The Last Move

“Of course.” Within minutes, they were on the interstate headed south.

As Mazur raced down the highway, Kate’s phone rang. “My partner. I’ve got to take this.” She hit “Receive.” “Mike. Do you have Raymond Drexler?”

As she listened, the color faded from her face. “Thanks. Keep me posted.” She ended the call clutching the phone in her hand.

“What’s going on?” Mazur asked.

“Nevada received a call from a truck stop in southern New Mexico. The manager saw Drexler’s picture in the news, and he swore Drexler came into his store. Said he bought a razor and shaving cream. Nevada checked the store security-camera footage, and it offered a clear shot of Drexler’s face. My partner was calling me from a shower room reserved for the truckers at the site. There was hair in one of the shower stalls. Color fits Drexler. Plenty of samples for DNA testing.”

“New Mexico. He could go any number of places from there. Any idea where he’s headed?”

“My partner thinks he’s coming south. I’ve been in the news, and I ruined Drexler’s horror show at his farm.”

He glanced toward her as she stared out the window. “Cool as a cucumber.”

“Getting upset is a waste of time.”

He gripped the wheel. “I’ve seen some bad stuff, but this guy is really twisted. I don’t think I could be as calm as you.”

“You would do whatever you had to do to catch him, yes?”

“Hell yes.”

“Then if you needed to be calm, you would be.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

San Antonio, Texas

Wednesday, November 29, 3:00 p.m.

Kate struggled to stay relaxed as Mazur wove in and out of traffic. Mazur was silent as he punched the accelerator, and they traveled down the interstate at eighty-plus miles an hour with dash lights flashing.

Ahead she saw the lights and the police cars lined up along the side of an access road that ran parallel to the interstate. Dust kicked up as Mazur nosed his car behind the forensic van. They got out of the car and met by the hood as Mazur surveyed the area.

“A woman has been stabbed and dumped in this field,” Palmer said as she moved toward them. She’d removed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Sunglasses tossed back the sun’s reflection. Her black boots were covered with red dust.

Mazur accepted a set of rubber gloves from Palmer. “Do you have an ID on the victim?”

“We found her purse in the car. Driver’s license identifies her as Rebecca Kendrick, age twenty-six.”

“Rebecca?” Mazur asked.

Palmer nodded. “Yeah, what are the chances that Martin’s alleged girlfriend would also be named Rebecca?”

Mazur rested his hands on his hips. “What can you tell me about this Rebecca?”

“She was last seen at the coffee shop where she worked. It was her turn to close. She was supposed to meet a friend but didn’t show. That’s not like her, so the friend called it in. A passing motorist spotted her car.” Palmer looked at Kate. “Would love your take on this one.”

“It’s not like the Samaritan, so why call me?”

“Just have a look,” Palmer said. “This shit is right up your alley.”

Mazur and Kate followed Palmer across the field. Without any trees and the sun directly overhead, the warm autumn quickly cut through her dark jacket. She’d be covered in sweat eventually. As she stripped off her jacket and draped it over her arm, she noticed Mazur’s attention shifted to her and then back to the path ahead.

Several officers and deputies huddled just beyond the yellow crime-scene tape, perfectly still in the motionless air, that was strung between two poles staked in the desert dirt. The forensic technician snapped pictures of the woman’s body. In the dry heat the belly had already bloated. The red Texas dust never hesitated to reclaim its dead.

As Mazur and Palmer ducked under the tape, Kate remained on the outside, knowing the less contamination the better. She glanced around the open field and saw the heat rippling on the horizon.

She turned to the victim’s car, which had a temporary license plate suggesting she’d bought it in the last thirty days. The license plate holder read “Sanchez Motors.” It was a small, perhaps irrelevant connection to Gloria Sanchez, but it was there.

She scanned the area. Killers liked remote areas like this. It gave them the privacy and time they needed to visit with their victims. Over the course of her career, she’d seen hundreds of crime-scene photos set in areas just as remote as this one. She’d also listened to and watched countless recordings made by killers while torturing and murdering. No matter how many she captured, more would take their place.

Mazur waved toward her. “Kate, would you mind having a look at this?”

She ducked under the tape and was greeted by the heavy scent of death that would only grow more putrid by the hour. Palmer’s face was solemn, and any hints of her biting humor had vanished.

When Palmer stepped aside, Kate looked at the woman who lay spread-eagle on the ground. Her hands were tied to spikes and her eyes removed. Revulsion slithered through Kate, but she refused to react as she mentally armored herself against the scene. The body was no longer a person. It was rotting meat. Evidence.

A very odd sense of déjà vu overcame her as she knelt by the slender body and studied the chest and abdominal stab wounds. However, when she lifted her gaze to the mutilated eyes and the third eye painted in dried blood on the woman’s forehead, her memory tripped back to a case she’d worked.

As she studied the message the killer had sent via the body, she automatically compared and contrasted it with her case, which had resulted in an arrest.

Like the old case, there appeared to be thirteen stab wounds in total. All the cuts were near the heart, lungs, and abdomen, except for one across the throat. The mutilated eyes and the painted eye were the killer’s signature.

But that killer, Michael Carter, had covered his victims with dried leaves. This woman’s shirt remained ripped open, leaving her exposed to the elements. Some killers, like the Soothsayer, redressed their victims after the violence and posed them in a demure position—arms crossed over the chest, ankles crossed, and face covered. These were all signs of remorse and regret.

However, Rebecca Kendrick’s arms and legs had been left flung wide and the mutilation of her eyes displayed. The killer’s intent was to humiliate her and leave her vulnerable to the world.

Kate had seen this scene displayed before. “Something is not right.”

“Pretty messed up, if you ask me,” Palmer said.

“What I mean is that I’ve seen this before. There was a serial killer in North Carolina. They called him the Soothsayer.”

“You didn’t mention him after the briefing,” Mazur said.

“Because the case is closed. He stabbed three women over the course of two years and left partly buried bodies in a field. All the women were young prostitutes. When I asked him why he cut out the eyes, he told me he was certain the women could see into his soul.”

“You arrested him?” Mazur asked.

“I did. Based on a profile I drew up for the local police. His name is Michael Carter. He was a lawyer from a well-to-do family near Asheville, North Carolina. He was just convicted and sentenced to life in prison.”