Storm Warning

by Allison Brennan

  The killer was smart. Ruthless. Purposeful. Because even though these victims appeared random, there was a purpose. Killers almost always had a reason.

  Once Lucy figured out how the victims connected, the motive would be clear, she was certain of it. And if the killer was truly a serial murderer, there would be a connection. While the victims might seem random, there would be a commonality that made sense to the killer. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this was retribution, which meant the killer may be done when he finished with his list. Who was on it? People who had done him wrong? Hurt him emotionally or physically? If that was the case, these three men would certainly be connected—even if it was long ago. Even if they hadn’t communicated in years.

  Ash jumped up. “Hey, Jerry.”

  Jerry said in a deep southern baritone, “Far as I know, this is still my crime scene.”

  Lucy slowly rose from her squat and turned to face BCSO investigator Jerry Walker. They hadn’t met—he had been avoiding her calls—and she assessed him. Tall, broad-shouldered, all around a big guy, though not excessively overweight. Late forties, maybe fifty. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt with a sheriff’s patch on the breast, his badge clipped to his belt next to his sidearm. But it was his well-worn black hat that stood out. He looked like he came from another era. The era where cops hated feds.

  “Investigator Walker,” Lucy said. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m Special Agent Lucy Kincaid.”

  “I’ve been working, ma’am. No time for chitchat.”

  She bit back a response that would have gotten her in trouble. Before she could form a more diplomatic comment, Walker continued. “Ashley, the coroner said he was ready to move the body twenty minutes ago but you told him to wait. It’s not getting any cooler out here.”

  “Jeez, Jerry, call me Ash,” he said.

  “Nothing wrong with Ashley. Good southern name.”

  Ash rolled his eyes. “Maybe during the Civil War,” he mumbled. He glanced at Lucy.

  Walker noticed the look. “It’s not her call, not yet at any rate,” he said. “Agent Kincaid is simply assisting in this investigation.”

  Lucy could see Ash’s wheels turning. He probably regretted letting her get close to the victim—except that she was authorized to work this case.

  “Now, ma’am,” Walker continued, “let’s let the good folks from our crime scene unit take care of this poor guy, and we’ll establish some ground rules.”

  She wanted to play nice—she had to play nice—and though Walker’s tone was easygoing, his words were not. She’d been lucky in her career that most local law enforcement she worked with didn’t have a problem with the FBI, and up until now she hadn’t had any animosity from San Antonio LEOs. She’d learned from her sister-in-law who’d been an agent for nearly twenty years that such camaraderie hadn’t always been the case, but in her time both working with her training partner in Washington, DC, and then here in San Antonio, she’d made many friends among local police. She really hoped she was wrong about Walker, but she felt like she was under a microscope.

  She nodded curtly and forced a smile. “Ground rules.”

  He grinned back, though it didn’t reach his eyes, then motioned for her to walk in front of him toward the staging area. She took a last look at the deceased. Julio Garcia. Early thirties, married, had the best part of his life ahead of him. Did he have kids? Had the killer left not only a widow but an orphan? She would find out why his life was cut short so tragically. While Walker flexed his authority, she wouldn’t be chased away.

  Though autumn officially started tomorrow and the worst of the summer heat was over, it was still uncomfortable at ten in the morning and she was hot and now irritable. She walked to the staging area with Detective Walker.

  “Deputies,” he said to the two first responders, “if you’d be so kind as to finish the canvass. Check for surveillance videos on the highway, if anyone heard or saw anything. I’m right sure the gas station a mile down the road has one, though it would be sheer luck if it caught cars passing on the street, or if our killer or victim stopped there. No neighbors in the area, but check the closest homes for what they saw and heard last night between eleven p.m. and three in the morning.”

  “We’re on it, Jerry.”

  He waited until they left, then turned back to Lucy. “I understand you’re a rookie.”

  She bristled. “Yes, I’ll be here two years come January.”

  “I’ve been a Bexar County deputy for twenty-three years, and an investigator for the criminal division for more than half that time. I’ll tell you this, every time the feds have gotten involved in one of my cases, they’ve screwed it up. I said as much to your boss. To be fair, I’ve only had to work directly with your people twice over the years, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. And the sheriff has a good working relationship with you folks and I know he asked your boss personally to send someone in to assist. He wants me to play nice. It’s not my decision, but I will live with it. However, just to be clear, our respective bosses agreed that I’m the lead. I don’t want any misunderstanding about that, so if you have a problem taking direction, tell me now. Save us both time and headache.”

  Lucy bit back her first sharp remark and said, “I have no problem taking direction, Investigator Walker, as long as you have no problem taking my assistance. I have a master’s degree in criminal psychology, and have worked multiple serial killer cases.”

  “Psychology,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Might as well consult a psychic to find out who killed these men.”

  “With all due respect, the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit has established clear guidelines based on evidence, victimology, and psychology to help narrow the suspect field.”

  He looked humored. “And what does your crystal ball tell you?”

  Don’t react. Stay professional. “I’ve read the autopsy reports, viewed the crime scene photos and reports, and read the case notes. I’m up to speed, except on one thing: witness statements.”

  “No witnesses. Each of the victims was killed at night in a remote area like this.” He waved his hand around them. They were in the middle of a county park.

  “I meant, the wives of the first two victims, the friends, neighbors, colleagues. Your notes were minimal.” She shouldn’t have said that, but she didn’t backtrack. His notes had been basic. Just facts that the women knew about the days leading up to the murders of their husbands. When they left the house, what they were doing, when they planned to return. No known enemies. Ditto from their employers and colleagues. Nothing substantive, and she had more questions. “After reflection, the spouses may remember something else. These men got on the killer’s radar somehow, and when we figure out how we’ll know more. Plus, I want to go deeper into possible connections between the victims.”

  “They aren’t connected, Agent Kincaid. It may surprise you, but I’m good at my job.” He looked her up and down. “You have less than two years as an agent. And you’re too young to have come from local law enforcement or the military.”

  “I don’t think age has anything to do with competence.”

  “But it has everything to do with experience.”

  “Is your problem with me that I’m young or that I’m a federal agent?”

  “Both, ma’am. Like I said, the feds I’ve worked with mucked up my cases and I have a long memory. But I’m willing to give you a shot.”

  “Sounds like I already have two strikes against me.”

  “I’m a man of my word, Agent Kincaid.”

  She sincerely hoped he was, because she was really tired of games and jumping through hoops with people who were supposed to be on her side—the side of justice.

  “Then let me into this investigation. Don’t push me aside as if I don’t have anything to contribute.”

  “Well, you can repeat all the groundwork if you want, but I have dug around into the backgrounds of the first two victims and there is no connection between them—
and no connection between their wives. Sometimes a crime is exactly what it seems to be: random.”

  “This killer has a reason.”

  “Could be he’s getting his rocks off. Having fun.”

  “He picked these victims specifically. Knew they would be alone. Had the tools with him—stun gun, duct tape, hammer. Premeditated.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I’ll give you that.”

  “He didn’t stumble upon them and decide to kill them. He picked them out. Maybe initially at random, but he stalked them and knew when they would be alone. Knew their routine, and how to best approach them. He’s smart; first two crime scenes we have no trace evidence to lead us to the killer. No prints, no DNA, no tire prints from another vehicle. I don’t think that it was sheer luck that there were no security cameras at any of the crime scenes. Even the golf course where the second victim was killed, the security cameras were pointed toward the entrance, not the parking lot. I think the killer knew.”

  For the first time, Walker looked at her as if she had a brain. That angered her and relieved her.

  More flies with honey.

  She almost smiled when her brother Dillon’s wise words popped into her head. She’d use the honey as long as it worked, but she wasn’t going to be demoralized or dismissed.

  “I pretty much came to the same conclusion, especially since the only thing Billy Joe Standish and Steven James had in common was that they were married, white, and under forty. And now Julio Garcia throws race out the window. He’s Hispanic. They weren’t even all born in Texas. Standish and Garcia are both from the San Antonio area—I did a quick run on him when we ID’d him—and James is from California, relocating here eight years ago to take a position with a large accountancy corporation. Standish is blue collar—in construction—and travels to find work. James is wealthy, works a white-collar job. Garcia was a chef, worked himself up from prep work to running the catering kitchen at a busy hotel.”

  “What about where they live? Go to church? School? Where their wives work? Truly random victims are rare. Men as victims of a serial killer are rare. Something connects them, maybe even a location where the killer picked up their scent. Or the killer knows all these victims and is killing them in an act of retribution.”

  “I base my conclusions on evidence, little lady. Facts.”

  She didn’t comment; she wasn’t going to take the bait.

  He continued. “They all live in different areas. James upper middle class in Olmos Park, Standish barely holding on to his double-wide on a couple acres southwest of the city. Garcia here lives on some acres in Bulverde, about five, six miles up the road. Cheaper to live up there and find some land for elbow room.”

  “So he was on his way home.”

  Walker nodded. “He left his restaurant at eleven thirty last night. His wife was asleep—woke up at three thirty and realized he wasn’t home. His body was found just after seven this morning by a park patrol officer.”

  She did a mental calculation. “It would take what, thirty, thirty-five minutes at night to get from downtown to Bulverde?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “These murders seem personal to me.”

  “Personal?”

  “Why focus on the hands? Why beat the victim with a blunt object then shoot him? Why not simply shoot him in his car? Did the killer want information? But if the victims were interrogated, the killer wouldn’t use duct tape on their mouths. Or did he beat the victims out of rage? Yet—there’s no rage here. Not uncontrolled rage, at any rate. It was methodical. Planned.”

  “Beating a guy to a pulp tells me there is plenty of rage in this killer.”

  “But they weren’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Beaten to a pulp. The damage to their hands was extensive, but very specific. Focused.”

  Lucy was on to something, though she didn’t know exactly where she was going with it. “I read the autopsy reports, but I want to talk to the ME for some clarification. The first victim was hit from behind, but the second victim was not. It’s possible that one or more blows to the groin could have come from behind. It would definitely stun the victim, send him stumbling forward or to his knees. All three victims have electric burns to their shirt, indicating that at some point the killer used a close-contact device, likely a Taser without a cartridge in stun mode, either to hurt them—as part of his routine—or because the victim was fighting back. Only the first victim had clear defensive wounds on his forearms. Maybe the victim grabbed the killer and the stun gun was used to make him let go. But that wouldn’t completely immobilize someone. As soon as the charge is extinguished, he can shake it off—especially, I’d think, if his adrenaline is pumping from the attack. Might think he’s being carjacked or robbed, or maybe he knows the killer and suspects he’s going to be killed. He’s going to try to crawl away or fight back.”

  “So the killer hits him in the groin. I can tell you that would incapacitate any man, with enough force.”

  “And the first thing you would do is bring your hands down to protect yourself—unless they were restrained.”

  “If the killer hit the victims in the groin first. There was no duct-tape residue on the hands or wrists. Maybe our victim is trying to protect his privates and the killer smashes his hands instead, making this more sex-related than we think.”

  “We need to talk to Ash—he can look closer at the clothing. Maybe the wrists were bound over their shirts. Something to keep the hands on the ground—there was evidence of dirt and rocks embedded in the skin. The restraint wouldn’t even need to be that secure—the killer didn’t keep them alive long. Less than five minutes between first blow and the gunshot to the face. Or the first hit was to the groin, the victim reacted by protecting himself with his hands as you said, and the killer continued to attack that area, shattering the hands. But I would have to study the autopsy report in greater detail, because I would expect to find more damage to the surrounding area.” She wanted to look at the photos, talk with Julie Peters the assistant ME, and run through some scenarios.

  “Well, now, your theory makes sense, but that still doesn’t tell us anything about these victims or the killer.” He paused. “Or killers. Perhaps one guy held him down.”

  She nodded. “It’s certainly possible. But this crime tells us everything about the killer.”

  “Well, unless you know his name, it doesn’t. Guess your crystal ball didn’t tell you that.”

  “Walker,” she said as calmly as she could, “I am doing my best here to work with you, but this animosity has got to stop. I’m a good cop, and I read your service record—I know you’re a good cop, too. You said you were a man of your word and would give me a real chance—so please start now.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. What now?”

  “Talk to Garcia’s widow, go back to the other two widows and re-interview now that we have more information. Ask the lab to reinspect clothing and any trace evidence. But something else is bugging me, and it slipped away.” Likely because she was spending all her time battling this cop.

  “Well, if the thing that’s bugging you is bugging me, then we’re on the same page.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did the victims stop? There was nothing mechanically wrong with their vehicles. They all pulled over right on the road—at least the first two—and this park is just off the road. And the victims all had the driver’s-side window rolled down.”

  The blood drained from her face. “You’re thinking a cop.”

  His face hardened. “Yes, I am, Agent Kincaid. But for now I’d like to keep this between you and me.”

  A cop. It made sense. Drivers would turn to the side of the road, or into a parking lot, if they were being pulled over.

  She hoped and prayed that they were wrong.

  “Maybe,” she said slowly, “it’s someone impersonating a cop. Or it’s a driver who flagged them down.”

  “May just be that,” Wa
lker said. “But we have to look at the evidence wherever it takes us, and right now I don’t like where it’s leading.”

  “Still,” Lucy said, “if it is a cop or someone with an official vehicle, there will be GPS tracking. We could discreetly look at the logs and determine who was in the area during the killing window.”

  “Perhaps, but something like that wouldn’t stay secret for long.” He paused and they watched the coroner load Julio Garcia’s body into the back of the van. “I can probably do it discreetly.”

  “The killer could pretend to have car trouble. Waves him down.”

  “That’s possible, too.” He rubbed his eyes and said quietly, “I need to notify Garcia’s widow.” He wasn’t a soft man, but she heard compassion in his voice and she pushed aside her earlier frustrations.

  “I’ll join you.”

  “You don’t need to do that. Death notifications are never fun.”

  “Another thing we agree on. But I’ll do it with you. It’s not easy, but it’s easier with a partner.”

  Walker looked at her. “You can call me Jerry.”

  “I’m Lucy.”

  “Short for Lucille?”

  “Lucia. But I only respond to Lucia when it’s my mother, so please call me Lucy.”

  He grinned. “If you want to leave your vehicle here, we can go up to the Garcia spread together and I can fill you in on the rest of the details.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dillon was right. More flies with honey—honey and spine.