No Escape

by Mary Burton

  He grinned. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Six

  Monday, April 8, 5:00 A.M.

  Brody woke early, the clock on the nightstand glaring in red back at him. He shoved a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Around him he surveyed the unpacked boxes, dirty clothes piled on the floor and collection of pictures that leaned in a neat stack against the wall. He’d made the move to Austin from Houston three weeks ago after an unexpected transfer had landed on his desk. In the last three years, the Rangers had bounced him all the way from El Paso to Brownsville. Most times when he settled in a new place he unpacked immediately. He liked order. But this go-around he’d not found the time to organize his apartment. The chaos grated on his nerves but nonstop action at the office had stolen all his time.

  He’d rolled off the mattress, still sitting beside the bed frame he’d not assembled, and grabbed clothes he’d managed to pick up from the dry cleaners Saturday morning. A hot shower went a long way to making him feel human before he dressed. At his dresser he picked up his gun, cell phone and badge before he moved into the kitchen. He didn’t have many groceries but had managed to pick up coffee and bagels. He rinsed out the mug he’d used yesterday, snagged a bagel and headed to his car.

  The drive into Austin took less than twenty minutes. However, this morning instead of heading to the off ice, he drove toward the medical examiner’s office, grateful to miss morning rush-hour traffic.

  Sitting at a stoplight, he shrugged his shoulders, working the kinks from his neck and back. Fixing the damn bed had to be priority number one as soon as he had a spare minute. As a Ranger he’d spent enough time sleeping in bad motel beds, cars and bedrolls in an open field. When he’d been younger his body had been more forgiving. It took the abuse he tossed its way. Not so much anymore. He needed to get his bed together and get his routine back.

  His folks lived in Austin and they had offered to put his place together or lend him their spare room, but he’d declined. Lord knows they’d not deny him. Hell, they’d jumped through lots of hoops to get him raised and educated. But going back to that wasn’t right.

  When he’d been in Jo’s house, he’d been struck by the home’s comfort. Not fussy, high-priced furniture but comfortable and clean. Her walls had been lined with bookshelves stocked full of well-creased books. Jo had always loved her books, even in college. When he’d first come into the tutoring center she’d been sitting in one chair, feet propped in another, reading. It had been a book on math theories. He’d known instantly he was out of his league.

  But that message hadn’t reached his dick. From the moment she’d first explained that mumbo-jumbo English literature, his Johnson had pulsed hard. She was pretty but not a stunningly beautiful woman. Not like the cheerleaders and sorority girls who hung around the team. She’d worn no makeup, a gauzy peasant top that silhouetted full breasts while hiding a narrow waist, and god-awful shoes old women favored. And yet his boner made it damn near impossible to think.

  He’d figured all the crap that had crowded between them fourteen years ago would have tempered his reaction to her, but when he’d seen her climbing on that damn wall, he’d been right back in the past—dumbfounded and rock hard.

  Shit.

  Better to let that one go, son. You scorched that bridge a long time ago.

  A horn beeped, Brody spotted the green light and punched the gas. Minutes later he reached the medical examiner’s office.

  Brody pushed through the stainless swinging doors connecting to the autopsy room and found the pathologist, Dr. Hank Watterson, talking to his assistant. Both dressed in scrubs, they stood in front of a gurney holding a sheet-clad body. Watterson, in his late thirties, had joined the medical examiner’s office last year. From Colorado, he’d gone through medical school on an Air Force scholarship.

  “Ranger Winchester,” Watterson said, glancing up. He wore heavy rimmed glasses, his sandy blond hair brushed back off a narrow face etched with deep laugh lines around his mouth and forehead.

  Brody extended his hand. “Dr. Watterson.”

  Dr. Watterson glanced at the clock. “Beck is sending Santos to work the case with you. And Santos called and said he’s running late. Traffic on I-35.”

  “Always an accident on that stretch of road.” He eyed the still, white sheet that draped the body of the fourth victim they’d found yesterday. “A few minutes here or there won’t make much difference.”

  Dr. Watterson reached for a file perched on a stainless-steel table. “I gave Beck a preliminary rundown when he called this morning. Want to hear it?”

  “Shoot.”

  “We’ve not analyzed the skeletonized remains yet. We’re waiting on dental records and X-rays. But I hope to get those in a day or two.”

  “That’s fast.”

  “When Harvey Lee Smith’s name is attached to a case it gets bumped to the front of the line.” Watterson moved toward the stainless gurney holding the sheet-clad remains of the most recent body. He reviewed the stats. “She was in her early twenties, stood five foot six and weighed about one-twenty. I’ve identified three tattoos: the butterfly, which I understand Dr. Granger spotted on her inner left wrist. She also has a tattoo on her back right shoulder blade. It’s the initials CTB. Pierced ears and belly. An old scar on her right hand that was stitched. Blond hair, though her natural color is darker. No implants or any visible surgeries.”

  “Jo thinks we have Christa Bogart.”

  “I was able to get a partial print from her right thumb and index fingers. I’ve sent both off for analysis.” Brody shifted his stance as the doctor reached for the sheet and pulled it off the victim’s face. “Should have an identification in the hour.”

  “There was a significant amount of dirt in her nostrils and mouth—consistent with being buried alive. Her fingernails were caked with dirt and her skin marked with rope burns as if she struggled and tried to dig at the dirt around her. When I open her up I’ll check her lungs and stomach for dirt.”

  Brody shook his head. “Hell of a way to die.”

  “She was not sexually assaulted. No vaginal bruising. No semen. No foreign DNA on her body.”

  “She was missing for several weeks before she died.”

  “Yes. But whoever had her did not assault her physically.”

  The doors to the autopsy room opened to a frowning Santos. “Traffic is a bitch this morning.”

  “That’s what you get for living in San Antonio,” Brody said.

  “I’d be up in Austin but my sister, Maria, is a senior in high school. Don’t want to uproot her.”

  “She lives with you?”

  “Has since our folks died five years ago. All my gray hair can be traced right back to raising a teenaged sister.”

  There’d been times over the years when Brody had tried to imagine Jo’s and his kid. Those thoughts always came around the time of her due date in May. If their daughter had lived she’d have been thirteen. “Can’t imagine what it’s like.”

  “Some days I swear it’s the worst and other days the best.”

  Brody tried to picture himself as the father of a teenage girl now. He couldn’t imagine how differently his life would have been. “Sounds like she’s lucky to have you.”

  “Cuts both ways.”

  The Rangers shifted their attention to the body. Within minutes, Watterson made the Y-incision in the victim’s chest. The doctor added more details to the victim’s profile. She’d not had children. Organs healthy and normal. Fit Christa’s profile.

  Santos studied the dead woman’s face. “Now that she’s cleaned up, even with the decomposition, she looks like she could be Christa.”

  Brody reached for his cell and dialed Austin police. “Let’s see where they stand on the prints.” Seconds later he was connected. “Detective Royals, this is Sergeant Winchester with the Texas Rangers. The medical examiner sent over prints and pictures this morning of a Jane Doe in the morgue. Have you had a chance to loo
k at them?”

  “Just did. Looks like we have a match. You found Christa Bogart.”

  Brody nodded. “Thanks, Detective. Once I’m done with the medical examiner I’d like to catch up with you and your files.”

  “Anytime. I’m sorry she wasn’t found alive. The community put out a hell of an effort to find her.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.” He closed his phone and relayed the news.

  Santos tipped back his head, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. “Christa Bogart vanished without a trace about a month ago.”

  Brody shifted his gaze to the doctor. “Do you have an approximate time of death?”

  “Based on decomposition I’d say about a week ago. But I can’t give you an exact time.”

  “A week ago,” Santos said. “What happened to the other three weeks?”

  “The killer held her. But according to the doc he didn’t sexually abuse her,” Brody said.

  “Whereas Smith did abuse some of his victims.”

  “According to his confessions.”

  “Could we have someone who’s a copycat?” Santos asked.

  “If not for the way her body was bound, I’d be thinking that too. But we’ve got knots exactly like Smith’s. And that was never released to the media.”

  Dr. Watterson bowed his head toward the body. “She showed no signs of malnutrition. No tooth decay. The only signs of restraint are on her wrists.”

  “He holds her, feeds her, doesn’t abuse her but doesn’t kill her. Why?”

  No one had an answer. Yet.

  “And Smith never mentioned this Robbie guy before?” Santos asked.

  Brody thought back to the hours of Smith’s testimony. The old man had savored the attention after his arrest and had enjoyed sharing what he’d done. “During all the hours of confession, Smith never once mentioned Robbie.”

  Santos shook his head. “Saying he did get a hold of this kid when he was twelve. Can you imagine how many ways that old bastard could twist a kid’s mind?”

  “The kid would easily come to believe that this is a sick kind of normal.”

  Dr. Watterson completed his internal examination and closed up Christa Bogart’s body. “I’ll run a tox screen and see what comes of it. But it’s clear from the dirt in her stomach and lungs. She was buried alive.”

  Winchester and Santos’s first stop after leaving the medical examiner’s office was Austin Police. They met with Detective Tom Royals, who’d handled the initial investigation on Christa Bogart. They joined Royals in a small conference room with a round table and metal chairs. Royals, a stocky man with a thick mustache and glasses, set a thick file on the table.

  Royals opened the file. “Where’d you find her?” He pushed the file toward Brody.

  Brody thumbed through the thick file. “Buried in the ground on a farm about fifteen miles west of Austin.” He recapped the details.

  Royals sat back, shaking his head. “Shit. And you found three other bodies in the same location?”

  “Those murders are much older and we believe Smith killed them. Christa’s body caught us by surprise. What can you tell us about her?”

  “Worked as a secretary for a financial firm. Engaged to be married. No priors. Lots of friends. Well liked by coworkers. The night she vanished she’d come home from an office party. Checked in with her roommate, went into her room and vanished. I interviewed her roommate for hours, but she couldn’t give us any real leads. We found footprints near Christa’s window, but we haven’t connected them to anyone yet.”

  “What about the fiancé?”

  “Solid guy. Worked for the same financial management company. That’s how they met. Well liked and respected by peers. We dug into his past. Nothing popped up.”

  “He have an alibi for the night Christa vanished?”

  “He and Christa had been at the same party and when she left he stayed to drink with some of his coworkers. The bartender placed him on site until two in the morning.”

  After another half hour of discussing the case with Royals, Brody and Santos left, starting their investigation at Christa’s apartment where her roommate still lived.

  Winchester knocked on the front door. Several seconds passed before the shuffle of feet and the scrape of several locks against the front door. A young, short, stocky woman with blue-black shoulder-length hair greeted them.

  Both Rangers showed their badges, and the girl nodded as if she’d done this a thousand times in the last four weeks. “Miss Brittany Long?”

  The girl surveyed the two men carefully. “You’re the Rangers. The police called and said you’d be coming by to see me. Come on in.”

  After an introduction, the Rangers walked into a small living room filled with half-packed boxes. One bedroom door was open but the other was closed and sealed with yellow crime scene tape.

  “You moving?” Winchester asked.

  “Yes,” Brittany said. “I wanted to leave right after Christa vanished, but the landlord wouldn’t let me out of the lease. See, I signed for both of us, which meant I was on the hook for the entire rent. I did all I could to get out of here but he said no, and I couldn’t afford all this rent and another place. Now my lease is up at the end of the week and I’m leaving. Rented another place across town that I’m sharing with several girls.”

  “What can you tell us about the night Christa vanished?” Santos asked.

  Brittany pushed her hands through her hair. “Didn’t the other cops tell you?”

  “They did, ma’am. But it wouldn’t hurt to hear it one more time.”

  Brittany shrugged. “I’m so tired of telling this story.”

  Brody thought about Christa’s body lying on the gurney in the medical examiner’s office. When he spoke his voice had a sharp edge. “One more time for our sake.”

  “It was a regular night. She was at a party with Scott, the guy she’s going to marry. The party had to do with her job. It was an anniversary party, I think. Ten years in business. Anyway, after it broke up she came home, and her fiancé went out drinking with some of the guys at the firm.”

  “What time did she get home?” Winchester asked.

  “Midnight. And I remember the time because I was up reading. I heard her come into the apartment and looked at the clock. She poked her head inside my room, said good night and went to bed. I shut off my light and fell asleep. That was the last time I saw her.”

  “Any unusual sounds that night?” Santos asked.

  “No. But I must have been extra tired that night because I slept like the dead.”

  “Mind if we have a look in her room?” Brody’s question sounded like an order.

  “Sure. The cops have been through it so many times it doesn’t resemble the way Christa kept it.”

  “Her family or friends haven’t tried to claim her belongings?” Santos asked.

  “No. Her sister, Ester, was clear she didn’t want the room touched. She gave me cash for the rent and asked me to leave it be. I took the money and was happy to stay clear of the room.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t leave because you had both rents to pay,” Brody said.

  “I kinda spent the cash on new clothes, thinking the landlord would let me out. But he was a hard-ass about it.” She shook her head. “I should have given him the money and left. Looking at the tape on her door gives me the creeps.”

  Brody pulled the tape free and opened the door to a slim, narrow room. The room had a double bed on the far wall by the window, a desk to the right and bookshelves to the left. Christa had lived in a low-rise building in a first-floor unit that faced a back parking lot. Gray gauze curtains that matched a flowered bedspread covered double windows.

  He pushed back the curtains and stared out the back window, overlooking a small parking lot rimmed by trees. He studied the lock and flicked it with his thumb, noting it was easily moved.

  “Did she sleep with the window open?”

  “Not normally,” Brittany said from the doorway
. “But the heater was on overdrive that night, and we were about to cook. I had my window open and suggested she do the same. It was cold as hell outside, and it didn’t occur to either of us that it would be a problem. I mean what kind of nut runs around in subzero weather?” Her full lips compressed with tension as if she would forever replay that last bit of advice to Christa. “She was supposed to be married in two weeks.”

  Brody checked his notes. “What do you think of the guy she was marrying?”

  “I didn’t really like him. He was kinda possessive with Christa. But he’s been great since all this happened. When a local Realtor organized the Find Christa! campaign, he searched right along with Christa’s sister. He’s called me a few times to see how I’m doing. Not the ass I first thought.”

  “What specifically didn’t you like about him?” Santos said as he studied a bulletin board filled with pictures, ticket stubs and restaurant carryout menus. “You said ‘possessive.’”

  “He didn’t like sharing her. When she first moved in we ran around town together and had a blast. After he came into her life, she wasn’t around anymore. But that happens, doesn’t it? Girl meets a guy, they’re all into him and they fall off the friend radar.”

  “Anything else bother you about him?”

  “He didn’t hit her or yell at her, but he let her pick up the tab a lot when they went out. He never had his wallet or enough cash.”

  “He was a financial planner at the firm?”

  “Yeah. Made big bucks. But was forgetful, I guess. She came from a family with money and would have inherited on the day she married.”

  “And he was involved in the search?” Brody said.

  She folded her arms over her chest. “Yeah. He really seemed torn up.”

  “He dated since Christa vanished?” Santos said.

  She shook her head. “No. I mean it’s only been a month. But yeah, I guess not all guys wait that long.” She frowned. “He’s not dating, as far as I know.”