CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Yet each man kills the thing he loves . . . The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword.”
—Oscar Wilde
San Antonio, Texas
Tuesday, November 28, 5:15 p.m.
Half an hour later Mazur pulled into the parking lot of the Sanchezes’ west-end office. He glanced toward Kate as she appraised this simpler office stocked with moderately priced cars designed for the average consumer.
They walked inside. This time a young woman dressed in black slacks and a white blouse greeted them. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her shoes were flat, as if she expected to cover a lot of ground in a given day.
Mazur showed his badge. “Who manages this site?”
“That would be me. I’m Brenda Conner. Chief cook and bottle washer.”
“Sounds like you might be stretched thin.”
Her smile was tense, nervous. “Staff cuts. Budget issues. I’m just glad to still have a job. Who knows now what’s going to happen with the boss going down.”
“Will Martin Sanchez be able to keep it going?” Mazur asked.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy. But Gloria was the engine behind it all.”
“Did she come by here often?” Mazur asked.
“Not so much, probably because Martin was here.”
“Did they work well together?” Kate asked.
“Each had their specialty and their way of doing things. Different styles. But it worked for them.”
“I understand she was active in the community.”
“Yeah. She helped in all kinds of ways. Kids, homeless, you name it.”
“Also heard she reached out to ex-cons.”
“She did.”
“How did that work?” Mazur asked.
“For the most part, pretty good.”
“Most part?” Mazur asked.
“Most of the guys are good workers. A couple were flakes. Got drunk, showed up late. One tried to clean out the register.”
“How many of these guys did she hire?”
“Ten or twelve. But if you’re thinking one of those guys shot her, you’re wrong. They all adored her. Even the dumb ones who blew a second chance still respected her.”
“How did they blow the second chance?” Mazur asked.
“Two got back into drugs. Couldn’t stick with the program. Their drug tests came up positive, and she fired them on the spot.”
“Whom did she fire?” Mazur asked.
“Harry Driver and Matt Jones.”
“Where are they now?”
“Both have been gone a couple of months. They each came by here to pick up their final paycheck, so I couldn’t tell you where they are now.”
“Either make threats?” Kate asked.
“Matt made some noise. He wanted the test redone, so Gloria had it redone. He still failed. He wanted another chance to get clean. She told him to come back in six months and she’d retest him.” Brenda folded her arms over her chest. “Gloria had a big heart, but she had little patience for weakness.”
“That could make some people angry,” Kate said.
“She could be exacting, but she was also generous. It was hard to stay mad at her for too long.”
“We heard that Martin was having an affair,” Kate said.
The abrupt shift seemed to catch Brenda off guard, and she looked flustered. “I heard rumors. And he liked to take afternoons off a couple of times a week.”
“Do you know who he was sleeping with?” Kate asked.
“No.” She shuddered. “Gloria’s dead, but that information would bring her back from the dead to haunt Martin and whomever he was doing.”
Mazur glanced around the shop, wondering what other angle to this case they were missing. “Where do the ex-cons work?”
“In the garage here. They were training to be mechanics.”
“Can I get a list of the employees in this shop?” Mazur asked.
“Sure, I guess that’s okay.” She frowned. “Or should I ask for a warrant? I’m not sure how this works.”
“I can get a warrant or you can make this easy,” Mazur said smoothly.
Slowly she shook her head. “I should ask Martin. For now he’s the guy in charge and I can’t afford to lose my job. I’ll ask him.”
“Any of the ex-cons working now?” Mazur asked.
“Rocco’s back there.”
“Can I talk to Rocco?”
“Sure.” She led them through the back toward a large building with six open bays. All were empty except the first one. There was a late-model red Ford truck on the lift.
The whirring of a pneumatic drill mingled with the sound of rock music rising from a cell phone on a workbench. Mazur approached the tall man with the short-sleeved T-shirt and muscled arms covered in tattoos.
“Rocco!” Brenda shouted over the music.
The man looked up from a ratchet set, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Mazur. Rocco didn’t need to see a badge to know he was face-to-face with a cop.
Still, Mazur held up his shield and identified himself and Kate. “We’re looking into Gloria Sanchez’s murder.”
“Figured.” He set down the tools and reached for a rag. “What can I do for you?”
“Know anyone who would want to shoot her?”
He shook his head. “Mrs. S was a class act. She was a good woman and took a chance on me when no one else would. I will always be grateful to her.”
“Was everyone as grateful?” Kate asked.
Rocco shrugged. “She was a ballbuster. Some might not have liked it when she dropped the hammer, but they got over it.” He shook his head while glancing toward Brenda before he commented in a lower voice. “She didn’t have an enemy in this shop. But I can’t say the same for her in the showroom.”
“Who didn’t like her?”
“She took risks both with a bunch of ex-cons and in business. Some were afraid her gambles might bring down the whole shop.”
“What about Matt and Harry? They make threats?” Mazur asked.
“Sure, they made noise, but they’re loudmouths. All talk, but neither one of them has the stones to carry it out.”
“What about the guys who weren’t loudmouths?” Kate asked. “Watch out for the quiet ones, right?”
He studied her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. It’s the ones you don’t see coming who get you killed.”
He wiped his hand with the rag. “Billy Boy was like that.”
“Billy Boy?” she asked.
“William was the name he liked better. Made him sound smart. I called him Billy Boy just to get under his skin.”
“What’s his last name?” she asked.
“Bauldry. William Bauldry.”
The color drained from Kate’s face. She was rattled and for the first time at a loss for words. After a few seconds, she asked, “Are you sure about the name?”
Mazur had been a cop too long to believe in coincidence. Bauldry had shot Kate and now was linked to a crime that had brought her back to San Antonio. He shifted his gaze to Brenda. “What can you tell us about Bauldry?”
“He was here for the first six months of this year. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty but knew a job was a condition of his release, so he did whatever was asked of him.”
“Rocco, what didn’t you like about William?” he asked.
“He didn’t say much, but he was always looking and watching. He was good at buttering up Gloria. I think she might have known him from back in the day.”
“What do you mean by back in the day?” Kate asked.
“From before she married the old man. Neither one ever mentioned it, but it was a vibe.”
“Does Bauldry still work here?” Mazur asked.
“No. He did his six months of the work-release program.”
“Has he been back since?” Mazur asked.
“Nope. Never heard another word from him again. I think his family has money. He doesn’t need this gig.”
“Thank you,” Kate said.
“If I have more questions, I’ll be back,” Mazur added.
“I’ll be here as long as I have a job,” Rocco said.
Outside, Mazur thanked Brenda, and as he and Kate walked back toward the main building, he put on his sunglasses and studied the dealership for an extra moment. “What are your thoughts?” Mazur asked.
Kate frowned as she slid her hands into her pockets. “Rocco is nervous. He has a good thing and sees it going away. Brenda clearly sides with Gloria, who had enemies that were far more dangerous to her than a random serial killer.”
“Agreed.” He shook his head. “What’re the chances that a woman deeply in debt, sick with cancer, who made regular trips over the border, would be gunned down on the side of I-35?”
“Low.”
Mazur’s jaw tightened. “Bauldry’s the man we need to talk to now. Are you okay with that?”
“I see the logic.”
“That’s not what I asked. Are you okay with it? I can talk to him alone.”
“No. I’m not afraid of him.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Myself. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dreading seeing him again.” She flexed her fingers. “I know where he lives.”
“Really?”
She shrugged, but her color was still pale. “I’ve kept tabs on him.”
His phone rang, and he snapped it free of its holster. “Mazur.” His jaw tensed. “Okay.” He settled the phone back in the holster on his hip. “Your letter from the Samaritan has arrived.”
She checked her watch. “It’s late.”
Kate, Mazur, and Palmer watched as Calhoun dusted the envelope that had been addressed to Agent Kate Hayden in care of the San Antonio Police Department. The letter had come through the mailroom and had caused some confusion in the ranks when no one recognized her name. Palmer caught the query from the mailroom and had immediately told them to set it down. She was there in minutes to bag it.
Calhoun swirled the brush with magnetic powder over the paper. It was a long shot she’d pull viable prints given that it arrived by US mail. She carefully sliced the very end off the envelope. Oddly the envelope was not self-sealing, which meant she would test the glue strip for saliva and DNA.
Calhoun tapped the envelope on the end, and the letter slid out. She photographed the folded yellow lined notebook page several times next to the envelope before opening the single sheet of paper.
The note was handwritten in a mixture of block and lowercase lettering in a black thick-tipped marker. The handwriting appeared crude and at first glance matched the other Samaritan notes.
But Kate realized immediately that the writing style was slightly different than the other Samaritan notes she’d analyzed.
Kate;
Your voice is always in my head. And all I hear are your lies. You are wrong about me. I am smarter than you. There will be more deths soon. I will show the world you aren’t an Angel of Mrcy.
Samaritan
“He said your voice was ‘in my head.’” Mazur’s gloved fingertips held up the edge of the plastic bag that contained the letter.
“The Samaritan isn’t the first killer to blame me for his actions.” His clear, bold handwriting suggested anger and resentment. None of what this killer had done was her fault. None of it. And yet the burden of his sins would rest heavily on her shoulders until she caught him.
“Guy spells like I do,” Palmer said.
Kate pulled out her phone and snapped pictures of the note. What was it about the letters that struck a familiar chord? “Don’t be fooled by the misspellings. In letters like this they’re often intentional. He spelled are correctly in one sentence and then incorrectly in the next. He wants us to think he’s uneducated.”
Palmer reread the letter. “He spelled Samaritan right. A word I find challenging without spell check.”
A queasiness washed over Kate as Palmer reread the letter again. “The words remind me of William Bauldry,” she said.
Calhoun photographed the envelope and letter. “I’ll dust it for prints and compare.”
“Who’s William Bauldry?” Palmer asked.
Kate had shaken off some of the initial shock she’d felt when she’d heard his name at the garage, so it was easier to keep her voice even as she explained again what he’d done. “If you find any prints on this letter, compare them to Bauldry’s.”
“Having his name certainly will make the comparison easy,” Calhoun said.
Kate snapped several more pictures of the letter. She turned from the group and studied the misspellings, the grammar, the phrasing, the word choices hinting of a neutral dialect. “Detective Mazur, would you read the letter out loud?”
“Sure, why?” he asked.
“It was written by a man.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s an educated guess based on the shape of the letters, which are very boxy. The pen was also pressed firmly against the paper.”
He read through the letter.
She closed her eyes and listened to the inflections and the nuances of his Chicago accent, which naturally seeped into the neutral language. “Gloria Sanchez’s shooter, who spoke briefly on the murder video, didn’t have a deep Texas drawl. And none of the phrasing in the note hints at a dialect. Bauldry’s parents were from California and he lived there until he was eight, so his accent was always neutral.”
“What else do you see?” Mazur asked.
“All the positive statements are not contracted, but the one negative statement is contracted.”
“What does that mean?” Palmer asked.
“It’s an unconscious pattern that he might not be aware of,” Kate said.
“How do these compare to the other Samaritan letters?” Mazur asked.
“They’re almost identical. But Mr. North got a hold of two letters and published them. Anyone could replicate them.”
“How did North get the letters?” Mazur asked.
“He said he bribed a forensic tech in Minnesota.”
“Or Mr. North knew more about what Richardson was doing. Maybe he had an inside track with Richardson,” Palmer said. “From what you’ve said, he seems to have a lot of intimate knowledge of the case.”
“He does. And he’s received a great deal of attention since he covered this case. The publicity had died down considerably since Richardson’s arrest.”
“What do you know about North?” Mazur asked.
“He received his journalism degree from Columbia twenty years ago. He’s worked at several major papers, but two years ago left his job at the time after it was proven he manufactured and exaggerated facts while covering a criminal trial. When it all came out, he resigned. Shortly after that, he founded a news site that was doing moderately well until the Samaritan shootings.”
“Could he have written these letters?”
“I considered that,” she said. “No one has been able to link him to the letters. And I’ve tried, as well as a half dozen detectives just like you.”
“I haven’t tried,” Mazur said.