Closer Than She Knows

by Kelly Irvin

  Billy wedged himself between Justin and Alisha. He didn’t look happy. “I thought you should be the first to know. Our serial killer is in the wind.”

  10

  Suspected serial killer Leo Slocum had escaped from Corpus PD custody. Billy’s monotone delivery of the news didn’t fool Teagan. Her brother was livid. Personally, she didn’t know whether to sob, throw up, or faint.

  Of course she would do none of the above. Grown-up women—especially O’Rourkes—didn’t engage in histrionics. From an early age Mom had bombarded her with role models like astronaut Sally Ride, Supreme Court associate justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Madam Curie, Eleanor Roosevelt, and of course, Wonder Woman. At the moment Teagan wanted Wonder Woman’s superhuman strength to open the window behind her, her ability to fly away from San Antonio, and her superhuman speed to go far, far away.

  Justin and Alisha cursed at the same time. Good thing Corpus PD couldn’t hear what SAPD homicide detectives wanted to do with their peers up I-37.

  Max’s hands slid onto her shoulders. His fingers tightened. Maybe he could be Superman to her Wonder Woman and they could fly away together. “How is that possible?” She managed to pose the question without a quiver in her voice. “What kind of security do they have at their jail?”

  “He insisted on mounting his own defense, so their guys took him back and forth from the jail to a law library at the courthouse—”

  “And he escaped.” Justin rolled his eyes. “Do these guys not recognize the Ted Bundy scenario?”

  “The prosecutor said the guy actually fancies himself as smarter than Bundy. He doesn’t admit to killing anybody, but he says if he’d defended himself in San Antonio, he would’ve been found not guilty. He’s claiming his attorney was incompetent.”

  “Escaping is no way to show innocence.” Alisha peeked over Billy’s shoulder at his notebook. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Two days. A guy went into a convenience store Monday to buy cigarettes and lottery tickets. He got to talking to the clerk, and pretty soon he looks up to see his Infiniti driving away from the gas pump. He’d just filled it with gas.”

  “And the idiot left his keys in the car?” Teagan groaned. “Why do people do that?”

  “Nope. Not quite. Apparently, the thief hot-wired it. But the money he used for toll roads and such was in the console. Cameras clearly show it’s our guy Slocum.”

  “He’s not my guy.” Teagan squeezed into her chair. Max slid behind it as if to stand guard. “It’s a five-hour drive, depending on traffic, from Corpus to San Antonio.”

  “The Infiniti was found abandoned in Victoria.” Billy’s gloomy expression squashed any hope that his report would get cheerier. “No sign of Slocum.”

  “Let’s assume he boosted another car and has made it into San Antonio.” Justin slapped a folder on Teagan’s desk. “Have you ever seen this guy before?”

  The man staring up at her looked familiar, only because his photo had been published in the San Antonio Express-News during his trial. Slocum had thick black hair that had gone silver at the temples. He favored a stylish salt-and-pepper five o’clock shadow. His cheekbones were high, his cheeks hollow, and his lips thin. But it was his eyes that captured a person’s attention. Deep-blue eyes framed by long dark lashes. Bedroom eyes. Not a face a person would forget. Especially a woman. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Think. Where have you gone in the past three days?” Justin pressed. “Grocery store. Gas station. Starbucks.”

  “She said she hasn’t seen him.” Max bristled like a bulldog who had discovered an alley cat in his territory. “Don’t treat her like some street thug you just arrested.”

  “Easy, Max. I was in trial until yesterday afternoon.” Teagan touched his hand with her fingers for a second, then withdrew. She didn’t need him or anyone else to defend her, certainly not from Justin. She’d gone head-to-head with him plenty of times. “Earlier in the week, I worked all day and went home to scope the transcript and clean it up, like I always do during a trial. You know where I was last night.”

  She handed the photo to Gracie, who whistled. “No wonder he has a girlfriend.”

  “The clerk said the woman looked to be in her midtwenties, maybe even younger,” Justin pointed out. “Seems way young for this dude.”

  “Daddy issues?” Alisha suggested. “Sugar daddy? It doesn’t really matter. If Slocum is in town and he’s hooked up with an old girlfriend, finding her could lead us to him.”

  “I’ll get a sketch artist to sit with the clerk, see if we can get a decent sketch,” Billy said. “And I’ll go through the prosecutor’s files on the kidnapping case with a fine-tooth comb—”

  “How are we doing in here?” Stately in his black robe, Judge Simon Ibarra squeezed his portly body into the office. They really were going for the Guinness record. “Teagan, it appears you’re in good hands. I’m so sorry for what you’re going through.”

  Ibarra was Teagan’s second judge in her six-year career. Her first judge got booted out by voters in a clean sweep of Republicans in the last election. As a judge’s fate went, so, too, went his or her support staff. Ibarra was kind, he didn’t talk too fast, and he kept reasonable hours. His decision to keep Teagan had been a blessing. “Thank you, Judge. I’m so sorry we’re holding up court. I’m ready to go if you are.”

  “No worries. I asked Julie to call temp services and get us a court reporter who can sub for you as long as needed.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Teagan would not let this creep keep her from doing her job. Where would she be safer than in the Bexar County Courthouse? She stood. “You all go do what you do. Find Slocum and figure out if he killed Officer Moreno and Evelyn. I have work to do.”

  A hubbub of protest rose around her. Teagan bulldozed her way through the crowd. Billy was the most vociferous. She shook her finger at him. “Go on, get out of here. Don’t make me sic Pete the bailiff on you.”

  Billy put both hands in the air. “Going!”

  “Forget it.” Max stuck to her like Tigger’s fur on her linen suits. “I’m staying.”

  Teagan had invited Max to observe her in action during a trial. He’d never been able to find the time.

  This wasn’t quite what she had in mind.

  Despite his best efforts, anxiety slithered along Max’s spine, crawled into his gut, and made itself at home next to the Pop-Tarts and coffee he’d eaten for breakfast. Rick claimed one of the reasons Max made such a good youth pastor was that he still ate like a kid.

  Sometimes. For fun. Sugar and caffeine were his drugs of choice now that no others were available, but he didn’t make a habit of eating like a middle-school kid. He joined the parade led by Judge Ibarra down the hallway to the courtroom. Pete the bailiff held the door while the judge entered, followed by Teagan and Julie, who hovered close to her colleague like a bodyguard dressed in the latest fashionable business suit. Before Max could get through the door, Billy tapped his shoulder. “Hey, got a sec?”

  Not another “What are you doing with T?” discussion. “Now?”

  Billy scowled and jerked his head. “Now would be good.”

  “Are you coming?” Justin hollered. He and his partner were headed out the exit at the end of the hallway rather than going through the courtroom. “We need to powwow.”

  He definitely wasn’t talking to Max. “Go on. I’m good here.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Billy assured his cohorts. He pushed the courtroom door shut. “Did you come down on your bike?”

  “No. In my truck.”

  The ’74 Ford wasn’t slick and pretty like Billy’s flashy Tundra, but it got the job done. The time Max had spent tinkering with it and restoring the engine ensured that. “It was sprinkling. Plus I wanted to bring my Smith & Wesson M&P. I figured I couldn’t bring it into the courthouse, so I drove the truck.”

  “Smart thinking. Where’d you park?”

  “Ground lot next to Tommy’s Restaurant. The garage
was full.”

  “You’ll walk her to her car?” Billy wasn’t trying to separate Max from Teagan. He wanted to keep her safe. Points for her brother. “Or better yet, get her to let you drive her home?”

  They were on the same page. “Look, I can handle this. Go do cop things.”

  After a long, level stare, Billy turned and hiked down the hallway. At the door he glanced back. “Don’t let her push you around.”

  No one knew Teagan’s dedication to her independence better than her siblings. Max nodded. Billy took his leave. Max tapped on the courtroom door. Julie let him in with a quick smile and an index finger to her lips. He followed her to the swinging gates that led to the gallery, where a motley crowd of people watched the proceedings.

  Max’s heartbeat did a cha-cha-cha. At least half a dozen times T had offered to give him a tour of “her” courtroom and introduce him to her colleagues. He always found an excuse not to accept the invitation. No matter how many years passed, he still turned into a sixteen-year-old misfit whenever he thought of courtrooms. His brushes with the law had been minor—vandalism, underage drinking, possession of a doobie, being out after curfew.

  After his parents got done with him, he never wanted to step into a courtroom—or a jail—again. Which was why he’d confined himself to legal drugs during his checkered past. Zoloft, Xanax, and Ambien liberally mixed with alcohol had done the trick for a time.

  “Turn it off.” His therapist reminded him at every session to be on guard against dwelling on old memories. Flip the channel. Choose a good memory. Rewind it and watch it again. A version of “Find your happy place.”

  No happy place here. He studied the spectators. Unless Leo Slocum was a master at disguises, no way he sat among the unhappy spectators who observed the proceedings. Was he a chameleon? The unknowns took turns pounding on Max’s temples. The coffee sloshed in his stomach. His throat burned. Focus on others.

  Today’s show was reality TV better than Judge Judy any day, watching Judge Ibarra wade through a mind-bogglingly quick series of hearings. The fine art of negotiation resulted in a plea deal that gave a woman the chance to do inpatient drug treatment rather than going to jail after an on-the-spot urine analysis revealed she’d come to court high on coke. Another woman pleaded no contest to trafficking a person for purposes of sex. She was young, attractive, and apparently worked in a restaurant. How did she end up a pimp?

  A plea deal ended with a victim-impact statement in which the father of a middle-school student chewed out a twenty-one-year-old guy who’d been “dating” his daughter. In Texas that was sexual assault of a child. A fourteen-year-old couldn’t consent to sex. The tearful father tried hard to be fair as he insisted the defendant look at him. Pete the bailiff had to ask the distraught father to back up twice. The young man received deferred adjudication, which meant if he stayed out of trouble, his record would be expunged. His attorney assured the judge that after ten days in jail, they need not worry about the kid bothering the victim again. He was led away in handcuffs to begin inpatient treatment as a sex offender.

  Max leaned back in the hard wooden seat and breathed. The intensity of that five-minute encounter made his chest hurt. Teagan rarely talked about her work. She said she’d learned the hard way that most of her dates didn’t want to hear about murder, sexual assault, home invasions, and family violence. It made dating, particularly if the relationship lasted very long, difficult. Why people didn’t want to hear about it was apparent, but how could they claim to care about her and not be concerned for her emotional well-being when she had to hold all this in?

  She needed a regular prescription for TLC, and Max could fill that one.

  He didn’t have much time to contemplate human frailties. After another hour of motions to revoke and presentence investigations, Teagan came through the swinging gates with her purse and her leather satchel. “That’s it for today. The judge ordered me to go home early. I agreed, only because there’s no need to go through my files if Slocum is the guy doing this.”

  “It sounds ridiculous, but I hope it is him. At least then we know who we’re up against. Your judge seems like a nice guy.” Max held the door for her, and they took a left into the flow of people headed back to the elevators. “Was this a typical day for you?”

  She shifted the satchel from one hand to the other and shrugged. “Getting flowers from a serial killer, you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. That victim impact was brutal.”

  “That was nothing.” Teagan scooted closer to the elevator door and punched the down button a second time. “Try being there when family members rip into a defendant who murdered a loved one. They cry and scream. Sometimes they faint. Occasionally they try to take a run at the killer.”

  “It must be hard to get all that down.”

  “Actually, we don’t have to transcribe the victim-impact statements.” The elevator doors opened. She lowered her voice as they squeezed into the tiny box with a dozen other harried individuals, most of whom either seemed like they were having very bad days or were courthouse employees. “I try to do something else while they’re talking.”

  “So it doesn’t affect you so much?”

  “Yes.”

  They were shoulder to shoulder in the back of the elevator. Max squeezed an arm around her and took stock of their companions. A Bexar County sheriff’s deputy, a gray-haired, hump-shouldered woman using a walker, a couple who appeared to be in the middle of a furious whispered argument over how to pay for their son’s bond, and an amiable-looking, middle-aged, completely bald man in a suit and tie. Probably an attorney.

  Nobody looked like a serial killer. Of course, that begged the question: What did a serial killer look like? Women claimed Ted Bundy was handsome. The BTK Killer was a husband and father who taught Sunday school and helped with a Boy Scout troop. Max loosened his grip on Teagan. “No wonder you garden and bake and read so much. You fill your house with beautiful photos of the flowers you grow. You make the world you come home to each day beautiful.”

  “Self-preservation.”

  Out on the street, the piercing sunlight made Max squint. “I left my sunglasses in the truck. Why don’t we just take it to your house? You can leave your car overnight in the garage, right?”

  “I’d rather not. You don’t need to be my bodyguard.”

  “He was watching you. He sent you flowers.”

  “I’m well aware.”

  The light turned green and the little neon person appeared. “Walk now. Walk now. Walk now.” Max scanned the open real estate between them and the six-story parking garage ahead of them. Open surface lots bordered them on either side, the courthouse behind them. They were vulnerable to attack, the way soldiers were in Afghanistan when they marched across the valleys, mountains surrounding them. With a cluster of other pedestrians, mostly civilian court employees, jurors, and attorneys, they started across Nueva Street catty-corner to the garage. The light counted down the seconds available to make the crossing. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen . . .

  Pop-pop-pop-pop.

  Gunfire.

  11

  Max hurled himself at Teagan.

  They hit the curb with a bone-rattling thud. Teagan screeched in protest, but Max covered her writhing body with his. All air whooshed from his lungs. Adrenaline flowed. His heart pounded.

  Gun. His hand went to his hip. In the truck. It had no value if he couldn’t carry it on him.

  “Max, Max!” Teagan struggled beneath him. “Get off me. What are you doing?”

  “Stay down! Stay down!” He raised his head. One of the attorneys stood over him, a hefty man in a gray suit and matching fedora. Max edged away from him. “Shots fired. Get down, man!”

  “There were no shots.” The man had a soft Mexican accent that gave the words a musical lilt. “A truck backfired, señor. That is all.”

  Darkness threatened to take Max’s vision. He gagged on the bitter lump in this throat. “I heard gunshots.”
/>   “Only a truck.” The man held out his hand. “I help you up.”

  Ignoring the hand, Max drew a shaky breath and scoured the scenery behind the man. The light had turned red. Cars were stopped in the intersection. A horn blared. A man leaned through the open window of his black BMW, a phone to his ear.

  Probably calling 911.

  An SAPD officer trotted across the intersection. “What’s the problem here? Do we need an ambulance?”

  “Get off me, Max. Get off.” Teagan shoved at his chest with both hands. “Just a misunderstanding, Officer. My friend thought he heard shots.”

  Max rolled off her and dragged himself to a sitting position on the curb. Teagan did the same. She brushed at dirt on her no longer pristine suit. Road rash decorated the back of her hand. Angry red welts rose on her bare legs. A Bexar County sheriff’s deputy loomed over them both. “Are you okay? What’s going on here?”

  “We’re fine, Joe.” Teagan waved the guy off. “Thanks. He’s a friend. He just overreacted.”

  “A little.” The deputy’s grin was sympathetic. “Ease up on the caffeine, buddy.”

  “Right.” Max closed his eyes and shame washed over him. He hadn’t done this in years. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Teagan’s hand sought his and squeezed. “It’s not your fault. All this tension isn’t good for you.”

  “For me? Look at you.” He turned her hand over and stared at the damage he’d inflicted. “I’m a nut case.”

  “You’re a veteran with PTSD. You don’t need the added stress. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  “Don’t pity me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She patted his knee. “Go home. Or go to the gym. Punch the bag for a few rounds. Take a nice, cool shower. Take a nap in your hammock.”