Closer Than She Knows

by Kelly Irvin

“As you can see we have unsolved female homicides in Corpus Christi, Harlingen, Brownsville, Edinberg, and Alice. Possibly another one in Weslaco.” Hector stabbed at the small town of Weslaco between Brownsville and McAllen with his pen. “The remains were just found in an illegal dumping ground last week. Because of the state of decomp, identifying the victim will be difficult. We know it’s a woman. It’s possible she is from one of the bigger cities and the killer simply dumped her body in Weslaco.”

  Teagan forced her gaze to the documents in front of her. Copies of police reports, crime scene photos, toxicology reports, autopsy reports, and witness statements. The sheer amount of information made drawing conclusions difficult. “Aside from being women, what ties them together?”

  “Lifestyle. Mostly single, divorced, widowed, never married. They were last seen coming out of bars or restaurants where they were hanging out with friends.” He pointed to a photo of a Hispanic woman with dark curly hair that hung below her shoulders. “Mariel Santos was a marine biology major at Texas A&M–Corpus Christi. She finished her shift at La Tropicana restaurant about eleven at night and walked to the bus stop a block away. When she failed to show up for work the next day, her boss called her housemates, who said she never came home. Her decomposed body was found in the dunes of a Corpus nature preserve a month later. Cause of death was blunt force trauma and strangulation.”

  “So how do you tie these deaths to Slocum?”

  “In three cases, we have women who were approached by a man fitting Slocum’s description around the time of the murders. For whatever reason, the women spooked and he wasn’t able to convince them to go with him. Another woman saw one of the murder victims with a man with a similar build but didn’t see his face.

  “We subpoenaed his credit card records and financials. We have cell phone records. We have records from his employer showing where he made sales over the years. The number one thing that ties the murders to each other, however, are the letters.”

  “Which brings us to our three murders in San Antonio post-arrest and conviction of Slocum for Olivia Jimenez’s murder.” Dad passed around copies of police, CSU, and autopsy reports. “We have letters for two of those murders. Officer Moreno’s murder was a shot across the bow, apparently, to get Teagan’s attention. To get my attention.”

  Teagan let her hand rest on the thick folder. Opening it meant subjecting herself to images and words that would be indelibly etched on her brain. She gritted her teeth and flipped to the first page.

  Billy went to the board and taped Officer Moreno’s photo on it. She looked so young and sweet in her academy graduation photo. “The ME’s report indicates Kris was shot with a long-range, high-velocity sniper rifle. Two bullets were recovered during the autopsy, but both were mangled. They appeared to be full metal jacket. They penetrated the vehicle’s glass. One hit her in the forehead, the other in the neck. The shot to the head was the kill shot. The bullets are too degraded to tell us much else about the weapon used. They’ve been sent to the forensic firearms examiner, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  “The examiner is working with CSU on a crime scene reconstruction based on the ME’s report on angle of entry. They hope to get a bead—no pun intended—on where the shots came from.” Billy tacked photos of the vehicle and a map of the area where the shooting occurred to the board. “Obviously, the shooter had to have been on the park side—the driver’s side—of the vehicle. The PD facility has surveillance cameras. They captured nothing.”

  “A canvass of the area produced not a single witness who saw our perp hanging out with a sniper rifle over one shoulder?” Siebert flipped the top off his Starbucks cup, looked mournfully inside it, and tossed lid and cup into the wastebasket at his feet. “How is that possible?”

  “Not one. The accuracy of sniper rifles is unparalleled these days.” Billy tapped the map with his index finger. “My best guess, he knew where Teagan and Kris were going. He moved in ahead, parked on Academic Court a few minutes ahead of time, long enough to get set up in the backyard of one of the corner houses at South Park Boulevard and Academic Court. A decent shooter could hit his target anywhere from three hundred to a thousand yards.”

  “Not a skill the average person has.” His jaw tight, Dad twirled his reading glasses with one hand. “Military background?”

  “Maybe, or an avid hunter of big game.”

  “So basically we’ve got nothing to go on in terms of physical evidence.” Dad laid the glasses on the table, leaned back, and scratched his head. “We can’t even canvass sporting goods stores if we can’t narrow down the type of sniper rifle used. Our only option is to go to everyone in town and ask if they’ve sold a sniper rifle recently. He might not have bought it here.”

  “And hunters who use them covers a lot of people in Texas,” Hector pointed out.

  “If we come up with a weapon at some point, the examiner may be able to match the lands and grooves in these bullets.” Billy’s offer sounded weak, and from his expression he knew it. “It may be in one of the federal databases.”

  “The killer’s too smart to hang on to the weapon.” Teagan ignored Billy’s attempt to interrupt. “He never uses the same weapon twice. That and varying the victim types makes it nearly impossible to tie him to the murders. He knows that. And he wants people to know just how smart he is. Thus the desire for publicity.”

  “That’s a lot of money to throw away after only one kill,” Billy objected. “One of those sniper rifles can go for as much as four thousand dollars or more.” Teagan agreed, but this killer valued his freedom more than money. “I’m just saying.”

  Billy plopped into a chair next to Teagan. “Siebert, you’re up.”

  The detective stood. His knees cracked. “I’m getting too old for this stuff.” He trudged to the board where he hung an autopsy photo of Evelyn under Kris Moreno’s photo. “But this guy really gets under my skin.”

  Up-close photos of Evelyn’s stab wounds followed. Five of them.

  Teagan ducked her head and closed her eyes.

  “Are you okay, T?” Max’s hand covered hers.

  “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “You don’t have to sit through this.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “The ME’s report indicates five stab wounds to the abdomen and chest. All were deep and inflicted with the blade’s sharp edge facing upward and through an underhanded thrust. The borders were clean. The knife was sharp.” Siebert pointed to the middle photo. “The wound between the rib cage and the navel was the deepest and most likely the fatal one. The victim—”

  “Evelyn Conklin.” Teagan couldn’t help herself. “She has a name. Evelyn.”

  “Mrs. Conklin died of exsanguination.” Siebert’s tone bordered on exasperated. He sank into his chair with an exaggerated sigh. “She did have some defensive wounds to the hands. She put up a fight. But no blood or DNA was found other than her own.”

  “Nothing? How can this guy be so lucky?” Billy grabbed his water bottle and knocked back a long swallow. He burped and slapped the bottle on the table. “There’s got to be something.”

  “He’s not lucky. He’s smart.” Teagan reiterated for the twentieth time, it seemed. “He has practice. He’s experienced. He’s not Slocum’s copycat. He’s a serial killer in his own right.”

  “So why the letters?” Hector returned to the board and pointed to copies of letters he’d posted earlier. “Let’s stop for a moment and consider the letters. Slocum allegedly wrote the letters to his victims. The letters here are written to Teagan. Why? If it’s to torture you, Dillon, why not write them to you?”

  “Are you a parent?”

  Hector nodded. “Two boys, seven and nine; two girls, twelve and fourteen.”

  “Don’t you agree that stalking and harassing your daughters would more effectively torture you than if a psycho went after you directly?” Dad’s face hardened. His eyes turned cold. “Like Max, I’d like to rip this guy’s face off and bury him so deep his
body would never be found. That’s what he wants. He’s tapped into a father’s love. Believe me, he knows what he’s doing.”

  A father’s love. A parent’s love. Nothing compared to it.

  Teagan would never know. Did that make her a coward? Or someone with eyes wide open knowing her limits, understanding more than most what came of loving someone so much she would be willing to die for them? Or kill for them?

  Teagan squirmed in her seat. Eyebrows lifted, Max caught her gaze. He mouthed the words, Are you okay? She nodded and willed herself to sit still.

  “The basics are the same. The paper used, the black ink, the ornate cursive script.” Hector tapped the letter found in Teagan’s Little Free Library. “I had a long sit-down with the department’s handwriting analysis expert. The challenge we’re up against is the passage of time.”

  “Come again? I thought a person’s handwriting was unique. The department has handwriting experts work on check forgeries and handwritten notes all the time.” Siebert stood and walked up to the board. He peered at the letters. “I’m no expert and even I can see huge similarities.”

  “Let the guy talk.” Billy might need an afternoon nap. He was getting cranky. “You’re a homicide dick. What do you know about handwriting?”

  “My girlfriend is in white-collar crime.”

  Recently divorced, Siebert had jumped back into the dating pool with no looking back, according to Gracie. Not that Teagan needed to know about the man’s personal life. “Can we get back on track?”

  “As we age, our handwriting changes.” Hector patted his shiny forehead with a paper napkin. “Our health, a stroke, vision changes, hand injuries, drugs, alcohol—they can all affect our handwriting as we get older.

  “Our forensic document consultant said these letters are probably a match, but she can’t be sure.” He pointed to the words your friend, repeated in the letters to Teagan. “Look at the slant of the lowercase f and the size of the e, look at how the letters are connected, the spacing between the words, the capital T’s and the lower-case d’s. The new letters have a high probability of being written by the same person. “The older letters are similar but still different.”

  “What about errors or word choice? Do those tell us anything about the killer?” Teagan threw the question out there, unafraid. She knew nothing about handwriting analysis. “Do the letters tell us anything about his personality?”

  “He doesn’t make errors in grammar or punctuation, so we can assume he’s educated.” Hector swiped at his face again. His lovely brown skin had a sheen of perspiration. Teagan rose and turned on the ceiling fan. He smiled his thanks. “As far as personality, that’s not in the bailiwick of a handwriting expert. That’s called graphology and it’s not a science. Not one that we want to rely on, for sure.”

  “So we get a handwriting sample from Slocum.”

  “We know he didn’t write the new letters,” Teagan pointed out. “And Hector just said the writing will be different as the man ages. He’s in his fifties now.”

  “It can’t hurt to do a comparison.” Dad’s forehead wrinkled as he considered the possibility. “U.S. v. Mara says he can be ordered to provide it.”

  “If we can get an existing sample, that’s one thing.” Hector settled back into his chair. “The problem with having him give a new sample is he can simply disguise his writing. He’ll know why we want it.”

  Teagan nodded. “He has no reason to cooperate with law enforcement. Plus he knows enough about the law to be dangerous.”

  “Let’s stick a pin in that for now.” Hands steepled, Dad studied the board. “Let’s go at it from another direction. What about alibis for Teagan’s neighbors?”

  “Everyone was offended that we asked.” Bill shuffled through pages of notes. “We’re double-checking their responses against witnesses. Dana Holl was in a conference with a client and then at the gym. Stephanie Nixon took her daughter to a well-baby checkup and then home to make supper for her husband. Carlos Cavazos and Oscar Benavides alibied each other as setting up an exhibit at Carlos’s gallery in the afternoon. Which is suspect.”

  “Why?” Teagan interrupted when Billy took a breath. “Carlos is an artist. Oscar is part owner of the gallery. It’s natural they’d work together. And I saw Oscar that evening when Evelyn was murdered.”

  “Maybe they’re also partners in crime. One of them killed Kristen while the other came back to the neighborhood to stab Mrs. Conklin.”

  “Why? For what earthly reason—”

  “Motive. The one thing we don’t have to prove.” Billy laid on the sarcasm. “You of all people know a rational reason doesn’t have to exist—”

  “Keep checking.” Dad broke in. “No stone unturned. Let’s not get tunnel vision on this case, okay? In the meantime, I want dibs on interviewing Slocum’s boss and coworkers. He was still working when he was arrested here. Maybe they have some insight into his behavior in years prior.”

  “You’re not PD,” Siebert objected.

  “I may get more out of them for that very reason. I’m just a consultant, a guy writing a book.”

  Shrugging, Siebert subsided.

  Dad looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. We’ve covered a lot of material. Let’s let it marinate until morning. We’ll divvy up chores and get back at it.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Teagan and Max spoke in unison.

  “Right.” Dad stood and stretched. “Anybody who needs a break for church take it. We’ll reconvene after lunch.”

  “Y’all are invited to Faith and Hope Community Church.” Max’s gaze swept the room. “We have services at 8:15, 9:45, and 11:15 a.m. And we always have cookies—lots of cookies.”

  No one spoke. Billy and Siebert edged toward the door. The others followed.

  Teagan grabbed her dad’s hand as he walked out. “I want in on those interviews.”

  “We’ll talk later.” He kept walking.

  “We certainly will,” she called after him. “After church.”

  No response.

  “No worries. It’s an open invitation.” Max’s aw-shucks grin made Teagan smile. He shrugged. “At least I know you’ll be there.”

  “You certainly know how to clear a room.”

  His grin faded, replaced by uncertainty, an emotion Teagan rarely saw on his face. “I need to take a meeting, but I can’t see myself going back to that portable right now.”

  “Call Damon. He’ll be able to point you to another one. One that’s closer. They’ll probably want an officer to go with you.” She fought the urge to touch his face, his bruised lips, kiss his forehead. To offer comfort. For him to admit to her his weakness represented another step forward in a relationship deepening despite her best efforts. “The fact that you always choose a meeting over a bar shows how far you’ve come.”

  He studied his hands. “I have to be honest with you. I did go to a bar.” He raised his head and met her gaze. “I didn’t drink, but I came close. I called Damon. That’s why I was at the meeting last night.”

  And the killer was following him. A chill ran through Teagan. She wrapped her arms around her middle and tried for a smile. “A good choice. I’m sorry for all this. It wouldn’t be happening if you weren’t my friend.”

  “Oh, Teagan.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “Bad stuff happens to people. You know that. A faith not tested is a weak faith. I have to be able to live life in all its messiness without resorting to a crutch.”

  “So call Damon.”

  His hand stole across the table. His fingers entwined with hers. “Eat something. You look haggard. Take a nap. You’re safe here.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. She didn’t resist. She simply couldn’t. His touch, so long denied, sent a host of tremors through her.

  He smiled as if reading her thoughts. “Don’t back away, please.”

  “Max.”

  “I’ll see you later. Tell your dad I appreciate him letting me stay here.”

  “I wil
l.”

  He gave the back of her hand one last kiss and left.

  Teagan didn’t move. Her legs were too weak to hold her. Her heartbeat refused to slow. The movie playing in her head featured her sitting on her back porch with Max at her side. They were drinking fresh-squeezed lemonade. He had his arm around her. They were counting the hummingbirds at the feeders.

  It came to a screeching halt when a little girl with carrot hair toddled across the yard pushing a play mower.

  22

  The crush of worshipers at Faith and Community Church’s early service Sunday morning felt like home. Teagan sank onto the pew after Rick’s benediction and listened to the Faith Band’s final playful notes of “How Great Is Our God” before she rose to join the flow of friends who’d become family in the two years she attended church here. No matter how dire the circumstances, a person went to church on Sunday morning.

  Even after all these years, her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. “Teagan Catherine O’Rourke, I don’t care how late you sneaked around reading your book under the covers with a flashlight, get your buns out of that bed.”

  Her scent of Dove soap and Charlie cologne wafted on the air, like a hug from the past.

  Max had already left for church when she dragged herself down the stairs to the kitchen at six thirty. He and the other staff members gathered early for prayer before the first service. How had he slept in Billy’s old room down the hall from hers? Probably as well as she had. Fitful dozing and dark, broody nightmares between long bouts of staring at the ceiling.

  “Hi, Teagan, how are you doing?” The elderly lady’s syrupy tone matched the curious look on her shar-pei face. “We heard about your trouble.”

  Her trouble? This woman meant well. Teagan sent her irritation packing. “I’m fine. This too shall pass.”

  “If we can do anything—”

  “Pray. That’s what I need most. Prayers.”

  The woman didn’t even try to hide her disappointment. “Of course. Our prayer group has you on the email prayer list for marriage and children. We know that biological clock is ticking. Tick-tock-tick-tock.”