First, Lindstrom. Now the Feds. Until the UDA shootings, Sophia had never joined forces with another police entity. This was only her second murder investigation. The first one had involved a jealous husband and a cheating wife. The evidence had been overwhelming and the husband had been apprehended shortly after leaving the scene.
Unfortunately, this case wasn’t as easy. It was going nowhere fast and becoming a political hot potato. On her way out of town, Sophia had spotted two different news vans, one at Bailey’s Breakfast Dive and the other at the hardware store. Although she hadn’t turned on her television set in more than a week, she was guessing that the national media had picked up on what had been reported in the local papers. They’d broken the story on a much bigger scale and were now swooping in to monitor developments. From here on out, they’d be attempting to scoop each other, and she’d be hounded constantly for more detail and commentary. Unlike some of the bigger police departments, she had no media-relations personnel. The buck stopped with her in every respect. And she felt the weight of it from the minute she arrived at the meeting and was introduced to the FBI agents.
“Chief St. Claire?”
Sophia blinked and refocused on Special Agent Charles Van Dormer, who sat across a large oak desk from her, Roderick, Lindstrom, Sean Carver and Glen Billerbeck, the other two FBI agents assigned to the task force. She’d already briefed them on everything she knew about the murders. Everything except the information she’d just received on the safe house. She wasn’t quite sure she wanted to share that in mixed company, so to speak. Her desire to trust the FBI warred with her distrust of Lindstrom, who was also part of the conversation. “Yes?”
“When you submitted the cigarette butt found at the last scene, did the state crime lab give you any indication of how long it would take to process?”
She shot a glance at Rod. When she’d entered the room, she’d purposely taken the seat farthest from him. Still, he’d been kind enough not to reveal that he’d found the butt after she’d finished processing the scene. She hadn’t lied about its discovery; she’d merely presented the information in a general way, talked about what was found instead of how and when. And he hadn’t added any further detail.
“It’s not at the state crime lab,” she said.
“Where is it?”
Rod cut in. “I recommended a lab I’ve worked with before, in San Diego.”
Van Dormer leaned back in his chair. “Who cleared that?”
Again, Rod answered. “No one. But it’s a reputable lab. And they’ll be much quicker.”
“If you didn’t get clearance, it might be hard to get the state to pick up the tab.”
“I’ll pay the tab,” he said.
“Suit yourself.” Van Dormer shrugged; then he began to discuss the various ways in which he wanted to support the investigation. He talked about canvassing gun shops and pawn shops and, for that, Sophia was grateful. Going from location to location would take a lot of man-hours she didn’t have.
“We won’t leave a single stone unturned. We’ll find the bastard who’s doing this, and we’ll make him pay,” Van Dormer said.
One of the other agents brought up the ranchers again, which they’d already discussed.
“It could easily be a rancher,” Van Dormer agreed. “Which is why I want every landowner between Bordertown and Mexico interviewed, too.”
As the meeting progressed, Sophia pretended not to notice the hostility of Lindstrom’s icy glare. But while the others were busy getting out an assessor’s map, Lindstrom scooted closer.
“Cigarette butt? You told me you found spent shell casings,” she muttered. “You never mentioned a cigarette butt.”
Because she hadn’t found it; Rod had. And her knowledge of its existence had occurred after she’d last spoken with Lindstrom. But she couldn’t admit that without revealing that she’d missed an important piece of evidence, something she wasn’t eager to volunteer, especially to Lindstrom, who was keeping a running log of her shortcomings and missteps. “I wasn’t sure it would tell us anything,” she said. “I’m still not.”
“You’re unreal. You know that?”
There was no time to respond. Van Dormer had the map spread out on his desk. If she continued to talk she’d only call attention to their little side conversation.
“Who owns this parcel?” he asked, pointing.
Sophia immediately recognized the property. She’d used a similar map, pored over it so many times that she knew the information by heart. On her map, she’d marked the locations of the murders, and she’d measured the distance between them in an attempt to do some rudimentary geographic profiling. She didn’t have any training in that area, but she’d thought seeing one crime scene in relation to another might tell her something.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t. Except that the killer was keeping his work inside the city limits. And each kill was about three miles from the one before. The triangle formed when she connected the dots encompassed most of the town. She’d already guessed the perpetrator lived close by.
“That piece belongs to Kevin and Alma Simpson,” she volunteered. “They’re cattle ranchers. They have a son, James, who lives with them. I went out there a few days ago.”
“And? What did they have to say?” Van Dormer asked.
Sophia actually liked the SAC. Thanks partly to the way FBI agents were often portrayed on TV, she’d expected someone who was bland and homogenous, if not arrogant and stuffy. But Van Dormer wasn’t any of those things. Maybe ten years older than she was, he had gray hair at his temples, nice hazel eyes and a strong jaw and chin. Not only was he handsome, he seemed capable, professional and easy to work with. But anyone would be an improvement over Lindstrom.
The other FBI agents weren’t so attractive. Sean had considerably more gray hair, a paunch that wasn’t hidden by his suit and short, stubby legs. Glen was tall and skinny with a dated tie, a bad haircut and acne scars. They all wore wedding rings.
“The Simpsons hate UDAs,” Sophia said. “And they make no secret of it. They even have a blog to try and impact public opinion on the issue of tougher immigration enforcement. I can give you the URL, in case you’d like to take a look at it.”
He shoved a piece of paper toward her so she could write it down. “Do you think they hate illegals enough to start killing them?”