by Mary Burton
She pointed to the next image. “Nearly the exact same scenario played out in the next four cases. All these women were Caucasian with dark hair. They all worked in the service industry, from waitress to manicurist to dental technician. In each case, video footage of the murders was texted to a disposable phone.” She selected a computer image that displayed a compilation of the victims’ cars. “They all are white or silver.”
Palmer folded her arms. “Could it be as simple as the color of their car?”
“Maybe,” Kate said. She detailed the evidence she had on Richardson.
“Why would he send a text from his secretary’s phone?” the chief asked. “Sloppy, given how careful he was before.”
“I think he had become overconfident,” Kate said.
“Did you find any video footage of the victims’ shootings on any of his cell phones or computers?”
“No,” Kate said.
“And no confession yet,” Mazur said.
“Richardson still denies any wrongdoing,” Kate said.
“He sure as hell didn’t shoot Gloria Sanchez,” Palmer said. “Maybe Richardson was set up by someone else.”
When word of the shooting reached Richardson’s lawyer, a frame-up would be his primary argument. “I can definitely link him to two of the shootings.”
“We know Richardson isn’t the San Antonio shooter, so let’s keep the focus on our guy,” Palmer said. “Like the Samaritan or Samaritans, our guy gets his rocks off helping women and then shooting them. Gloria Sanchez was no damsel in distress and could take care of herself. How did a stranger on a deserted highway win her over?”
“In the video, there’s a glimpse of a blue van parked behind Sanchez’s car,” Mazur said. “I’ve put a call into robbery about missing or stolen blue vans. A minivan screams family guy a woman can trust.”
“The van at your crime scene fits the Samaritan’s profile,” Kate said. “Richardson used not only a van with an infant car seat, but also a station wagon. These two vehicles were both stolen.”
There was a rumble around the room.
“Was there ever a case of a Samaritan who fit the killer’s MO helping a woman and not shooting them?” Mazur asked. “Sometimes guys like to have practice runs before they get their nerve up for the kill.”
“We had several women who insisted the Samaritan had stopped and helped them on I-35. Each swore he fixed the problem and wished her a good night. They all met with police sketch artists. According to local law enforcement none resembled Richardson—however, one may be your shooter, so I’ll have them sent here.”
Several officers in the room murmured and shifted their stances, but none made a statement.
“What was different about the women who weren’t shot?” asked Detective Palmer.
“Nothing. They all fit the profile.”
“Gloria Sanchez doesn’t fit the victim profile,” Palmer said.
“No, she does not,” Kate said. “She’s affluent and well connected, though I understand she was driving an older car that may have caught the killer’s attention.”
“The Samaritan progressively moved south and never killed twice in one jurisdiction,” Mazur said. “Safe to assume this killer will maintain the pattern?”
“Yes. If your killer sticks to script and continues to kill, he’ll strike again farther south,” she said.
“He only has a few hundred more miles before he’s worked the length of I-35,” Mazur said. “What happens when he runs out of road?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said.
“So what’s next?” the chief asked.
She removed her glasses. “If this killer continues to duplicate the Samaritan’s same pattern, you’ll receive a typed letter via US Postal Service in the next two days.”
Several of the officers asked questions to clarify what she’d just outlined. She answered each with succinct patience. She sensed her clipped tone was not doing much to endear herself to the San Antonio Police Department, but the feelings and egos of the personnel in the room were not her priority.
After the room emptied out, she gathered her files.
Mazur approached. “You know you’ll get more from these guys if you aren’t so abrupt.”
Annoyance tightened her gut. “I don’t care, Detective Mazur. Bruised egos and injured pride are luxuries.”
She set her backpack on the table and carefully unpacked and opened six more files at random. Each represented an open case she was monitoring. “Let me show you why I can be abrupt.”
Mazur looked at her, then moved forward. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he studied the gruesome pictures.
“Cases like this one make it hard for me to care about other cops’ hurt feelings,” she said, tapping her finger on the first picture. “This is my newest case. I just came from Utah, where I left an eighteen-year-old girl’s hospital room. She’d been rescued from a coffin-style box.”
“Jesus.”
“When I found her she was barely alive. Her abductor had raped her repeatedly and buried her alive. We only found her because we received an anonymous tip from a guy who overheard a drunk in a bar talking about burying women alive.”
Mazur rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell me you caught him.”
“He escaped. He’s the one I was chasing when you called. While investigating the land around the abandoned farmhouse, we found four more graves. All recent and all filled with young females.”
His jaw pulsed. “I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. And anytime there’s a case with a kid, I think about her.”
“It’s hard not to personalize,” she said softly. She moved to the second file. “This killer uses nails to restrain his victims.”
He held up his hand. “Point taken.”
“There might have been a time in my life when I was more open to holding the hand of a cop with hurt feelings over my abrupt nature, but I lost it a long time ago. All I care about is catching these animals.”
“This is all you do?”
“It is.”
“That’s one helluva life, Dr. Hayden.”
“I didn’t choose it. It chose me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Reliving the old kill is a satisfying addiction.
San Antonio, Texas
Monday, November 27, 5:15 p.m.
Kate and Mazur sat in the conference room and watched the video footage of the shooting on a big screen.
The shooter’s camera jostled in time to the steady beat of footsteps as he walked toward the driver’s side window. Dashboard lights silhouetted Gloria Sanchez’s body as she held a cell phone to her ear.
“Are you all right?” the shooter asked. “Looks like a flat.”
She glared at her phone before looking up. The closed window muffled her voice. “I’m safe in my car and can wait until help arrives.”
“Want me to change the tire?” The footage ended. Neither spoke, but simply stared. Kate hit “Replay” and leaned in, scrutinizing every move the killer made. She listened to not only what he said, but also his tone of voice, accent, and inflections. She played it again. This time she closed her eyes.
“You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”
The voice jostled dark memories buried deep inside her, a connection she quickly dismissed as improbable. Whatever familiarity she felt must have likened back to the Richardson tapes.
“What were Richardson’s tapes like?” Mazur asked.
She opened her eyes; she realized he was staring at her. She cleared her throat. “Very much like this. However, in three of the five cases, there is no audio.”
“The cases that he can’t be linked to.”
“Correct.” She rewatched the footage. “On all the first five tapes, the shooter stayed with the victim until she died. I believe on some level Richardson was concerned about how the world saw him. He’s worried about his legacy.”
“Why no audio on three of the five tapes?”
“Could be intent
ional. Could be technical issues with the tapes. Only Richardson can say for sure, and he’s not talking.”
Mazur drew in a breath. “A few kind words are supposed to negate putting a slug in a woman’s chest?”
“We’re dealing with psychopaths. There’s often impairment in a psychopath’s amygdala, the almond-shaped portion of the brain that generates emotion. They don’t feel guilt as we do, and so they focus solely on what makes them feel good. Period. If looking like a knight in shining armor makes him feel better, that’s what he’ll do.”
He sat back and shook his head. “I know one of the videos with audio was leaked.”
The detective had done more digging than she’d realized. “To a reporter by the name of Taylor North.”
“That would have given this guy a blueprint.”
“And North has done a good job of unearthing a great many case details during his investigations. He’s visited all the jurisdictions and spoken to as many people as he can. He knows this case as well as law enforcement.”
“What’s his angle?” Mazur asked.
“Attention. Book deal. Movie deal. I’ve no idea.”
“This murder should be a boost to Taylor,” Mazur said. “The Samaritan case faded away after the Richardson arrest. Once the details of the Sanchez murder get out, he’ll be back in the spotlight again.”
“That makes sense,” she said.
“How much did you interface with Taylor?” Mazur asked.
“He was at each press conference ready with a question. He asked me for several interviews, but I declined them all.”
“Whoever committed this murder wants you involved. He’s calling you out. Could Taylor be involved?”
“He had solid alibis for the murders I’ve yet to link with Richardson.” She shook her head. “Maybe we’re all overthinking this. Maybe it’s as simple as Martin Sanchez ordering a hit on his wife. He wouldn’t be the first spouse to kill his wife and try to blame it on someone else.”
“Believe me, that idea is still in play.”
“I’ve spoken to all the other victims’ families. And an interview with Mr. Sanchez will help me to gauge his guilt or innocence.”
“I’m happy to set it up. Let me talk to Palmer.”
Mazur caught Detective Palmer as she passed in front of the conference room and updated her on Kate’s request to speak to Sanchez. He reentered the conference room. “Ready to talk to Sanchez?”
She looked up from the screen. “Is Detective Palmer joining us?”
“She’s going to check with the Forensic Department and ask them about the bullet. She’s also going to track down the sketches of those Samaritans who didn’t kill their victims.”
“You think this killer might have been making a practice run in those cases?”
“We need to look at this case from all the angles,” Mazur said.
“Understood.” She followed Mazur down the hall and into the elevator. The doors closed.
As they rode the elevator down, she was aware of Mazur looking at her. But neither spoke as they stepped off the elevator and crossed the lobby to the parking lot.
The sun hung low on the horizon and cast a rich burnt orange over the buildings of San Antonio. She’d forgotten how stunning the sunsets could be in Texas. The big open sky. Land as far as the eye could see. Bright bold stars. There were many magnificent places in this country, but none quite possessed the beauty of Texas. She missed that. Out here, of all places, she could breathe.
This newfound nostalgia was ironic. Living in San Antonio had not been a particularly joyful time. There had been happiness in her family when her father was alive, but after his death, the family had splintered. Maybe if he’d died in a normal way, such as a heart attack or cancer, the Haydens would have fared better.
Mazur parked the car in front of the Sanchezes’ home and shut off the engine. “We’re here.”
She looked up at the five-thousand-square-foot brown adobe-style home. The rock and cactus gardens were neatly manicured, with a stone path that cut through the center of the yard.
“The car business has been very good to the Sanchez family,” Mazur said.
“Have you checked their financials?” she asked.
He cocked a brow. “The judge signed the order about three this afternoon, so we should have numbers later tonight.”
“All is rarely what it seems.”
“Very true.”
Out of the car, the evening air had cooled to a comfortable seventy degrees. They moved along the path to the large ornate, hand-carved front door. “Are the Sanchezes from this area?”
“They’re local. Both were born to immigrants who worked hard and made good. Sanchez’s first wife died in a car accident, and eight months later he married Gloria.”
“Have you looked into the first wife’s death?”
“Dr. Ryland is reviewing her autopsy report.”
Mazur rang the bell, and seconds later it opened to a young Hispanic woman wearing a simple white dress. Long black hair was coiled at the base of her neck.
Mazur held up his badge as Kate reached for her own shield. “I’m Detective Theo Mazur. I spoke with Mr. Sanchez yesterday. Is he here?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, sir. He said you would return; please come in.”
They followed the woman down a long well-lit hallway that opened up to a large room that overlooked the rugged terrain in the distance.
There were two gray-haired men in the room, but Kate sensed immediately that Sanchez was the shorter man on the right. His hands were thick and calloused like a man comfortable around a car engine, and though the fabric of his clothes was expensive, they were simple. He was from humble roots and looked slightly out of place in the richly decorated room.
The taller man wore a hand-tailored charcoal-gray suit. His red tie was fashioned into a Windsor knot, his watch was gold, and his shined shoes were made of fine leather. He could only be the lawyer.
Hanging on the wall was a tall portrait of Gloria Sanchez. She was dressed in a red gown. A diamond necklace encircled her neck. Her eyes stared boldly at the artist. The portrait exuded the woman’s confidence and total comfort with the trappings of wealth.
The shorter of the two men moved to greet Detective Mazur. “Detective.”
“Mr. Sanchez,” he said.
“I’d like you to meet my lawyer, Roger Bennett. I called him a few hours ago.”
Mazur didn’t comment, but Kate knew he didn’t like the addition of an attorney who represented an added layer between Mazur and his investigation.
“This is Dr. Kate Hayden,” Mazur said. “She’s with the FBI.”
“FBI?” Bennett asked. “So it’s true what I’m hearing.”
“What are you hearing?” Mazur asked.
“That Mrs. Sanchez might have been murdered by a serial killer,” Bennett said.
Mr. Sanchez gasped and shook his head. “When Bennett first suggested this idea, it seemed too far-fetched.”
Bennett shrugged. “I know you don’t want to hear this again, Martin, but Gloria’s case is very similar to the Samaritan murders.”
“That suspect is in jail,” Kate said.
“Or maybe not,” Bennett said.
“I’d like to ask your client a few routine questions, Mr. Bennett,” Kate said.
“I’d like to help,” Sanchez said.
When Bennett nodded, Mazur asked, “Mr. Sanchez, can you tell us about your wife’s trip? You said she was traveling to Laredo to see her mother.”
Sanchez looked at his attorney, and when Bennett nodded, he said, “Yes, that’s what she told me. She was on the road so late because she’d worked a long day at the showroom. I never met a harder-working person than Gloria.”
“And did she normally call the nursing home to let them know she was coming for a visit?” Mazur asked.
“Not every single time. Sometimes she surprised them. It was important to her that the staff stayed on their toes. She liked surpris
e inspections.”
“Where did she stay when she was in Laredo?” Mazur asked.
“She has a condo there,” Sanchez said. “It was easier for her to stay in the same place. In the last year, she had to be in Laredo for days at a stretch because of her mother.”
Mazur pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket and made several notes.
“Was there any reason to go to Laredo other than to visit her mother?” Kate asked.
“We do have friends there, but her primary reason was her mother. We had a dealership there but closed it several months ago. It wasn’t profitable.”
“How was your wife feeling when you last saw her?” Mazur asked.
Sanchez’s brow wrinkled. “Fine. Why do you ask?”
“The medical examiner theorized she couldn’t have been feeling well,” Mazur said.
“Why?” Sanchez asked. “She looked fine on Sunday.” Again he looked to his attorney, but the man shrugged.
Kate found Sanchez’s reaction interesting. He seemed genuinely taken aback with the question. “Did you know your wife was sick?”
Sanchez shook his head. “What do you mean sick?”
“She had cancer,” Mazur said. “According to the medical examiner, it was advanced.”
Sanchez shook his head, the color draining from his face. “No. She would have told me. The medical examiner has made a mistake.”
“The medical examiner was certain,” Mazur said. “She was a very sick woman.”
“She’d not been to any doctors. She wasn’t taking medicine. How could she have been sick?” Sanchez’s brow furrowed as the weight of their words sank deeper. “She got tired, but she worked so hard.”
Kate noted his voice inflection and facial expressions appeared genuine. “The doctor thinks it was a matter of time before she was going to be really struggling.”
Tears glistened in Sanchez’s eyes. “I don’t believe it. What kind of cancer?”