Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 6

Standing up and turning around to greet me, David didnt look a lick different. His hair, a soft brown graying around the temples, still bunched around his neck and ears, and his gray suit hung vaguely rumpled on his athletic frame. I thought he might be a little apprehensive at first, but if so that quickly washed away, and he couldnt have appeared more pleased. To my surprise, I felt anxious shaking his hand. Id always liked Davids hands. Actually, there was a lot of David I found appealing.

"You look great, Sarah," he said. He still had that rugged look that attracted me a year earlier. I got a whiff of aftershave and wondered if hed fussed, as nervous about seeing me as I was about seeing him.

"Thanks," I said. "Its been awhile."

I didnt mean for that to sound like a dig, but it must have, because David frowned. For a moment, he appeared pensive, as if considering a response. If so, he decided against it, and the captain took over the conversation.

"Agent Garrity figures he can get those subpoenas for you without too much red tape," he said. "Tell Sarah what youve got in mind."

"Im not surprised your subpoenas ran into problems. Jurisdiction is a persistent problem with the Internet," David explained. "But the Bureau has tackled this before, and weve found that sidestepping county and state courts and getting a federal judge to sign the paperwork cuts through the red tape. I called ahead, and were meeting with an a.s.sistant U.S. attorney at the courthouse in half an hour. Why dont we discuss this on the way downtown?"

I thought about being alone with David, wondered what he would say. Maybe hed explain what had happened. "Sure," I said. "My Tahoes in the lot and the engines still warm. Lets go."

Ten minutes down the road, David hadnt said a word. I kept my eyes on the freeway, but occasionally felt him looking at me. Maybe he was waiting for me to start the conversation? The way I figured it, that ch.o.r.e was his.

"Hows Maggie and your mom?" he finally asked.

"Great," I said. I asked about his son, who lives with Davids ex-wife in Denver. "And Jack?"

"Good. Really good," he said. "I just saw him last month. We went skiing."

Silence again. There was a time when I enjoyed our silences, impressed that David wasnt the type who felt compelled to fill every moment with senseless chatter. This was a different quiet, uneasy, like a gaping yawn between us, one that grew wider every moment the silence endured.

"You going to take Memorial Drive downtown?" he asked.

"Thought Id shoot over on I-10," I answered.

"Thatll work," David said.

With the exception of commenting on the exceptionally warm winter day, little more information was shared in the car. I pulled into a parking lot across from the federal courthouse, in the middle of downtown Houston. It had to be one of the ugliest buildings on the planet, a gray box with rows of small square-framed windows. Minutes later, David and I were in a third-floor room going over the Collins case with a young prosecutor and the judge hed convinced to sign our subpoenas.

"How hopeful are you that this will actually get you anything useful?" the judge asked as he signed each page.

"We have to start somewhere, Judge," I said. "This is our only lead."

Outside in the hallway, the prosecutor handed us the subpoenas. "Good luck," he said. "Let me know how it works out. My thirteen-year-old daughter loves that Collins girl."

"Be afraid," I said, straight-faced. "Be very afraid."

The lawyer looked as if he couldnt decide how to take my warning, but he laughed. If he met Collins in person, or even over the telephone, he might not have found my words funny.

"I hope this helps," I said to David in the car. Hed just called his office to let them know that we had the doc.u.ments signed and they could notify the Internet companies to start gathering the in formation. Thinking again about the likelihood of any of it being useful, I asked, "As computer savvy as this stalker is, whats your guess on how successful this will be? Think itll lead anywhere?"

"Probably not," David said. He looked at me, and again, for a brief moment, I thought hed say more. Instead, he turned away and stared out the window. This new David wasnt exactly what Id hoped for in a Dr. Watson. But I had to admit; I wasnt really stirring up conversation myself. I wondered if maybe I was the problem, that Id been too distant, given him the impression that I wasnt interested. It felt strained, uncomfortable, and at first, I was relieved when my cell phone rang. But when I saw it was Mom, my relief turned to worry.

"Bobby and I noticed it this afternoon. Emma Lous waxing up," Mom said when David and I arrived at the ranch. Waxing up meant that the milky discharge released before foaling was coming in. Id filled David in on the situation during the drive. He seemed to understand the seriousness, but he didnt ask many questions. Thered been no time to drop him at the office, and I regretted that we hadnt taken separate cars. His silence made me increasingly uncomfortable.

"Thats not good," I said. "How long do we have?"

"Doc figures less than a week," Mom said. "But its not all bad news. If Emma Lou makes it just two more days, until Friday, the foal has a chance. From the date of breeding, thats three hundred and one days."

"If it comes sooner?" I asked.

"Lets hope that doesnt happen," Mom said, shaking her head. "Doc gave the mare oral meds, but said we should get ready, just in case, and have the shed set up for birthing. Bring in a heating lamp and double the straw matting, make sure its clean."

Feeling helpless to do anything else, I sighed and said, "Okay, lets go."

A good sport, David helped out, taking off his suit jacket and putting a pair of old rubber boots over his dress shoes. When Maggie walked up from the school bus, we didnt have to tell her the bad news. She took one look at what we were up to and knew. She didnt even say h.e.l.lo to David, acting as if she didnt notice him pitchforking the shed straw.

"How long?" she asked.

"Soon," I answered.

Twelve.

Somebody named Mike Davis called for you, and the captain wants you in his office ASAP," Sheila said the next morning, Thursday. Then she whispered, "Hes agitated about something."

I decided to postpone calling Mike and find out what had the captain in a flap. When I walked in his office, he was visibly uptight. "I told them you couldnt do this, Sarah," he muttered, his face flushed. "Were just getting you back after that mess last year, and the last thing I want is to throw you into the middle of this thing, send you off to Dallas."

"Dallas? I dont know, Captain. Emma Lou is getting ready to deliver, and theres a good chance the foal wont make it," I said. "Maggie will be devastated. And Im still walking on eggsh.e.l.ls at home, trying to convince everyone, including myself, that I wont be sucked into another situation like that Lucas mess."

"I know, and I wouldnt ask you. But this is coming directly from the governor," the captain said. "Ca.s.sidy Collinss people called Austin and asked for added security at her concert in Dallas."

"The local guys can cover that," I said. "Im more valuable here. I thought Id have that Justin Peterson, their prime suspect, staked out."

"We can take care of Peterson. Doesnt appear its him anyway. Collins requested you by name, said shes not doing the concert if youre not there," he said, shaking his head, as if confronted with a bizarre turn of events. "She seems to think you can help her, Sarah, and the kids plumb scared. She wants you with her, as kind of a personal bodyguard throughout the evening."

"How long will I have to be gone?" I asked. "I do feel sorry for the kid, but if Emma Lou gives birth while Im away and there are complications, Maggie may never forgive me."

"Now there, I pulled rank," the captain answered, offering up a small wink and a self-satisfied nod. "Ive got a DPS helicopter lined up to fly you to Dallas Sat.u.r.day afternoon, about one, in time for Collinss rehearsal, and itll fly you home as soon as Collins gets on her private jet after the concert. You should be at the ranch a little after one a.m. on Sunday morning. Until then, you can coordinate security from here. In addition to Dallas P.D. and the arenas security force, the governor is bringing in state troopers as backup, and I talked to David Garrity. Hes going along."

"Why David?" I asked.

"Because he offered," he said, shooting me an exasperated glance. "And I wasnt about to turn down any help. Sarah, if we lose that girl, if that stalker manages to carry out his threats, well be second-guessed forever. This isnt one where we want to take any unnecessary chances." The captain narrowed his eyes and sized me up. "Why dont you want Garrity along on this? I thought you two got pretty tight last year."

"No matter," I said, with a shrug. "Thats fine. Like you said, we can use the help."

"Okay, then," he said. "Its all set? I can tell the governor youre on this?"

"Its all set," I agreed. "Ill be there."

The morning evaporated on the telephone. I talked with Rick Barron about Collinss usual security measures. She had a staff of four regular bodyguards who accompanied her on the road. All were former police officers and licensed to carry concealed weapons. Afterward, I called the American Airlines Center in Dallas, where Collins was scheduled to perform. I brought the facilitys head of security, a guy named Mack McDougall, up to speed on the situation. By the time we hung up, I had McDougall bringing in every security guard the arena employed, a third more than usual, for Sat.u.r.day nights concert, and hed agreed to forward us a schematic of the complete stadium.

"Theres no way anyone can infiltrate our system from outside the arena," McDougall insisted. "Collinss people will plug their sound equipment directly into ours. To break in, your stalker will have to do the same or hack into the frequency. Either way, he has to be on-site to do it."

That, of course, left no room for what had happened in San Diego, where Arguss voice fed directly into Ca.s.sidy Collinss earpiece. San Diego P.D. hadnt found an explanation for the breach in what is supposed to be a closed system, other than to surmise that Argus was in the arena and used some type of new high-tech equipment to tap into the frequency.

Once I had McDougall preparing, I reached out to Dallas P.D. They were aware of the situation and promised to add a second layer of protection outside of the arena, along with additional officers near all the entrances and exits. Metal scanners would be in place at all the doors, and an officer would be a.s.signed to stand by each, watching the screen and searching anyone who looked suspicious. With some prompting, they also agreed to bring in dogs two hours before the concert, to comb the arena and the backstage area, looking for anyone hiding in the shadows, behind a curtain or in the rafters.

Despite his solid alibis, I e-mailed Justin Petersons drivers license photo to Dallas P.D., Rick Barron, and McDougall. It never hurts to be prepared.

It promised to be a grueling couple of days, organizing what would most likely be a strange evening. Since I preferred a Carrie Underwood or Tim McGraw concert, I briefly wondered if I could get away with earplugs. Instead, I asked Barron to have in-ear monitors for David and me, so that during the concert, we could hear what Collins heard, and to set up a recorder to tape everything that came through her earpieces. If theyd taken that step in San Diego, we would have had Arguss voice recorded.

With so much to do to prepare for Sat.u.r.day night, Id forgotten about Mike Daviss phone call until Sheila buzzed me about one that afternoon and said he was on the line again. I picked up, and before even saying h.e.l.lo, Davis blurted out, "Listen, theres no way that c.o.x woman wrote this suicide letter. Absolutely no way."

"I take it youre certain about that?" I said, not surprised by Mikes vehemence. One of the things I liked about the guy was that he spoke his mind. "You want to tell me what you really think?"

Mike chuckled. "Listen Sarah, youre right, this is my field, but I wouldnt have to be an expert to tell you that Elizabeth c.o.x didnt write this suicide note."

"Print or fonts dont match?" I asked. "Whats the problem?"

"No, it could have come off her printer, all right," he said.

"Then what are we discussing?"

"Everything," Davis said. "There are the small details. Like everything we know for sure that this woman typed had two s.p.a.ces between sentences, after the periods. The suicide note has one. Thats an automatic thing, not the type of detail people change."

"Interesting," I said. "Tell me more."

"Ive got plenty more," Davis said. "c.o.xs letters have a totally different syntax, no fragments, no random capitalization, clearly more refined. She was a careful woman, and the random capitalization is not consistent with her personality."

"Okay," I said. "But maybe she was just upset? Maybe she wasnt as careful as usual because she was about to shatter her skull with a bullet?"

"I can tell you this," Davis said. "Ive been a.n.a.lyzing suicide notes for forty years. Yes, planning to end ones life can cause a person to write differently. Most suicides are frightened and in a lot of mental anguish, thats true. But they dont become a totally different person. This note wasnt written by c.o.x. It was written by someone else."

Well, now, that was interesting.

"Any thoughts about the author?" I asked. "Any hints that might help me zero in on the right suspect?"

"Based on the note, I suspect youre looking for a man," he said. "This reads like a man writing the way he thinks a woman would write, overly emotional and fragmented. Thats the opposite of the facts, since womens notes are usually more carefully written than mens. When they reach this point, most men just want to go off into the woods with a gun and do the deed, while women more often take their time and write something to soften the blow for the family and friends they leave behind. They almost always mention loved ones by name, telling them that they love them. You dont have any of that in here."

"Okay, Mike," I said. "Im going to talk to the captain about getting payment for you on this. Can you put this in writing, just a few pages? Id like to share it with the folks in my office and H.P.D. homicide."

"Sure, Ill get to it this afternoon and have it to you tomorrow morning," Mike said, chuckling again. "Glad this turned out to be a paying job. My government pension gets a little tight. Told the wife, Im going to have to start freelancing to keep up."

"Im sure with your resume you dont need references," I said. "But if you decide you want a few, be sure to include me."

"Will do," Mike said. "And good luck with this. I dont know anything else about Ms. c.o.xs death, but I dont think theres much doubt that youre looking at a homicide."

I hung up, thought about what Mike had just told me, then picked up the receiver again and dialed the Harris County morgue. The ever-jolly Dr. Joe took awhile to get to the telephone. "Im busy, Lieutenant," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering about the GSR test on Billie c.o.xs right palm," I said. "You must have results by now."

"I phoned that in to H.P.D. the morning after you were here," the physician said, sounding irritated as usual. "Havent they told you?"

"No. I gather you talked with Detective Brad Walker?"

"The same," he said with a sigh. "You know, Ive got bodies waiting for me. Now its true they dont complain, but Id like to tell you people things once and be done with it, so I can get out of here at a reasonable hour at least once a week. I told that detective youd requested the test and asked him to make sure you heard about the results. Why didnt he tell you?"

I knew better than to interrupt when Dr. Joe expounded on the shortcomings of law enforcement. But once he finished, I still needed to know the test results. "Ill be sure to convey your disappointment to Detective Walker," I said. "Now Dr. Joe, if for no other reason than to get me off the telephone, what did you find?"

"GSR," he said.

"You found gunshot residue on the palm that held the gun," I said. "That shouldnt have been there."

"Exactly what I told that detective," Dr. Joe said. "There should have been gunshot residue on the back of the hand, because that was exposed. But the palm was closed around the grip. I shouldnt have found GSR on it."

"So what are we thinking now?"

"I dont know what you think, Lieutenant," he said, grudgingly. "But my best guess is that c.o.x wasnt holding the gun at all. I figure she had her hands out, palms up, maybe in a defensive position, trying to stop the killer."

Faith Roberts and Mike Davis were right. c.o.x was murdered. "I gather youll change the manner of death in the autopsy?"

"If I ever get off this telephone and find a free moment," he growled. "Elizabeth c.o.xs death is now officially a homicide."

Thirteen.

Something wasnt right. Walker should have called me. It was only professional courtesy. Id never worked with the detective, but another ranger in the office had, Sergeant George Fields, more commonly known as "Buckshot." Fields had investigated a murder case with Walker the previous year. Id heard through office chatter that it hadnt gone well. Maybe it was Walkers reputed tendency to see every case as black or white? Maybe not.

Figuring it was time to find out, I walked three doors down to Buckshots office. A large, square man with a thick mustache, the sergeant was on the telephone, and he motioned for me to sit. I moved his Stetson off the extra chair and did as instructed. A wire frame on his desk held a small gla.s.s vial containing a dozen or so round lead pellets, buckshot recovered out of the rear end of a thief. A decade ago while working a case in north Texas, the sergeant decided to do a little deer hunting. Shotgun in hand, Fields happened upon a rustler pilfering someone elses prize-winning bull. The guy kept running after Fields warned him to stop. That was a mistake. When he took the rustler to the local emergency room, supervised the removal of the pellets, and then put them on his desk as a souvenir, Sergeant Fields became forever known as "Buckshot."

"What can you tell me about Detective Brad Walker?" I asked, when I had the sergeants full attention.

"Guys a malcontent," he sneered. "Hes up for retirement in about a year, I think. Just lazy."

I told him about the case and Buckshot nodded, as if he understood.

"So with all the great homicide detectives at H.P.D., and theyve got a bunch, I get somebody whos just putting in time?" I said.

"Im afraid so," the sergeant growled, impatiently tapping his pen on his desk, as if annoyed by the memory of old frustrations. My guess? Buckshots short tenure with Walker had left the sergeant irritated. "If that case is in Walkers closed file and you reopen it, I guaran-d.a.m.n-tee that hes not going to be happy. Based on my experience, I suggest you sidestep him and work it on your own. Walker wont object, and he wouldnt be any help anyway. Ill guaran-d.a.m.n-tee that, too."

Most investigators hover over their cases like momma birds guard their chicks, so I had my doubts. But I put in a call to Walker as soon as I got back to my desk. Since wed never officially met, I introduced myself and then asked if hed heard from Dr. Joe.