The Last Move
Page 32
The note was handwritten in a mixture of block and lowercase lettering in a black thick-tipped marker. The handwriting appeared crude and at first glance matched the other Samaritan notes.
But Kate realized immediately that the writing style was slightly different than the other Samaritan notes she’d analyzed.
Kate;
Your voice is always in my head. And all I hear are your lies. You are wrong about me. I am smarter than you. There will be more deths soon. I will show the world you aren’t an Angel of Mrcy.
Samaritan
“He said your voice was ‘in my head.’” Mazur’s gloved fingertips held up the edge of the plastic bag that contained the letter.
“The Samaritan isn’t the first killer to blame me for his actions.” His clear, bold handwriting suggested anger and resentment. None of what this killer had done was her fault. None of it. And yet the burden of his sins would rest heavily on her shoulders until she caught him.
“Guy spells like I do,” Palmer said.
Kate pulled out her phone and snapped pictures of the note. What was it about the letters that struck a familiar chord? “Don’t be fooled by the misspellings. In letters like this they’re often intentional. He spelled are correctly in one sentence and then incorrectly in the next. He wants us to think he’s uneducated.”
Palmer reread the letter. “He spelled Samaritan right. A word I find challenging without spell check.”
A queasiness washed over Kate as Palmer reread the letter again. “The words remind me of William Bauldry,” she said.
Calhoun photographed the envelope and letter. “I’ll dust it for prints and compare.”
“Who’s William Bauldry?” Palmer asked.
Kate had shaken off some of the initial shock she’d felt when she’d heard his name at the garage, so it was easier to keep her voice even as she explained again what he’d done. “If you find any prints on this letter, compare them to Bauldry’s.”
“Having his name certainly will make the comparison easy,” Calhoun said.
Kate snapped several more pictures of the letter. She turned from the group and studied the misspellings, the grammar, the phrasing, the word choices hinting of a neutral dialect. “Detective Mazur, would you read the letter out loud?”
“Sure, why?” he asked.
“It was written by a man.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s an educated guess based on the shape of the letters, which are very boxy. The pen was also pressed firmly against the paper.”
He read through the letter.
She closed her eyes and listened to the inflections and the nuances of his Chicago accent, which naturally seeped into the neutral language. “Gloria Sanchez’s shooter, who spoke briefly on the murder video, didn’t have a deep Texas drawl. And none of the phrasing in the note hints at a dialect. Bauldry’s parents were from California and he lived there until he was eight, so his accent was always neutral.”
“What else do you see?” Mazur asked.
“All the positive statements are not contracted, but the one negative statement is contracted.”
“What does that mean?” Palmer asked.
“It’s an unconscious pattern that he might not be aware of,” Kate said.
“How do these compare to the other Samaritan letters?” Mazur asked.
“They’re almost identical. But Mr. North got a hold of two letters and published them. Anyone could replicate them.”
“How did North get the letters?” Mazur asked.
“He said he bribed a forensic tech in Minnesota.”
“Or Mr. North knew more about what Richardson was doing. Maybe he had an inside track with Richardson,” Palmer said. “From what you’ve said, he seems to have a lot of intimate knowledge of the case.”
“He does. And he’s received a great deal of attention since he covered this case. The publicity had died down considerably since Richardson’s arrest.”
“What do you know about North?” Mazur asked.
“He received his journalism degree from Columbia twenty years ago. He’s worked at several major papers, but two years ago left his job at the time after it was proven he manufactured and exaggerated facts while covering a criminal trial. When it all came out, he resigned. Shortly after that, he founded a news site that was doing moderately well until the Samaritan shootings.”
“Could he have written these letters?”
“I considered that,” she said. “No one has been able to link him to the letters. And I’ve tried, as well as a half dozen detectives just like you.”
“I haven’t tried,” Mazur said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I am my brother’s keeper.
San Antonio, Texas
Tuesday, November 28, 7:15 p.m.
Mazur might not have been a genius like his older brother, Sebastian, a prosecutor in Chicago, or have the physical strength of his bull-in-a-china-shop brother, Samuel, a detective in the Windy City, but he did have the power to persevere. He’d done it several times when he’d been deployed in the Middle East, and he’d done it when his son had died and his ex-wife had announced the move south with his only kid. If he wanted something badly, he did what it took to overcome any obstacles.
Today he wanted the I-35 shooter. The Samaritan copycat or accomplice had pulled the trigger and killed Gloria Sanchez.
He stood with Kate and Detective Palmer just outside the press briefing room. The buzz of conversation on the other side of the door told him the media had shown up in large numbers. Good. He wanted the attention.
The firm click of boots connecting with tile told him the chief had arrived. The chief had no tolerance for bullshit rising in the ranks and enough backbone to support the men and women who worked under him. When Mazur had approached him about the news conference, he’d given his consent.
Chief Saunders’s gaze swept over Dr. Hayden and moved to him. “Detective Mazur. Agent Hayden.”
The chief wrapped a large hand around Kate’s. She didn’t shy away from the strong grip or the height difference, and he continued, “So, this nut has communicated with you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you want to play this, Agent Hayden?” the chief asked.
“Your department is the lead in this investigation,” Kate said. “Give a brief of the facts as you know them, and then introduce me. I’ll make a short statement so that whoever sent me that text knows he’s been heard.”
“And then what, Dr. Hayden? The shooter is just going to come running from the crowd to confess his sins?”
“I’ll make a few remarks designed to irritate him. Hopefully that will smoke him out.” She pulled a sheet of paper from a leather notebook. “Talking points to consider.”
“What about Richardson? He had any regular visitors in jail?” the chief asked.
“My boss called the jail, and they told him that the doctor has had no visitors or any kind of correspondence,” Kate said.
The chief glanced at the notes and frowned. “Painting a target on your back, Dr. Hayden?”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“Detective Mazur,” the chief said. “You going to keep this gal alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suggest you stick to my talking points,” Kate said.
The chief arched a white brow as he shook his head and looked to Mazur and Palmer. “Does this sit well with you two? You’re the investigating officers.”
But Kate realized immediately that the writing style was slightly different than the other Samaritan notes she’d analyzed.
Kate;
Your voice is always in my head. And all I hear are your lies. You are wrong about me. I am smarter than you. There will be more deths soon. I will show the world you aren’t an Angel of Mrcy.
Samaritan
“He said your voice was ‘in my head.’” Mazur’s gloved fingertips held up the edge of the plastic bag that contained the letter.
“The Samaritan isn’t the first killer to blame me for his actions.” His clear, bold handwriting suggested anger and resentment. None of what this killer had done was her fault. None of it. And yet the burden of his sins would rest heavily on her shoulders until she caught him.
“Guy spells like I do,” Palmer said.
Kate pulled out her phone and snapped pictures of the note. What was it about the letters that struck a familiar chord? “Don’t be fooled by the misspellings. In letters like this they’re often intentional. He spelled are correctly in one sentence and then incorrectly in the next. He wants us to think he’s uneducated.”
Palmer reread the letter. “He spelled Samaritan right. A word I find challenging without spell check.”
A queasiness washed over Kate as Palmer reread the letter again. “The words remind me of William Bauldry,” she said.
Calhoun photographed the envelope and letter. “I’ll dust it for prints and compare.”
“Who’s William Bauldry?” Palmer asked.
Kate had shaken off some of the initial shock she’d felt when she’d heard his name at the garage, so it was easier to keep her voice even as she explained again what he’d done. “If you find any prints on this letter, compare them to Bauldry’s.”
“Having his name certainly will make the comparison easy,” Calhoun said.
Kate snapped several more pictures of the letter. She turned from the group and studied the misspellings, the grammar, the phrasing, the word choices hinting of a neutral dialect. “Detective Mazur, would you read the letter out loud?”
“Sure, why?” he asked.
“It was written by a man.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s an educated guess based on the shape of the letters, which are very boxy. The pen was also pressed firmly against the paper.”
He read through the letter.
She closed her eyes and listened to the inflections and the nuances of his Chicago accent, which naturally seeped into the neutral language. “Gloria Sanchez’s shooter, who spoke briefly on the murder video, didn’t have a deep Texas drawl. And none of the phrasing in the note hints at a dialect. Bauldry’s parents were from California and he lived there until he was eight, so his accent was always neutral.”
“What else do you see?” Mazur asked.
“All the positive statements are not contracted, but the one negative statement is contracted.”
“What does that mean?” Palmer asked.
“It’s an unconscious pattern that he might not be aware of,” Kate said.
“How do these compare to the other Samaritan letters?” Mazur asked.
“They’re almost identical. But Mr. North got a hold of two letters and published them. Anyone could replicate them.”
“How did North get the letters?” Mazur asked.
“He said he bribed a forensic tech in Minnesota.”
“Or Mr. North knew more about what Richardson was doing. Maybe he had an inside track with Richardson,” Palmer said. “From what you’ve said, he seems to have a lot of intimate knowledge of the case.”
“He does. And he’s received a great deal of attention since he covered this case. The publicity had died down considerably since Richardson’s arrest.”
“What do you know about North?” Mazur asked.
“He received his journalism degree from Columbia twenty years ago. He’s worked at several major papers, but two years ago left his job at the time after it was proven he manufactured and exaggerated facts while covering a criminal trial. When it all came out, he resigned. Shortly after that, he founded a news site that was doing moderately well until the Samaritan shootings.”
“Could he have written these letters?”
“I considered that,” she said. “No one has been able to link him to the letters. And I’ve tried, as well as a half dozen detectives just like you.”
“I haven’t tried,” Mazur said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I am my brother’s keeper.
San Antonio, Texas
Tuesday, November 28, 7:15 p.m.
Mazur might not have been a genius like his older brother, Sebastian, a prosecutor in Chicago, or have the physical strength of his bull-in-a-china-shop brother, Samuel, a detective in the Windy City, but he did have the power to persevere. He’d done it several times when he’d been deployed in the Middle East, and he’d done it when his son had died and his ex-wife had announced the move south with his only kid. If he wanted something badly, he did what it took to overcome any obstacles.
Today he wanted the I-35 shooter. The Samaritan copycat or accomplice had pulled the trigger and killed Gloria Sanchez.
He stood with Kate and Detective Palmer just outside the press briefing room. The buzz of conversation on the other side of the door told him the media had shown up in large numbers. Good. He wanted the attention.
The firm click of boots connecting with tile told him the chief had arrived. The chief had no tolerance for bullshit rising in the ranks and enough backbone to support the men and women who worked under him. When Mazur had approached him about the news conference, he’d given his consent.
Chief Saunders’s gaze swept over Dr. Hayden and moved to him. “Detective Mazur. Agent Hayden.”
The chief wrapped a large hand around Kate’s. She didn’t shy away from the strong grip or the height difference, and he continued, “So, this nut has communicated with you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you want to play this, Agent Hayden?” the chief asked.
“Your department is the lead in this investigation,” Kate said. “Give a brief of the facts as you know them, and then introduce me. I’ll make a short statement so that whoever sent me that text knows he’s been heard.”
“And then what, Dr. Hayden? The shooter is just going to come running from the crowd to confess his sins?”
“I’ll make a few remarks designed to irritate him. Hopefully that will smoke him out.” She pulled a sheet of paper from a leather notebook. “Talking points to consider.”
“What about Richardson? He had any regular visitors in jail?” the chief asked.
“My boss called the jail, and they told him that the doctor has had no visitors or any kind of correspondence,” Kate said.
The chief glanced at the notes and frowned. “Painting a target on your back, Dr. Hayden?”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“Detective Mazur,” the chief said. “You going to keep this gal alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suggest you stick to my talking points,” Kate said.
The chief arched a white brow as he shook his head and looked to Mazur and Palmer. “Does this sit well with you two? You’re the investigating officers.”
