by Spencer Kope
All things considered, he looks like he just stepped out of Texas circa 1880.
“Steps, Tony, this is Sheriff Roland Grimm,” Jimmy says when the stone-faced lawman stops in front of us. After shaking hands and the usual pleasantries, Sheriff Grimm gets straight to the point.
“So you’re telling me this is the third body you’ve linked to this killer?”
“It is,” Jimmy replies.
“That makes him a serial killer, right?”
“There’s a lot of debate as to what qualifies as a serial killer,” Jimmy starts to explain, but then he stops himself, looks the sheriff in the eye, and simply says, “Yeah, he’s a serial killer.”
“It’s a cryin’ shame,” the sheriff mutters. “Last thing the county needs right now.”
“If it’s any consolation,” I say, “Pecos County was likely just the dump site. We’re pretty sure he was killed far from here.”
“That doesn’t make me feel much better, son,” the sheriff replies sternly. “I still got a dead man dumped on one of my roads and a population that’s still on edge from a homicide two years ago. Folks ’round here don’t forget things like that.” He tips the brim of his hat at the body. “I’m serious, now, when you boys figure out who did this, you let me know ASAP. You’ll have whatever cooperation you need from my people.”
“I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Jimmy says. He spends several minutes discussing the tattoos with the sheriff, both those that were cut out and those on the victim’s head, and then explains the similarities between this case and the homicides of Travis Duncan and Larry Wilson.
“And you figure this is another ex-con who got away with something?” the sheriff says when Jimmy finishes. “Thwarted the system, so to speak, and this Ice Box fella decided to settle the score?”
“I do.”
“Well, hell,” the sheriff says with a deep laugh. “He’s not a serial killer, son, he’s a public servant.”
There’s a smattering of laughter from those nearby.
“Anything else tying these cases together?” the sheriff continues.
“Interstate 10,” I say, pointing loosely at the road.
“How so?” the lawman says, turning his gaze on me.
“I don’t know yet,” I reply, “but we’ve found bodies and body parts from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to Tucson, Arizona, and places in between, and they’re all connected by Interstate 10.” I shrug. “Might just be a coincidence.”
“I don’t take much to the idea of coincidence,” the sheriff interjects. “And to be accurate, that’s Interstate 10.” He indicates the highway a hundred feet to the south. “This is just the I-10 service road.”
“Close enough,” I mutter. He’s right, of course, but the road runs parallel to I-10 and, frankly, that’s all I care about.
It’s about location.
If I had a pin on a wall map for each body and pair of feet we’ve found so far, Interstate 10 would be the brightly colored yarn stretched between them, connecting them. It’s what we in law enforcement call a clue. Albuquerque is another clue. Then there’s ice-blue shine, Styrofoam ice boxes, severed feet, cryptic notes, vigilantism, bodies disfigured to conceal their identity, public defenders, and the fact that IBK wants to send a message.
But what’s he saying?
It’s a convoluted nightmare of misdirection and obfuscation.
Excusing myself, I move away from the crime scene, letting Jimmy and Tony contend with the sheriff and ME, while I track IBK’s shine to its origin.
It’s an odd journey, and not what I expected.
The trail doesn’t go to the road, but runs parallel to it, moving east some thirty feet to a scuffed-up patch of earth where he first laid the body on the ground. My first impression is that he was tired and only set the body down to take a quick break. But then I see Tattoo Man’s orange shine in a wide swath where he was rolled under some low brush.
For some reason IBK wasn’t satisfied with that.
Orange drag marks show where he grabbed Tattoo Man by the arm and pulled him back out. I see where IBK knelt next to the body, perhaps to get a good grip before hoisting him up again and walking him farther west to his current location, where he’s exposed to the world.
There was no effort to hide the body, and it was easy for a passing trucker to spot it that morning at first light. The placement was deliberate: IBK wanted the body found quickly—just like Baton Rouge.
Tic toc.
Continuing the track, I follow the ice-blue shine as it takes a ninety-degree turn and heads south to the road some twenty feet away. There it stops. As odds would have it, the folks from the Odessa Mobile Crime Lab parked their RV directly over the spot where IBK pulled over and got out of his vehicle. The shine just disappears under the massive rig.
Dumb luck!
I could ask one of the lab techs to move the vehicle, but I suspect that would generate some uncomfortable questions, particularly if they take an interest in my tracking and want to see the supposed heel marks and toe impressions.
It’s time to get dirty.
Everyone is busy at their various tasks or engaged in conversation. No one’s looking my way, and it’s doubtful they would care one way or the other even if they were.
Dropping to my belly next to the mobile lab, I look under the RV to the east, then to the west. The clearance is high enough, so I scoot under a few feet.
It’s the same as Baton Rouge.
The vehicle was facing west and the body was in the trunk. I’m pretty certain now that it’s a car. I’ve seen enough shine at the back of cars, trucks, and SUVs to know that people move differently for each, especially when off-loading heavy items—like bodies.
There’s no sign of the victim’s orange shine on the ground, so IBK must have lifted him straight out of the trunk and slung him over a shoulder. That takes strength. If you’ve ever had the unfortunate circumstance of having to lug a body around, you know they can be unwieldy. Fighting to get a good grip is a constant problem, which only makes the body seem that much heavier.
“Where are you?” I whisper to IBK, though I know the real question is, Who are you? The asphalt of Interstate 10 feels cool against my back as I lie under the RV staring at the undercarriage. It’s actually quite comfortable under here. The crime lab has been parked since early morning, so any heat the road had absorbed is long gone, leaving only the refreshing, clarifying ambient temperature of earth.
And, lying on my back under the RV on the side of Interstate 10, something suddenly occurs to me—as if I’d known it all along. It’s the answer to the mystery; the solution to the puzzle; the missing part we’ve been looking for.
I know how to identify IBK.
As the realization sweeps through me and adrenaline sets my muscles to tingling, I forget my surroundings. In my rush to get to Jimmy, I try to sit straight up and nearly knock myself out on the undercarriage. Half dazed, I scramble and claw and pull myself out from under the RV. My clothes are covered in filth, front and back, and blood oozes in a steady flow from the gash on my forehead.
It doesn’t matter.
Staggering to my feet, I prop myself up against the mobile crime lab for a moment, arms outstretched against the side until I feel steady enough to walk. Pushing off from the RV, I vector toward Jimmy, Tony, and the cluster of people still gathered around the body. It seems like they’ve all become one globular mass; I can’t make out any faces.
“Jimmy,” I yell, waving an arm. “Jimmy!” The world begins to spin and a comfortable blur lightens my head. I can’t think straight, but—wait!
I know this feeling.
Yep. Here comes the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Long Grind—September 11, 11:17 A.M.
“Stop picking at it.”
“It itches.”
“Of course it itches,” Jimmy says dryly. “Bandages are supposed to itch. They’re designed that way to torment people who knock themselves out.”
&n
bsp; “I didn’t knock myself out.”
“Oh, okay,” he says with a sarcastic smirk. “What, then? Let me guess: you were sniffing the ground for clues. No, wait! You were studying the microscopic qualities of IBK’s shine close up.”
I don’t reply. No sense in encouraging him.
“STOP PICKING!” Jimmy roars.
My left hand is back up at my forehead, fussing with the bandage. I didn’t even realize it. I drop the hand back into my lap and hold it there with my right hand. It’s not so much the bandage that’s driving me crazy, but the five stitches underneath. I’ve had stitches before and don’t remember the bandage being so gigantic, but Jimmy picked it out personally and insisted.
Now I have a three-inch-by-four-inch bandage covering the troublesome stitches. Worse still, it’s one of those industrial-strength hospital bandages, the type that takes a layer of skin with it when you rip it off.
Roofing tar is easier to remove.
Since our adventures yesterday west of Fort Stockton, we returned to El Paso for the night, and then flew to Baton Rouge early this morning. We landed an hour ago. Jimmy’s in the driver’s seat of a midnight-blue 2014 Dodge Charger that we rented at the airport. I’m guessing he really liked the silver Charger he rented in El Paso, because this morning he wouldn’t even consider other options at the rental counter.
We’re rolling down Interstate 10, westbound, with some thirty miles already between us and the city. After crossing the Atchafalaya River, Jimmy pulls off at a rest area just beyond the bridge.
This is where our search begins.
There are a thousand miles of metal signs pointing out rest areas, motels, and hotels between Baton Rouge and El Paso. We intend to stop at every one, if that’s what it takes. This rest area is stop number one, though technically we don’t actually stop; we just roll slowly past the parking area and the restrooms looking for ice-blue shine.
We find none.
I have no doubt this is just the first of many disappointments. The theory is simple: IBK dumped Larry Wilson in the Bluebonnet Swamp after driving the entire length of Texas, likely with few breaks—maybe just some coffee here and there, and a few bathroom breaks. That’s kind of what you do when there’s a body in the trunk and the hot southern sun is baking the outer skin of the car.
The point is that he drove at least fifteen or sixteen hours, probably more. That’s a lot of road miles. After dumping Larry, he would have been exhausted, but our guy is smart enough to put some distance between himself and the body.
He wouldn’t have stayed in Baton Rouge.
On the other hand, there’s no way he makes it all the way to El Paso without stopping somewhere to rest. Could be that he tried to catch some winks at one of the many rest areas along Interstate 10, but a lot of jurisdictions don’t allow that. And, frankly, by that point he would have been sick of being in the car. The thought of sleeping in the same seat he’d been sitting in for so long would have been unbearable. Still, we have to check.
Our real hope lies in the probability that he checked into a motel or hotel, and he wouldn’t have strayed too far from I-10 to do so. Motels and hotels mean a room registration, maybe a license plate number, and, almost certainly, a credit card.
I intend on checking every motel and hotel between Baton Rouge and El Paso until we find his telltale shine. It may mean a thousand miles, hundreds of stops, and days with little rest, but that’s the path to IBK.
Jimmy calls it the long grind.
It’s a perfect metaphor.
The prospect is daunting, but we have three bodies stacked up and we’re no closer to our killer now than when we started. The next twenty-four to seventy-two hours could make all the difference.
For now, we grind our way west.
Hour Three
Afternoon finds us a few miles beyond Lafayette, having put just twenty miles between us and the visitors’ center at the Atchafalaya River. We find a scattered half dozen motels and hotels off the highway between the river and the city, but it isn’t until we get into Lafayette proper that the real work begins.
Exit 103A proves to be the mother lode.
There are about a dozen franchise motels less than a half mile from I-10, and dispersed on both sides of a divided throughway. We work one side, then the other, methodically driving past the entrance to each lobby in search of shine, but find nothing.
There’s a bit of momentary excitement as we cruise past the lobby of an inn on Northeast Frontage Road. I swear it’s IBK; it’s the same tint of ice-blue shine.
My heart races.
I don’t know if it’s shock or excitement or just stupidity brought on by my weakened condition (on account of my head injury, which I intend to milk for all its worth), but I manage to jump out of the Charger before Jimmy gets it fully stopped.
It’s hard to look cool and not draw attention when you’re windmilling your arms and trying not to do a face-plant.
Again.
On closer examination, the shine’s color is similar, but there are no black flecks, and the texture is similar to that of a traditional Berber carpet, very different from IBK’s plastic-like sheen. These are details that can’t be distinguished until one is close.
Hour Four
Diane calls.
She’s drilling Jimmy pretty hard, wondering why we’re driving our way across Louisiana and Texas when we should be at home or in El Paso trying to sort this mess out. It’s at times like this that I regret not telling her about shine; her, Heather, and Dex. It would make everything so much easier, and, frankly, I’m tired of keeping it from them.
Jimmy goes back and forth with her for a full two minutes and never breaks from the script. The cover story is simple: we’re checking with the medical examiner in each county between Baton Rouge and El Paso looking for similar cases.
It’s the type of boots-on-the-ground detective work that solves cases; the grease that works the clues free. It even sounds somewhat logical. If Diane’s IQ were just thirty or forty points lower, we might actually be able to sell it, but as things stand right now, that lie won’t fly.
She thinks the world of us, but right now she’s so mad she can barely conceal it.
It’s not the first time we’ve lied to Diane, nor will it be the last. Every mission involves some type of deception, though most tend to be the benign white lies explaining, for example, how we found a single drop of blood that was somehow missed by seasoned CSIs.
The more difficult and complex the case is, the deeper the lie.
Three years ago it didn’t bother Diane as much: we pretended to tell her the truth and she pretended to believe us. It was like a dysfunctional marriage. Two years ago we would cloud the truth and she would pretend not to care.
A year ago, the dysfunctional marriage started hanging out at divorce court.
Time is no longer on our side. I’d say we have six months, a year at the most. Diane knows there’s something else at play, and if we don’t come clean soon it’s going to get ugly with a capital Ugh.
“Did you just call to harass us,” Jimmy says, “or was there an actual purpose you dialed?” He’s a pretty good match for Diane. They can both dish it out harsh and eat it cold.
Clearing her throat, Diane says, “I think I’ve identified your victim from Fort Stockton. His name is Carlos Juan Hernandez, age thirty-seven. He’s from Belen, New Mexico, which is where he was reported missing a few days ago.”
“Where’s Belen?” I ask.
“About thirty miles south of Albuquerque,” Diane replies.
Jimmy shakes his head in disbelief. “Albuquerque—again.”
“What’s his story, Diane?” I ask.
“Guy’s a real peach; registered sex offender with extensive criminal history going back decades. Property crimes seem to be his forte, the most serious of which was an armed robbery conviction when he was nineteen. Then, a year ago, he was arrested for rape and assault after he grabbed a twenty-nine-year-old female out of the
back parking lot of a bar and drove her out into the desert, where he beat and raped her over several hours.
“There wasn’t any DNA to link him to the crime,” Diane continues, “and the victim was fairly intoxicated, so the case was shaky to begin with. Then, two months ago, the whole thing got blown apart. Defense learned that the victim was arrested ten years earlier for prostitution. She’s had no arrests since, but it was enough. The victim got wind of it and was afraid it would come out in trial, something she didn’t want, particularly with her husband sitting in attendance.”
“So the whole thing got tossed,” I say.
“Charges dismissed,” Diane confirms. “Carlos walked.”
“Well, someone was paying attention.”
Jimmy and I are silent a moment. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, as one might expect, but the quiet wrestling match of teammates mentally tag-teaming a problem.
Jimmy’s the first to speak. “Do we have any idea how he went missing?”
“The report suggests he was grabbed out of his home in the night.” The crackle of shifting paper seeps through the speakers from ten different directions and then Diane finds what she’s looking for. “There was evidence of a struggle in his bedroom, and then he didn’t show up for work the next day. I talked to his boss twenty minutes ago. He said that Carlos may have been a real piece of work, but he always showed up for work on time. That didn’t happen Monday morning.”
“That’s two days between the abduction and the disposal of the body,” Jimmy muses. He’s tapping the steering wheel with his left index finger while he puzzles it out. I usually pace when I think, but that’s a little hard to do while rolling down Interstate 10 at seventy miles an hour. Instead, I mimic Jimmy’s tapping—only I do my tapping on the armrest built into the door and use my right index finger.
I try to keep time with Jimmy.
Tap—tap-tap—tap.
Diane has little more to add, so she makes some final comments about wasting time in Louisiana and then ends the call. Jimmy’s still in his own little world.