Deadlock (11 page)

11:30 P.M. THURSDAY

Thatcher closed his garage door. The rental was so small his hair brushed against the roof. Shattered windows in his Mustang, still in the FBI shop, ground at his nerves. Remembering his new partner’s initial reaction to the shooting made him question what would happen the next time. Not an
if
but a
when
. This had nothing to do with requalifying with their firearms on a regular basis, but everything to do with a clear head. He walked to the elevator and finally into his home. As soon as his keys landed on the kitchen table, his cell phone rang
 
—SSA Alan Preston. Not good.

“Yes, sir.”

“Scorpion’s daring us to find him.” Preston’s flat tone indicated the killer had struck again.

“Another victim?”

“Right. Got a call from HPD. This time a homeless man by the name of Ansel Spree, found with a bullet hole to the forehead and a plastic scorpion on his chest. The scorpion is identical to the other two, as though the killer bought a pack of them. HPD is sweeping the crime scene and agents are en route.”

Could the killer have gotten sloppy this time? “When did it happen?”

“Estimation is between nine and eleven. I’m sending you the report now. I need you and Agent Sanchez on the scene ASAP.”

Thatcher jotted a few notes about the victim and the address where he’d been found. “Have you contacted Bethany?”

“Not yet.”

“Sir, I’ll call her and explain the situation. She left about thirty minutes ago.”

“Find a link. Both of you in my office at eight in the morning with evidence, not a deer-in-the-headlights look.”

Maybe they’d have this figured out by then. “Yes, sir.” When they finished, he phoned Bethany.

She answered on the first ring. “Is this another copycat like Alicia Javon?” she said after he gave her the update.

“Seriously? Get rid of that theory. Scorpion must have a list. Just wish we had his parameters. I’m sending you the initial report. The victim was found off Elgin in the Third Ward.”

“Text me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

Thatcher met her at the crime scene amid flashing red lights and two unmarked cars that he recognized as agents’ vehicles. Bethany stepped from her truck, dressed in jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket, with her hair swept back in a ponytail. Undeniably attractive.

“I read the report on the way here,” she said.

“While driving?”

“Good call, but I read at lights. When I have a chance, I’ll see if Ansel’s connected to Ruth Caswell.”

What a stubborn woman. Protocol all the way.

They walked to the police officer posted by the crime scene barrier and displayed their badges. The dead man lay on his back to the right of the sidewalk, his position similar to the other two deaths.

Thatcher bent and she knelt beside him. The victim had been shot in the forehead with a hollow-tip bullet like the others. African American. Dirty and tattered. On the man’s bloodstained chest sat a small brown plastic scorpion. A senseless killing.

Thatcher visibly examined the body and area of the crime scene. “We have a homeless man by the name of Ansel Spree. No
family. HPD arrested him for robbing a dry cleaner’s four years ago. He did two years. Unemployed. ID was on him. And a watch. Obviously theft wasn’t a motive.” He and Bethany moved away from the body. “Has to be someone who cares he’s gone.”

“He’s a man who was murdered, and we care.”

He valued the compassion in her tone. “Bethany, this case is taking a wider spectrum. Ansel Spree adds a dimension we’ve obviously overlooked with the other two.”

“We can add his stats to the spreadsheet and graphs. Behavioral analytics is on it, but their report takes time.”

Outside the tape, people gawked at the crime. Here in the Third Ward, too many residents didn’t need an excuse to kill, and most often the killer stood in the crowd. Victims in the neighborhood wore the wrong colors, tats, tennis shoes, or filled a killer’s quota. But Ansel Spree’s death fell under another category
 
—a serial killing.

“I’m going to mingle with the crowd,” he said. “Might be an honest citizen among them, or one who could be bought.”

“Your faith in humanity is inspiring.” She stopped typing into her phone. “Be careful. Those aren’t choir boys and girls. They . . . I’m not telling you anything new.”

“I’ll be back in a few.”

“Wait while I type the findings and snap a few pics.”

“Cops are everywhere,” he said, irritation with her methods of investigation wearing through him.

“Go ahead, but you aren’t the right color. Neither am I.”

She’d made a good assessment, but his theory on facing fear kept him on the job. He knew how to handle himself. “Someone saw or heard something.”

“Right.” She aimed her phone over the body and moved around the victim, snapping more photos at various angles
 
—some over the body and some from the sidewalk level. Although HPD had their photographer, Bethany was thorough. Not much got past her, which was why he respected her attention to detail.

He worked his way outside the crime tape to the onlookers.
Eighty percent of them carried guns and knives, and those were the women and children, but he wasn’t there to pat anyone down.

A teen, probably around fifteen, stood alone in the shadows observing the scene.

Thatcher moved beside him. “Did you see that guy get shot?”

The kid swore. “Got in the way of a bullet.”

“Hear the gun?”

He sneered and pointed to earbuds wrapped around his neck.

“When did you see the body?”

He shrugged and stuck the earbuds into place.

“Where do you stay?” Thatcher said.

“None of your business.” He muttered a phrase Thatcher couldn’t make out.

Three older teens stepped beside him. Great, Thatcher had approached the 103 Boys
 
—100 percent Third Ward African American gang. They flashed their sign, and the younger teen told Thatcher what he could do.

“I’m looking for information on this murder.”

“We don’t know.”

Another teen joined them, numbering five now in the group.

“Have you seen the dead man before?”

The younger teen pointed to the crime scene. “None of you belong here.”

Thatcher sensed someone beside him, and he swung to Bethany.

“Hey, babe. Aren’t we finished here? I came along for the ride, but I have plans.” She snuggled in close to him.

“Better listen to your woman,” the same teen said.

“He always does.” She kissed his cheek and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Come on. Finish with this mess and let’s go where it’s quiet.” When she tugged on him, he nodded at the teen and thanked him for his time.

Back at the crime scene, she released him. “Are you three-quarters stupid? They could have cut you down and left you to bleed out. And the cops wouldn’t have known you were dead.”

“I was just getting acquainted.”

She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t forget where I grew up.”

“You might be right . . . this time.” Not a smart move. One of his weaknesses was to go where the adrenaline flowed.

She clenched her fists. “Next time I might not be around to save your rear. Hate to see you covered in blood.”

He chuckled. “Yes, partner.”

“I’d heard you managed a few out-there, dumb moves while on a case. This just proves it.” She stopped herself. “Guess we’re even in the stupid moves arena.”

He’d acted on impulse and deserved the wrath of Bethany. Yet even her anger caused his admiration for her to grow. Where would these feelings take him? Eventual trust or something he wasn’t ready to label?

3:20 A.M. FRIDAY

Bethany and Thatcher drank bad-tasting coffee at the FBI office. The vending machine was empty of Diet Dr Pepper, or she’d be filling up on it. She’d swung her chair into his cubicle. Both were too wired to consider going back to bed. They’d devoured a pizza . . . and since they couldn’t agree on toppings, her half was spicy sausage and cheese, and his half was Canadian bacon and mushroom.

Thatcher started to take a sip of coffee, then set the cup down. “Since Monday, we’ve investigated three deaths by a serial killer. In case you haven’t noticed, our best suspect’s in jail with an alibi. Is the motivation money, power, or revenge?”

“A solid profile would be good, but I know there isn’t one. We take what we know and do comparisons.” She turned to her legal pad, recalling a report conducted by the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. “The NCAVC is on this, but it’s our job as investigators to feed them information.”

“Bethany, slow down the analytics for a moment. HPD and the FBI are working every angle on these killings, and daily briefings are there for everyone’s benefit. Our killer doesn’t have to be a child-abused, chemically imbalanced loner who’s looking for blood. He fits into society and may have a family and friends. The community consider themselves lucky to have him a part of great things. It goes deeper than a spreadsheet.”

“I’ve studied the reports.” Annoyance clicked at her nerves. “We haven’t done the comparisons with similar crimes around the country that are unsolved.”

“Our killer could decide today he’s done with his game. With the lack of evidence to tie the crimes together, it could very well happen. Motivation that results in bizarre behavior.”

“Okay, I get it. I want evidence and you want to understand why he acts.”

“Wrong. We need to bring Scorpion down. In most homicides, the victims have a relationship to the offender.” He sighed. “I’m frustrated.”

“Me too.”

“The boot print I found tonight matches up with the other one. We’re looking at a small man, possible Asian or Hispanic or a teen.” He snapped his fingers. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.”

“Thatcher, you’re punchy. Not making much sense.”

“Hear me out. We have a wealthy older woman, a middle-aged professional, and a homeless man. Different cultures who were targeted by one killer, a scorpion. He planned their murders, which means it’s what they represent that got them killed. We need to widen our investigation beyond the past few months, dig into our victims’ backgrounds and those close to them. Find out who was imprisoned with Ansel Spree. How long had he been homeless? Where did Alicia work before Danford? What did Ruth Caswell do when she was healthy? Every list has potential. We search for the one common factor that got them all killed the same way.”

She stared into his face, admiring his commitment. “We’ve taken a magnifying glass to reports, looking for something that either we’re blind to or it isn’t there.” She folded the legal pad to a clean page. “Earlier you sent a request to expedite the ballistics report. We’ve confirmed the victims were not gun owners, except for Paul Javon’s .22, which we’ve verified was in a repair shop. So you give me what you need for the FIG, and I’ll record it.”

“With a little grace, we could have something substantial in a few hours.”

He said grace, not luck. She was too wound up to analyze it.

For the next two hours, the line to the FIG burned hot with requests.

“Houston has the only killer who uses a scorpion signature.” Bethany leaned her head back and closed her eyes while a dull pain beat against her temples. “Maybe we should look at the habits of a scorpion.” She caught herself. “I’m beginning to sound like you.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Our killer might have taken the persona of a predator. Those findings could be instrumental in identifying our killer.”

“As in studying their habits?” She’d lost it for sure, but she had to do something or fall asleep. She stood and googled the creature on his computer and read a few paragraphs. “I’ll share this with you in a second
 
—just let me wrap my brain around the information first.”

“We kids with no siblings have problems with patience, especially when you’re using my computer.”

“Get over it, Thatcher.” She smirked. “Okay, scorpions have been around for thousands of years and are virtually indestructible, as in survivors. In our case, we have a predator.”

“A given. What else?”

“About fifteen hundred species, and twenty-five of them have venom strong enough to kill a person.” She took a sip of coffee
 
—bad stuff, tasted like dirt.

He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Watching you in action. Your processing is fascinating.”

She ignored him. “We already know where your gut-instinct methods can take you.”

“Ouch. Thanks for saving my hide. The kiss was good too.”

“Very funny. We have three murders and an upset SSA.” She continued to read. “Scorpions are nocturnal. Interesting info.
Listen to this
 
—they basically eat insects, the kind humans don’t value. The larger ones eat smaller scorpions.”

“Scorpion views his victims as useless, dispensable. Obvious in our case.”

“They have poor eyesight. Some species have the ability to slow down their metabolism if they can’t find anything to eat.”

He stretched neck muscles. “Sounds like the perfect time to disable them.”

She’d want to think about this one. “Not really. They can snap to the hunt if lunch walks by. Here’s an unusual fact. Stick a scorpion under an ultraviolet light, and it’s fluorescent.”

“Anything else?” he said.

She blinked, her eyes stinging as though sand had taken residence. “They need loose soil to exist.” She read further. “Freeze one overnight and watch it thaw and come to life the next day. And they’re difficult to control with insecticides. Now I’m curious about the types in Texas.”

He jotted a few notes. “Am I rubbing off on you? This is sort of out there in the investigation.”

“Theoretically, no. Do you want to hear about the Texas varieties?”

He laughed. “Go ahead.”

“Not much info here. The striped bark scorpion is the most common and lives in the hill country. Their venom isn’t strong enough to kill unless the person has an allergic reaction or goes into anaphylactic shock.” She held her Styrofoam cup and stared across the cubicle into the hallway while her mind searched for meaning. “We’re working on pure exhaustion here, but you’re taking notes. What do you have?”

He picked up his pad of paper. “Our species has no problem eliminating his victims. I don’t think bad eyesight applies.” He tapped his finger on the desktop.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m looking at the ability to slow his metabolism. For all
practical purposes, the scorpion looks lazy, but he’s using a self-preservation method that works. Could say he has a good cover. No one suspects him as long as he stays hidden.”

“That’s true of most serial killers. Thatcher, have we lost it?” She glanced at the traits. “The one thing scorpions do for us is eat insects we deem useless or a nuisance. Including their own.”

“Back to a profile
 
—the victims don’t have to fit into anything logical as long as it makes sense to Scorpion. In his world, our three victims have no value to him alive.”

“We have a little time before our meeting with SSA Preston. Should we go home and shower so something besides our investigation doesn’t stink?” she said.

“Good idea. Meet here at seven thirty?”

“Yes, and pray for a solid theory.”

Her cell buzzed with a text. She knew the sender before looking.

Spree could have been u or Graves.

7:25 A.M. FRIDAY

Thatcher longed to blow the cobwebs out of his brain and shine light into the corners of the city to find Scorpion. Media demanded answers about the murders, accusing the FBI and HPD of not doing their jobs.

As he’d often contemplated during the past months, where did God fit in the evil of this world? Why didn’t He stop the useless victimizing? The answers were there, and someday he’d find them. For now he asked for wisdom and guidance.

Bethany stood in the doorway of his cubicle and handed him a Starbucks. “Black like the dead of night,” she said, echoing a remark he’d made in the wee hours of the morning.

“Thanks. Are you wide-awake?”

The circles under her pretty eyes answered for her. “Do you want the good news first or the bad news?”

A groan spread through him. “No more deaths, right?”

“No.”

“Then bring on the good.” He took the coffee. “Thanks. I know what it is
 
—you put a tracer on your brother’s texts.”

She glanced down, not like Bethany. “Thatcher, when this is over, I’ll handle the business with Lucas. Until then, I’ll tolerate his trash.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

Her impersonal expression told him exactly what he wanted to know. How would Bethany feel if she knew how well he read her?

“He’s all mouth,” she said.

“Not from his criminal history. Be careful and contact me immediately if trouble escalates.”

Her eyes softened the way they had when he showed her the snacks in his loaner car. “I’ll behave. I passed SSA Preston in the hall. He doesn’t want a briefing this morning, but he requested a detailed report of last night, which we have. Oh, he knew we pulled an all-nighter.”

“The bad news?”

She held up her phone. “Someone forwarded me a note posted on the
Chronicle
’s website. No sender. The title is ‘Who’s Minding Houston’s FBI?’

“A serial murderer walks the streets of our city claiming three known victims. Every citizen is afraid and should be. Neither HPD nor the FBI have an arrest or a single clue. I don’t blame our men in blue. They do their best while the FBI has two of the most inept agents on the case. Special Agent Thatcher Graves has worked violent crime long enough to have ended these killings on day one. Special Agent Bethany Sanchez is a reject from the civil rights division. Guess they had to put her somewhere. What a pathetic excuse representing Houston’s elite bureau.”

She looked up as though to gauge his reaction.

“Finish it.”

She resumed reading.

“Our tax dollars pay for this? I have a few more conclusions about these incompetent agents. In point, who is responsible for the lack of law enforcement? Another note on Agent Graves
 
—he’s trigger-happy. Take a look at the bodies in his rearview mirror. He’s a legal gunman, and Sanchez got her training on the northeast side of town. Wouldn’t want either of them watching my back. Has anyone done the math? As in ‘on the take’? Graves and Sanchez deserve whatever happens to them while a serial killer preys on the innocent of our city. Houston’s FBI SSA Preston needs a replacement. He might be their poster child for supervision, but he has the intelligence of a gorilla. My advice? If you’re in need of help, don’t contact the FBI. Buy a gun. When are the citizens of our city going to take a stand and take back our city?”

“Good morning, Houston,” Thatcher said.

“Imbécil.”

“Something stronger than
moron
just crossed my mind.”

“Mine too, but I try not to use the language. Who else got this fabrication other than the media?”

“The whole world. I’ll put a tracer on it.”