenty in all—with their names, locations, and dates of death written under each one. Taking her time, Teagan examined each face. These women had plans. They had hopes and dreams. They had loved ones. Had that last day been a good one or a bad one before that horrific realization that she had made a terrible mistake? At what point did she see the monster behind the stranger who’d made a simple plea for help? The monster had counted on these women’s kindness, their inability to say no when someone asked them for help.
They’d all seen those terrible news stories where a person lay dying in the street, crying out for help, and no one stopped because they didn’t want to get involved. These women didn’t want to be that person who walked on by.
He used their innate humanity to ensnare them. A simple ruse. It worked every time. Because no matter how much the media focused on death and destruction, the all-consuming pool of blood at the crime scene, and the vitriolic hate in this world, good remained. It was the chink in their armor.
A hard knot caught in her throat when Teagan touched the first photo. Tiffany Conrad, Corpus Christi. She was twenty-four. Maricela Gonzalez, Brownsville, age thirty-four, single mom of two. Jessica Miller, Harlingen, thirty-nine, twice divorced. She and Tiffany could be sisters. All three women smiled as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
One by one, Teagan studied each photo until it was engraved on her heart, along with their names. These women were more than victims. They had families and lives.
Without speaking, Dad took a seat at the table and waited.
Finally she joined him. The table to the left of the board was c
overed in copies of police reports, witness statements, court documents, newspaper articles, and photographs of crime scenes.
“So many documents.” She picked up the photo of student Olivia Jimenez. Bruises and dried blood darkened her face. Her open eyes stared unseeing at a future gone black. A second photo showed ugly bruises and scratches on her arm and wrist where the perpetrator had handcuffed her. The woman had fought for her life. Even in death Olivia’s beauty shone through. The killer had picked her out for a reason.
Teagan laid the photos down and took another set from her dad. The crime scene from Tiffany Conrad’s murder in Corpus Christi. An ugly, gory death. The killer wasn’t content to simply take life. He enjoyed making a mess. Teagan picked up the report and read several paragraphs. Gorge rose in her throat and she swallowed hard. When she was sure she could speak without a quiver, she turned to her father. “Do you think Slocum came back to San Antonio to get revenge on you and your team? It’s a stupid thing to do. Better to disappear into the woodwork some place up north or south to Mexico.”
“You have to understand the psychology of some serial killers. They often think they’re smarter than law enforcement. It can be a game to them, one they’re sure they can play two moves ahead.”
“The letters have Slocum written all over them—no pun intended.” Teagan picked up a photocopy of a letter left with one of the victims allegedly killed by Slocum. Similar script.
Dear Joanie,
Thank you for a lovely date. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Short and sweet—for you. The pink posies are a nice touch, don’t you think?
Don’t worry. I’ll visit you if I can. If not, it was nice while it lasted.
Me
“Me.”
“Yeah, a deliberate change by Slocum, or is it a copycat who doesn’t know how the other letters were signed?” Her dad removed his glasses, then placed them back on his nose as he squinted at the letter. “The LEOs in the Valley did the VICAP report and submitted it to the FBI’s BSS folks. The profile is nearly a perfect fit for Slocum.”
“Speak English, Dad.”
His goofy grin was reminiscent of the times he went crazy describing scenes from his favorite Bruce Willis movies. Mom and Teagan always rolled their eyes and sighed. “The cops filled out the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—VICAP—report. The profiling section of the Behavioral Science Services, otherwise known as Investigative Support Unit, came up with the report.”
“They don’t actually run the investigations?”
“Not typically. They might send out a profiler to assist on-scene, but mostly they work in an advisory capacity.”
“Did this killer actually go back and ‘visit’ his victims?”
“We don’t know. It’s hard to tell with the level of violence and, in some cases, the amount of decay.”
“What does he mean by posies?”
“He dropped rose petals on her mangled body.”
Teagan picked up a San Antonio Express-News article from Slocum’s trial in San Antonio. “What about his family? What happened to them after he was arrested?”
“His wife, Diana, stuck with him for most of the trial. After he was convicted, she bailed. His daughter is a dentist on the East Coast with a husband, two kids. She didn’t come back for the trial. His son, Chase, visited him at the Bexar County Jail during his incarceration before the trial.”
The image of a cold-blooded killer barbecuing hot dogs and playing in a blow-up wading pool with his little boy danced on the movie screen in Teagan’s brain. “What does he say about his dad? Did you talk to the wife?”
“Whoa.” Dad held up both hands, palms out. “It was a homicide. We had no reason to interview any of them at the time. It wasn’t until LEOs from the other jurisdictions got in touch that we realized who we might have in our jail.”
“Why didn’t the DA’s office pursue for the death penalty?”
In Texas a homicide during the commission of a felony such as kidnapping, armed robbery, or sexual assault fell under the umbrella of capital punishment. The law was designed to discourage perpetrators from killing their victims to avoid being identified by them.
“Slocum had no criminal record. Upstanding citizen of the community. Family man. He had an excellent attorney, and the only witness was a guy who admitted to drinking a six-pack of beer and half a dozen shots that night. The DA took heat for it from the family, but he felt lucky to get the murder charge to stick.”
“We have to talk to the son.”
“Agreed. His wife has made it clear to the folks in the Valley that she wants nothing to do with any of this. She gave them the name of her attorney and hung up. The daughter is the same way.”
“I’m trying to imagine having this man as a father.” An involuntary shudder ran through Teagan. “Being told your father is a monster.”
“The BTK serial killer volunteered in his church and with Boy Scouts. He had a son and a daughter. He and his wife stayed married until he was arrested and confessed to ten murders.” Dad leaned back in his chair, tossed his reading glasses on the table, and rubbed red eyes. “Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, had a wife, a son, a house, a steady job, and he killed forty-eight prostitutes. There are dozens more examples of Joe Blows leading secret lives as serial killers.”
“Are these killers insane? Wouldn’t they have to be insane to kill in such grotesque and horrific ways?”
“Not usually. Not legally. All the research confirms that these men—they’re almost always men—know the difference between right and wrong. They don’t care. They’re psychopaths, sometimes used interchangeably with the term sociopath.” He took a breath, obviously just getting warmed up. “Psychopaths don’t experience fear the way we do, so they don’t have the same conscience normal people do. They can be charismatic and manipulative, and they pretend to have normal emotions when they don’t. They have no remorse and can rationalize everything they do. The victim deserved to die for x, y, or z reason. Serial killers are the same way. They’re often charming, grandiose, lying, shallow, callous, living off others, impulsive, promiscuous, a juvenile delinquent, et cetera.”
“How is that not insane?”
“Look at Slocum. He had to have a plan. He had his tools in his van. He had a vehicle that served his purpose. He killed away from home, while on trips. He had to catch these women off guard and con them into helping him or make them believe he was a security guard.”
“It was premeditated.”
“Not a term we use in the state of Texas, but yes. He can’t claim heat of the moment to try to get it down to manslaughter.”
“Does your head ever hurt from having all that gross crime stuff in your brain?” Teagan studied his chiseled face. It was as familiar to her as the one she saw in the mirror every day, yet he’d aged and somehow she’d missed it. “Don’t you want to balance it out with sweet stuff so it doesn’t explode?”
“Hey, I’m waiting for them to offer a Jeopardy show for crime experts.” He threw both hands up in victory signs. “I figure after winning a few dozen times, I’d be set for life.”
“Hey, Sis!” Leyla pranced into the room. No other word described her dancer’s gait. She’d studied ballet, tap, modern dance, and flamenco for most of her twenty-three years. The spitting image of Jazz, Leyla was the most like her mother, with cocoa-colored eyes and waist-length, shimmering black hair. “Long time no see. You look mar-va-lous.”
“You lie like a dog.” Teagan rolled from her chair and enveloped the elegantly thin woman in a hug. She smelled like grapefruit and cherries. “But you are so kind. Now go back to Austin.”
Instead of obeying like a good little stepsister, Leyla traipsed over to the murder board and studied the photos in much the same way Teagan had earlier. “You need to get this monster.” Her perfectly manicured fingernails touched the border of Maricela Gonzalez’s photo. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Go back to Austin.” Teagan tugged on her arm as if tha
t might propel her toward I-35 North and Texas’s capital city, home of UT, the legislature, liberalism, and the Texas music scene. “Go now. Stay there.”
“You’re not the boss of me.” Leyla’s use of the family mantra made Teagan smile despite herself. Leyla’s gaze skipped to Dad. Like her siblings, she looked to him for approval. “I might see something you don’t.”
She didn’t mean to be snooty. Her law degree would trump Teagan’s associate’s degree in court reporting. But Leyla would never catch up when it came to experience. “And this guy might see you. Run, don’t walk.”
“Okay, girls, enough bickering.” Dad rolled his eyes at Tigger. “Some things never change. We can use a fresh set of eyes and a sharp mind. It’s good experience for a future prosecutor.”
“Or public defender.” Leyla liked to push her stepdad’s buttons. She snatched the first folder off the stack. “How far back do these killings go?”
“Thirty years.”
“Pizza, anyone? Meat lover’s special!” Justin tromped through the door with two large Papa John’s pizza boxes in his arms, as well as a six-pack of Angry Orchard. “Get it while it’s hot.”
Teagan’s stomach clenched and her throat closed. It was the thought that counted. “Thanks.”
“I’ll get paper plates and napkins.” Dad pushed back his chair and stood. “You want me to keep the alcohol cold?”
“That stuff will kill you.” Leyla turned up her nose. Her omnivorous siblings enjoyed ribbing her about her long-standing status as a vegan. She never failed to return fire. “Do you know how long it takes your body to digest animal? How can you eat something that has eyes and gives birth?”
Ignoring her, Justin handed over his stash. Her father took a bottle from the cardboard carrier and set it on the table. “For later.” He strode from the room.
