Santos nodded. “He didn’t much like the idea that she was graduating from college and moving to Chicago. They haven’t pinned the murder on him, but the cops think it’s a matter of time.”
“He got an alibi?” Beck said.
“Pack of his buddies swore he was drinking with them most of the night.”
“So what does Lou Ellen Fisk have to do with this victim?”
“White dress, young, blond,” Stiles said. “Can’t speak to the Fisk case, but whoever killed this little gal, planned it all out.”
Beck pulled rubber gloves from his back pocket and moved toward the technician working the site. The cast of his shadow caught the technician’s attention. She rose and turned, and he recognized her immediately. “Melinda Ashburn.”
She’d worked the murder of Misty Gray. He’d watched her open the bag and tenderly examine and record what remained of the little girl’s body. In her late twenties, Melinda wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat that protected a stock of red hair and pale, freckled skin. “Good to see you back, Sergeant Beck.”
“Good to be back. What did you find, ma’am?”
“Still taking pictures and sketching. As you can see she’s got a good bit of bruising around her neck. My guess is strangulation.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do see that.” The rising heat of the day beat down on Beck. The body had yet to take on the coiling smells of decay, but that would soon change. Nighttime temperatures had bumped close to eighty and faint dark patches, the first signs of decomposition, had started to appear on her cheeks. Soon the body would bloat and then split. By sunset she’d barely be recognizable. If left out here a couple of days, she’d quickly go the way of Lou Ellen Fisk.
He crouched and studied the details: neatly trimmed nails, delicate hands that didn’t look like they’d seen hard labor and smooth skin unmarked by the hard Texas sun. “She can’t be much more than twenty.”
“That’s my guess,” Melinda said.
“Any identification?”
“None that I’ve found. But we’ll roll her prints as soon as she gets to the medical examiner’s office.”
Prints were no guarantee of identification. If she wasn’t in the Automated Fingerprints System known as AFIS, they’d start digging through missing persons reports. “Any signs of bruising or wounds on her face or arms?”
A warm wind skidded across the grass, teasing the hem of the victim’s white skirt. Her almost peaceful features mocked what had to have been terrifying last minutes.
Beck flexed his gloved fingers as he stared at the woman. “Is she clenching something in her right hand?”
“I think so,” Melinda said. “I’ll be getting to it soon enough.”
“I don’t want to rush your process, but when you open that hand let me know what you find.” Again a vague memory pestered.
Beck rose, thanked Melinda, and turned to Santos. A muscle in the back of Beck’s neck tensed as it did when he grabbed for a memory out of his reach. “Why does this case feel familiar?”
“Bugging the hell out of me, too,” Santos said.
Beck rested hands on hips as he mentally shuffled through old case files. Strangulation. White dresses. Blond females. And then the memory hit. “Remember the Seattle murders six or seven years ago?”
Santos rubbed his chin. “I do. I was still with DPS then. The press called him the ... Seattle Strangler.”
As mental gates opened, the memories flooded. “Six women were strangled and all were wearing white. Each had a penny in her hand.” The penny detail had never been released to the public but Beck had heard about it through police channels.
Santos nodded. “Good memory.”
“He caused a panic in Seattle. I read about it in some report, but when the case went cold, it was pushed to the back burner.”
“The guy ever caught?”
“From what I remember, no. His last victim survived. The killer went dark, and I heard all kinds of theories. He was jailed. Died. Moved on. Lost his nerve.”
“What happened to the last victim?” Santos said.
“A passing motorist interrupted the attack.” Beck dug deeper. “The surviving victim claimed no memory of the assault.”
Santos glanced toward the victim splayed in the dirt. “San Antonio victim’s bones were bleached white and scattered by the animals. We don’t know how she died. And a penny didn’t turn up during the search.”
“No one was looking for it.”
“True. And if the killer left a penny, we had a hell of a storm last month that likely washed it away.”
As Santos turned to respond to a question from a DPS officer, Beck shoved out a breath and turned back toward the body. “Melinda, would you do me a favor and have a look inside that gal’s hand? Mighty important.”
She nodded and squatted by the clenched hand. Carefully, she peeled back fingers stiffening with rigor mortis. As she raised her camera to photograph her discovery, she said, “There’s a penny.”
Beck leaned closer. “You sure about that?”
“Very.” She snapped dozens more pictures.
Beck called Santos over and pointed to the victim’s hand.
Santos took one look at the penny and swore. “This nut might have resurfaced in Texas?”
“Or a copycat.” Beck rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He’d need all the information San Antonio had on the first victim and an identity on this victim quickly.
“These cases could stir up a hornet’s nest,” Santos said.
“I believe you are right.”
Melinda bagged the penny in a small zip-top evidence bag. “Beck, I’ll pass it on to the medical examiner in Austin.”
“Thanks, Melinda. Appreciate that.” Beck turned to Santos. “I’ve got to get situated in the office, and then I’ll swing by the medical examiner’s office. I want to be there for the autopsy.” He’d not seen his desk in three weeks, but he welcomed the waiting chaos.
“Sounds good, Sergeant.”
Beck turned back toward the road and caught sight of the big rig. The massive black cab hauled a trailer loaded with lumber. “You said a trucker called in this murder?”
“Yeah.”
“He still in his rig?”
“Yep, and getting more pissed by the minute. He’s squawking about schedules.”
“Let me talk to him.” Beck moved toward the truck cab and knocked on the driver’s-side door window. No one was in the cab, but these big rigs came with a rear sleep compartment. Beck’s grandfather, Henry Beck, had been a long-haul trucker in his younger days before opening his garage and often said that during his trucking days, he’d have traded a year’s worth of steak and sex for a solid twelve hours of sleep.
Beck pounded his fist on the side of the cab. Finally, a gruff, “Just a damn minute.”
Beck stepped back, squinting north over the median into the oncoming interstate traffic, now moving slower and slower as motorists tried to glimpse the crime scene. Soon there’d be a hell of a backup on I-35.
After some shuffling, cussing, and more shuffling the cab door opened and a tall bear of a man appeared. He wore jeans, a Dallas Cowboys black T-shirt, and a belt buckle shaped like Texas. He grabbed his hat from the cab, smoothing back thick gray hair before settling the cap on his head. “You here to tell me I can go?”
“In just a minute or two. Right now I’d like a rundown.”
The trucker pulled a can of dip from his back pocket and tucked a pinch of tobacco in his cheek. “I already told the other cops.”
Beck shoved aside irritation. “And I do appreciate that. I do. But mind running it by me one more time, Mister ... ?”
“Raynor. Billie Raynor.”
He pulled a small notebook and pen from his back pocket. “You’re from?”
“El Paso.”
“So how’d you find the body? Can’t be seen from the road.”
“’Cause I had to pee like a damn race horse. Fucking prostate. Thought I could
make it to the next stop but was about to bust so I pulled over. Figured I’d drain the well and get back on the road. Then I saw the buzzards flying overhead. I couldn’t see what they saw, but thought I’d take a look. Twenty steps and I saw her. At first I thought she might be sick or asleep, but as I got closer I saw the flies.” He shuddered. “Looked like she was covered in wax.”
“Did you see anything or anyone else?”
“No. Just the woman and the buzzards.” He jabbed his thumb toward his cab. “Hightailed it back here and called the cops.”
“Appreciate that.”
He spit. “Enough to let me get going? That damn deputy has held me up for two hours.”
“I suppose you should be grateful he’s not hauling you to the station for questioning.”
The trucker’s gaze hardened. “Why the hell would you do that?”
Beck grinned. “Killers have called in their own work before.”
“Well, not me.” He lifted his hat and smoothed his palm over his damp brow before replacing it. “Shit. I should have just kept driving.”
“You drive all over the state?”