Megan looked at her notes. “That was issued on Friday. Three days before Price was killed. Vegas ran the M.O. and up popped Johnson, so they contacted their local FBI office about a killer crossing state lines. That was … last Wednesday.”
“I contacted Jose when I got the sheet. He’s the detective in charge, I’ve worked with him before. He told me they had shit-excuse me-and were hoping that Vegas would come up with something more. You headed there next?”
Megan glanced at Hans with raised eyebrows. “Are we?”
“Yes. If we get what we need here, we’ll be on a plane tomorrow night. The Vegas file is pretty thin. Either there was no evidence or it hasn’t been processed. We might be able to help expedite on that end.”
Davis asked, “Do you think he’ll strike again so soon?”
“They will most certainly kill again,” Hans said, “and sooner rather than later.” He explained his theory to Davis about why the killers waited a longer time between killing Johnson and Perry than Perry and Price. “That’s why it’s doubly important to scrutinize this crime scene even more carefully.”
“They could have been waiting for a specific day,” Megan said, “or they didn’t have a good opportunity. Perry had an on-again/off-again girlfriend. There’s nothing here about whether they were on or off and for how long. Just that she hadn’t seen him in two days.”
“Exactly,” Hans said. “They want their victims alone.”
“What did local police think happened?” Megan asked Davis.
“For a while the thought was organized crime. The hamstrings, the torture-restraint. As if he knew something or hadn’t paid up, or maybe screwed around with another man’s wife. But nothing connected. Even his ex was shocked and had nothing but good things to say about him.”
“Then why’d they divorce?” Hans asked.
Megan knew there were many reasons to divorce, even if you liked your spouse.
Davis shrugged. “Jose might know. Johnson was well-liked by friends and family, thought to be moody, and had a few friends from his army days who took his death pretty hard. But no one with a beef, no one who knew of a problem, no disgruntled customers.”
“We’ll need to talk to his friends from the army,” Megan said.
Davis pulled up in front of the main Austin police station. He slid an official business placard on his dash and they got out.
Jose Vasquez was much younger than Megan had thought after speaking with him on the phone. He looked about twenty, but being a detective, Megan figured he had to be closer to thirty. He was short and wiry, completely antithetical to his deep voice.
He and Davis knew each other, and Megan could tell that having the local fed with them was a big benefit.
“I found you a conference room,” Jose said, “and all my files are there. Got photos, the coroner’s notes you asked for, Agent Vigo, witness statements, evidence reports. The whole nine yards.”
“Can we get out to the crime scene?” Megan asked.
“It’s been cleaned out. Everything was left to Johnson’s kids, and his ex is selling the place and putting the money into a trust for them. Probably best thing, I wouldn’t be too keen on keeping a place where someone I cared about was killed.”
“But we can still access it, right?” she asked.
“I’ll get us in, just takes a call. Why don’t you sit down, make yourselves at home-coffee is right around the corner.” He left.
Hans sat down, full of nervous energy. Very unlike his usually easygoing demeanor. “Something up?” Megan asked casually.
“There’s something off. I don’t know what. I need more information, as much as I can get, and maybe I’ll figure out what’s bothering me.”
“We got the parking garage security tapes back. Someone scrambled the digital code.”
“And no one noticed?” Davis asked.
“They’re not monitored twenty-four/seven. They’re supposed to be a deterrent.”
“Seems like the killers would have had to know that, otherwise they wouldn’t have been comfortable sitting there for hours. What about the switched license plates?” Hans asked. “Is Sac P.D. following up on that?”
“Yes,” Megan said, then explained to Davis about the security guard making rounds in the garage and taking note of the license plates of cars left overnight. She then said to Hans, “What I don’t get is, they obviously knew all about the security at the garage, but how did they know Price would be there? The guy’s homeless.”
“Maybe they picked him up. Or have been following him for a few days, finding out where he liked to walk or sleep. Where was he attacked?”
“In the stairwell of the garage.”
“Could he have been sleeping in there?”
“It’s possible,” Megan said. “Black and his people are talking to the victim’s friends. But the homeless don’t like talking to cops. So far he’s not getting a lot out of them.”
But it made sense that the killers had watched Price, just like they knew when Duane Johnson would be coming home from work.
“I haven’t studied homeless psychology in detail,” Hans said, “but many who congregate in an urban environment like this have mental problems, often including drug addiction.”
Megan nodded. “But here’s Price, who didn’t appear to be an addict, who was AWOL and even the army didn’t know where he was. So how did these two killers rout him out? He was a specific target. How did they find him?”
“That’s a damn good question.”
Megan pulled out her cell phone and dialed Detective Black. She posed her question to Black, and added, “There may be a witness. Someone who saw something, maybe someone following Price.”
“The homeless in this area have had regular skirmishes with the local police. They’re suspicious by nature. They’re not talking to me. I’ve been trying.”
“What about your friend Abrahamson? The guy who went undercover? Pose the dilemma to him, maybe he can come up with something.”
“Good idea. When will you be back from Texas?”
“Anyone’s guess. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Appreciate it.”
Megan hung up and told Hans about the conversation. He was deep into reading the files. She picked up the evidence report and pored through it. The victim, Duane Johnson, had left his restaurant, Duane’s Rib House, at just before eleven Wednesday night, February 11. This was habitual, the restaurant stopped serving at ten, according to his employees, and they were always out by eleven. Duane worked every day except Mondays and had an assistant manager who opened five days a week.
It was this assistant manager, Joanne Quince, who began to worry when Duane was late on Thursday. “Duane always comes in by four-I have to pick my kids up no later than five from the sitter. He’s never been late.”
At four-thirty, she called his cell phone, then his house phone, then his ex-wife, Dawn. Joanne left one of the waitresses in charge, picked up her kids, then left them with a neighbor and drove to Duane’s house. Dawn was already there, crying, and on the phone with the police department.
“We couldn’t live together, but I loved him. He was a great father. Never missed a child support payment. We had dinner together every Sunday, for the kids.”
When the police arrived, they found evidence that someone had picked the garage door lock. Duane didn’t have an alarm system, he lived in an attractive middle-class rural neighborhood-everyone had a couple acres, the modest ranch-style homes were set far back from the road, and a flood canal separated the front yards from the street. There were no fences, but no one would have been able to see inside the house. The blinds were all closed.
Johnson had been attacked in the garage after pulling in and closing the door behind his truck. The garage light had been loose, and while no fingerprints were on the bulb or surrounding assembly, the dust had been disturbed, indicating that someone had deliberately disabled the light. Johnson’s hamstrings were cut in the garage, then he was dragged into the house and duct-taped to a chair.