Макс Коллинз - You Can’t Stop Me

Carmen said, “So... this guy we’re looking for... he’s killed fifty-some people?”

“Could be,” Laurene said. “Most likely not, though. We’re only reviewing the stats in the most superficial way, at this point. But we do know he’s killed three in Florida, and two in North Dakota. It’s also possible, because of the MO, that he killed Harrow’s family, as well. Which makes at least seven.” Turning to Jenny, she asked, “When was the most recent one?”

“Three days ago.”

Carmen said hollowly, “The night of our first segment on Crime Seen!..”

They all exchanged grave glances.

Laurene asked, “Where, Jen?”

“Socorro, New Mexico — family of George Reid, accountant with Socorro County. Gunned down.”

Laurene drew in a deep breath, let it out. “All right. You take Socorro, Jen — really dig in. See if the mom is missing a finger. Billy, take the truck tires. Carmen, you and I will interview the Hansons’ neighbors one more time, and maybe someone will remember something . First though, I gotta call the boss.”

Riding the other Crime Seen! bus, J.C. Harrow got out his cell phone by the second ring.

“It’s Laurene.”

“What have you got?” he asked. She wouldn’t be calling just to be sociable.

She filled him in on the startling discovery Jenny Blake had made — twenty-two separate attacks in the past decade that matched their killer’s MO!

He said, “We have no idea how many might be related to our cases?”

“No,” Laurene said. “But I’m betting the number isn’t zero.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. We’ll have to look into all of them. Check to see how many of the murdered mothers were missing a wedding ring.”

Laurene’s pause seemed endless to Harrow.

Finally she asked, “J.C. — with this revelation... aren’t we going to have to turn this investigation over to the Feds?”

He desperately wanted to say no, but they both knew the answer to the question. Christ knew how many lives were at stake here...

“Of course, turn over what we have... but first, make copies of everything, and tell Jenny to e-mail me the list of all the crimes.”

“So we’re not backing off?”

“Hell, no. We are, however, going to let the Feds know what we think may be going on, and they can investigate or not, their choice, their pace. In the meantime, we’re full speed ahead.”

“That is good to hear,” Laurene said. “Where do you want to start?”

“Your team will gather what you can there, and I’ll start on the Socorro killings. Makes sense, ’cause I’m just outside of town.”

“You are?” she said, surprise in her voice. She hadn’t mentioned these latest killings, specifically. “You’re on top of those killings, then? The, uh...”

“Reid family,” Harrow finished.

“What are you, J.C., a frickin’ witch? How in the hell did you know that?”

“I got a phone call late last night.”

“From?”

“Kate Pierson with the New Mexico state crime lab. Know her, Laurene?”

“No. Why’d she call you?”

“She’s an old friend.”

“No, J.C. Why did she call you?”

“Missing wedding-ring finger. And get this — gun in the Reid killings was the same three fifty-seven used at my house.”

An even longer pause from Laurene.

“We are on the right track,” she said softly.

His voice was soft but had a tremor that threatened eruption. “I’m closer than I’ve ever been.”

“You know, J.C., if you strangle him on TV, the ratings will be great, but you might find yourself hosting the San Quentin Follies next season.”

Her grim humor made him laugh.

“I take your point, Laurene, and I do apologize for not filling you in sooner.”

“Apology not accepted. I’m supposed to be your number two.”

“You are. As for now, we’ll play ball with the Feds, all right... but let’s make sure we’re the ones who find this maniac.”

“It’ll be us, all right,” she said, and they signed off.

None of that had been caught on camera, and Harrow was glad of it. This was sensitive information.

Chris Anderson, seated across the aisle from Harrow, said, “Sir? We’re pullin’ up to the sheriff’s office.”

Harrow looked at his watch — just after 10 A.M. They’d already been on the road since finishing the show on Monday, and had driven all night, after Harrow got the call from Kate Pierson.

“Good,” Harrow said. “Let’s go.”

Soon Harrow found himself standing on a bright, sunny street in front of a new two-story county administration building with old-fashioned mission styling, a facility that housed both the sheriff’s office and the county’s other departments.

Up and down the street, pedestrians passing each other smiled, spoke, waved. Modest traffic moved smoothly along, and Harrow felt he’d stepped into some sort of Southwestern Norman Rockwell time warp. Or he would have if they hadn’t been here to investigate a triple homicide by the serial killer they were chasing...

Automatic doors whispered open, and Harrow entered the modern, efficient-looking office building that hid behind the mission facade. At a round modern light-wood desk to the left of the atrium lobby, a young uniformed deputy manned a guest sign-in book.

The kid — who had a butch haircut and a well-scrubbed fresh-out-of-the-academy look — was reading something on his computer screen.

“Help you?” he asked automatically, barely glancing.

“Son,” Harrow said gently, “if you want to grow up to be a policeman, you’re going to have to learn to be more observant.”

Now the kid looked up and saw before him Harrow with his posse of Anderson, DNA expert Michael Pall, Arroyo with camera, and Ingram with boom mike.

“Here to see Sheriff Tomasa,” Harrow said.

Agape, the deputy managed a nod. Then: “May I tell him who’s calling and why?”

“J.C. Harrow and crew from Crime Seen! Called ahead.”

Before long, the sheriff was there in the lobby, coming over to them with his hand extended to Harrow.

“Mr. Harrow,” he said, and they shook hands. “Roberto Tomasa. You spoke to my secretary on the phone.”

“Yes, sir. I know this is short notice.”

Harrow made the introductions and more handshaking followed, quick, perfunctory. The sheriff was burly, about forty, with an easy smile and a steel grip. His face had more pockmarks than old cement, and his nose may have had a shape once, but not for a long time. He had a bushy, droopy, damn near bandito mustache, giving his face the impression of a frown even as he grinned at Harrow, moving everyone to a discreet corner of the lobby.

“Normally we wouldn’t have much to say to a TV crew,” Tomasa said, “especially at so early a stage of the investigation.”

“I understand,” Harrow said.

“You were a sheriff yourself, weren’t you? Retired?”

“Yes. Was at the state crime lab, after that.”

Mischief danced in the sheriff’s eyes. “Also saved the President.”

“Guilty.”

White teeth flashed under the droopy black mustache. “Tell me why I should receive you in my office,” he said — no anger or bitterness in his tone.

“Weren’t you expecting us?”

“My secretary gave me your message, you were coming. That’s not an appointment, Mr. Harrow. And it sure isn’t an invitation.”

“Kate Pierson—”

“Is with the state crime lab. Not on my payroll. Doesn’t represent the Socorro County Sheriff’s office.”

“Uh oh,” Anderson murmured.

That drew a glance from Tomasa, but Harrow spoke up, locking eyes with the man. “Sheriff, we’re not here to step on any toes.”