by Mary Burton
“All the positive statements are not contracted, but the one negative statement is contracted.”
“What does that mean?” Palmer asked.
“It’s an unconscious pattern that he might not be aware of,” Kate said.
“How do these compare to the other Samaritan letters?” Mazur asked.
“They’re almost identical. But Mr. North got a hold of two letters and published them. Anyone could replicate them.”
“How did North get the letters?” Mazur asked.
“He said he bribed a forensic tech in Minnesota.”
“Or Mr. North knew more about what Richardson was doing. Maybe he had an inside track with Richardson,” Palmer said. “From what you’ve said, he seems to have a lot of intimate knowledge of the case.”
“He does. And he’s received a great deal of attention since he covered this case. The publicity had died down considerably since Richardson’s arrest.”
“What do you know about North?” Mazur asked.
“He received his journalism degree from Columbia twenty years ago. He’s worked at several major papers, but two years ago left his job at the time after it was proven he manufactured and exaggerated facts while covering a criminal trial. When it all came out, he resigned. Shortly after that, he founded a news site that was doing moderately well until the Samaritan shootings.”
“Could he have written these letters?”
“I considered that,” she said. “No one has been able to link him to the letters. And I’ve tried, as well as a half dozen detectives just like you.”
“I haven’t tried,” Mazur said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I am my brother’s keeper.
San Antonio, Texas
Tuesday, November 28, 7:15 p.m.
Mazur might not have been a genius like his older brother, Sebastian, a prosecutor in Chicago, or have the physical strength of his bull-in-a-china-shop brother, Samuel, a detective in the Windy City, but he did have the power to persevere. He’d done it several times when he’d been deployed in the Middle East, and he’d done it when his son had died and his ex-wife had announced the move south with his only kid. If he wanted something badly, he did what it took to overcome any obstacles.
Today he wanted the I-35 shooter. The Samaritan copycat or accomplice had pulled the trigger and killed Gloria Sanchez.
He stood with Kate and Detective Palmer just outside the press briefing room. The buzz of conversation on the other side of the door told him the media had shown up in large numbers. Good. He wanted the attention.
The firm click of boots connecting with tile told him the chief had arrived. The chief had no tolerance for bullshit rising in the ranks and enough backbone to support the men and women who worked under him. When Mazur had approached him about the news conference, he’d given his consent.
Chief Saunders’s gaze swept over Dr. Hayden and moved to him. “Detective Mazur. Agent Hayden.”
The chief wrapped a large hand around Kate’s. She didn’t shy away from the strong grip or the height difference, and he continued, “So, this nut has communicated with you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you want to play this, Agent Hayden?” the chief asked.
“Your department is the lead in this investigation,” Kate said. “Give a brief of the facts as you know them, and then introduce me. I’ll make a short statement so that whoever sent me that text knows he’s been heard.”
“And then what, Dr. Hayden? The shooter is just going to come running from the crowd to confess his sins?”
“I’ll make a few remarks designed to irritate him. Hopefully that will smoke him out.” She pulled a sheet of paper from a leather notebook. “Talking points to consider.”
“What about Richardson? He had any regular visitors in jail?” the chief asked.
“My boss called the jail, and they told him that the doctor has had no visitors or any kind of correspondence,” Kate said.
The chief glanced at the notes and frowned. “Painting a target on your back, Dr. Hayden?”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“Detective Mazur,” the chief said. “You going to keep this gal alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suggest you stick to my talking points,” Kate said.
The chief arched a white brow as he shook his head and looked to Mazur and Palmer. “Does this sit well with you two? You’re the investigating officers.”
“It’s an opportunity we might not get again, and Dr. Hayden is right,” Mazur said, looking to Palmer.
Palmer nodded her agreement. “This is our best play.”
“What if the killer turns out to be someone the victim knew?” the chief asked.
“We’re chasing that angle, too,” Mazur said.
“All right,” the chief said. “I’ll play along at your dog and pony show.” He rolled the notes into a tight cylinder and, clenching them in his fist, walked out into the room. Mazur, Palmer, and Hayden followed.
The chief stalked up to the podium and stared down the room of two dozen reporters.
Dr. Hayden stood next to Mazur and Palmer behind the chief. Her face was as unreadable as always. She didn’t sway, fidget, or shift her stance. If this bothered her, she gave no sign of it.
The chief cleared his voice and began the briefing. He named the victim and explained where she’d been shot. “There have been some media reports suggesting this case is linked to the I-35 killings, also known as the Samaritan killings. The San Antonio police are working closely with the FBI, specifically their profiler, Dr. Kate Hayden.” Several reporters called out, raised their hands. He pointed to a dark brunette in a blue suit.
“Do you know where Mrs. Sanchez stopped and how her car broke down?”
“We do,” the chief said. “But I won’t share those details at this time.”
The reporters fired more questions, all of which zeroed in on the details the chief would not confirm. Finally he held up his hands. “Let me turn the podium over to Dr. Hayden.”
She moved up to the microphone, thanked the chief, and looked at the reporters, never flinching from the bank of cameras. She adjusted the microphone, paused, and then ran through the stats of the cases along I-35 before focusing on the Gloria Sanchez case. “We have solid evidence linking Dr. Richardson to two of the five killings and expect to link him to the other three. At this time, we’re still trying to determine if or when this killer might have been in contact with Dr. Richardson. We have several leads regarding clandestine communication, but I can’t discuss them now.”
Mazur knew Kate’s last comments were meant to catch the killer’s attention. They didn’t have much on the killer at this stage, but no one outside of the investigating team knew that. He shifted his body forward a fraction toward Kate, but said nothing. He wanted her to understand that he had her back.
“Evidence suggests this case is connected to the others,” Kate said.
“How can you be sure?” another reporter asked.
“I can’t discuss the details now.” This new murderer was killing in the style of Richardson for a reason. “I can tell you that I believe this killer is a white male in his midthirties to midforties. I believe he either is underemployed or has no job at all. My guess is that he lives with family, or is very dependent on family money, and that he has no romantic interest in his life.”
“In Oklahoma, you said the killer might be impotent. Did that turn out to be true?” the brunette asked.
“Yes.”
“Any physical description of this killer?” another reporter asked.
“So far, no.” She raised her gaze directly to the camera. “We have gas station footage of someone loitering around the victim’s car and are still analyzing facial images.” Not true, but the shooter didn’t know that.
A dozen hands went up, and she answered more questions, many a reiteration of what she’d already said. Over the rumble of questions, a loud, deep voice from the back sh
outed, “How did Richardson make contact with this apprentice?”
She shifted her gaze and stared at the tall, bulky man with dark hair and brown-rimmed glasses. For a moment she didn’t speak before she said, “Mr. North, you’ve been at this long enough to know I can’t share specifics.”
Mazur’s attention zeroed in on the man in the back. Mr. Taylor North was the reporter who had followed this case so closely. Nothing remarkable about him at first glance. A second look revealed an intense gaze locked on Dr. Hayden.
“Can you tell us more about what you saw in the gas station footage?” North asked.
“No comment,” she said.
“When you were brought into the original case, it took you almost a year to catch Richardson. Three women died while you headed the case,” North said. “Do you really think you’re the person to solve this case? How many innocent people are going to die before you crack it?”
Kate didn’t waver. “Are those rhetorical questions?”
“No. I want to know,” North said.
She drew in a slow breath. “I’m the best person for this job. Evidence led me to Charles Richardson. And it’ll lead me to this killer. I strongly urge all motorists to check their vehicles before traveling on this interstate, and I’m here to make sure no more women die.”
“What does it feel like to be back in San Antonio, Texas?” North challenged. “Have you been back since you and your father were gunned down here?”
She didn’t blink or flinch, but he saw her right hand clench the podium until her knuckles whitened as she said, “That has no relevance here today.”
“Are you worried about the man who shot you coming after you again?” North asked.
“No. He is irrelevant.”
Kate Hayden gave the appearance of cool detachment, but he saw the way she still gripped the edge of the podium.
More questions rumbled from the crowd, including several more from North, but from everyone’s vantage point other than Mazur’s, she was rock solid.
Other reporters fired more questions, which were mostly a repeat of what had already been asked. Kate answered them all and gave no hint of frustration.
When the conference was finished and the press escorted from the room, he turned to her. “What’s the deal with North? How did he end up knowing so much about you?”
Carefully she stacked her papers. “Mr. North is my number-one media fan. He believes if he insults me enough I’ll blow a gasket and give him a quote.”
Mazur wondered where she stowed all the emotions. He’d seen her reaction behind the podium, so he knew they were there. “He sure got down here fast.”
“He monitors all activities on I-35. The shooting would have hit his radar almost immediately. I suspect he wasn’t far away and knows I’ve worked all the cases.”
“He doesn’t bother you?”
“I didn’t say that. He has a talent for finding the raw nerve. But he won’t bully me into a quote.”
Mazur found he liked Kate’s professional style more and more. “And that bit about analyzing facial footage from the gas station. We never saw his face.”
“I never said I didn’t lie to the media, Detective Mazur. I know the traits liars project, which makes me very good at deception. I can play their game, too.”
Shaking his head, he grinned. “Well played, Kate.”
She checked her watch. “Who’s watching the burner phone left at the crime scene?”
“Calhoun. She’s plugged it into a charger and will call if anyone texts the number.”
“Good. I think it’s now time that we paid a visit to William Bauldry’s house,” she said. “Time to see what he’s been up to.”
“You can handle that?” Mazur asked.
“Of course.”
Mazur angled his head as he studied a very genuine expression. “That a truth or a lie, Kate?”
“Doesn’t matter. The job has to be done.”
Mazur didn’t speak to Kate as they drove across town to William Bauldry’s house. She was glad for the quiet and the time to process the press conference and settle her thoughts regarding Bauldry. Dealing with Bauldry again bothered her very much, but feelings had no relevance in her line of work.
They parked in front of a large adobe-style home. “I’m doing the talking,” Mazur said.
“But I know him. I should lead the conversation.”
“You know him too well. You’re not impartial regardless of how many times you say it out loud.”
“I’m objective and can handle myself.”
“This is my case. I do the talking.” Steel underscored the words, and it gave her enough pause to take an emotional step back and see his logic.
He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The chimes echoed in the house. Footsteps sounded, followed by the click of several locks, before the door opened to a young woman. She was small, in her midthirties, and her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She wore a black shirt and slacks.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Mazur held up his badge. “I’m here to see Mr. Bauldry.”
“He’s in New York right now,” the woman said. “He’ll return in two weeks.”
“When did he leave?” Mazur asked.
“A week ago.”
“Do you have a number for him?” he pressed.
She stood ramrod straight, but the tilt of her chin betrayed some of her nerves. “I’m not at liberty to give out that information, but I can give him your name and number when he calls in.”
Mazur gave her his card. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Bauldry’s housekeeper. Elizabeth Lopez.”
“Have him call me as soon as you give him the message.”
“Yes, sir.” The woman moved to close the door, but Mazur blocked it with his foot. “Tell Mr. Bauldry he will not want to make me wait long.”
She paled, nodded, and closed the door, and Mazur turned from the entrance, his jaw pulsing.
He inspected the large home. “Looks like Bauldry landed on his feet.”
“It’s family money,” she said.
“Do you think he’s in New York?” Mazur asked.
“No. William hates crowds. He couldn’t handle the packed hallways of high school. New York would be the last place he’d go.”
“Where else could he be?”
“Bauldry has a brother, Jeb, outside town,” she said. “Jeb might know where William is.”
“That’s all he has in the way of family?”
“That I know of.”
“Let’s pay him a visit.”
Twenty minutes later they arrived at Jeb Bauldry’s house, located twenty miles outside of town on a sprawling ranch. Bald cypress trees lined an aggregate driveway that led through stone pillars toward an arched entrance.
“The family is more well off than I imagined,” Mazur said.
“The old man made his money in oil in Houston. Invested wisely in real estate. Jeb then took over and had his father’s knack for making money. He avoided the market meltdown in ’08, then bought stocks afterward for a song and rode them higher. If you have investments, he’s the man to see.”
“Only investment I have is my condo in Chicago, which I’m still trying to sell. If I can’t see it or touch it, I don’t want it. What about you?”
“I’m in the markets.”
“I bet with your brain you can see the trends.”
“Sometimes.”
“So what are you going to do with your millions?”
That prompted a smile. “I’ve no idea.”
He paused. “First, you didn’t discount the millions. Second, how could you not know?”
“Work gives me the most pleasure.”
He shook his head. “All work and no play . . . how does that go?”
“I’m the first to admit I’m very boring. If you want excitement, find someone else.”
Mazur rang the bell, and they waited in silence until the front door opened. Both
showed their badges.
“Agent Kate Hayden to see Mr. Bauldry.”
“One moment, please.” The woman left and returned. “Yes, he’s waiting for you in his study. Right this way.”
They passed along polished marble floors through an arched passageway that led to an open room. A bank of windows opened up onto a lush stand of grass. The woman steered them to an office.
Jeb Bauldry rose and came around a large hand-carved desk. His gaze locked on Kate.
“The last time we saw each other in person was at my brother’s sentencing.”
“Yes,” she said. She’d felt sorry for the family dealing with the wake of their son’s violence. Bauldry senior had died a year later of a heart attack, and Mrs. Bauldry had passed five years ago from cancer.
“I supposed you’ve come about William.”
“Yes,” said Mazur. “Is he here?”
“I haven’t heard from him in months. The family has had almost no contact with him since he went to prison.”
“Have you seen him in the last year?” Kate asked.
“I have. And he’s a different person now, Kate. He’s not the troubled young man he used to be. My father saw to it that he had doctors while in prison. He would never hurt you again.”
Kate’s focused on showing no reaction, but it was harder than she’d anticipated.
“Has he mentioned Dr. Hayden?” Mazur asked.
Jeb drew in a breath. “My mother visited William while in prison. I wasn’t happy about it, but he was her son and she couldn’t abandon him. She said he mentioned you often.”
“What did he say?” Kate asked.
“He was desperate to reach you and get your attention. I don’t blame you for ignoring him, but it troubled him deeply.”
“Makes perfect sense that I wouldn’t engage him in a dialogue.”
Jeb was silent for a moment, clearly rethinking the consequences of his comment. “We were all devastated when he shot your father. Our family grieved just as much as yours.”
“I doubt that.”
He shook his head. “No one has pity for the shooter’s family. No one. I struggled for years to get beyond what William had done. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I was punished.”
She wasn’t going to get into a discussion on who suffered most. “Where is William now?”