The Seventh Victim

by Mary Burton

  Santos nodded. “He didn’t much like the idea that she was graduating from college and moving to Chicago. They haven’t pinned the murder on him, but the cops think it’s a matter of time.”

  “He got an alibi?” Beck said.

  “Pack of his buddies swore he was drinking with them most of the night.”

  “So what does Lou Ellen Fisk have to do with this victim?”

  “White dress, young, blond,” Stiles said. “Can’t speak to the Fisk case, but whoever killed this little gal, planned it all out.”

  Beck pulled rubber gloves from his back pocket and moved toward the technician working the site. The cast of his shadow caught the technician’s attention. She rose and turned, and he recognized her immediately. “Melinda Ashburn.”

  She’d worked the murder of Misty Gray. He’d watched her open the bag and tenderly examine and record what remained of the little girl’s body. In her late twenties, Melinda wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat that protected a stock of red hair and pale, freckled skin. “Good to see you back, Sergeant Beck.”

  “Good to be back. What did you find, ma’am?”

  “Still taking pictures and sketching. As you can see she’s got a good bit of bruising around her neck. My guess is strangulation.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do see that.” The rising heat of the day beat down on Beck. The body had yet to take on the coiling smells of decay, but that would soon change. Nighttime temperatures had bumped close to eighty and faint dark patches, the first signs of decomposition, had started to appear on her cheeks. Soon the body would bloat and then split. By sunset she’d barely be recognizable. If left out here a couple of days, she’d quickly go the way of Lou Ellen Fisk.

  He crouched and studied the details: neatly trimmed nails, delicate hands that didn’t look like they’d seen hard labor and smooth skin unmarked by the hard Texas sun. “She can’t be much more than twenty.”

  “That’s my guess,” Melinda said.

  “Any identification?”

  “None that I’ve found. But we’ll roll her prints as soon as she gets to the medical examiner’s office.”

  Prints were no guarantee of identification. If she wasn’t in the Automated Fingerprints System known as AFIS, they’d start digging through missing persons reports. “Any signs of bruising or wounds on her face or arms?”

  A warm wind skidded across the grass, teasing the hem of the victim’s white skirt. Her almost peaceful features mocked what had to have been terrifying last minutes.

  Beck flexed his gloved fingers as he stared at the woman. “Is she clenching something in her right hand?”

  “I think so,” Melinda said. “I’ll be getting to it soon enough.”

  “I don’t want to rush your process, but when you open that hand let me know what you find.” Again a vague memory pestered.

  Beck rose, thanked Melinda, and turned to Santos. A muscle in the back of Beck’s neck tensed as it did when he grabbed for a memory out of his reach. “Why does this case feel familiar?”

  “Bugging the hell out of me, too,” Santos said.

  Beck rested hands on hips as he mentally shuffled through old case files. Strangulation. White dresses. Blond females. And then the memory hit. “Remember the Seattle murders six or seven years ago?”

  Santos rubbed his chin. “I do. I was still with DPS then. The press called him the ... Seattle Strangler.”

  As mental gates opened, the memories flooded. “Six women were strangled and all were wearing white. Each had a penny in her hand.” The penny detail had never been released to the public but Beck had heard about it through police channels.

  Santos nodded. “Good memory.”

  “He caused a panic in Seattle. I read about it in some report, but when the case went cold, it was pushed to the back burner.”

  “The guy ever caught?”

  “From what I remember, no. His last victim survived. The killer went dark, and I heard all kinds of theories. He was jailed. Died. Moved on. Lost his nerve.”

  “What happened to the last victim?” Santos said.

  “A passing motorist interrupted the attack.” Beck dug deeper. “The surviving victim claimed no memory of the assault.”

  Santos glanced toward the victim splayed in the dirt. “San Antonio victim’s bones were bleached white and scattered by the animals. We don’t know how she died. And a penny didn’t turn up during the search.”

  “No one was looking for it.”

  “True. And if the killer left a penny, we had a hell of a storm last month that likely washed it away.”

  As Santos turned to respond to a question from a DPS officer, Beck shoved out a breath and turned back toward the body. “Melinda, would you do me a favor and have a look inside that gal’s hand? Mighty important.”

  She nodded and squatted by the clenched hand. Carefully, she peeled back fingers stiffening with rigor mortis. As she raised her camera to photograph her discovery, she said, “There’s a penny.”

  Beck leaned closer. “You sure about that?”

  “Very.” She snapped dozens more pictures.

  Beck called Santos over and pointed to the victim’s hand.

  Santos took one look at the penny and swore. “This nut might have resurfaced in Texas?”

  “Or a copycat.” Beck rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He’d need all the information San Antonio had on the first victim and an identity on this victim quickly.

  “These cases could stir up a hornet’s nest,” Santos said.

  “I believe you are right.”

  Melinda bagged the penny in a small zip-top evidence bag. “Beck, I’ll pass it on to the medical examiner in Austin.”

  “Thanks, Melinda. Appreciate that.” Beck turned to Santos. “I’ve got to get situated in the office, and then I’ll swing by the medical examiner’s office. I want to be there for the autopsy.” He’d not seen his desk in three weeks, but he welcomed the waiting chaos.

  “Sounds good, Sergeant.”

  Beck turned back toward the road and caught sight of the big rig. The massive black cab hauled a trailer loaded with lumber. “You said a trucker called in this murder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He still in his rig?”

  “Yep, and getting more pissed by the minute. He’s squawking about schedules.”

  “Let me talk to him.” Beck moved toward the truck cab and knocked on the driver’s-side door window. No one was in the cab, but these big rigs came with a rear sleep compartment. Beck’s grandfather, Henry Beck, had been a long-haul trucker in his younger days before opening his garage and often said that during his trucking days, he’d have traded a year’s worth of steak and sex for a solid twelve hours of sleep.

  Beck pounded his fist on the side of the cab. Finally, a gruff, “Just a damn minute.”

  Beck stepped back, squinting north over the median into the oncoming interstate traffic, now moving slower and slower as motorists tried to glimpse the crime scene. Soon there’d be a hell of a backup on I-35.

  After some shuffling, cussing, and more shuffling the cab door opened and a tall bear of a man appeared. He wore jeans, a Dallas Cowboys black T-shirt, and a belt buckle shaped like Texas. He grabbed his hat from the cab, smoothing back thick gray hair before settling the cap on his head. “You here to tell me I can go?”

  “In just a minute or two. Right now I’d like a rundown.”

  The trucker pulled a can of dip from his back pocket and tucked a pinch of tobacco in his cheek. “I already told the other cops.”

  Beck shoved aside irritation. “And I do appreciate that. I do. But mind running it by me one more time, Mister ... ?”

  “Raynor. Billie Raynor.”

  He pulled a small notebook and pen from his back pocket. “You’re from?”

  “El Paso.”

  “So how’d you find the body? Can’t be seen from the road.”

  “’Cause I had to pee like a damn race horse. Fucking prostate. Thought I could
make it to the next stop but was about to bust so I pulled over. Figured I’d drain the well and get back on the road. Then I saw the buzzards flying overhead. I couldn’t see what they saw, but thought I’d take a look. Twenty steps and I saw her. At first I thought she might be sick or asleep, but as I got closer I saw the flies.” He shuddered. “Looked like she was covered in wax.”

  “Did you see anything or anyone else?”

  “No. Just the woman and the buzzards.” He jabbed his thumb toward his cab. “Hightailed it back here and called the cops.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  He spit. “Enough to let me get going? That damn deputy has held me up for two hours.”

  “I suppose you should be grateful he’s not hauling you to the station for questioning.”

  The trucker’s gaze hardened. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  Beck grinned. “Killers have called in their own work before.”

  “Well, not me.” He lifted his hat and smoothed his palm over his damp brow before replacing it. “Shit. I should have just kept driving.”

  “You drive all over the state?”

  “Sure, I do. What of it?”

  “Been down to San Antonio lately?”

  Chapter 2

  Monday, May 20, 10 AM

  Beck got caught in the tangle of northbound traffic into Austin and arrived at the office an hour later than he’d have liked. He passed through the main lobby and paused at reception to show his badge.

  A middle-aged woman with ink black hair, a barrel-shaped body, and thick-rimmed glasses grinned up at Beck. “Well, look what the damned cat dragged in.”

  He removed his hat, grinning. “Susie. You’re looking mighty fine today.”

  A hint of color rose in her cheeks. “Glad to have you back, baby doll.”

  “Glad to be back, darlin’.” He’d never admit to Susie or another soul alive how much he’d missed the job.

  “So what you been doing with yourself these last weeks?”

  “Stirring up trouble. Stirring up trouble.”

  As she chuckled, he winked and headed toward the stairs, climbing to the third floor. He pushed through the door and wove his way through the cubicles, finding comfort in the hum of ringing phones, muted conversations, the buzz of the fluorescents, and the scent of the worst coffee ever made. He was anxious to get back to the business of being a Ranger.

  He flipped on his office lights and for a moment stood in his office door, silent and still, his gaze roaming over what had been so familiar twenty-one days ago.

  Desk piled high with papers. Shelves crammed full of books and scattered awards. Texas A&M diploma on the wall. A print of Galveston Island at sunset. Beck standing in front of his grandfather’s garage with his mother and brother.

  His return from leave barely two hours old, he stared at the picture of his family, remembering no matter how much a man wished, hoped, or loved, nothing lasted forever. He’d learned that fact the day his father had walked out. Beck had been three. His brother two. His mother nineteen.

  His mother, Elaina Beck, terrified and desperate, had turned to the very man who had condemned her marriage: her father-in-law, Henry Beck. Beck remembered the fear and rage thundering through his body as he’d stared at his mother’s tear-streaked face and his grandfather’s stoic, grizzled features. As much as he’d wanted to cry, he’d squeezed his mother’s hand and snuggled close to her.

  Beck shrugged off his suit jacket, carefully hung it up on a hanger dangling from the hook on his office door, and then placed his hat on the edge of his desk.

  A glance at his overflowing in-box told him a Ranger’s work went on regardless of his or anyone else’s troubles. Flexing his fingers, he sat behind his desk and flipped on his computer.

  “I figured you’d slither back in here like a rattlesnake.”

  The deep baritone belonged to Captain Ryder Penn. In his late fifties, the captain had been with the Rangers for over twenty-five years. Tall, lean with tanned, sun-etched skin, Penn looked as if he’d been plucked out of the American West. At his twenty-fifth anniversary party there’d been jokes circulating that Stephen F. Austin himself had recruited him. Jokes aside, Penn was a crackerjack investigator.

  Beck rose, kept his tone even. “Giving it my best effort. With luck I’ll slide back into the old routine without anyone noticing.”

  Penn extended his hand to Beck. “Not likely.”

  Beck accepted his hand and shook, burying the heated exchange they’d had when Penn pulled Beck off the job. “I just want to get back to work.”

  Penn stepped back, casting his gaze over the in-box. “Hope you’re willing to hit the ground running.”

  “Fast as I can.”

  Penn paused as if wrangling with unspoken thoughts and maybe an apology. “Santos said you’ve seen the crime scene on I-35.”

  “The victim was a woman, dressed in white, blond. She appears to have been strangled and posed. Sheriff Stiles suspects the victim is connected to one found in San Antonio about four weeks ago. There wasn’t much left of the first victim after a month in the open, so it’s too early to tell.”

  Penn’s gaze narrowed. “How did the first victim die?”

  “Cause of death was inconclusive.”

  “So what’s the connection?”

  “The first victim appeared to have been wearing a white dress.”

  “A white dress.” Penn shook his head. “Slim. And you got a mighty full plate, Beck.”

  This case had already sunk its teeth into him. “I’ll make room. The medical examiner is going to be doing the autopsy this afternoon. I’d like to be there.”

  Penn stared at him hard. “Sure. I’ll give you this one. But look at your backlog before you dive in and no more lone-wolf shit.”

  “Will do.”

  Penn studied Beck an extra beat and then left him alone with his overflowing in-box and an unshakeable curiosity for two murders that might or might not be related.

  He spent the better part of the morning digging through his in-box and getting a handle on the active cases he’d been forced to put aside.

  Several hours passed before he tore away from his backlogged files to do an Internet search. In the search engine he typed: strangulation, white dress, female. Several unrelated hits appeared, but halfway down the page a reference to the Seattle case popped up. He clicked the link to an article that had been written five years after the last attack. The anniversary perspective outlined the history of the six murder victims—all young women who’d been strangled and dressed in white. A seventh victim had survived her attack, but police had never revealed the woman’s identity. The article also discussed the fact that police had never found the Seattle Strangler.

  The hinges of his chair squeaked as he continued searching the Seattle Strangler case and reading through old online references to the case.

  Six Women Dead.

  One Survivor.

  A Missing Killer.

  Beck absently tapped his fingers on the keys to his computer, and then checked his watch. Seattle would be two hours behind, making it about 12 PM West Coast time.

  He picked up his phone and dialed Seattle Police. When he was finally connected to the homicide department and got a Detective Steve Cannon on the phone, he introduced himself.

  “Well, sir,” Beck explained. “We have two murders that remind me a bit of a few cases you had some years back.” He recapped the details of what he knew about his two victims.

  Detective Cannon hesitated. “I’ve had calls like yours over the years. Cops like you who think a strangled blond woman is linked to the Seattle Strangler.”

  “Your victims have a penny in their hands?”

  A heavy silence radiated through the lines. “No one has ever mentioned the penny.” Cannon hesitated. “We kept that detail close to the vest.”

  Beck doodled a box around Seattle on his desk pad. “The guy was never caught.”

  “No, he was not.” Defensiveness
sharpened the words.

  Beck understood that Cannon had to have been frustrated. No cop liked losing one of the bad guys. “Sounds like you were pretty involved in the case.”

  “Spent a lot of hours working with my partner on it. I hated that we couldn’t crack the case.”

  “Your partner couldn’t have been pleased.”

  “Royally pissed, to put it mildly. Mike was real disappointed.”

  “Mike?”

  “Mike Raines. He retired six years ago. Opened his own detective agency here in Seattle. I can tell you that Raines just about drove himself insane trying to find the killer. Shit, we all did.”

  Beck understood that kind of drive. That kind of obsession. He wrote Raines Detective Agency on a yellow notepad and circled it. “What about the surviving victim? She still in Seattle?”

  “I lost track of her, but I’d bet Raines might know her whereabouts. Like I said, he fixated on the case. He wanted this guy in the worst way.”

  “Why’d this case get under his skin?”

  Cannon sighed. “You telling me you haven’t had a case that got under your skin?”

  Beck shoved aside images of Misty Gray’s dead body. “Point taken. Do you remember the name of the survivor?”

  Cannon exhaled. “That I do remember. Lara Church. We never released the name publicly to protect her privacy.”

  The name meant nothing to him as he jotted it on the notepad. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced at Raines’s name, his in-box, and then his watch. “Thanks.”

  “I’d have said your guy wasn’t the Seattle Strangler, if not for the penny. Shit, I can’t believe he’d resurface after all this time.” Cannon sounded weary. “Keep me posted?”

  “Will do, and if I have more questions, I’ll give you a call?”

  “I’d be mad if you didn’t. It’s been seven years, but I still want this guy caught. I know Mike would feel the same.”

  “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Beck hung up and checked his watch. The medical examiner’s autopsy was scheduled in a couple of more hours. Hopefully, he’d know if he had a connection to Seattle or not.