The Last Move

by Mary Burton

  “Dr. Hayden, this is Detective Theo Mazur with the San Antonio Police Department.”

  She stilled. A call from the cops never promised good news. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “We’ve had a shooting on I-35. Woman traveling alone, car broke down, and she was shot point-blank in the chest. I understand you worked several cases like this one in the last year.”

  Her trapped breath bled through her lips. She’d arrested Dr. Charles Richardson six months ago. When Dr. Richardson had been actively killing, he’d reached out to the cops via texts on burners left with the victims. After her press conference in Oklahoma days after the third murder, he communicated with her directly via the burners.

  The texts had contained a mix of well-thought-out sentences and odd misspellings. This had gone on for weeks. There’d been a fourth killing and then a fifth. And then Richardson had made a mistake. He’d texted her with a phone that was traced to his secretary.

  Kate had Richardson brought in for questioning. She’d been all smiles and offered him coffee, which he’d accepted. After he left, she’d had his DNA tested. It matched touch DNA found on the first victim’s car. That had been enough to get a judge to sign a warrant for his financials. Credit card receipts led to purchases of burner phones and bullets. And in victim five’s case, an ATM camera captured a car following her. An enhanced version of the picture caught part of a license plate of a stolen vehicle. Several partial prints pulled from the vehicle’s radio button and turn signal switch matched Richardson’s.

  Though she’d yet to find the gun, which would definitely link Richardson to all the killings, she could now connect him directly to two of the five killings and had investigators digging deeper into his past. In time, she expected she’d link all five murders.

  Since Richardson’s arrest, she’d had reporters and even Richardson’s legal team call her trying to glean information. And this man’s unlikely mix of a Midwestern accent and the San Antonio, Texas, jurisdiction did not sit well with her. “What do you need from me?”

  “I know you worked the last few Samaritan shootings, and you made an arrest six months ago,” Mazur said.

  A quick Internet search could have told him that. “Go on.”

  “I don’t know if we have a copycat or an accomplice or you have the wrong guy, but this shooter sent a text to a burner phone found with the victim. The text is addressed to you.”

  “All the details you mentioned were released to the media,” she said.

  “The medical examiner is going to do the autopsy tomorrow. Once we have the bullet, we’ll be able to compare it to the bullets used in the other Samaritan cases.” Every gun barrel has unique microscopic indentations, or striations, which imprint on each fired bullet.

  He hesitated. “I’ve called your boss, Jerrod Ramsey. I’d like you to come down and review the evidence.”

  “Once I’ve heard from Special Agent Ramsey, I’ll be in contact.”

  “When you have your flight information, send it to me. I’ll meet you at the airport,” Detective Mazur said.

  Steel hummed under the soft-spoken tone. He spoke as if her arrival was a foregone conclusion, but there were several more hoops to jump through before she’d get on a plane. She checked her watch and calculated how long it would take her to change, pack, and catch a flight to San Antonio.

  She’d not been there in years. Her trips to her hometown had been infrequent after she left for college, and in the last few years had dwindled to none. There was always a good work excuse to miss family gatherings that had been bearable only when her sister-in-law was alive. After Sierra’s death, there was no one to referee or smooth the waters between Kate and her brother, Mitchell.

  Maybe five years was finally enough time for a little forgiveness and maybe some forgetting. Should have been. Would have been nice for their mother if she and her brother got along. But she doubted a truce was possible.

  “You still there, Dr. Hayden?” Detective Mazur asked.

  “I’ll call my boss, and if he green-lights the trip, I can be there by morning.” She wanted Drexler in cuffs and to close the chapter in this horror story. But this job expected her to shift focus on a dime.

  “I’ve already spoken to him. He gave me your number.”

  Kate arched a brow as she studied Nevada. “I’ll need to hear it from him. Stand by.” She ended the call.

  Nevada folded his arms over his chest. “No rest for the wicked?”

  “Looks like there’s someone posing as the Samaritan.”

  “Richardson is in jail, correct? I’m assuming he still hasn’t made bail.”

  “He is in jail.” She dialed Jerrod Ramsey’s number.

  Ramsey was head of their profiling unit at FBI headquarters at Quantico. Each member of the team not only was trained in profiling but also had a specialty. Nevada specialized in field tactics, ballistics, and weapons. Genovese St. John, PhD, was an art forgery expert, James Lockhart was capable of piloting multiple aircraft, and Ramsey had a PhD in forensic pathology.

  Kate’s expertise was in forensic linguistics, the study of words and crime solving. She analyzed letters, hate mail, ransom notes, even text messages. She examined word choices, letter shapes, punctuation marks, typos, and more. Every component of a written communication held insight into a suspect.

  Nevada cursed. “Richardson’s attorney, that prick Westin, is going to be on that shooting like flies on shit.” The elongated last word hinted to a Georgian drawl.

  “Right.”

  Ramsey answered on the third ring. “Kate, I’m on the phone with an angry hospital administrator. He wanted a pound of your ass when I put him on hold to take your call.”

  “I have an identification from Sara Fletcher. The man who took her is Raymond Drexler.”

  “She’s sure? You’re sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Silence ticked away a couple of seconds. “That helps.”

  No hint of apology in her tone, Kate asked, “You get a call from a Detective Theo Mazur?”

  “I did.”

  “You gave out my number to Detective Mazur?”

  In the distance, a dog barked and wind whooshed. “I verified his identity, and since you weren’t answering your phone, I gave him your number. If I’d only known you were trespassing on hospital property and creating another mess for me to clean up.”

  “What about the Utah case?”

  “I know you’ve worked hard on this, but Nevada can see it through. He’ll find Drexler.”

  Logically it didn’t require two agents to track one man, and Nevada was the best. But logic did little to soften the primal craving to see this creep in cuffs. “The shooter in San Antonio is a copycat or an accomplice.”

  “And until we have ballistics, it’s anybody’s guess which one it is. Right now we only have evidence linking Richardson to two of the five Samaritan cases. Yes, the bullets used in the five Samaritan murders were 9 mm hollow points fired from the same gun, but any good attorney could argue Richardson didn’t pull the trigger in the other three cases. This San Antonio killing adds weight to that argument.”

  She sighed. “I know.”

  “Let me know what you find out there.”

  “Right.” She ended the call and flicked the ringer back to the “On” position. “I’m headed south. You’ll have to keep me posted on the Drexler case.”

  “I’ll text you a picture of him in shackles and cuffs.”

  The Wonder Woman bracelet dangled heavily from her wrist. “No holds barred.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right.”

  Richardson had killed at least two women, and so far all her investigations hadn’t suggested an accomplice. She had other agents digging into his past, but their work wasn’t yet complete. Jesus, had he trained someone else?

  “You okay with returning to San Antonio?” Nevada asked.

  Few knew about San Antonio. She’d told Ramsey, knowing her hist
ory would pop up on a background check. And she’d laid it all bare to the team when they’d formed five years ago. She wanted to believe putting it out there herself would make it almost inconsequential. And for the team it had been.

  Did this mean she was okay with a return to San Antonio? No. She was not thrilled.

  “Ramsey can assign another agent,” Nevada said.

  “My case.”

  “What about—”

  “That was seventeen years ago,” she said. “It won’t bother me.” In a text, she instructed Detective Mazur to forward his information via telex to the local FBI office.

  “I’ll bet money it’ll take me less than forty-eight hours to prove Mazur is wrong.”

  “Did I eavesdrop correctly? Did the shooter ask for you via a burner?”

  “My name’s been in the news lately. Anybody with half a brain could have read it. But I have to check it out.”

  Nevada didn’t bother with “be careful” or “watch your back” goodbyes. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “All I need is a texted image of Raymond Drexler. Dead or alive.”

  “Consider it done.”

  In her rental car, she wove through the center of Salt Lake City, managing to hit every red light until she exited onto the I-80 west ramp and wound down Amelia Earhart Drive to the gated entrance of the FBI office.

  She’d been working out of this office since she arrived in Utah ten days ago and had barely been around enough for the receptionist to recognize her. She showed her badge. “I’ve paperwork waiting.”

  “Pulled it just now.” She handed Kate a stack of papers. “I thought you’d be headed home soon. Heck of a find last week.”

  “Maybe I’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

  She’d not been to her apartment in Washington in almost six weeks. Times like this, she wondered why she kept a place near Quantico, Virginia. In the eighteen months she’d leased the small apartment, she’d spent about a month’s worth of nights there. Chasing the wicked never stopped.

  She found a conference room and, shrugging off her backpack, located a coffeepot. An hour later, she received a call from Mazur.

  “I’m still reviewing the case notes,” she said as way of a hello.

  “When are you coming?”

  She ignored the question. “Do not speak to the press, and keep as many details quiet about this case as possible. If and when the media is addressed, I’ll tell you what to say.”

  “I’ve no intention of speaking to the press.” Again, his tone was even, steady, and steely.

  “But they do have their place, and we might need them. Also, if an attorney by the name of Mark Westin calls, know that he’s representing Dr. Charles Richardson, who has been arrested in one of the Samaritan shootings. Do not speak to him.”

  “Not my first party, Doctor.” No edge sharpening the words, but he was firm.

  It was natural to resent outside assistance in a high-profile case. Many local cops saw her as a threat. But she wasn’t, of course, if they did their jobs well. “I’m simply conveying facts.”

  “When are you going to arrive in San Antonio?” Mazur asked.

  She pulled up the airline flights. “There’s a five a.m. flight out of Salt Lake that will put me in San Antonio at eight a.m. your time.”

  “I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “I’m familiar with San Antonio. I can rent a car.”

  “It’ll save us both time if I pick you up.”

  Us. Both. He was already using words of team building and unity.

  Outside of her FBI team, there was no us or both. However, no need to press the point. She’d give him this one. “Understood.”

  In front of him were four television sets, each playing a different broadcast. The evening news would be on soon, and he expected some mention of the crime. The last three Samaritan killings had stirred up concern and hysteria and were widely covered by the press. However, there had been next to no coverage on his killing so far.

  While he waited for the broadcasts to begin, he replayed the video of last night’s shooting. Each time he watched it, a thrill of excitement snapped through his body. It had been some time since he’d fired a weapon and watched someone die. He feared the old excitement and pleasure might have faded, but the sensations had hit him with full force when Gloria looked at him with such utter happiness and relief. Her savior had arrived. The entire experience was priceless.

  And, as he raised the gun and pointed it at her, Gloria’s smile had vanished. Facing death had been sobering, but she’d not cried or wailed. He’d found her composure vaguely disappointing, hoping at the end she would break. Beg. Plead. But she’d not done any of that. She was proud to the end.

  Still, even without the tears, the feeling of superiority had been potent.

  He’d been so juiced after the killing. He came home, stripped, and bagged his clothes. He’d showered, rinsing the blood spatter from his face, dried off, and changed into clean clothes. He’d tossed the towel in with the clothes and buried the bag on his property.

  After, he’d poured himself a strong drink. When the booze hadn’t taken the edge off, he’d ordered a hooker online: small, blond, and young, the way he liked them.

  She’d met him at his home. Perhaps not the wisest choice, but he’d needed to exorcise the energy. When she’d arrived, she’d tried to look confident, but she was nervous. Her fear had jacked him up more, and he’d kept her for several hours. She’d left with a couple of grand in her purse, rope burns on her wrists, and lashes on her back.

  That should have calmed him. But as he sat here, he felt the energy building again as he replayed the tape, watching the woman’s smile fade, the gunfire, and the body recoil.

  “It was a beautiful and elegant death.”

  He sat back and savored the feeling before he shifted his gaze to the two other screens, which broadcasted live feeds from cameras monitoring the living rooms of the next victims. There was Coffee Shop Woman and Law School Girl. He’d get to those two in time.

  He leaned closer to one of the monitors. She wasn’t home yet, no doubt still working in her shop. They’d crossed paths several times, and he liked her pretty smile. She smelled of perfumed soap and peppermint, and it was easy to think of her as innocent. But she was not.

  “Soon, Coffee Shop Woman.”

  The evening anchors covered a robbery, a mall fashion show, and a dammed high school football game. Finally the anchor cut to a reporter on the side of the interstate. The neatly coiffed woman was on the other side of the highway, standing on the northbound access road, a good distance from the car.

  He leaned forward and in the background saw police milling around the site as the reporter talked about an unexplained death.

  “Unexplained, my ass. She was shot in the chest.”

  On another television, Channel Two projected Gloria’s face. As the newscaster listed off her accomplishments, images appeared of her with politicians, school children, and in front of her car dealership.

  Why hadn’t the cops told the media more?

  Gloria wasn’t some low-class hooker or a junkie. She was the kind of woman people missed. All he could surmise was that the cops were scrambling as they tried to figure out if they’d arrested the wrong man or if there was another Samaritan. He didn’t care if they were confused or bumbling around as long as they’d spoken to Kate. The point of the text was to alert Kate. She was the one who needed to be on the scene. It wasn’t right if she wasn’t in the mix.

  Frustrated, he rose and paced around the room. He flexed his fingers as he tried to expel the nervous energy cutting through his body. Times like this, it was all he could do to contain the feelings and racing thoughts. He paced. Clenched and unclenched his fingers.

  It would be so easy to upload the video he’d taken and show the world what he’d done. His footage would send a ripple effect through the city, the state, and even the country. The Samaritan would again be feared and respected. Thi
nk of the panic!

  But as tempting as it was, he paused.

  He didn’t care about publicity or public fear. The goal was to control one particular person. He had to believe his text had reached Dr. Kate Hayden and she’d soon return to San Antonio.

  This game, like chess, had to be played patiently and carefully. He didn’t need to rush. All the pieces were in position, ready to play. Though the media wasn’t covering him yet, they soon would.

  He picked up the worn notebook, flipped to one of the last clean pages, and scribbled down the day’s date.

  You have no idea how long I have planned our meeting, Kate. It has been a long journey, and now the final match is upon us.

  He studied the note and circled the word final several times with a steady hand.

  It was a matter of time before Kate’s return home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Her smile is sweet, and she thinks her sins are a secret. But I know them all.

  San Antonio, Texas

  Monday, November 27, 7:45 a.m.

  Mazur stood at Gate 6 in the San Antonio airport, knowing that Dr. Hayden’s flight was several minutes early. He’d gotten home a few hours ago to shower, change, and grab a quick breakfast before coming here. Most of the night had been spent dealing with the chain of command, who were scrambling to handle a high-profile murder that they feared could go radioactive if the video clip hit the Internet.

  His phone rang, and he was ready to send it to voicemail when he saw his daughter’s name. “Hey, kiddo. You ready for the math test today?”

  “Yeah,” Alyssa said with a dramatic sigh.

  Some of the fatigue bled away. “You sound disappointed.”

  “It won’t be much of a challenge.”

  He rolled his neck, feeling his vertebrae crack. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because all we’ve done is go over stuff I’ve already learned. I’m not crazy about this school, Dad.”