“Why? If you have two other victims, why is this one so important?”
“If there are three known victims attributed to the same killer, where the M.O. is similar and there is a cooling off period, that puts these killers into the serial murderer category and they’re most likely to kill again. It frees up staff and resources at the federal level, and when we’re competing with other, higher-priority squads like counterterrorism and counterintelligence-”
“Say no more. I know someone at the DOD. Let me see what I can find out. What information do you have on the victim?”
Megan shared everything she knew, and thanked J.T. She felt immensely better knowing that she was at least working the case.
Her BlackBerry rang and it was an out-of-state number. She took the call.
The caller had a Texas drawl, definitely southern with a slight accent that sounded Hispanic. “Miz Elliott? This is Detective Jose Vasquez with the Austin Police Department. To what honor do I owe speaking with the FBI?”
Megan couldn’t tell if Vasquez was being sarcastic or not. Her office had a terrific relationship with local law enforcement; other regional divisions didn’t. She glanced at her watch. It was after eight in the evening, putting Vasquez in Texas two hours later.
“Working late,” she said.
“So are you.”
Okay, no small talk. “I’m working with Sacramento Police Detective John Black. He told me he spoke with you briefly yesterday about a homicide two months ago in your jurisdiction.”
“Yes. He had a similar M.O. And the FBI is involved?”
“Three cases, similar M.O.s, and Black called me in early. We’ve worked together before.”
“What do you need to know?”
“My victim was in the military. Army. I’m trying to track down any connection among the three victims, but so far other than their gender, that they lived alone, and were roughly middle-age, we have nothing.”
“I sent Detective Black a copy of our files.”
She’d read them. “There was nothing about a military record. Did you run a check?”
“No need to. I didn’t see anything in the house-well, he had a POW sticker on his truck. Lotta people have them.”
“I need his Social Security number to look up his records through the online military personnel system.” She’d put in the name and current address, but that wasn’t enough. “I have a copy of the autopsy report, but it’s a fax of a copy and the numbers are unclear.” She’d been surprised they were handwritten. Most records were typed or computer-generated now.
He rattled off the number. She wrote it down, then logged into the online military database and typed in the search parameters. She couldn’t access detailed records without a specific request that needed to be approved by the military, but she could pull up basic information like name, rank, last-known address, and status.
“What do you think is happening here? As I told Detective Black, the trail went cold mighty quick. No witnesses, no other like crimes. Our lab has been going over trace fibers, but so far nothing we can use. I was thinking revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Oh, yeah. Guy was hamstrung then had all these needle marks. Couldn’t see them until the autopsy. Reggie, the coroner, called me in to see them, he didn’t believe it. Hundreds under the skin, but a needle so thin it didn’t leave a visible mark unless you looked real close.”
“Revenge?” It didn’t make sense on the surface, but it felt like that to her. Personal. She cringed. She was beginning to sound a lot like her ex-husband. She preferred dealing with facts. The fact was that there was no evidence of revenge, unless she could find a specific connection among the three victims, something more specific than the possibility that they were all military.
She asked, “In your investigation, did you come up with a connection to Dennis Perry, the mechanic in Las Vegas?”
“Name ain’t familiar ‘cept from the hot sheet. When I saw it, I went through my notes. Name didn’t come up. Wish I could be more help.”
Her records search online was complete. She couldn’t suppress the excitement in her voice as she said, “Detective, I think we have our connection. Johnson was in the U.S. Army from 1986 to 2006, honorably discharged. Price was in the U.S. Army from 1978 to 2004, when he went AWOL.”
“That’s near a twenty-year overlap.”
“But it’s something I didn’t have before, and maybe Dennis Perry’s records can narrow it down further. Thank you for your help.”
“Call me if you need anything else. Keep me informed, all right?”
“I promise.”
Thirty minutes later, Megan had Perry’s service record and now a nine-year window-Perry was in the army from 1995 to 2005.
She grinned tightly. She had something! A slim thread, but it was more than she’d had this morning.
She picked up her phone to call Detective Black when her BlackBerry trilled again. She answered, “I was just about to call you.”
“The security tapes came in. Completely worthless.”
“Why?”
“Someone blocked the signal from seven p.m. until three a.m.”
“And no one noticed?”
“No one monitors the cameras. They operate automatically, more as a deterrent than anything else. And if someone gets his car vandalized, he can get a person on tape. But for practical or preventive security? Worthless.”
“Dammit,” she muttered. “What about the van?”
“Not on the camera before seven. That gave them an hour to drive in and disappear before security came through.”
“All tapes? Even the stairwells?”
“It’s all the same system. So what did you want to tell me?”
“I have a connection among the three victims.” She told him about their U.S. Army records.
“Were they stationed together?” he asked, excited.
“That’s going another level in, and I need more time. I can’t get it without a formal request. I’m giving it to one of my best analysts and I’ll let you know if anything comes up, but it won’t be tonight.” And it probably wouldn’t be tomorrow. Or the next day. Unless orders came down from high up the food chain, the army wasn’t going to jump immediately. And Megan didn’t have enough juice to go all the way to the top.
“I have plenty to do. By the way, I spoke to Greg Abrahamson, the detective who was undercover downtown. He knew Price. Not by name, but when I mentioned the clean hands Abrahamson knew exactly who I was talking about. Said he was obsessive about keeping clean. Washed his hands constantly, was known to bathe in the river regularly. No sicko ritual there for the killer.”
“Thanks for checking.”
Megan hung up and called J.T. back, only to get his voice mail. She left the information she’d learned about the three victims. There was no way she could get their military records quickly through traditional bureaucratic routes. But she might be able to get the information through other, faster channels.
She feared that if she didn’t figure out the connection soon, another veteran would die. She’d do everything in her power to stop it.
Jack had checked the Cessna Caravan’s instruments and now inspected the weather report in the small open office inside the private hangar. The sun was quickly disappearing and Jack wanted to get back to Hidalgo tonight. His trip had been troublesome on many levels, though it was good to see Patrick awake.
He heard footsteps and looked up to see Dillon approach. “Ma wasn’t the only one upset you didn’t come by the house.”
His twin brother knew just how to twist the knife. Jack shrugged, continued to look at the weather report but didn’t see anything new. “I called.”
“What happened between you and Dad today?”
Jack had never told anyone what had happened between him and the Colonel, and didn’t plan to break that silence now.
“Dammit, Jack, I thought we were beyond this martyr crap.”