The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

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.”

Beck scribbled the woman’s name on a pad. “The victim’s prints have no hits in AFIS.”

“I doubt this gal would be in the system. Seems squeaky clean. What happened to your victim?”

“Strangled. Body found this morning on the side of I-35.”

Cass released a sigh. “Sorry to hear that.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“I don’t have much else other than a DOB, height, and weight. But I can give you her boss’s name. Mack Rivers of the River Diner.”

“Can you send me her picture?”

“I’ll upload it now.”

“Thanks.” Beck hung up and checked his watch. Ten fifteen. Minutes later the picture arrived in his e-mail. A quick look and he knew he had his victim. The image featured a bright-eyed young girl who stared directly into the camera. Long, full, blond hair framed a face with skin as smooth as porcelain. His thoughts flashed to the crime scene and what the killer had done to this young woman. “Damn.”

A quick phone call to the River Diner told him he had two hours before closing. Standing, he stretched the knots from his back and crossed to his door where he retrieved his coat. He grabbed his hat and headed out.

The diner was less than a ten-minute drive from his office and within twenty minutes he sat in a booth scanning a menu. The place was nice enough. Fairly new, but built to resemble a classic fifties diner. The waitresses were young and wore matching pink

T-shirts that said THE RIVER DINER.

Beck ordered a burger, fries, and a soda and asked for the owner. The waitress hesitated and eyed him carefully for a moment and then left.

Minutes later a man approached him. Early forties with dark black hair and olive skin, he wore the same T-shirt as the waitstaff, but grease and flour stains covered his. “I hear you wanted to see me.”

Beck rose. “Sergeant Jim Beck with the Texas Rangers.”

“Mack Rivers.” He wiped his hands on his kitchen apron. “Does this have to do with Gretchen?”

“It does.” Beck nodded toward the booth seat across from him and waited until Rivers sat.

“Did you find her?”

“I believe we have.”

Rivers shoved out a breath. “This isn’t good news.”

“No, sir. We found her body early this morning.”

Rivers sat back as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “What happened?”

“She was strangled.”

“What?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, sir, news like this never does.” He pulled a pad from his breast pocket. “She have any boyfriends or family that you know of?”

Mack’s face paled as he fully absorbed Beck’s news. “No. Said she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. She was either working here or going to school.”

“What about patrons or any guy that might’ve been giving her a hard time?”

“Everybody liked Gretchen. Sweet kid.” Mack rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to distract himself from strong emotions.

“Where’d she go to school?”

“UT here in Austin.”

“She have close friends?”

Rivers pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting tears. “Everybody liked Gretchen. She was a good, hardworking kid. Are you sure it’s her?”