The Last Move

by Mary Burton

  It was an expensive private school, one of the best, which Sherry had insisted on. His pride had taken a knock because he wasn’t the one providing for his daughter, but he knew the school would be good for Alyssa. “Then I’ll talk to your teacher and get you bumped up a grade.”

  “Dad, no. I’m making friends in this class.”

  “You’ll make friends in the new class.” He was only half teasing.

  “Dad, do not call my teacher.”

  He’d have pushed the point two years ago when she was in the school he was paying for. Alyssa was smart, and he wanted the best for her. “Understood. Is Mom driving you to school today?”

  “Yes. She’s getting dressed. She has a big meeting this afternoon.” His ex had warned him that San Antonio might not be her last stop in her climb up the ladder, but he’d still downshifted his career and moved south anyway.

  “Good. Nice that you and Mom have this time in the morning.”

  “She’s always on the phone. Her boss has already called once.”

  He swallowed bitter frustration. He’d asked his ex to let Alyssa stay in Chicago with him, but she’d refused, claiming his schedule was too unpredictable. And when he pressed, she’d confessed she couldn’t lose another child. “She loves you. And things will settle down with her job.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Dad, don’t change my class. No more changes right now, okay?”

  The note of worry told him more than he’d expected from the call. Sherry must have made more noises about another move. She’d said nothing to him, but then communication between them had been shit since she’d moved out.

  “I promise, Alyssa.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  The boarding agent opened the door to the sky bridge. “I don’t hear enthusiasm. Remember, if you frown too much you might end up looking like me. Not good, kiddo.”

  “True. That would so not be good.”

  He liked his kid. She was as tough as him, maybe tougher. “What about the chess tournament?”

  “I’m studying moves and practicing. There’re a couple of games scheduled this afternoon at the library I might sit in on.”

  “Chess is your thing, kid. You’re one of the best.”

  “Coach says I’m too aggressive.”

  “Take it as a compliment. Strategy can be taught. Aggression cannot.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to meet an incoming plane.”

  “Who?”

  “FBI agent.”

  “Can you talk about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Will you tell me later?” she asked.

  Mazur worked hard to put distance between his work and family. “Maybe.”

  “I’m not a baby, Dad. I’m fourteen. You can tell me stuff now.”

  “Don’t grow up too fast. I’ll call after school and see how the test went.”

  “Stop worrying.”

  “Cut me some slack. It’s hard seeing you grow up.”

  She groaned, but it was tinged with affection. “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you, kiddo.”

  He rang off, wondering for the hundredth time if he was doing any of this fatherhood stuff correctly. There was a time when he’d thought he had it all figured out. Now, he had no idea.

  He glanced at his phone and did a Web search for Dr. Kate Hayden, knowing at least on the job he was making a difference.

  The search engine pulled up several video clips of the profiler as she stood at a podium with local law enforcement standing behind her. She’d worked several high-profile serial cases over the last five years. He chose the most recent, which dated back eight months and related to the last Samaritan killing.

  “We don’t know how he chooses his victims,” she said. “All the women were in their midthirties to early forties, and all worked in the service industry. We do know he disables the victims’ vehicles while they’re at a convenience store near I-35, and then he follows them until they’re forced to pull over. I’m encouraging all travelers to check their cars before getting back on the road, especially if their destination is along I-35.”

  Mazur hit the “Pause” button and studied Kate Hayden’s mop of brown shoulder-length hair, which curled at her shoulders. Her trim, petite body and young voice didn’t fit the FBI mold.

  More searching painted the picture of a woman in her early thirties who graduated top of her class from the University of Virginia and earned her master’s and doctorate degrees in linguistics from Yale by the age of twenty-seven. She had been working with the FBI for nearly seven years. Though she’d been associated with the high-profile cases, for the most part, she stayed in the background.

  The first of the deplaning Salt Lake passengers appeared, and Mazur shoved his phone in his pocket as he waited for her. A dozen or so people filed off the plane before the short brunette appeared rolling a single carry-on with a worn backpack slung over her shoulder. Her slim figure was partially masked by a baggy black suit jacket, slacks, and white collared shirt. Her light-brown hair hung loosely around her shoulders, accentuating high cheekbones and a slightly sunburned face.

  Walking with Dr. Hayden was an elderly woman. Dr. Hayden smiled as she pointed down the terminal, speaking until the woman nodded and walked off. The doctor quickly dropped her gaze to her phone and scrolled through what must have been emails that had accumulated during the flight.

  When she looked up, her gaze searched and settled on him. She crossed to him as if they’d already met. “Detective Mazur.”

  “I look that much like a cop?”

  She barely blinked. “You do.”

  If not for the suit, he’d never have nailed her as a Fed. She looked younger than her thirty-plus years, and picturing her small frame chasing a bad guy almost made him smile. “You need to make any stops before we hit the road?”

  “No. Thank you. I assume the autopsy is still scheduled for this morning.”

  “It is.” He checked his watch. “They’re waiting on us, so when we can get there, they’ll start. The victim was well known in the local business community. She had many friends on the city council and in state government.” He reached for the handle of the suitcase. “I can take that for you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Jesus, he hoped she was not one of those hard-assed feminists. “This is Texas.”

  “You’re from Chicago.”

  “Accent gave it away?”

  “Yes.”

  “When in Rome.” That seemed explanation enough for her, and she allowed him to take the suitcase. He guided her through the busy airport and toward ground transportation and the parking deck. The November sun was already high in the sky, and the weatherman was promising another warm day.

  “Different than Virginia, I imagine.”

  “I haven’t been home in six weeks. Utah was my last stop. But I understand the leaves are changing in Virginia.”

  The hints of warmth he’d seen as she’d spoken to the old woman were gone. The pleasantry was spoken almost as an afterthought, as if she’d memorized the phrases from an FBI handbook on conversation. Her small stature belied her stiff tone. And if he wasn’t off the mark on his action heroes, she also wore a Wonder Woman bracelet.

  But warm and fuzzy wasn’t what he was looking for just now. He needed this case solved.

  She had to move quickly to match his pace, and he slowed as they crossed the large parking lot. He clicked the lock open to a black SUV, raised the back hatch, and loaded her bags inside. She slid into the passenger seat, gazing again at her phone. As he settled behind the steering wheel, she typed a quick response, then fastened her seat belt.

  “I understand the evidence you have on Richardson for two of the Samaritan murders is solid. Anything in his background to suggest an accomplice?”

  “My profile of Dr. Richardson suggests that he’s a loner despite appearing gregarious and outgoing. Outside of work-related activities, he mixes with no one. No wife, no girlfriend, no buddies. A forensic sweep of his c
omputers revealed no other contacts. If he’d not texted me from his secretary’s phone, I’m not sure when we would have caught him.”

  “Maybe he has fans?”

  “Possibly. Likely, even.” Absently, she touched the Wonder Woman bracelet on her wrist.

  She tossed him a practiced smile and glanced out the window as he drove toward town. “The area has changed a lot in the last five years.”

  “I hear the growth has been good for the city.”

  She looked at him. “I’m not good at polite conversation.”

  “Really?” He appreciated the honesty, even if it was ham-fisted.

  “I’ll warn you now that I’m painfully honest at times. Abrupt, rude, and bitch have all been adjectives attached to me before.”

  “I’ll take a straight shooter any day.”

  “Remember that when I become annoying, because that moment always arrives.”

  For a Fed, she was okay. “Noted.”

  “Do you know why she was going to Laredo?”

  “There’s no other reason than to visit her mother, who’s in a nursing home. The company owned a dealership down there but sold it last summer. She visited her mother just last weekend.”

  “Was she having an affair?”

  “Her husband says they had a good marriage.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  He shook his head. “If they didn’t he was likely the last to know.”

  “Why she was traveling on I-35 doesn’t really matter. What would have mattered to someone who thinks of himself as the Samaritan is that she was driving alone on his own personal hunting ground.”

  “Samaritan. Hell of a nickname. When did the press start calling him Samaritan?”

  “After the second killing,” she said. “An eyewitness later said she passed a disabled motorist who was being helped by another man. When she slowed, the man waved her off and gave her the thumbs up as if he had the situation under control.”

  “If I remember my Bible, the Samaritans were outcasts and considered the unclean.”

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  “Richardson sees himself as an outcast. I get that. But what is good about what he does?”

  She shrugged. “Somewhere in his mind, he’s a positive force to be reckoned with.”

  “How so? Do any of the victims have a history of abuse or trouble? Does he feel the need to end their suffering?”

  She tilted her head and rubbed the side of her neck. “Two of the victims were divorced, but there was no history of domestic abuse. Another victim had some credit card debt but hardly crushing. Another had a son in juvenile detention. They had issues in their lives but nothing that was overwhelming enough to draw the notice of an outsider.”

  “You said they were in the service industries. Was there a common client?”

  “None that I found. All the victims lived in different cities that were hundreds of miles apart.”

  “The final killing was last year?”

  “That’s correct. And Richardson was arrested six months ago.”

  Mazur took Loop 410 onto Babcock Road and wound his way toward the Bexar County Medical Examiner’s office located in the University of Texas Health Science Center. He parked and they got out. The three-story building was constructed of plain reddish stone with smoked glass windows. Like most law enforcement offices, it could easily be overlooked by anyone driving by.

  “I’ll need my backpack,” she said.

  “Sure.” As she reached for it, he was tempted to offer to carry it, but sensed that despite her small stature she was not the type to accept help gladly. As she slung the bag onto her shoulder, he wondered why he’d put so much thought into a simple exchange.

  “Are there vending machines in the building or a place where I could grab a sandwich?” she asked.

  “There is a small café on the third floor. You can get the basics there.”

  She checked her watch. “I shouldn’t hold you up long.”

  “Better you eat. Five minutes here or there won’t matter. Let’s get inside.”

  He escorted her to the café, where she ordered a coffee and a bagel. When she paid and turned away, he couldn’t help but ask, “That’s it?”

  “It’ll get me through.”

  He ordered and paid for a cup of coffee. “Okay.”

  She sipped her coffee as they sat down at a table. “I would like to also see the crime scene and examine the victim’s car. I noticed from the photos you sent me that the victim had bought coffee and chocolate. Do you know where she stopped?”

  “A purchase receipt in the car was doused in blood and hard to read. I’ve got uniforms checking the nearby exits.”

  “The caliber of the Samaritan’s gun, what the shooter was wearing, the way he disabled the cars were all posted on the Internet. So anyone could have copied him.”

  “Have you had copycat killings?”

  “There was one man in Kansas City who attempted it. He shot and killed his wife. Tracing his cell phone GPS put him at the crime scene and the shooting. And he stood to inherit a lot of money if his wife died. He thought he was clever, but he was sloppy.”

  “Getting away with murder isn’t as easy as it looks.”

  “No.” She finished off her bagel and sipped her coffee.

  “So I’ve an imposter on my hands?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll first need to dig deep into the victim’s past. Is there anyone who wants her dead?”

  “I plan to look into that as soon as this exam is over.”

  “I’d like to accompany you as you investigate Gloria Sanchez’s background. It’ll help me make a determination faster.”

  “Sure.” His phone chirped with a text from the medical examiner, and he responded back. “Dr. Ryland is ready for us.”

  She took one last sip of coffee and stood. “I’m ready.”

  Both tossed their cups, and she followed him to a bank of elevators at the end of the hallway. When the doors opened, they stepped inside and he pressed the button to the basement. She stood ramrod straight and made no effort at conversation. He supposed this type of antisocial quirkiness was part of a brilliant mind. Warm and fuzzy didn’t figure into the Kate Hayden equation.

  The familiar antiseptic smell filled the air of the autopsy suite. He’d seen more autopsies than he could count and had developed a detachment to death until Caleb had died. Since then, he found it harder to see the body on the table as evidence.

  They moved down the gray tiled hallway under the ultra-bright lights toward Dr. Grant Ryland’s office. He knocked twice on the closed door.

  “Come in.” The doctor’s voice was deep and gravelly and perfectly fit the tall, broad-shouldered Texan who’d played center for the University of Texas fifteen years ago. Dr. Ryland looked up from a stack of papers and tugged off dark-rimmed glasses as he rose and came around the desk. “Detective.”

  “Thanks for working us in today, Doc. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Kate Hayden with the FBI.”

  Dr. Ryland extended his hand to Kate. “Dr. Hayden.”

  Her grip appeared strong, and her eye contact had laser precision. “Dr. Ryland.”

  “This case is a hot one, Dr. Ryland,” Mazur said. The fact that he’d landed a high-profile case had pissed off the detectives who wanted the attention and pleased the ones who had been waiting for him to get enough rope to hang himself. “Everyone from the governor’s office down to my captain wants it solved.”

  Dr. Ryland shifted to Kate. “Anything I should be looking for when I autopsy the patient?”

  “The Samaritan’s bullet of choice is a 9 mm hollow point. He shoots one bullet to the heart, which does maximum damage as the bullet mushrooms on impact. My primary concern is the ballistics, which will tell me if this victim was shot with the Samaritan’s gun.”

  “The Samaritan’s gun was never recovered, correct?” Mazur asked.

  “It was not,” she said.

  “Did all the Samaritan v
ictims die immediately?”

  “They were all shot in their cars and were dead within seconds. The medical teams estimated that each, with their catastrophic injuries, had bled out within half an hour to an hour.” She touched the middle of her breastbone. “He targets the same area every time. Even though nearly point-blank, it’s harder than you think to consistently hit the same area on a living target.”

  “Has Richardson hinted to why he chose a bullet he knew would shred his victims’ hearts?” Mazur asked.

  “He hasn’t confessed to the killings. He still maintains his innocence,” she said.

  “I thought men like him enjoy talking about their crimes,” Mazur said.

  “He’s not ready to talk,” she said. “He would like to be freed and to kill again.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Dr. Ryland suggested.

  The trio found their way to the locker rooms. As Mazur stripped off his coat and hung it in a locker, Dr. Hayden tugged off the large windbreaker, revealing a trim waist and full breasts. She quickly tugged on a gown, which swallowed up her small, very fit frame.

  She rolled up the sleeves twice before they reached her wrist. With her hair clipped back and tucked in a cap, her face looked sterner. He suspected she understood a softer hairstyle and eye-catching figure weren’t necessarily assets when dealing with law enforcement and sociopaths, both groups searching for weakness.

  Another set of rooms led to the autopsy suite, equipped with four workstations, each outfitted with a stainless-steel table mounted to a large sink. A collection of instruments was lined up on a counter beside the sink. There was a whiteboard for notes, and across the room a CD player softly played country music.

  The sheet-clad body of Gloria Sanchez was wheeled into the room on a gurney and positioned before Dr. Ryland’s station.

  The technician opened a sterile pack of instruments for the doctor and switched on the overhead light and microphone. Everyone donned eye protection.

  Dr. Ryland pulled back the sheet just enough to reveal the pale drawn features of Gloria Sanchez’s face. Her head rested in a cradle placed under the base of her neck. Her dark hair had been washed and brushed flat and her makeup removed.

  He’d watched some of her car commercials on YouTube last night. All featured Gloria decked out in some kind of fancy outfit as she moved easily between rows of cars and pitched the latest deal. Christmas in July. End of the Year Blowout. She was comfortable on camera and seemed to relish its attention. There were other clips of her on local television as she discussed fundraisers she sponsored or the latest charity drive.