Sudden Death

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wednesday morning, less than two hours after she had opened the overnight envelope, Megan sat in SAC Bob Richardson’s office with two other agents, Detective John Black, and the speaker phone. Richardson had contacted Assistant Special Agent in Charge Hans Vigo at Quantico. Hans had been a friend and mentor to Megan since he’d recruited her into the FBI while guest lecturing at Georgetown, where she’d been studying law. Hans was a profiler, though he had declined a post in the prestigious Behavioral Science Unit. He was often sent out into the field to consult, and Megan had immediately thought of him when Price’s dog tag fell from the express envelope. This murder had taken on a whole new importance.

She’d finished briefing Hans about the case as she knew it, with the only known connection among the three victims being their time in the army. “Bob has made a request with the DOD to pull their military records, but you know how slow they are. By the time we get them, if at all, more people could die.”

“Will die,” Hans said. “Three dead in two months. The first victim was on February 11. The second on April 2. Price early on April 13.”

“They’re escalating,” Richardson said.

“Possibly, but more likely they have a plan. They are exceptionally well-organized for sadistic killers.”

“Sadistic? Is there a sexual component in the murders? There was no evidence of that at any of the crime scenes.” Megan pulled out her reports, worried that she had missed something important.

“Sadistic doesn’t necessarily mean sexual gratification, though the killers likely received sexual gratification either in the planning of the murders or after the fact. The actual murders were methodical, well-planned, but at the same time reckless.”

“Non sequitur, Dr. Vigo,” Richardson interjected.

“Bear with me, Bob. Let’s look at the actual murders. Two people come together to kill a specific target-their victims are not random, they were selected because of who they are or what they represent. Victimology in this case is critical: if they were killed because of something they did or didn’t do, it’ll be much easier to identify potential suspects, particularly if all three victims were involved in the same event. If they were killed because of what they represent-the military, or the army specifically-it will be more difficult. In the latter case, you’d probably be looking for a soldier or former soldier who felt he had been treated unfairly by the military or his unit. Possibly suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and reliving a horrific event, accompanied by some sort of psychosis that leads him to believe killing other soldiers will relieve his anxiety. But I don’t see this type of killer as working with a partner or going through the elaborate ritual.”

Megan leaned forward. “So you think the killers knew the victims personally?”

For a moment, Hans didn’t say anything. “Possibly, or at least knew of them if they had never met them before. They were singled out specifically, and that’s why I want you to meet me in Austin.”

“Austin, Texas?” Megan asked.

“There’s far more going on here than the reports indicated. I need to talk to those who knew Duane Johnson. He’s the first known victim, and the killers waited nearly two full months before killing again, which makes me think they were waiting for something.”

“Like what?”

“Could be for the second victim-Perry-to be in a position where they could get to him, or because they wanted to see what the police would do, or because they feared they’d screwed up somehow.”

Megan took notes while shaking her head. “I can’t go to Austin, I have to get Price’s body back, work with the CID on the evidence and autopsy-”

Richardson interrupted. “They’re not going to give you a thing, Megan. And we have a far more important situation here.”

Hans said over the speaker, “I agree. How did the killers know you were on the Price case, Megan?”

Megan had been thinking about that since she opened the package. “I don’t know. Maybe one or both of them were observing us Monday morning at the crime scene? Our office gets a lot of attention, especially after the O’Brien case last year. I did that interview-” She frowned at Richardson. She hadn’t wanted to talk to the press, but her boss felt that having her on prime-time news would help with public relations. “They could have picked up on my position on the Violent Crimes Squad.”

“Why you and not the SPD detective? Or the media?”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“I don’t know.”

“Great. If you don’t know, how does that help?”

“It could be nothing-the killer taunting police-and because the FBI is considered the higher law enforcement agency-no offense, Detective Black-the killers would want to taunt the FBI. But they had your home address, Meg.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“I think it’s a good idea to get out of town,” Richardson said. He used the intercom to ask his assistant to book a flight ASAP for Megan to Texas.

“I’m not running away.”

“I’m not suggesting you do. Dr. Vigo wants your help and the FBI has already determined this is a serial murder investigation. We have the authority to go in if we need to. And you can’t do anything here that SPD can’t do-I have confidence that Detective Black will keep us informed if anything important arises.”

“Absolutely,” Black said. “And,” he added, “the information you bring back from Austin and Vegas can help us here because we have next to nothing after losing the evidence to CID.”

“Is this connected to Price being AWOL?” Megan asked the group. “Price was living on the streets; how did the killers know him? Know where to find him?”

“Aw, that’s the million-dollar question.” Hans said. “If you can figure that out, I think you’ll have a much greater chance of capturing them. They have inside information-suggesting that they personally know these men or have access to their records.”

“But CID didn’t know where Price was until he was dead and we flagged his record.”

“Which narrows their information source exponentially. We have to learn everything we can about Duane Johnson and Dennis Perry. One or both of them could have known where Price was.”

“Agent Vigo,” Black interjected, “you said that the crimes were both methodical and reckless. Can you expand on that?”

“Sorry, I got sidetracked. Methodical in that they were well planned. They waited for their victim, hamstrung him to prevent escape, restrained him, and tortured him with needles for an indeterminate length of time, but probably between one and five hours. Then they executed him.”

“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. “Senor 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 Senor 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.

“Senor 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, Senor 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 Senor Scout, but I don’t know anything else. I swear, Senor Jack, I know nothing.”