Closer Than She Knows

by Kelly Irvin

  “Amen.”

  “Thank you.” The two syllables came out in a squeak.

  “Dad, are you sure about this?” Billy raced back up the food chain as if nothing in Max’s prayer had calmed his tunnel vision.

  “Sure as a father can be when his children are in harm’s way and he has to choose a least-worst-case scenario. I’m not crazy about the idea, but Teagan can handle herself, and like Justin said, we’ll be on top of it every second.” Dad rubbed bloodshot eyes. “Leyla’s life is at stake.”

  “So you’re trading Teagan for Leyla.”

  “We’re not trading anyone.” Dad tucked an arm around Teagan and drew her into a tight hug. “We’re right behind you, girl. Go get ’im.”

  Teagan shoved through the doors into the plaza in front of PSHQ. She took a deep breath and stepped up to Chief Zavala’s right.

  He’d been briefed by the PIO staff that she was coming. Still, surprise and concern flitted across his face. Teagan shrugged and cocked her eyebrows. It has to be done. She’s my sister. Her telegraphed message hit home. His face once again his trademark brown stone with deep scars of unknown origin, Zavala nodded and faced the sea of antsy media.

  They were openly anxious to get to their units and file their stories. Most had taped their microphones to the plush portable podium complete with a built-in sound system, perfect for outdoor pressers.

  A murmur ran through the small crowd as some, like Brian Lake, recognized her. The mass of journalists leaned forward with a metaphorical Ahhhh, what have we here?

  “I know you’re all chomping at the bit to file stories or get back to the station or move on to the next pool of blood, but you’ll want to stick around for my guest.” Playing it like a true politician/actor, Zavala patted his face with a folded handkerchief, laid it on the podium, and took a sip of bottled spring water. “Some of you will recognize her. If you’re busy doing puff pieces, you might not.”

  Ouch. Let’s not antagonize these folks, Chief.

  The sudden appearance of one of the PIOs from the city manager’s office suggested she agreed as well. She slid her hair behind her ear and raised her eyebrows.

  Apparently the chief caught the signal. Looking duly chastised, he launched into the remarks hastily scribbled by the PIO. “Teagan O’Rourke, court reporter for the 177th District Court, has written records for hundreds of cases in the last six years, but she never expected to be in the middle of a murder spree that has repeatedly hit close to home.

  “She is the daughter of a retired police officer and homicide detective, and the sister of two SAPD officers, one a homicide detective. For some reason we’re not getting into here, she has been singled out as the recipient of some horrifying notes from a serial killer who has demanded that she share his insights with the world. He wants to be famous, so Ms. O’Rourke and her family have decided to give him what he wants.

  “Not because we normally give in to capricious demands from wanton murderers, but because he has kidnapped Ms. O’Rourke’s stepsister Leyla Evans-O’Rourke, a law student at UT–Austin. I’ll let Ms. O’Rourke share the rest of the information with you.”

  Cameras clicked in a mad rush, a cacophony of sound until one couldn’t be distinguished from another. Bodies crowded the thin line that separated the podium from the media. A uniformed officer stepped in between.

  “It’s all right, Officer.” Gathering her wits around her like spilled grains of wheat, Teagan let her gaze drift over the reporters and then glanced down at the podium. Some eager-beaver PR type had left speaking points for her. She turned the sheets of paper facedown. “I struggle with how to stand in front of y’all and give this depraved killer what he wants.” She swallowed. Her dry throat hurt with each syllable. Chief Zavala set a fresh bottle of water, already open, in front of her. She took a long swallow.

  Please God, don’t let me burp or, worse, cry in front of these people. “But he has my sister. Chief Zavala identified her as my stepsister. Biologically she is.

  “But in life, in love, in family, she is my sister and has been since she walked into my bedroom, all of six years old, and announced she wanted the top bunk. I was ten and no way was I letting this little snot-nosed intruder give the orders.

  “Leyla is twenty-three now, a gifted dancer, an award-winning competitive shooter, as well as a law student. This man got the jump on her somehow, and now he has her. The only way to pacify him, he says, is to publicly announce my choice for his nom de plume as he calls it. You see, he writes me letters and leaves them at the crime scenes.”

  Hands shot in the air. Brian’s waved like a railroad-crossing red light.

  “Let me finish, guys, and then you can ask questions.”

  She managed another sip of water, praying her stomach wouldn’t spew it back out. She explained his choice of signatures, each one different and pertaining to a Raymond Fuentes novel.

  “I’ve chosen the Triple S Murderer, in the tradition of the BTK Killer. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Something more literary, perhaps. But he’s not getting it. Not from me. What he’s doing is real. It’s not fiction. He’s hurting and killing women. He’s just as desperate as the BTK Killer for publicity. He wants to be famous. As famous as a man who hides his identity behind fictitious names of characters in books can be.

  “The Triple S stands for Shoot, Stab, and Strangle. This guy likes to mix up his MO. His victims are woman of various ages, vocations, and ethnic backgrounds. He varies his victims and his MO in order to stymie attempts to capture him. We think the recent murders have been to get at my father, retired detective Dillon O’Rourke. He’s playing with me to get revenge on my father. For what, we’re not sure. But nothing has to make sense in our minds, only in the mind of a psychopath.”

  “Is this somehow related to the Leo Slocum case?”

  Brian broke protocol by shouting out his question before she asked for them.

  “SAPD Homicide, my father, my brother Detective William Evans-O’Rourke, and my sister Patrolwoman Grace Evans-O’Rourke Garcia are running down all leads and all possible connections.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “My sources say you interviewed Slocum’s son recently, as well as several ex-coworkers. Is it typical for a court reporter to participate in an investigation like this?”

  “That’s a question for the chief, I suppose, but I accompanied my father, who is a consultant for SAPD with standing in this case. I’m not sure how that will change now that a family member has been kidnapped. Either way, the department and my family are pursuing all leads and all possible connections.”

  “Why have a news conference if you’re not going to tell us more?” An AP reporter volleyed that question over the shouts of several of his colleagues. “At least tell us why you think there might be a connection with a man who’s incarcerated and likely will be prosecuted in other murders in other cities.”

  “Right now our focus is on getting Leyla back. The chief public information officer’s staff members are emailing all of your outlets jpegs of Leyla, along with news releases with her physical stats, where the abduction took place, and the number for viewers or readers to call if they think they’ve seen Leyla and the man who abducted her.” A sleek PR type handed out printed copies of the release as Teagan spoke. “She was last seen wearing a navy-blue ribbed tank top, denim shorts, and red Converse sneakers with black laces. This man should be considered armed and very dangerous. Please include this information in your reports. And TV folks, we’re asking you to banner the number to call on your screens during the stories and for everyone to post the story with the number on your websites, your social media outlets, and your reporter blogs. Everywhere.”

  Sudden hysterical elation buoyed Teagan. With all these media outlets distributing information, surely someone would call with something that helped them find Leyla before it was too late.

  She could already be dead.

 
More questions peppered her. Most she couldn’t answer, not without jeopardizing the investigation. She’d done what she came to do. “If you report anything about this story tonight, use this sound bite: Triple S Murderer, you’re no friend of mine. If you hurt my sister in any way, my family will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and make you pay. That’s a fact. You wanted publicity, you’ve got it. Let’s make a trade. Me for her. You know where to find me.”

  “You’re baiting him?” Even Brian, who’d covered drug cartel trials, gun-smuggling cases, and capital murder trials involving infants looked shocked. “Are you nuts?”

  “Fed up. If he wants to play chicken, I’ll meet him on the back road of his choice.”

  Brian wasn’t the only journalist shaking his head.

  “What do you mean he’s no friend of yours?” The CBS affiliate reporter waved her pen in the air. “When can we see copies of the letters he sent you?”

  “I’ll turn this back over to the chief. He’ll answer your questions regarding the investigation. Thank you for listening.”

  Brian caught her before she could get to Max, who stood several yards from the news conference, likely to avoid appearing in the camera shots when she stood at the podium. “I’d like to get an interview.”

  “I’ve already said all I have to say.”

  “There’s more to this than you’re telling us. What else was in the letters? Let me mike you, and you can talk about how you’re processing this, getting through it, what impact it’s having on your family. How has your faith been impacted?”

  “Off the record, it sucks. You want me to spill my guts on camera like so many grieving loved ones do when someone is gunned down in the street in a drive-by and a drug deal gone bad? They cry and sob and say they didn’t see it coming despite years of gang activity? I don’t denigrate them for doing it. I even understand the need to pour out your pain and suffering to be shared by strangers. But it’s not me. All I want is to find Leyla before it’s too late. Tell your viewers that. Tell them to pray for us.”

  “I will.” Brian lowered his camera from his shoulder and let it hang from one hand. “I don’t mean to be intrusive. I’m just doing my job.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll pray.”

  “Thank you.”

  When a crusty old reporter said he would pray, she’d hit pay dirt.

  Teagan made it to Max. He wrapped her in a hug. “Come on, guys, give us a break.”

  She raised her head from his chest and swiveled. The media had followed her, including Brian. They were getting the B-roll they adored. Talking heads were no fun. Shots of the bereaved family member collapsing into a loved one’s arms were much more appealing. But that’s not what she wanted the killer to see on TV. He didn’t have her back against the wall. He didn’t have control.

  “It’s okay. We’re fine.” She took Max’s hand and locked gazes with him. “Just fine.”

  He nodded. Together she and Max walked into HQ. She still needed to give her statement. Dad and the others were upstairs waiting for them, watching the news conference from a live stream from a PD camera. They had a room waiting for them to debrief while Max and Teagan gave their statements. By now Cole would be on his way home. If he was lucky.

  She didn’t believe in luck. Her intuition said Cole didn’t either.

  “Vultures.” Max waited until they were clear of security and in the elevator to turn to her. “They feed on decent people’s lives.”

  “Just doing their jobs.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “Inside I’m a seething caldron of pain, fury, fear, and the desire to shoot that man in the head myself.” She leaned against him and took both hands so their fingers entwined. “What does that say about me, Miss Pacifist, Anti–Capital Punishment, Anti-Guns? Anti-violence period. Anti-war. Pro-peace. A disciple of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Grandma would be so disappointed.”

  “She would understand that you’re human and you’ve been pushed too far.”

  “When we get done here, I want you to lend me a gun. I haven’t shot one in years. I need to practice.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you fall in that category of people who will hesitate at the last moment. You won’t be able to pull the trigger. You think you can, to protect yourself or the people you love, but you can’t.”

  He brushed her cheek with a gentle kiss, over before she could capture it. “Your beautiful heart is one of the things I love about you. I won’t be a part of destroying that. And you would hate yourself for it if you did manage to pull the trigger. If you didn’t, the guy would take it away from you and use it on you. He’d kill you with your own gun.”

  “Wow, you’ve given this some thought.”

  “My first inclination when this nightmare started was to force a gun into your hand and make you learn to protect yourself. But I never would do that to you.” He slid away and leaned against the wall, both hands behind his back. “I respect your beliefs. I even aspire to them, but I’m damaged goods. I can never go back. I never want you to be where I am. You’re a piece of beautiful ceramic pottery that, once broken, could not be remade in the same shape.”

  “You are not damaged goods.” Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She willed them to settle down. “You are a man with a beautiful heart.”

  The elevator door opened. The officer behind the information desk frowned and shook his finger at them. “You know you have to push the button in order to actually move from floor to floor.”

  “Ah.” Max jabbed the button. The door closed. He jabbed again for the correct floor.

  Teagan sank against the wall. “Leyla can’t be dead.”

  “Don’t think ahead.” Max returned to his post on the opposite wall. “Focus on what we do next.”

  “Next we find her.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ding-ding.

  Back to reality. Back to a world where Leyla would not be coming home tonight.

  Maybe never.

  33

  The six o’clock news did its job. The ten o’clock followed up with more human-interest angles. They had a field day with Leyla’s Facebook page. A montage of photos from her college days; videos of her dancing and teaching dance lessons; shots of her with various boyfriends, none of whom had stuck, showed what a vivacious, beautiful woman she was. The victim.

  Leyla would hate that word. Teagan hated it. The stories were excruciating to watch. Yet she kept watching. They’d recorded as many newscasts as they could, and the rest were being captured from websites.

  “Turn it off.”

  Still dressed in her uniform, her cheeks pink with June heat and her forehead beaded with perspiration, Gracie stood in Dad’s living room and held out her hand for the remote.

  Teagan laid it on the oversized coffee table instead, nestled amid hunting, fishing, and gun magazines.

  Everyone had rendezvoused back at Dad’s house, thereby closing ranks. Even Max would stay there. For safety purposes, according to Dad. The news stories had included digital footage of their embrace outside HQ. No one had commented. They had more important things on their minds. Like returning calls received on the hotline number and running down leads, bogus or not. Mostly bogus.

  As civilians, she and Max were not allowed to engage in these activities. That didn’t keep Max from sitting next to Dad in his office, thumbing through call reports and listening to half conversations, trying to get the gist of what might lead to a true location.

  Teagan had done the same until she couldn’t stand it anymore. The ups and downs. The possibility shot down by the timing or the location or the description. How many young women were wearing a blue ribbed tank top, denim shorts, and red Converse sneakers with black laces? Leyla wasn’t the fashion maverick she thought she was.

  Gracie plopped onto the sofa next to Teagan and helped herself to Teagan’s tumbler of lemonade. “Anything new?”

  “We’ve got bup
kis.” Teagan tucked a handful of peanut–dried-cherries–oats–carob-chip granola into her mouth and chewed. Max insisted that she needed to eat. She couldn’t stomach much more. “The leads are pouring in, but none are panning out. We’ll be up all night.”

  “They will. You need to sleep.”

  “You think I can sleep knowing Leyla’s out there somewhere? Knowing what he might be doing to her?”

  “That was a stupid thing you did at the presser.”

  “It needed to be done.”

  “He’s gunning for you now.”

  “He was already gunning for me.”

  Gracie took her own handful of granola, but she gently shook it onto a napkin without taking a bite. “There’s something I want to tell you. This is a terrible time, but it’s eating at me and I want you to know before it’s colored by whatever happens to this family next.”

  “Good grief. That sounds serious.” Teagan’s heart, already a punching bag that should by all rights have been retired with its scarred boxer, flinched. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “We’re pregnant. Me and Frank.” Tears dripped down her cheeks. She seemed unaware. “It’s a girl. We waited until we cleared the three-month mark to tell everyone. Then we decided to wait until the eighteen-week sonogram. Now it’s hard to keep it a secret. Everybody probably thinks I just put on weight, but I’m showing—”

  “Don’t keep it a secret. Share your good news. We need good news.” Teagan collected her sister into a hug. She leaned close to her and whispered, “I’m so happy for you, so thrilled. You’ll be a super mom.”

  “Thank you. I can’t believe I’m blubbering like this.” Gracie grabbed another napkin and sopped up the tears. “It’s hormones, I’m telling you. I bawl at the drop of a hat.”