The Seventh Victim (3 page)

He flipped on his office lights and for a moment stood in his office door, silent and still, his gaze roaming over what had been so familiar twenty-one days ago.

Desk piled high with papers. Shelves crammed full of books and scattered awards. Texas A&M diploma on the wall. A print of Galveston Island at sunset. Beck standing in front of his grandfather’s garage with his mother and brother.

His return from leave barely two hours old, he stared at the picture of his family, remembering no matter how much a man wished, hoped, or loved, nothing lasted forever. He’d learned that fact the day his father had walked out. Beck had been three. His brother two. His mother nineteen.

His mother, Elaina Beck, terrified and desperate, had turned to the very man who had condemned her marriage: her father-in-law, Henry Beck. Beck remembered the fear and rage thundering through his body as he’d stared at his mother’s tear-streaked face and his grandfather’s stoic, grizzled features. As much as he’d wanted to cry, he’d squeezed his mother’s hand and snuggled close to her.

Beck shrugged off his suit jacket, carefully hung it up on a hanger dangling from the hook on his office door, and then placed his hat on the edge of his desk.

A glance at his overflowing in-box told him a Ranger’s work went on regardless of his or anyone else’s troubles. Flexing his fingers, he sat behind his desk and flipped on his computer.

“I figured you’d slither back in here like a rattlesnake.”

The deep baritone belonged to Captain Ryder Penn. In his late fifties, the captain had been with the Rangers for over twenty-five years. Tall, lean with tanned, sun-etched skin, Penn looked as if he’d been plucked out of the American West. At his twenty-fifth anniversary party there’d been jokes circulating that Stephen F. Austin himself had recruited him. Jokes aside, Penn was a crackerjack investigator.

Beck rose, kept his tone even. “Giving it my best effort. With luck I’ll slide back into the old routine without anyone noticing.”

Penn extended his hand to Beck. “Not likely.”

Beck accepted his hand and shook, burying the heated exchange they’d had when Penn pulled Beck off the job. “I just want to get back to work.”

Penn stepped back, casting his gaze over the in-box. “Hope you’re willing to hit the ground running.”

“Fast as I can.”

Penn paused as if wrangling with unspoken thoughts and maybe an apology. “Santos said you’ve seen the crime scene on I-35.”

“The victim was a woman, dressed in white, blond. She appears to have been strangled and posed. Sheriff Stiles suspects the victim is connected to one found in San Antonio about four weeks ago. There wasn’t much left of the first victim after a month in the open, so it’s too early to tell.”

Penn’s gaze narrowed. “How did the first victim die?”

“Cause of death was inconclusive.”

“So what’s the connection?”

“The first victim appeared to have been wearing a white dress.”

“A white dress.” Penn shook his head. “Slim. And you got a mighty full plate, Beck.”

This case had already sunk its teeth into him. “I’ll make room. The medical examiner is going to be doing the autopsy this afternoon. I’d like to be there.”

Penn stared at him hard. “Sure. I’ll give you this one. But look at your backlog before you dive in and no more lone-wolf shit.”

“Will do.”

Penn studied Beck an extra beat and then left him alone with his overflowing in-box and an unshakeable curiosity for two murders that might or might not be related.

He spent the better part of the morning digging through his in-box and getting a handle on the active cases he’d been forced to put aside.

Several hours passed before he tore away from his backlogged files to do an Internet search. In the search engine he typed:
strangulation, white dress, female.
Several unrelated hits appeared, but halfway down the page a reference to the Seattle case popped up. He clicked the link to an article that had been written five years after the last attack. The anniversary perspective outlined the history of the six murder victims—all young women who’d been strangled and dressed in white. A seventh victim had survived her attack, but police had never revealed the woman’s identity. The article also discussed the fact that police had never found the Seattle Strangler.

The hinges of his chair squeaked as he continued searching the Seattle Strangler case and reading through old online references to the case.

Six Women Dead.
One Survivor.
A Missing Killer.

Beck absently tapped his fingers on the keys to his computer, and then checked his watch. Seattle would be two hours behind, making it about 12
PM
West Coast time.

He picked up his phone and dialed Seattle Police. When he was finally connected to the homicide department and got a Detective Steve Cannon on the phone, he introduced himself.

“Well, sir,” Beck explained. “We have two murders that remind me a bit of a few cases you had some years back.” He recapped the details of what he knew about his two victims.

Detective Cannon hesitated. “I’ve had calls like yours over the years. Cops like you who think a strangled blond woman is linked to the Seattle Strangler.”

“Your victims have a penny in their hands?”

A heavy silence radiated through the lines. “No one has ever mentioned the penny.” Cannon hesitated. “We kept that detail close to the vest.”

Beck doodled a box around
Seattle
on his desk pad. “The guy was never caught.”

“No, he was not.” Defensiveness sharpened the words.

Beck understood that Cannon had to have been frustrated. No cop liked losing one of the bad guys. “Sounds like you were pretty involved in the case.”

“Spent a lot of hours working with my partner on it. I hated that we couldn’t crack the case.”

“Your partner couldn’t have been pleased.”

“Royally pissed, to put it mildly. Mike was real disappointed.”

“Mike?”

“Mike Raines. He retired six years ago. Opened his own detective agency here in Seattle. I can tell you that Raines just about drove himself insane trying to find the killer. Shit, we all did.”

Beck understood that kind of drive. That kind of obsession. He wrote
Raines Detective Agency
on a yellow notepad and circled it. “What about the surviving victim? She still in Seattle?”

“I lost track of her, but I’d bet Raines might know her whereabouts. Like I said, he fixated on the case. He wanted this guy in the worst way.”

“Why’d this case get under his skin?”

Cannon sighed. “You telling me you haven’t had a case that got under your skin?”

Beck shoved aside images of Misty Gray’s dead body. “Point taken. Do you remember the name of the survivor?”

Cannon exhaled. “That I do remember. Lara Church. We never released the name publicly to protect her privacy.”

The name meant nothing to him as he jotted it on the notepad. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced at Raines’s name, his in-box, and then his watch. “Thanks.”

“I’d have said your guy wasn’t the Seattle Strangler, if not for the penny. Shit, I can’t believe he’d resurface after all this time.” Cannon sounded weary. “Keep me posted?”

“Will do, and if I have more questions, I’ll give you a call?”

“I’d be mad if you didn’t. It’s been seven years, but I still want this guy caught. I know Mike would feel the same.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Appreciate it.”

Beck hung up and checked his watch. The medical examiner’s autopsy was scheduled in a couple of more hours. Hopefully, he’d know if he had a connection to Seattle or not.

He glanced down at his pad where he’d written
Seattle Strangler . . . Lara Church
.

Beck’s late afternoon skidded through a haze of case files, welcome backs, meetings, and phone calls. He was knee deep in securing a warrant when Penn appeared in his doorway cradling a mug of coffee. “Thought you’d be at the medical examiner’s office now.”

Beck checked his watch. “Delays in the ME’s office. Said he’d be starting the autopsy in a half hour or so.”

“And you still plan to observe?”

“As soon as I get this warrant.”

“Let me worry about the warrant. You get to the ME’s office.” The uncharacteristic offer no doubt doubled as the only apology Beck would get from Penn on the Gray case.

“I’ve just about got it.”

“I know. But go on and get. Let me get it taken care of for you.”

Beck rose, noting the stiffness in his back. “I’ll keep you posted.”

A wall of heat hit Beck as he moved out of the air-conditioning of the Rangers’ offices and moved across the parking lot to his car. Even late in the day, heat thickened the interior and the leather seats scorched his back as he slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine. Soon the air-conditioning hummed, and he was on his way to the ME’s office.

Out of his car, heat rose off the asphalt as he crossed to the medical examiner’s building. The thick smell of ammonia and death greeted him as he signed in and strode toward the medical examiner’s office.

A reed-thin man with a dark mustache stood behind a desk covered in stacks of files, journals, and papers. He wore scrubs and a surgical cap, which covered a stock of dark hair. “Heard you might be joining me.”

“Doc.”

Dr. Hank Watterson was in his late thirties and had joined the medical examiner’s office just months ago. From Colorado, he’d served in the air force after graduating from medical school. “Beck. Santos called. He’ll be here in ten minutes. Traffic delay.”

A Ranger spent a good bit of his time in the car covering his territory and understood stalled traffic, storms, and a dozen other delays could slow him down. After more pleasantries, Beck donned a surgical gown and gloves and followed Watterson into the autopsy room. The victim lay on a stainless steel gurney. A white sheet covered her slight frame except for the shock of blond hair, which peeked out by her shoulder.

“I did a quick look at the body this morning. The bruising around her neck is consistent with strangulation, but I’ll make the official call once I’ve done a full exam.”

Dr. Watterson’s assistant, Fran, a slight woman with mousy brown hair, nodded to Beck as she clicked on the overhead light and double-checked the instruments. “Ready, Doc,” she said.

The doors pushed open, and Santos appeared unruffled and ready to work. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be good to go.” He removed his hat and, like Beck, donned surgical gear.

Santos stood shoulder to shoulder with Beck as the doctor began the external examination of the body.

She’d been a pretty little lady: petite, delicate frame, high slash of cheekbones. She had no signs of drug use and sported a yellow rose on her right ankle.

The doctor did a full set of X-rays including her neck, which he put on the viewing screen. The hyoid, a horseshoeshaped bone in the center of the neck, had been snapped.

“She was strangled,” Dr. Watterson said. “The snapped hyoid is consistent with strangulation.”

The internal exam showed no stress to internal organs. This woman had lived a clean life. What had attracted the killer? Her beauty and youth could have been factors. And her small stature would have made her an easier target.

When Beck stepped out of the autopsy room two hours later, the digital clock read 7:02
PM
. His stomach growled and he realized, except for a pack of nabs, he’d not eaten since a bagel at the garage. Coffee and a steak would tank up his reserves and keep him moving for hours.

Dr. Watterson emerged from the exam room. “Here are her personal belongings.”

Beck and Santos tossed their scrubs in the hamper and took the plastic bag filled only with a white dress. The simple dress was made of white cotton and brushed. Lace trimmed a scooped collar and a hem long enough to brush her ankles.

“There’s no label,” Beck said as he inspected the inside collar.

“It looks handmade,” Santos said.

Beck rolled a length of lace between his calloused fingers. “I called Seattle this morning about their Strangler case.”

“Kind of premature.”

“Maybe. But the killer took his time and Seattle never caught their Strangler.”

Santos shrugged stiff shoulders. “What do you know about the survivor?”

“Only a name. Lara Church. The lead investigator has retired but is still in Seattle. A private detective now.”

“So you gonna call him?”

“I want to dig more on our end. See if there are more connections.”

“What’s that in the evidence bag?”

Beck dug out a small plastic bag containing a penny. He studied the coin through the plastic. “The penny is dated 1943. A heavy patina suggests extensive circulation, but there is nothing remarkable about it.”

“So why put a penny in her hand?”

“Why dress her in white and why lay her on the side of the road? Crazy’s got its own set of answers.”

Beck didn’t have to wait long before he got identification on his Jane Doe. He’d been back at his desk less than an hour when a detective in Austin’s missing persons division called.

“Jim Beck,” he said, cradling the phone under his chin.

“Detective Walter Cass, with Austin Police Missing Persons.”

Beck leaned forward in his chair. “Detective Cass, what can I do for you?”

“I think I might have a hit on your Jane Doe.”

“Really?”

“We started a file yesterday on a Gretchen Hart, age twenty-two. She’d been a waitress at a diner near the university. Her boss got worried when she didn’t show up to work three days ago. He sent one of the other waitresses to her apartment, and when she didn’t answer, the gal got the manager to open up Hart’s place. No signs of trouble, but no Gretchen.”

“She could have just taken off.”

“Not her style according to the boss. Punctual and hardworking. She was a student studying English at the university and using the waitress gig to pay bills.” Paper rustled through the phone. “I’m looking at your autopsy picture, and it matches the pictures I have.”