CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
San Antonio, Texas
Wednesday, November 29, 3:00 p.m.
Kate struggled to stay relaxed as Mazur wove in and out of traffic. Mazur was silent as he punched the accelerator, and they traveled down the interstate at eighty-plus miles an hour with dash lights flashing.
Ahead she saw the lights and the police cars lined up along the side of an access road that ran parallel to the interstate. Dust kicked up as Mazur nosed his car behind the forensic van. They got out of the car and met by the hood as Mazur surveyed the area.
“A woman has been stabbed and dumped in this field,” Palmer said as she moved toward them. She’d removed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Sunglasses tossed back the sun’s reflection. Her black boots were covered with red dust.
Mazur accepted a set of rubber gloves from Palmer. “Do you have an ID on the victim?”
“We found her purse in the car. Driver’s license identifies her as Rebecca Kendrick, age twenty-six.”
“Rebecca?” Mazur asked.
Palmer nodded. “Yeah, what are the chances that Martin’s alleged girlfriend would also be named Rebecca?”
Mazur rested his hands on his hips. “What can you tell me about this Rebecca?”
“She was last seen at the coffee shop where she worked. It was her turn to close. She was supposed to meet a friend but didn’t show. That’s not like her, so the friend called it in. A passing motorist spotted her car.” Palmer looked at Kate. “Would love your take on this one.”
“It’s not like the Samaritan, so why call me?”
“Just have a look,” Palmer said. “This shit is right up your alley.”
Mazur and Kate followed Palmer across the field. Without any trees and the sun directly overhead, the warm autumn quickly cut through her dark jacket. She’d be covered in sweat eventually. As she stripped off her jacket and draped it over her arm, she noticed Mazur’s attention shifted to her and then back to the path ahead.
Several officers and deputies huddled just beyond the yellow crime-scene tape, perfectly still in the motionless air, that was strung between two poles staked in the desert dirt. The forensic technician snapped pictures of the woman’s body. In the dry heat the belly had already bloated. The red Texas dust never hesitated to reclaim its dead.
As Mazur and Palmer ducked under the tape, Kate remained on the outside, knowing the less contamination the better. She glanced around the open field and saw the heat rippling on the horizon.
She turned to the victim’s car, which had a temporary license plate suggesting she’d bought it in the last thirty days. The license plate holder read “Sanchez Motors.” It was a small, perhaps irrelevant connection to Gloria Sanchez, but it was there.
She scanned the area. Killers liked remote areas like this. It gave them the privacy and time they needed to visit with their victims. Over the course of her career, she’d seen hundreds of crime-scene photos set in areas just as remote as this one. She’d also listened to and watched countless recordings made by killers while torturing and murdering. No matter how many she captured, more would take their place.
Mazur waved toward her. “Kate, would you mind having a look at this?”
She ducked under the tape and was greeted by the heavy scent of death that would only grow more putrid by the hour. Palmer’s face was solemn, and any hints of her biting humor had vanished.
When Palmer stepped aside, Kate looked at the woman who lay spread-eagle on the ground. Her hands were tied to spikes and her eyes removed. Revulsion slithered through Kate, but she refused to react as she mentally armored herself against the scene. The body was no longer a person. It was rotting meat. Evidence.
A very odd sense of déjà vu overcame her as she knelt by the slender body and studied the chest and abdominal stab wounds. However, when she lifted her gaze to the mutilated eyes and the third eye painted in dried blood on the woman’s forehead, her memory tripped back to a case she’d worked.
As she studied the message the killer had sent via the body, she automatically compared and contrasted it with her case, which had resulted in an arrest.
Like the old case, there appeared to be thirteen stab wounds in total. All the cuts were near the heart, lungs, and abdomen, except for one across the throat. The mutilated eyes and the painted eye were the killer’s signature.
But that killer, Michael Carter, had covered his victims with dried leaves. This woman’s shirt remained ripped open, leaving her exposed to the elements. Some killers, like the Soothsayer, redressed their victims after the violence and posed them in a demure position—arms crossed over the chest, ankles crossed, and face covered. These were all signs of remorse and regret.
However, Rebecca Kendrick’s arms and legs had been left flung wide and the mutilation of her eyes displayed. The killer’s intent was to humiliate her and leave her vulnerable to the world.
Kate had seen this scene displayed before. “Something is not right.”
“Pretty messed up, if you ask me,” Palmer said.
“What I mean is that I’ve seen this before. There was a serial killer in North Carolina. They called him the Soothsayer.”
“You didn’t mention him after the briefing,” Mazur said.
“Because the case is closed. He stabbed three women over the course of two years and left partly buried bodies in a field. All the women were young prostitutes. When I asked him why he cut out the eyes, he told me he was certain the women could see into his soul.”
“You arrested him?” Mazur asked.
“I did. Based on a profile I drew up for the local police. His name is Michael Carter. He was a lawyer from a well-to-do family near Asheville, North Carolina. He was just convicted and sentenced to life in prison.”
“He’s behind bars,” Palmer clarified.
“Yes.” Kate studied the wounds, noting that they were almost identical to the patterns of Carter’s three victims. “There is no way he could have done this.”
“You were the chief profiler on the case?” Mazur asked.
“Yes.”
“Two murders in three days,” Palmer said. “And you worked on cases similar to both. This ain’t a coincidence, Agent Hayden.”
Kate stared at the body. Sadness and regret tried to breach her composure, but she wouldn’t allow it. Later, when she was alone, the emotions might get the better of her, but not here at the crime scene. “No, it’s not.”
Mazur nudged Kate. “We need to talk.”
She allowed him to guide her away from the body.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked. “I’ve spent the last two days following the trail on a case that appears to be a copycat of one of your cases, and now I’ve another killer impersonator?”
She tipped her head up to meet his gaze. “I can’t explain it except to say someone is following my cases.”
“Was Carter working with anyone?”
“When I did his profile I determined he was a loner who was living out his own fantasies toward women. And when he was arrested we discovered he lived alone, had lost his job, and was having his food delivered to the house. A shut-in, he only went out when the moon was full. That’s when he picked up a prostitute, stabbed her to death, and left her just like this woman here. When I interviewed him after his arrest, he was very proud of the fact that he did the work alone.”
“Could you be wrong about an accomplice?”
“Of course. There’s always the chance. But my team checked his online profile, and though he commented often on certain occult sites, he never appeared to be in communication with anyone.”
“What are the chances that I’d have two murders mirroring your cases?”
“Zero. Clearly my work and I are the common denominators.”
“Who has access to your case files?”
“A few people in the bureau. And each of the jurisdictions had copies. But all those are closely guarded.”
“What about boyfriends, lovers, friends, family? Ever left files out and someone got a peek?”
“No. Never.”
“I want a list of all the cases you’ve profiled.”
She shook her head. She’d worked several very grisly cases that still woke her up in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t wish that list on anyone.
“Could this be Bauldry?” Mazur asked. “Could this be his way of sending you another message? Could he be following your work?”
“He would have been incarcerated at the time of the Soothsayer murders, but the case received quite a bit of press locally and some nationally. It would have been easy to research considering the case is now closed. And it’s clear whoever killed this woman wanted her left in a humiliating position to send a message.”
“We need to find out more about this woman.”
“Start with her vehicle. It’s new and it was purchased from Sanchez Motors.”
Kate stood apart from the cops and dialed her boss, Jerrod Ramsey. He picked up on the third ring. “There’s another complication.”
He cursed. “I hate complications, Kate.”
Her voice was steady and gave no hint to the growing worry that threatened to cloud her thoughts. “There’s been another homicide.”
“A Samaritan shooting?”
“No. The victim was killed like the Soothsayer’s victims. She was stabbed, her eyes removed, and an eye drawn on her forehead.”
Silence crackled over the line. “That case was solved.”
She could take his yelling and his curses. That’s what Ramsey did to blow off steam. He only worried her when he was quiet, careful. “I know.”
“How much does this crime scene resemble the ones in North Carolina?”
“It’s almost identical.”
“Almost identical.”
She could picture him standing at his desk now, his hand pressed to the small of his back. He’d be pacing past the multiple diplomas framed on his office wall toward the window.
“I’d like to stay and work with the local authorities. Though I’ll tell you right now, they aren’t pleased with me.”
“No wonder.” He dropped his voice a notch. “Do you have any idea what the defense for Richardson and Carter will do with this information? They’ll argue you’ve not botched one case but two. Both legal teams will file for retrials.”
So much hard work unraveling. A recreation of one of Richardson’s murders had been surprising enough, but a second murder mirroring one of her investigations was not a coincidence. She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Do you have any updates from Nevada regarding Drexler?”
“Don’t worry about Drexler. Nevada is on his trail.”
Promises made to Sara Fletcher felt as flimsy as old tissue. But her business allowed no personal feelings or ego. You did what you could, when you could. “I’ll stay in San Antonio and figure this out.”
“How are you holding up? Do you need Nevada to back you up?”
“No. His priority is Drexler. I’m fine.”
“Understood. Who’s your local contact again?”
“Detective Theo Mazur.”
“He’ll shadow you for this entire investigation.” No inflection at the end of the sentence. It was a statement, not a question.
Her voice dropped. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You need a partner and backup until Nevada can get there.” He sighed. “This isn’t the time to be a cowboy, Kate.”
“Right.”
When she ended the call she rubbed the side of her neck. Sweat had soaked through her blouse, making it cling to her skin.
Mazur answered his phone, and his mouth hardened into a grim line. He looked toward her, the phone to his ear as no doubt someone above his pay grade told him to work with her. Like it or not, they were in this together.
She approached him after he hung up, seeing no reason to delay the inevitable.
“Looks like we’re joined at the hip,” she said.
“Right. There’s not much more we can do here. The forensic team is collecting data, and the medical examiner will be here soon to collect the body.”
“What about witnesses and security cameras between here and the interstate?”
“Got it covered. I’ve uniforms searching local businesses. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe.”
He walked her back to his car, and when he opened the door, heat washed out. As they slid into the front seat, he switched on the air conditioning, which felt good for the first few minutes. Soon it chilled her skin.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Stay put.”
“Sure.”
He left her and crossed to Palmer. They spoke, their heads ducked slightly toward each other, and a couple of times the two glanced back toward her. Palmer shook her head and rubbed the toe of her boot into the dirt.
Mazur returned to the car. A grim expression deepened the lines around his mouth and eyes.
“We should go through my cases,” she said.
“A parade of freaks and demons. Can’t wait.”
At the office Mazur hustled Kate toward the conference room. He wondered how she contained all her emotions as she pulled out her laptop from her backpack and set it up at the head of the table.
Her expression was determined, but she didn’t look the least bit tough. Sweat from the heat had flattened her hair, and her mascara now cast faint shadows under her eyes. Her skin was pink from the sun. She slid off her shapeless navy blazer to reveal a cotton blouse that now clung to her skin and nicely rounded breasts. Absently she wiped a bead of sweat from her chest.
He cleared his throat. “I need to see the chief. Don’t leave this room.”
“Has Palmer called Bastrop?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Right.” He left her and ordered several sandwiches to go, knowing Palmer would be starving soon. He went to his chief’s office.
“I don’t like getting calls from the FBI,” the chief said without looking up from a stack of papers. “It has a way of aggravating my ulcer and fucking with my day.”
“I’m not fond of it either.”
“What the hell is going on? Ballistics matched the Sanchez murder and the Samaritan cases?”
“That’s correct.”
“And that murder victim you have resembles another of Agent Hayden’s cases?”
“It does.”
The chief muttered several curses as he looked up. “Figure this out fast, Mazur. The press is already up my ass about the Sanchez shooting, and they’re going to double down when they hear about this latest murder.”
“I will.”
“I gave you a shot in this department because you saved my boy’s ass in Iraq. And, if push comes to shove, I’ll ride the ship down with you. But I’d rather not go down with my ship.”
“You won’t, sir.”
“Dr. Hayden really suspects this Bauldry guy?”
“We know this latest victim, Rebecca Kendrick, purchased her car from Sanchez Motors, where Bauldry worked after his release from prison. We also know Gloria Sanchez’s mother worked for the Bauldry family.”
He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. “Holy shit. Where’s Bauldry?”
“Right now, he’s MIA. He’s not been at any of his last known addresses, and his brother hasn’t seen him. I’ve a BOLO out on him.”
“His family is very well connected,” the chief said. “Father died last year, but the brother is just as powerful.”
“The family has cut him loose. He’s on his own.”
The chief studied him. “I’d be doing you a favor by tossing this hot potato of a case to someone else.”
“No. I want this. There’re others in the department who know the players better than I do, but I caught more homicides in Chicago in the last five years than half these guys caught in their career. Cultural differences or family history is not going to stop me from solving this case.”
The chief’s jaw worked as if he were chewing leather. “I refuse to retire with a loss like this.”
“You won’t.” Promises meant little. Only results mattered. “The autopsy for Rebecca Kendrick is going to be tomorrow.”
“I want a report from you right after that autopsy. Until this case is solved, I don’t want you taking a piss without me knowing it.”
“You’re in the loop.”
He knew it would be a long day and returned to the conference room. Kate was hunched forward studying her laptop and scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. She straightened and slid on dark-rimmed glasses that framed her face in a nice way. “I called the warden at Bastrop. He’s away from his desk but will call me back.”
He glanced at the legal pad. She’d already made a list of twelve names with three circled. “That’s some list.”
The door opened to Palmer, who glanced toward Kate. “Something tells me none of us are going home for a while.” She nodded toward the legal pad. “That your list of greatest hits?”
“It’s the cases I’ve worked in the last five years. I circled the cases that put me in the eye of the media.”
“Like the Samaritan and the Soothsayer,” Palmer said.
“What’s the deal with the eyes?” Mazur asked as he pulled out a sandwich and set it in front of Kate.
Kate recapped Michael Carter’s biography. “And as Carter’s paranoia grew, he believed that he was under constant surveillance from certain women who he thought were soothsayers. In Carter’s mind, soothsayers could steal your soul.”
“Did these women reject him in some way?” Palmer unwrapped a sandwich and slurped on a chocolate milkshake.
Kate nodded. “As far as he was concerned, yes. He had prior contact with all of the women, who were prostitutes. From what other sex workers told me, Carter’s initial encounters weren’t violent. But then he kidnapped each from their place of work and took them to a secluded area, where he stabbed them to death and mutilated their eyes so that the world would know their blind souls could not roam the world tempting man.”
“And the wound patterns on Rebecca Kendrick’s body matched the Soothsayer’s work?” Mazur asked.
“I’ll know better after the autopsy, but from what I’ve seen, they’re almost identical,” Kate said. “The eye extraction detail was kept from the press. I’ve no reason to believe it was leaked.”
Mazur rolled up his sleeves as he nodded to her laptop. “Have you ever lost sight of that computer? I imagine it’s full of all kinds of case details.”
“I have not,” Kate said. “It has several encryption levels, and when it’s not with me it’s locked in my hotel room safe.”
“Nothing is impregnable,” he challenged.
“I’m aware, that’s why every measure is taken.”
“Is there a leak in your unit?” Palmer asked as she plucked a potato chip from the bag.
“We’re a tight-knit team,” Kate said. “I trust everyone.”
“What about someone who’s close to the team and might have access to files?”
“Not possible. We’re all very careful.”
“That reporter, Taylor North, keeps close tabs on you,” Mazur said. “What’s the deal with him? Did he cover the Soothsayer case?”
“He didn’t approach me during the investigation, though that doesn’t mean he wasn’t following the case. I assumed he was simply driven and hungry for a headline. Now, I don’t know. I should talk to him. I’d like to know where he’s been.”
“Agreed.” Mazur glanced toward the legal pad and noted one case was circled multiple times. “What other cases do you have?”
“There’re a few that come to mind. I really hope if there’s a copycat, he doesn’t attempt one of these.”
She clicked her computer, and three images appeared on the screen. These women were tied to a stake and burned. “They were doused with gasoline and set on fire. Their killer thought they were witches.” Another image showed the bodies of five prostitutes who’d been strangled and their corpses mutilated with a knife. Those killings happened in Denver.
As she ran through the slides, Mazur was struck by the utter horror that filled her life. Every cop had to find a way to decompress, but he wondered what the hell she could ever do to cope with this.
“This last case is the most recent. I just came from Salt Lake City, where I was interviewing the victim.”
“Is this the nut that puts women in boxes?” Palmer asked.
“Yes. Sara Fletcher was his fifth victim,” Kate said.
“Jesus, I hope this creep is caught before he can recreate any of your other house of horrors victims,” Palmer said. “How the hell do you sleep?”
“Not well,” Kate said.
Mazur glanced at the picture of Sara Fletcher and then to another picture of the wooden box that had been her prison. A primal rage made it hard for him to sit still. “This guy is headed south and was last spotted in southern New Mexico.”
“At this time, Drexler is not relevant to this case.”
“Assuming the Sanchez and Kendrick killings are connected,” Mazur said, “what theories do you have about this killer?”
“Male. Late twenties to midthirties. Educated. And he wants the world to know he’s smart enough to obtain classified details, but he also wants the world to know he’s his own man.”
“That description fits Bauldry,” Mazur commented.
“I know.”
“So what can we expect?”
“The next time he murders, he might improvise. He might have his own style that he wants to show off.”
When Mazur and Kate arrived at the Forensic Department an hour later, Calhoun had organized all the clothing articles from Gloria Sanchez’s murder scene next to Ms. Kendrick’s belongings. Kate scanned the items, not touching but evaluating.
“I’ve processed the items from the Sanchez case, but haven’t had a chance to examine Ms. Kendrick’s things. You can look but don’t touch,” Calhoun said.
“Of course,” Kate said as she pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.
Gloria Sanchez’s clothes were all high end and designer. The shoes were Gucci as was her purse.
“She liked nice things,” Mazur said.
Kate lifted an evidence bag that contained a bottle full of oxy, then replaced it. She studied the shoes, the belt, and the earrings. And then she paused when she saw the victim’s key chain. It appeared to be a brass chess piece.
She raised it up. “It’s the queen, the most powerful player on the board.”
“She was the Queen of Cars,” Calhoun said. “She often appeared at events with a crown, a cape, and a scepter. It was her shtick.”
Kate moved to Ms. Kendrick’s belongings. The items weren’t nearly as expensive. Faded jeans and a white blouse, a beaded bracelet, and slip-on shoes. All now stained with blood that was still sticky and damp.
She took a mental step back, banishing the image of the young woman who’d been alive and well yesterday.
As she inspected each item, she saw nothing that was out of the ordinary. Why had the killer chosen her?
“I’d like to look at the contents of the purse.”
Calhoun unzipped Rebecca Kendrick’s large black leather tote. She removed a spiral notebook, several pens, lipstick, a hairbrush, a leopard-print wallet, and a packet of blush.
“Is there any jewelry?”
Calhoun looked up. “Two gold stud earrings.”
Kate frowned.
“What are you looking for?” Mazur asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said, more to herself.
“You were interested in the queen chess piece before,” he prompted.
“William and I used to play chess. It’s how we met. We were our happiest when there was a chessboard between us.” William would see all this as a game. He would deliberately leave her a memento so she knew it was him. “Check her purse one more time.”
Mazur shook his head. “This is a stretch.”
Calhoun rooted in the bottom of the purse. Seconds passed, and then she arched a brow before frowning as she removed a white bishop. “It was stuck in the bottom of her purse.”
Kate released the breath she was holding, but there was no sense of relief. She rubbed her thumb against her forefinger, now worn red.