He grinned. “It’s a date.”
Chapter Six
Monday, April 8, 5:00 A.M.
Brody woke early, the clock on the nightstand glaring in red back at him. He shoved a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Around him he surveyed the unpacked boxes, dirty clothes piled on the floor and collection of pictures that leaned in a neat stack against the wall. He’d made the move to Austin from Houston three weeks ago after an unexpected transfer had landed on his desk. In the last three years, the Rangers had bounced him all the way from El Paso to Brownsville. Most times when he settled in a new place he unpacked immediately. He liked order. But this go-around he’d not found the time to organize his apartment. The chaos grated on his nerves but nonstop action at the office had stolen all his time.
He’d rolled off the mattress, still sitting beside the bed frame he’d not assembled, and grabbed clothes he’d managed to pick up from the dry cleaners Saturday morning. A hot shower went a long way to making him feel human before he dressed. At his dresser he picked up his gun, cell phone and badge before he moved into the kitchen. He didn’t have many groceries but had managed to pick up coffee and bagels. He rinsed out the mug he’d used yesterday, snagged a bagel and headed to his car.
The drive into Austin took less than twenty minutes. However, this morning instead of heading to the off ice, he drove toward the medical examiner’s office, grateful to miss morning rush-hour traffic.
Sitting at a stoplight, he shrugged his shoulders, working the kinks from his neck and back. Fixing the damn bed had to be priority number one as soon as he had a spare minute. As a Ranger he’d spent enough time sleeping in bad motel beds, cars and bedrolls in an open field. When he’d been younger his body had been more forgiving. It took the abuse he tossed its way. Not so much anymore. He needed to get his bed together and get his routine back.
His folks lived in Austin and they had offered to put his place together or lend him their spare room, but he’d declined. Lord knows they’d not deny him. Hell, they’d jumped through lots of hoops to get him raised and educated. But going back to that wasn’t right.
When he’d been in Jo’s house, he’d been struck by the home’s comfort. Not fussy, high-priced furniture but comfortable and clean. Her walls had been lined with bookshelves stocked full of well-creased books. Jo had always loved her books, even in college. When he’d first come into the tutoring center she’d been sitting in one chair, feet propped in another, reading. It had been a book on math theories. He’d known instantly he was out of his league.
But that message hadn’t reached his dick. From the moment she’d first explained that mumbo-jumbo English literature, his Johnson had pulsed hard. She was pretty but not a stunningly beautiful woman. Not like the cheerleaders and sorority girls who hung around the team. She’d worn no makeup, a gauzy peasant top that silhouetted full breasts while hiding a narrow waist, and god-awful shoes old women favored. And yet his boner made it damn near impossible to think.
He’d figured all the crap that had crowded between them fourteen years ago would have tempered his reaction to her, but when he’d seen her climbing on that damn wall, he’d been right back in the past—dumbfounded and rock hard.
Shit.
Better to let that one go, son. You scorched that bridge a long time ago.
A horn beeped, Brody spotted the green light and punched the gas. Minutes later he reached the medical examiner’s office.
Brody pushed through the stainless swinging doors connecting to the autopsy room and found the pathologist, Dr. Hank Watterson, talking to his assistant. Both dressed in scrubs, they stood in front of a gurney holding a sheet-clad body. Watterson, in his late thirties, had joined the medical examiner’s office last year. From Colorado, he’d gone through medical school on an Air Force scholarship.
“Ranger Winchester,” Watterson said, glancing up. He wore heavy rimmed glasses, his sandy blond hair brushed back off a narrow face etched with deep laugh lines around his mouth and forehead.
Brody extended his hand. “Dr. Watterson.”
Dr. Watterson glanced at the clock. “Beck is sending Santos to work the case with you. And Santos called and said he’s running late. Traffic on I-35.”
“Always an accident on that stretch of road.” He eyed the still, white sheet that draped the body of the fourth victim they’d found yesterday. “A few minutes here or there won’t make much difference.”
Dr. Watterson reached for a file perched on a stainless-steel table. “I gave Beck a preliminary rundown when he called this morning. Want to hear it?”
“Shoot.”
“We’ve not analyzed the skeletonized remains yet. We’re waiting on dental records and X-rays. But I hope to get those in a day or two.”
“That’s fast.”
“When Harvey Lee Smith’s name is attached to a case it gets bumped to the front of the line.” Watterson moved toward the stainless gurney holding the sheet-clad remains of the most recent body. He reviewed the stats. “She was in her early twenties, stood five foot six and weighed about one-twenty. I’ve identified three tattoos: the butterfly, which I understand Dr. Granger spotted on her inner left wrist. She also has a tattoo on her back right shoulder blade. It’s the initials CTB. Pierced ears and belly. An old scar on her right hand that was stitched. Blond hair, though her natural color is darker. No implants or any visible surgeries.”
“Jo thinks we have Christa Bogart.”
“I was able to get a partial print from her right thumb and index fingers. I’ve sent both off for analysis.” Brody shifted his stance as the doctor reached for the sheet and pulled it off the victim’s face. “Should have an identification in the hour.”
“There was a significant amount of dirt in her nostrils and mouth—consistent with being buried alive. Her fingernails were caked with dirt and her skin marked with rope burns as if she struggled and tried to dig at the dirt around her. When I open her up I’ll check her lungs and stomach for dirt.”
Brody shook his head. “Hell of a way to die.”
“She was not sexually assaulted. No vaginal bruising. No semen. No foreign DNA on her body.”
“She was missing for several weeks before she died.”
“Yes. But whoever had her did not assault her physically.”
The doors to the autopsy room opened to a frowning Santos. “Traffic is a bitch this morning.”
“That’s what you get for living in San Antonio,” Brody said.
“I’d be up in Austin but my sister, Maria, is a senior in high school. Don’t want to uproot her.”
“She lives with you?”
“Has since our folks died five years ago. All my gray hair can be traced right back to raising a teenaged sister.”
There’d been times over the years when Brody had tried to imagine Jo’s and his kid. Those thoughts always came around the time of her due date in May. If their daughter had lived she’d have been thirteen. “Can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“Some days I swear it’s the worst and other days the best.”
Brody tried to picture himself as the father of a teenage girl now. He couldn’t imagine how differently his life would have been. “Sounds like she’s lucky to have you.”
“Cuts both ways.”
The Rangers shifted their attention to the body. Within minutes, Watterson made the Y-incision in the victim’s chest. The doctor added more details to the victim’s profile. She’d not had children. Organs healthy and normal. Fit Christa’s profile.
Santos studied the dead woman’s face. “Now that she’s cleaned up, even with the decomposition, she looks like she could be Christa.”
Brody reached for his cell and dialed Austin police. “Let’s see where they stand on the prints.” Seconds later he was connected. “Detective Royals, this is Sergeant Winchester with the Texas Rangers. The medical examiner sent over prints and pictures this morning of a Jane Doe in the morgue. Have you had a chance to loo
k at them?”
“Just did. Looks like we have a match. You found Christa Bogart.”
Brody nodded. “Thanks, Detective. Once I’m done with the medical examiner I’d like to catch up with you and your files.”
“Anytime. I’m sorry she wasn’t found alive. The community put out a hell of an effort to find her.”
“I’ll keep you posted.” He closed his phone and relayed the news.
Santos tipped back his head, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. “Christa Bogart vanished without a trace about a month ago.”
Brody shifted his gaze to the doctor. “Do you have an approximate time of death?”
“Based on decomposition I’d say about a week ago. But I can’t give you an exact time.”
“A week ago,” Santos said. “What happened to the other three weeks?”
“The killer held her. But according to the doc he didn’t sexually abuse her,” Brody said.
“Whereas Smith did abuse some of his victims.”
“According to his confessions.”
“Could we have someone who’s a copycat?” Santos asked.
“If not for the way her body was bound, I’d be thinking that too. But we’ve got knots exactly like Smith’s. And that was never released to the media.”
Dr. Watterson bowed his head toward the body. “She showed no signs of malnutrition. No tooth decay. The only signs of restraint are on her wrists.”