Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Leanne shot a look at the clock and gripped the steering wheel. Acid filled her stomach. It was almost nine p.m., so she had thirty-six hours. Thirty-six hours to crack the case of a serial predator who had been active for at least a decade, probably more.
She passed the turnoff to Duncan’s house and bit her lip, thinking.
She wanted his input. He was good at analyzing things, seeing situations from multiple angles.
But she couldn’t go over there, not after last night.
He was obviously pissed at her. For years, Duncan had been her touchstone, her sounding board, her midnight wake-up call, and not once had she thought that he resented the role.
But she’d made too many assumptions. Fear nibbled away at her as she imagined their relationship changing.
Maybe it already had, and she was just catching on to the fact that their paths were diverging.
Leanne made her way through town, where the sidewalks were Monday-night quiet.
As she neared Shooters, she spotted a familiar silver Bronco.
Slamming on the brakes, she made a split-second decision and whipped into the lot.
They weren’t busy tonight—the usual mix of locals, from the looks of it.
She found a space near the door and parked.
Leanne flipped her mirror down, then changed her mind and flipped it up again. Who cared what she looked like? It was only Josh.
She strode into the bar and was relieved to see him alone at the counter with a bottle of Tecate in front of him as he read his phone. She made her way over, passing a high-top table with a pair of off-duty border agents. Leanne gave them a nod.
Josh glanced up as she pulled out the empty stool beside him.
“This taken?”
“It’s all yours.” He flipped his phone over as she claimed the chair.
“You survived the yucca farm, I see.”
He shook his head. “Crazy old coot.”
“Did he get out his shotgun?”
“Nope.” He lifted his beer and took a sip.
A server walked over with a steaming plate of tamales and beans. “Anything else?” she asked him.
“I’m set, thanks.”
She turned to Leanne. “Something for you?”
“I’m good.”
The woman walked off, and Josh started unwrapping the corn husk.
“So, what’s up?” he asked. “I know you didn’t drop in just to chat. What do you need?”
Leanne sighed. Evidently, she could stand to work on her soft skills.
“I wanted to run some developments by you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “No more Lone Ranger now that you’re up against a deadline, huh?”
“Ouch.”
“Hey, I get it. You like to work solo.”
It wasn’t so much that she liked working solo—although she didn’t mind it. But the men in her department talked down to her most of the time, which was beyond infuriating. She’d decided years ago it was easier to work alone and keep everyone at a distance—with the occasional exception of Duncan.
Josh stabbed a jalapeno with his fork. “I’m just giving you crap. Go ahead. Shoot.”
“So, I’ve got an eyewitness at the truck stop where Valeria Reyes was arrested six months ago.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Up in Fort Stockton? I’m impressed. That was fast.”
“I had an assist from a vice cop up there.”
“Sandra Torres?”
“You know her?”
“Yeah, she’s good.”
“She put me in touch with one of her CIs there, and this woman was friends with the victim. She saw her leave with a John last Friday night.”
His eyebrows lifted. “The timing works.”
“I know.”
“You get a vehicle?”
“He was on foot. And I’m pretty sure he was aware of the cameras at the truck stop because he parked out of sight. I reviewed the film. He specifically hung out across the street, out of view of the security cams, and parked somewhere else.”
“So, you’re thinking he’s the guy,” Josh stated.
“Possibly.”
“You get a description?”
“Not much of one. She only saw him from a distance.”
“You know, a good forensic artist should be able to sit her down and come up with something, even if it was only a brief glimpse. You’d be amazed.”
“At the moment, that’s not happening. This witness is spooked. Maybe I’ll try her again as a last resort.”
“Other cameras in the vicinity?” He tipped back his beer.
“There’s a gas station down the road, but I checked in with them, and their surveillance cam is out of order.”
He shook his head. “Shitty luck. You should try some of the other girls in the area, see if this guy’s maybe a regular.” He must have read her expression. “Let me guess. You did?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, well—”
“Here’s the thing. I’m zeroing in on an MO.
Hear me out,” she said at his skeptical look.
“This guy frequents places where sex workers hang out. He’s smart.
He knows not to pull up in a vehicle, or even get too close on foot.
Really, he loiters. He watches. This witness said he was there almost an hour, just observing them, before he lured Reyes over to his side of the street. ”
“Okay. And then?”
“And then he takes them someplace private in his vehicle, sexually assaults them, kills them, then dumps the body off Highway 67.”
“What, like, on his way home?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“You’re saying he’s from here.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “You’re saying we have a local predator killing off women.”
“He has to be local. It only makes sense. All seven bodies—”
“Whoa. Seven? Since when is it seven?”
“Four cold cases that the forensic anthropologist at the university told me about. All un-IDed skeletal remains, all dumped near the highway, three of them with crushed skulls and broken limbs. Plus, there’s Valeria Reyes, plus the un-IDed femur, and now the homicide at the Gold Springs Trailhead.”
Leanne wasn’t ready to tell him her suspicions about Hannah Rawls yet.
McBride had already balked at the idea, and Leanne wanted to see what Samantha came back with.
If an FBI profiler—or at least someone trained by the FBI in behavioral analysis—came back and said her idea wasn’t crazy, then Leanne would present her theory to the chief.
Josh turned his beer bottle on the counter. “Okay, well…allow me to poke a hole in your MO.”
She tensed.
“Why kill them?” Josh shook his head. “If he’s targeting prostitutes, he doesn’t need to force them to have sex, and killing them ratchets up his risk. I’m not seeing the logic.”
“Who said anything about logic? The guy’s sick. You saw that body. Clearly, he gets off on pain.”
Josh tipped his head to the side, still not looking convinced, and she felt frustrated. Why did she have to explain to other cops that some people simply hated women? Full stop. Misogyny was everywhere, and it didn’t need logic or reason to flourish.
“You’re saying you think the risk is part of it,” Josh said. “Part of the motive.”
“Don’t you? I mean, look at what he’s doing, again and again. I’m no profiler, but it seems like a compulsion.”
Josh nodded, but his expression told her he still wasn’t persuaded.
He set down his beer. “Damn. Speaking of the Reyes case—I forgot to tell you. I meant to leave you a message.”
“What?”
“Duncan Harper stopped in while you were up in Fort Stockton. He dropped off some report.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, he put it on your desk. Said to tell you he also emailed you.”
Leanne pulled out her phone and checked her inbox, which she’d neglected today. Sure enough, there was a brief email and an attachment.
Leanne read the one-line message with a pit in her stomach.
In all the years she’d known Duncan, she didn’t think he’d ever sent her an email.
Normally, they texted or called, or simply showed up at each other’s houses.
To anyone else, the five-word message might seem succinct, but to her, it was icy.
She clicked open the attachment. Her pulse picked up as she skimmed through technical jargon.
High performance radial…Ridge Grappler with black sidewalls…
shoulder and lateral Z grooves…The description went on for two paragraphs.
Not only had Duncan’s contact identified the tire and provided a detailed write-up; he’d also included a generic color photo from a tire catalog.
She tried to enlarge the image, but it was difficult to see on her phone screen.
“What is it?” Josh asked.
“The tire tread from the railroad tracks crime scene.” She glanced up. “He knows a guy at the state lab who offered to take a look.”
Josh shook his head. “Man, that guy knows everyone. Wish I had a network like that.”
“Same.” She looked at Josh. “You say he left the hard copy?”
“It’s on your desk.”
She slid off the stool. “I need to go.”
“Sounds like two big breaks in one day. You’re on a roll.”
“I’m on a clock.” She rapped on the bar. “Thanks for your help.”
“Why? I didn’t do shit.”
“Thanks for listening.”
· · ·
The Siesta Motel attracted mountain bikers, rock climbers, and other travelers who couldn’t afford a pricey inn or a trendy glamping site on their way to Big Bend.
It also attracted budget-conscious reporters, apparently. Leanne knocked on the door and then surveyed the parking lot crammed with SUVs, many plastered with national park stickers. No Ridge Grappler tires in sight, but Max’s black Cherokee was squeezed into a space near the ice machine.
The door swung open.
“Hey, you’re early.”
Max ushered her inside. He wore jeans with ripped knees and a white T-shirt, no shoes.
The place smelled oddly of mildew and marijuana. Leanne glanced at the water stain on the ceiling. Given the arid climate around here, a mildew smell was a sure sign of leaky pipes—not that the motel management seemed to care.
The room was a pigsty. Clothes on the floor. Files and papers strewn across the double bed. An open laptop computer sat in the middle of the bed alongside a half-eaten pizza.
“Am I interrupting your dinner?” she asked.
“Not at all.” Max closed the pizza box and dropped it on the dresser beside a crumpled fast-food bag. “Sorry about the mess. I’d planned to clean up before you got here. Want to sit down?”