Sunday Early Afternoon
Lucy arrived at the morgue a few minutes early because she came straight from church after clearing it with Sister Ruth that Jesse could stay for the afternoon.
“I’m here to observe the Julio Garcia homicide,” she said as she showed her credentials to the clerk.
“One moment.” She paged Julie Peters, an assistant ME who was also a friend of Lucy’s. Lucy was glad Julie was working this weekend. She was smart and meticulous, the two best traits for someone in this field.
A minute later Julie came out. “Walker said you were coming. He’s in the observation room—do you want to observe or be hands-on?”
Lucy had interned at the DC Medical Examiner’s Office as an assistant pathologist. She couldn’t perform an autopsy, but she was certified to assist.
“You know me. The closer the better.” Not to mention that to keep her certification, she had to put in many hours of supervised practice, plus take a recertification test every two years.
Julie led the way to the main autopsy room, because it had the only observation platform. It was used by law enforcement if they wanted to watch—not a requirement because suspected homicides were always recorded by the ME, but some officers liked to ask questions—as well as for instruction since the ME’s office was adjacent to a medical school.
“I offered for Jerry to come in, but he’s chilling in the observation room. He doesn’t come down here a lot.”
“He didn’t think it was necessary. He’s humoring me.”
They stopped in the locker room where Lucy left her sidearm and purse in a locker, slipped on a gown, and stepped into sterile booties that covered her low-heeled boots.
Julie’s assistant was a quiet young intern named Ian Chen, whom Lucy had met before. He already had prepped the body on the table. Julie and Lucy washed up in the sink.
Through the speaker, Jerry said, “What are you doing, Kincaid?”
“Observing,” she said. “But I’m authorized to assist.”
No additional comment from Jerry, which was fine with Lucy. She still didn’t know quite how to work with the seasoned investigator. She wanted everything to be smooth and easy, but feared it would be anything but.
Lucy had always felt most comfortable in the morgue. What that said about her personality, she didn’t care to speculate, but there was comfort in working with the dead.
The dead didn’t play games; the dead didn’t lie. Their lives—and their deaths—could be readily observed through their autopsies, when performed by a competent and observant pathologist.
Julie said, “We’ve already taken pictures and prepped. I’m going to document the external injuries before I cut.”
Lucy nodded.
Julie told Ian to start the video, then identified everyone in the room or observing. She confirmed that the victim had been identified both visually and from prints, and that BCSO had already done the death notification to next of kin.
Julie did a thorough visual examination of the body, noting the burn mark on his left side from the contact Taser, bruising on the arms, two distinctive blows to the abdomen, two to the groin, and a serious contusion on the back of his head. His hands, like those of the other two victims, had received the brunt of the killer’s rage.
Julie motioned to the computer. “X-rays indicate multiple bones were shattered in each hand, likely from blunt force—a wide-head hammer or similar object. Trace has already been collected from the body and sent to the lab for analysis.
“The victim’s groin is swollen and bruised, looks like one, possibly two blows,” she continued. “The bruising on the forearms could be defensive wounds, though it’s difficult to say definitively. They appear to be older injuries, perhaps an accident where he bumped hard into something.”
Julie said for the record, “Clothing and personal effects have been sent to the county crime lab and logged as received by Ash Dominguez, assistant criminologist with Bexar County.” That was a new protocol after evidence went missing over the summer. They had never recovered it and believed it had been destroyed.
Once Ian finished documenting external injuries, Julie proceeded with the autopsy. She chatted while she worked, interspersing commentary about local politics, bad jokes, and questions about Sean with observations about the victim.
Then she stopped the informal chatter. “Hmm,” she said.
“Hmm what?” Lucy responded.
Julie didn’t respond immediately. Lucy was used to that.
To Ian, she said, “Pull up the X-rays, locate all upper torso and the occipital lobe.”
Lucy didn’t know exactly what Julie was looking at, and she didn’t want to overstep and get too close. Julie was specifically inspecting the gunshot wound. Did she think it was a different caliber? A different weapon?
“Ready,” Ian said when he had the X-rays up on the computer.
“Wheel that over here, please.”
He pushed the computer table as close as he could without pulling the plug. Julie enlarged a section of the base of the skull. Even Lucy could tell that the blow to the back of the head had been serious. The skull was fractured. But she couldn’t read the soft tissue damage as well on the X-ray.
“Wow,” Julie said.
“Julie,” Lucy prompted. “What is wow?”
She didn’t comment. Instead she turned back to the body and dissected the groin, then looked at tissue under a microscope. She called Ian over and they whispered together. Lucy grew increasingly impatient.
Julie returned. “Pending confirmation from the ME, I’m ruling cause of death blunt force trauma. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.”
“What?” Lucy—and Jerry through the speaker—said simultaneously.
“Look here,” Julie said and directed Lucy’s attention to the gunshot wound. “This is by far the clearest indication that the gunshot was not fatal. He was already dead. What do you see?”
“I’m not in the mood for twenty questions,” Lucy said.
“You’re usually more fun,” Julie said and frowned. “Okay, what do you not see? You don’t see hemorrhaging. The heart was not beating when this bullet went into his head. I was suspicious when I inspected the X-rays of the abdomen because I didn’t see extensive hemorrhaging, and looking carefully at a cross section of his tissue there definitely wasn’t. He was dead before he was beaten.”
“Then why the hell did the killer beat him?” Jerry said from the observation room. “Why shoot him if he was already dead?”
“That’s your job, Detective,” Julie said. “I just give you the facts as I see them.”
“Would the killer have known that Garcia was already dead?” Jerry asked. “Maybe he thought he was unconscious, wanted to make sure he was dead.”
“Garcia would have dropped immediately. The force and the angle combined to fracture the skull at the occipital and extended at a slight angle toward the foramen magnum. See this here?” She used a pointer to show a dark mass at the brain stem. “That is extensive bleeding, telling me that this was the fatal blow. And it was the first blow. The pattern is similar to the blow to the first victim, but Mr. Standish wasn’t hit on the back of the head, he was attacked just below the head. The angle and force didn’t break his neck or fracture his skull, but instead broke one of his vertebrae. He was in serious pain, but it wouldn’t have been fatal. But Standish was taller and more muscular than Garcia.”
“Are you saying the killer was shorter than Standish but taller than Garcia?”
“No, I’m not, because I don’t know how Standish or Garcia were standing when they were hit.”
Jerry asked, “Would the killer need a lot of upper-body strength to deliver a blow like that?”
“I don’t know how you define a lot. I think any of us in this room could do it if we had enough momentum and the right weapon and hit at the right angle. Garcia is five foot ten—the killer would have to be much taller if he was standing straight. But if he was hunched over, or kneeling, the killer could be shorter than five ten.”
“Can you send all this data and X-rays to Ash? I’m going to ask him to run a computer simulation.”
“He’ll love that. Any excuse to play with his toys.”
“Anything else about this murder that is different than the first two?” Lucy asked.
Julie motioned for Ian to close the Y-incision, then went back to her computer. She brought up side-by-side images of the bodies. By the time she was done, Jerry had joined them. He stood behind Julie and looked over her head.
“Victim one—Standish. Blow to the upper back, blow to the lower back. Hands shattered with eight to ten blows. Virtually every bone was broken. Three serious blows to the chest and abdominal regions, and several glancing blows. Two hard blows to the groin. Cause of death was the gunshot to the head. Some defensive wounds on his arms—bruising from the same weapon, hard enough to fracture his radius. A Taser burn on the side, consistent with a close-contact Taser in stun mode.”
She gestured to the second victim. “James. No injuries to the back—he wasn’t attacked from behind. Two blows to his chest, two to his abdomen, and two to his groin. Hands shattered with six to eight blows.”
“Standish was beaten more severely,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, but he was bigger and might not have gone down as easily,” Julie surmised. “I determined that the Taser burn to James was done postmortem.”
“How can you tell that?” Lucy said.
“There was no bruising, which suggests the heart had already stopped pumping. But more, and this is where you can tell me I am a goddess and bow at my feet.”
Lucy stared at her. “Okay, goddess, what did you find?”
Julie grinned. “I could get used to that. Ash will want to be called a god, too. When I realized after reviewing my notes and confirmed that the autopsy video showed no bruising, I asked Ash to spend more time on the clothing. He confirmed that there was brain matter on the shirt at the spot the Taser was used.”
“How?” Lucy asked. “He was lying on the ground when he was shot. There shouldn’t have been blowback in that direction.”
“Our guess is that the killer was standing over him and the Taser was unsheathed and got blood and brain matter on it. It’s not a lot, but it’s there.”
“It would have to be very close.”
Julie shrugged. “Like you said, Ash loves his toys, maybe he can come up with a scenario. He has all my findings—there are absolute facts that you can’t change, but there will likely be room for theories.”
“This is good, thanks, Julie,” Lucy said.
“It doesn’t get us any closer to identifying the killer,” Jerry said, sounding frustrated.
“Any other differences?” Lucy asked her.
Julie flipped through her files on the first two victims. “Standish is the only one who had grease on his hands, and Ash confirmed that it was oil from a vehicle and didn’t match the oil from his own truck.”
“Which lends to the theory that he helped someone with their car,” Lucy said to Jerry.
He still didn’t look happy.
“Neither James nor Garcia had grease on their hands?”
“No,” Julie said. “Garcia’s hands and nails were clean, other than from dirt at the scene. He also had trace of an industrial sanitizing soap that I looked up and it’s used widely in restaurants. James’s hands and nails were clean as well.”
“What else?”
“Nothing—well, we know that they were all hit in the chest, but James was the only one who had two cracked ribs. The blows to Standish were severe, but they were all in the abdomen—one in the stomach under the rib cage and two lower.”
“Same force?”
“More or less. I can’t tell you that the same person killed all these people. I can tell you that the injuries are consistent, that the same or similar weapon was used to beat these men, and I know how they died. But that’s it. Ash confirmed the ballistics, and I’ll send Garcia’s bullet over by courier. So we know James and Standish were killed with the same gun, and based on the bullet I recovered from Garcia it appears to be the same caliber, and Ash will have ballistics confirm.”
Jerry asked, “Could there be two killers?”
“Hell if I know,” Julie said. “But I don’t see evidence on the bodies that there were two distinctively different forces, and I can confirm that the same weapon was used. I collected trace evidence from the wounds as well, and Garcia’s can be matched with the others—see if there’s anything else Ash can get from those tests. We have one of the best crime labs in the state, but even we are limited on some of the high-end testing. Might be the opportunity to play footsies with the FBI lab at Quantico and see if they get more.”
Lucy inwardly winced. It was Julie’s way, but she might not know that Jerry had issues with the FBI.
But to Lucy’s surprise, Jerry said, “If Ash thinks the FBI lab can get more, he’ll send it off. That’s his call. Thanks, Julie. This was informative.”
“I aim to please,” she grinned. “Oh, one more thing—Ash and I were talking yesterday after I sent over the physical evidence. We concur that the killer fired directly at their face. Not at their forehead or back of the head, but the face. Don’t know if that means anything from a psych point of view, but to me it stands out.”
“How far away?” Jerry asked.
“At least two feet, not more than four,” Julie said. “And from the angle, Ash and I concur that the killer was standing over the victim, one foot on either side of the body.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mostly sure. The trajectory would be different if the killer was anywhere else.”
“The face, not head,” Lucy muttered.
“Not much of a difference,” Jerry said. “The face is his head.”
“But the killer took away their identity. Like he wanted to obliterate their face. Hatred? Guilt? It seems so personal.”
“That’s your job,” Julie said. “I’m just giving you the facts as I know them.”
Lucy asked, “Can you send me the photos? The comparison of injuries? I want to study them in depth.”
“No problem. I have some more work to do on Mr. Garcia here, and I’ll send them off by tomorrow morning.”
Jerry and Lucy met up for coffee at the university adjacent to the morgue. “I don’t want to take up your Sunday,” Lucy said, “but I think we should discuss what we learned.”
“I never turn down coffee,” he said. “I don’t know that it’s important that Garcia was dead before the beating.”
“It’s important because the killer had to finish the ritual. The beating—especially the hands—then the Taser, the shot to the face. It’s a pattern. But even in the pattern, there are inconsistencies.”
“Such as?”
“If Julie and Ash are right and James wasn’t hit with the Taser until after he was dead, why use the Taser at all? We assumed the killer used it because Standish fought back, and the brief jolt of pain enabled the killer to regain the upper hand. With James he didn’t need it. Was he holding it? Was it on the ground? These crime scenes make no sense.”
“I’m not following you.”
“The killer appears full of rage, but kills methodically. Standish was beaten more severely likely because he was larger and the only victim who fought back. The attack was a surprise, from behind, and there was no hesitation. Attack, pound, kill. Why smash the hands? Why stun the victims when they are already on the ground and hurting? To torture them? Then to stand over them, one foot on either side, and shoot their face. The killer looked his victims in the eye and shot them. That is cold. But with Garcia, there was no need. He was dead. The killer had to have known he was dead when he was beating on his body. If he didn’t—I guess I don’t see how the killer might just think he was unconscious. His head was at an odd angle, the body wouldn’t feel the same when hit. Yet the killer still stood over the body and looked into his face and shot him.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” Jerry said.
“Maybe the killer wanted his face to be the last thing his victims saw. And the thing is—I don’t think Standish, and maybe not Garcia, knew who the killer was. But James did.”
“Because he wasn’t hit from behind.”
“Exactly. So either there are two people working together—one who lures the men to pull over, and the other who kills—or there is one person whom only Steven James personally knows. Because he didn’t have his back turned to the killer, and he didn’t have injuries on his back. Yet all the other violence to the bodies is nearly identical.”
“So why?”
“We really have to talk to the wives again. Wives, friends, family, employers. These men made someone mad, and they may not even have known it.”
“I’ll make the calls.” Jerry had a far-off look now, as if he was thinking about something specific.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He didn’t say anything for a second, sipped his coffee, put it down. “Susan Standish is a kindergarten teacher. Sweet thing. I believed for a long time—until Steven James was killed four weeks later—that her husband was into something illegal. Didn’t really know what, just fishing, really. But a beatdown like that tells me he was punished. Drugs, screwing around with his best friend’s wife, maybe some corruption scandal with his employer. There were a lot of folks who were scammed after Harvey hit Houston. Contractors who came in, promised the moon, absconded with people’s life savings. Scumbags, all of them, if you ask me.” He sipped his coffee again. Lucy resisted pushing him to finish his thought. He was a slow and methodical cop, and she had to let him work it out.
Finally, Jerry said, “I asked Susan Standish if she thought her husband might have been having an affair. It wasn’t the first angle I looked at—by all accounts they were happy, high school sweethearts, and he had a history of misdemeanors when he’d been drinking, but no accusations of fooling around. Bar fights and whatnot, nothing serious. Most people said he was a good guy and worked hard—good at his job. Quality work. Strong work ethic. I was looking more into the jobs he’d done, to see if someone sued him, or maybe he didn’t do something he was supposed to, or it was shoddy work. Talked to everyone he’d ever been in a fight with. And nothing stuck. I looked at a gambling problem—he liked to bet on sporting events. But word was it was small bets, nothing over a hundred bucks, nothing that would get to serious payback. So I went back to the wife, asked about her husband having maybe an affair. She flat out said no.”
“You think she was lying.”
“Not at the time. At the time I’d say she was indignant, stunned, hurt that I would malign his name like that. But maybe now that she has thought about it, she might have some different thoughts.”
“And that helps us how? We have two other victims who probably weren’t having an affair with the same woman. And based on Garcia’s schedule, I don’t see how he would have the time.”
“Just one more angle to look at.”
Lucy nodded. “Let’s look. Maybe you’re right. And maybe these men aren’t the upstanding citizens we think they are.”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe this is a vigilante killer. Someone exacting their own brand of justice. I came up against one before. Justified every cold-blooded murder he committed because those he killed had hurt others.” She didn’t mention that they were sex crimes. “Or these men were a witness to something. Maybe they witnessed the same crime.”
“We haven’t put them together in the same place yet, but my people are looking.”
“You need more manpower, let me know. The FBI has some great tools at our disposal.”
He didn’t respond, drained his coffee. Did he think that she was trying to take the case? Nothing was further from the truth. Today had been a good day working together, they’d learned so much more about the crime scenes and had agreed on an approach. “I’m going to light a fire under Ashley’s butt tomorrow morning on ballistics—we need the confirmation, so at least the sheriff has something to tell the press. And I’ll ask Ash to run through some scenarios on that fancy computer of his. I’ll call the wives and let you know when we can talk to them.”
“All right. I have a morning staff meeting, and then I’ll head out to your office.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Did we lose the conference room?”
“No.”
“Good. I want to go over everything again, look at the differences of each crime scene again, and see if there is a pattern we’re not seeing.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
She tilted her head. “Why would you?”
He didn’t respond.
She swallowed a confrontational comment and said, “See you tomorrow, Jerry.”
After church, Jesse had lunch at the boys’ home, then pulled Michael aside. “I heard Brian tell Ruth that he’s going to the park for extra soccer practice. There is no extra practice.”
“Shit,” Michael said.
“Didn’t you talk to him?”
“I tried—he told me I’m wrong. But I’m not.”
“We need to find out what he’s doing.”
“Come on.” Michael went downstairs and found Ruth. “Where’d Brian go?” he asked.
“Soccer again. Extra work, he said.”
Michael glanced at Jesse, nodded. He wanted him to lie to the nun? Was that a sin? He wasn’t Catholic, did it matter?
“Oh, I forgot that was today. We’ll catch up with him.”
“Back by five,” Ruth called out.
They went outside and Jesse said, “I feel like shit lying to her.”
“You didn’t really lie.”
“Feels like a lie,” Jesse muttered.
They started walking toward the practice field, which was only a mile away. But Jesse saw a dark sedan drive by, and he recognized the driver. “That’s the guy who was talking to Brian. I think Brian is in that car.” They turned left at the corner—away from the park, but toward the neighborhood where the Saints hung out.
“Can we use your Uber app? We’ll walk back, but if Brian is in trouble—I need to know.”
Jesse agreed. They caught a ride to a Starbucks that was only a few blocks from the house where they’d staked out Brian and his brother before.
Sure enough, the dark-brown sedan was right out front.
They went to the park they’d been at yesterday, and watched the house. Gangbangers came and went. With each one, Michael grew more agitated.
“I don’t understand what he’s doing,” Michael said. “He knows what kind of life this is. Why would he choose it?”
“You know, maybe you should just ask him. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“The Saints were disbanded until recently. I heard a few were out of prison but I didn’t think they could regroup so quickly, especially without a stable leadership.”
Where had Michael heard about the gang? From Sean? Someone else?
“I need to know what’s going on inside,” Michael said.
“I can—”
“No, you don’t fit into this neighborhood. I’m already worried that we’re being watched here, that the Saints will know us.”
“I was going to say, I can text Brian and ask him what he’s doing. That we’re at the soccer park but he’s not there.”
“Oh. That’s a good idea. And then?”
“Get him away from Jose at least, right? Maybe he’ll just come and meet us, then we can talk to him.”
“Okay, text him, we’ll see what he does.”
Jesse sent Brian a text message.
Ruth said you went to the soccer park to run drills—where are you? I’m here, you’re not.
He showed it to Michael, who nodded, then Jesse sent it. They waited.
A couple minutes later, Brian sent back one word: later
That meant nothing.
“What’s going on with him?” Jesse said, showing Michael the message. “Do you want to go in? Talk to him?”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Do these guys just kill people for no reason?”
“They would have a reason.” Michael glanced at him. “What did Sean tell you about how we met?”
“I know about the general and the crappy prison in Mexico and how you helped Sean and Kane rescue Dad’s friend the DEA agent. I mean, I know what you were forced to do and shit like that.”
“One of the things that I did was steal information that helped the police and Kane shut down the Saints. Plus, one of their leaders was in Mexico and got dead.”
“And they know it was you?”
“They know I stole the information.”
“What are you doing even sitting out here?”
“Jose and his people don’t know what I look like, I don’t think. I’m not afraid of them, but I can’t be sure that no one else knows. I need to talk to Brian, get him to come clean, and walk away. If he can’t—if he wants to and can’t—then we’ll talk to Sean. Okay?”
Jesse liked this less than yesterday, but what else could he do?
“Fine.”
Jesse’s phone vibrated twenty minutes later. It was Brian.
I’ll be there in thirty if you want to hang.
Jesse showed it to Michael. “We can walk it,” Michael said.
“Too hot. Back to Starbucks and we’ll get an Uber.”
Brian wasn’t at the soccer park in thirty minutes, and Michael grew increasingly frustrated. “Did he know? Did he see us?” Michael wondered out loud.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m tired of this. His lies. His games.”
“He could be in trouble. Maybe he walked. It would take thirty minutes to walk here.”
Just then they saw Brian crossing the field to where they were sitting under a canopy of trees. He was alone. “Hey,” he called out. “Sorry, I was meeting a friend from school, I didn’t want Ruth to get all worried.”
“You lied to her,” Michael said.
“No.”
“You lied to me.”
Brian didn’t look hot and sweaty—no way he’d walked from the Saints house. Jesse looked around—on the street, he saw the dark sedan. It was far away, he couldn’t make out if anyone was in the car, but it was parked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you’ve been with your brother.”
Brian paled. “I—no.”
“You lied to Ruth, you’re lying to me.” Michael was livid, and Jesse thought for a second that he was going to hit Brian.
The car pulled away from the curb and drove slowly off.
“Who was that, Brian?” Jesse asked.
“Stay out of this, Jess.”
“You’re going down a dark road,” Michael said. “A road you’ve been on against your will. You think it’s better when you’re not in chains?”
“It’s not like that. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about! You need to decide if you’re one of them, or if you want to live.”
“That’s not the choice.”
“That you can’t see that after everything that happened, after what you saw. What you did. What we all had to do … you’re not that blind.”
“Just—leave me alone.”
Brian started to walk away, and Michael spun him around, held him by the arm. “Is that what you want?”
Brian stared at him, obviously confused.
Jesse saw the same car drive by again.
“Michael, they’re coming back.”
“Do they know about me? About Saint Catherine’s?”
“N-no. Of course not.”
Jesse wasn’t sure Brian was telling the truth, and it was clear that Michael didn’t believe him, either.
“Let’s go,” Michael said. “The back way. I’m not leading anyone to our sanctuary. The only place any of us have ever felt safe. If you bring them to our doorstep, Brian, I will never forgive you.”
“I wouldn’t do that, I swear.”
But in that admission, Brian realized that now he had outed himself: He had essentially confirmed that he was communicating with his brother.
“Jose has changed, Michael.”
“People like him don’t change.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Follow me or go back to your brother and never return to Saint Catherine’s.”
“I—I’m coming,” Brian said, and the three of them ran through the park to the opposite street.
The car was circling around, but they had the advantage of being on foot. Michael said, “We cut through those apartments. Follow me, don’t look back, and don’t slow down.”
They ran.