Sarah Armstrong - 01 - Singularity (20 page)

“Seems more likely all the time, doesn’t it?” I said. This time it was David’s turn to nod.

“We have a partial fingerprint from a San Antonio murder, Detective,” David said. “The rangers will e-mail it to you as soon as we contact them. Please compare it to everything you have from the crime scene, especially that print from the window, ASAP.”

“And I’ve brought additional copies of our composite,” I added, pulling a stack from my bag. “Give them to all your officers canvassing the neighborhood. Someone has to have seen something. Any strangers, any unusual cars, anything.”

“Will do,” said Detective Maddock. “We’ll call in with a report as soon as we have something.”

I’d half-expected Evan Matthews, the
Galveston County Daily News
reporter, to be waiting in ambush as David and I exited the Neal home. He wasn’t—just a group of unfamiliar TV and newspaper reporters and photographers, held back by an army of Fort Worth P.D. officers. Instead of heading back to Houston, I suggested we visit the doctor’s office. “Our guy picked Neal out. He knew about him, what he did for a living. Somehow, he found out where Neal lived,” I said. “This one isn’t like Maria Gonzales. This wasn’t a chance meeting.”

After breakfast, bagels and cream cheese, we arrived at the clinic, on the second story of a low-rise office building near downtown Fort Worth, minutes after it opened for the morning. The plaque on the door read,
JAMES NEAL III, M.D. GYNECOLOGY, INFERTILITY
.

Inside, resting on chairs, reading magazines, the morning’s patients had already queued up. I rang a bell next to a sliding frosted-glass window and a thin, tightly wound woman in a white uniform, with a pencil perched behind her right ear, stared out at me.

“You and your husband will have to sign in,” she ordered. “If you’re new patients, there are a few forms to fill out. And, I might as well warn you, Dr. Neal hasn’t come in yet. He’s running late.”

“We’re not—”

“Then just sign in and sit down. What time’s your appointment?” she demanded. “I thought everyone was already here for the doctor’s first of the morning.”

I gave up explaining and pulled out my badge. The receptionist blinked, then said, “Come in.”

A buzzer sounded, and I felt the curious eyes of the couples in the room follow us as we opened the door and walked into the
office’s inner chambers, a maze of exam rooms, counters, clerks, and nurses.

“No explanations, just tell your patients the doctor won’t be in today,” I instructed the receptionist. “Then bring the staff together.”

Moments later, nurses and techs in white uniforms and surgical scrubs gathered in the doctor’s private office. Plastic models of ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uteruses lined shelves, interspersed among books on gynecology and silver-framed photos of Dr. Neal, his wife, and their children and grandchildren.

“I have a sketch here. I’d like all of you to look at it,” I said, pulling out the San Antonio composite. “Have you seen this man? He’s in his early twenties, blond hair, and he has a slight build.”

“Has something happened to Dr. Neal?” one nurse demanded.

“We’ll explain in just a minute. First, look at the sketch.”

Murmurs ran through the room as they passed the sketch from hand to hand, until it reached a small, ponytailed woman who looked to be in her early thirties. The white plastic name tag on her pink surgical scrubs read:
NANCY KRAMER R.N.

“You know who that is,” she said to the others. “That guy who hung around out front with the protestors. He was there yesterday.”

“Tell us about him,” I said.

“Not much to tell, really.” She shrugged. “We have a steady stream of anti-abortion protestors out front. They’re here maybe four times a week. Yesterday, there was this new guy with them, dressed all in black. We saw him from this window, right here,” she said, pointing to a window that looked out on the parking lot. “He wasn’t holding a picket sign like the others. He just stared at the building, up at our offices. Dr. Neal and I watched him through the office window. We thought it was really strange.”

“Why so strange?”

“First, because the guy was just weird, scary weird, the kind who makes your skin crawl,” she said. “Second, because none of the
protestors ever pay much attention to us. We’re not the reason they’re here picketing. They’re here because of the family-planning clinic on the first floor. Dr. Neal only worked with infertile couples.”

“He didn’t perform abortions,” David repeated.

“No, never,” she insisted. “If he ever did, I don’t know about it, and I’ve been with him for eight years. Dr. Neal says a doctor can’t treat infertile patients who want children so much they’d do nearly anything to have one and still do abortions.”

“How do we find this anti-abortion group?”

“They should be gathering any minute now. Right outside. Wait near the street entrance to the parking lot and they’ll find you. It won’t take long,” she said. “But first, tell us why you’re here and why you referred to Dr. Neal in the past tense. What’s happened?”

We walked out the office building front door to find a handful of protestors, three elderly men and two twenty-something women with small children, unloading a handful of picket signs from the trunk of a white Isuzu SUV. They read
ABORTION IS MURDER
and
IT’S NOT A FETUS, IT’S A BABY.

I passed around the composite, and they immediately recognized the young man as someone who’d stood on the sidelines of their group the day before.

“What can you tell us about him?” I asked one man.

“He was here off and on all day,” he said. “Just walked up and stood nearby while we picketed. Nothing much to tell.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No,” he said. “A couple of us tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t even acknowledge us. He kept staring up at the building, and then went inside for a minute. When he came out, he left.”

“Did you see his car? Can you give us a description, a license-plate number?”

“No,” said the man. “Like I said, he just kind of appeared. He must have parked on one of the side streets.”

David and I asked more questions, trying to uncover any clue to the man’s identity. They offered no answers.

“He just came out of nowhere,” said one of the women, quieting a crying toddler she bounced on her hip. “He sat on the curb for a while and watched and then left. He didn’t have anything to do with us.”

In the rental car on the way back to the airport where the helicopter waited, David sighed. “So he went after the wrong guy. Saw Dr. Neal’s name on the building directory and assumed he was an abortionist.”

“Looks that way.”

The reaction of the murdered doctor’s staff only made the killing seem more tragic. They described Neal as a good man, who volunteered his services to those who couldn’t afford hefty fees. One wall of his office was nearly wallpapered with photos of babies he’d helped bring into the world. Two evenings a week, he worked without pay at a clinic for indigent women.

“We’ve got to catch this guy, sooner rather than later,” I said. “Thursday at five
P.M.
, two days from now, without a damn good lead, I’m off this case. I can’t just walk away until we’ve got this guy in custody. The killing has to end.”

W
hen we reached Houston at just after eleven that Tuesday morning, the DPS office was in chaos. Outside, reporters milled and rushed forward as David and I walked toward the entrance. Front and center, Evan Matthews was not to be denied.

“What about these letters the killer is sending you, Lieutenant Armstrong?” he asked. “Why is he writing to you? What do they mean?”

“How do you know about the letters?” I demanded.

“Sarah, ignore him. Come inside,” David said, tugging on my elbow.

“Are you attempting to prove that Priscilla Lucas is innocent? Is that what all this is about?”

“The letters don’t prove Priscilla Lucas’s guilt or innocence,” I said.

“Well, this says they do,” Matthews said, holding up a copy of that morning’s
Galveston County Daily News
.

“Serial killer behind island murders: He claims a mission from God”

In a box, in bold print, ran the text of the first letter:
Why do you pursue me? Don’t you know that I do the work of another?

“Don’t you ask for comment before running stories like this?” I shouted.

“That’s why I’m here, Lieutenant. Tell me the truth. If there’s a serial killer murdering people in Texas, the public has the right to know. You have an obligation to warn potential victims.”

When I hesitated, he went on. “Are you or are you not tracking a serial killer? Isn’t that why you’ve just returned from Fort Worth? Wasn’t there another murder there just last night? A doctor?”

“How did you…?”

“Sarah,” David said, pulling me by my arm.

If the captain’s brusque manner when I walked into the office wasn’t enough evidence that I was in trouble, the sight of Jack Smith, the department’s only senior ranger captain, who reported directly to the director, settled the issue. As my pop was so fond of saying, I knew my goose was not only cooked but covered with gravy and on the dinner platter.

“Captain Smith,” I said, holding out my hand. “Good to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“Cut the crap, Lieutenant,” he ordered. “What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, lowering my unclaimed hand. “As far as I know, I’m just doing my job. You’re going to have to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Well, for starters, where’s this reporter, Evan Matthews, getting his information?” he demanded. “And how did he get a copy of that letter?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I did.”

“Lieutenant, the governor’s furious about all this. The rangers are
looking like buffoons, running off at the mouth, unable to control a high-profile investigation.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “All I can say is that I’m not the leak.”

“The lieutenant and I have had this conversation, sir,” interjected the captain. “I believe she’s telling the truth. She’s not the source of the newspaper stories.”

“Well, the rest of us aren’t so sure,” he said, shooting Captain Williams a warning glance. “Lieutenant Armstrong, you are to report to Judge McLamore’s courtroom in Galveston in two hours for a pretrial hearing in the matter of
Texas versus Priscilla Lucas
. My guess is that the good judge is deservedly more than a little angry. If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut and let him get it off his chest.”

“I’ll tell him the truth, that I’m not the source.”

“Then be prepared for an avalanche,” said Smith. “This morning the judge slapped a gag order on this case. He’s furious about the pretrial publicity, and there’s no doubt that you’re the one he’s after.”

“Well then, Lieutenant Armstrong, how
do
you defend yourself?”

Glaring down at me from the bench, Judge McLamore cut an imposing figure.

“I’m telling you the truth, Judge, I’m not the leak. I did not release that letter.”

The courtroom was packed. David watched from what during a real trial would be the prosecutors’ table, as newspaper and television reporters hovered in the gallery taking notes and shooting footage for the nightly news. In his vast and unquestioned wisdom, the judge allowed cameras into the courtroom. It was obvious that he intended to make an example of me.

“Then who is responsible?” asked the prosecutor in charge of the case, a pale, nervous man, openly peeved.

“Judge McLamore,” interceded Stan Gaville, Priscilla Lucas’s
attorney. “We contend there is no real problem here. This is an over-reaction to a few harmless newspaper stories.”

“We also have an objection to the placement of a gag order on this trial,” shouted another voice in the courtroom. The speaker, a painfully thin man with a narrow mustache tracing a barely present upper lip, stood to get the judge’s attention.
Who is he?
I wondered. Just then I noticed Evan Matthews perched beside him.

“Sir?” said the judge. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“Your honor, I’ve been retained by the
Galveston County Daily News
to represent the newspaper in this matter,” he said. “We believe it is in the public interest for citizens to be kept informed about the lieutenant’s investigation. If there is a serial killer on the loose, the people of Texas have a right to know. Our readers deserve to be kept abreast of the lieutenant’s investigation, not barred from information that could save their lives.”

The judge, who relied on those same citizens to reelect him to office every four years, looked perturbed by this glitch in what he undoubtedly thought would be the simple task of dressing down one errant Texas Ranger. Meanwhile, I listened anxiously, uncomfortable that a media hired gun and the accused’s attorney were speaking on my behalf. Then again, besides David, they seemed to be the only ones in the courtroom on my side.

“Mr. Gaville,” said the judge. “And, you sir, what is your name?”

“Jack Ballard, your honor,” the attorney said. “With the Houston firm of Quincy and Ballard.”

“Well, as I was saying,” the judge said, clearing his throat. “Mr. Gaville and Mr. Ballard, of the Houston firm of Quincy and Ballard, I understand why you’re not particularly concerned about the leaks and why it’s in both of your best interests for me to allow people involved in this investigation to be able to run off at the mouth about any old thing they’re investigating, whether it’s a real lead or the result of someone’s overactive imagination. But the prosecution
has as much right as the defense to a jury pool that hasn’t been contaminated over their eggs and orange juice by innuendo and baseless theories, proliferated by inflammatory headlines. I suggest you both sit down while I talk to Lieutenant Armstrong and get to the bottom of all this commotion.”

Looking disappointed but resigned, Gaville followed orders. Ballard, however, planted his feet and looked sternly at the judge, obviously ready to wage war.

“Judge, to be of assistance to you and this court, my office has compiled briefs offering an indication of how other Texas courts have ruled in such matters,” he said, his voice, raspy and raw, laced with a hint of condescension. “My clients and I believe that after reviewing these cases, you’ll agree with our conclusion, namely that many less restrictive avenues open to you offer more reasonable alternatives. The gag order you issued earlier today, with all due respect, your honor, is the most extreme of measures, overly drastic in circumstances such as these.”