Sarah Armstrong - 01 - Singularity (27 page)

“Sarah, what’s wrong?”

That’s when I told her everything. Some of it she’d read in the newspapers: the letters, the accusations that I’d been the leak in the investigation. None of that seemed to matter anymore. I’d once asked Priscilla Lucas’s father, Bobby Barker, if he understood the bottom line. Somewhere, that night, I’d found my own bottom line, a point beyond which I couldn’t be silent.

“I need to warn people, Mom,” I said. “I can’t live with myself if someone else dies, and I’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“Well,” Mom said, as she walked over and held me in her arms. “Then that’s precisely what you need to do. Remember what I used to tell you as a girl, Sarah? When you had trouble at school or with a friend?”

I honestly didn’t remember, so I just shook my head.

“I told you to focus on what’s
really
important,” she said. “That if you put your mind to it, you will always find the right path.”

“But sometimes things aren’t as simple as they were when I was a kid,” I answered.

Mom put her hands on my shoulders and stepped back. She gave me one of those looks, a mixture of love and pride, I remembered from my youth. “That may be true,” she said. “But you’re a fine woman. You’ll find your way.”

With that, Mom picked up her teacup and left to watch her
favorite program,
Iron Chef
on the Food Network. She’d heard the secret ingredient that night was clams. She was gone only a few moments when I grabbed the telephone and dialed information.

“I need the phone number for the
Galveston County Daily News.”

T
he restaurant was a dive, a dilapidated twenty-four-hour coffee shop on the southbound feeder of the Gulf Freeway. At nine that evening, the parking spaces were nearly all empty. The place smelled of mildew, and we were the only customers.

“So, what’s the arrangement you’re suggesting?” Matthews asked. “You want to go off the record?”

“No, you can quote me,” I said, toying with my spoon in the cup of coffee the waitress had set before me. Like everything else in the place, the cloudy liquid in my cup appeared coated by a thin layer of grease.

The reporter pulled out a pack of cigarettes and looked at me. “Do you mind…?”

“Not if they don’t,” I said, motioning toward the waitress.

Matthews shook his head. “It’s why I like this place. They could care less. As you can see, they need the business,” he said, lighting a cigarette and taking a long draw. He puffed a cloud of smoke, and then retrieved a bit of something off his tongue to flick into his coffee cup saucer.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” I said.

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “So, what’s the catch?”

“We don’t talk about the Lucas murders,” I said. Before he could object, I continued. “You can infer anything you like, but I’m under a gag order, and I’m not going there. I am willing to tell you about the serial killer I’ve been chasing, the other murders he’s suspected of, and the task force that’s been searching the railroads the past two days.”

“Go on.”

“Then we’re agreed. You will not ask me any questions about the Lucas killings, and you will not suggest in the article that I commented on them in any way. If you mention the Galveston murders at all, you will include the fact that I respected the judge’s gag order and declined comment.”

It was a loophole, one I hoped might save me from a stint in a jail cell for contempt of court and one that might, and this was a long shot, save my job.

Matthews hesitated, undoubtedly turning my offer over in his mind.

“You’ve got a deal,” he then said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a thin reporter’s notebook. “Let’s get started.”

Looking back, I’m sure I rambled. I talked for more than an hour. Without divulging the type of evidence that could become an issue in a courtroom, I described in general terms the events of the previous two weeks. Meanwhile, Matthews scribbled notes, pausing to light a new cigarette just before he stubbed out the butt of his last into the quickly overflowing ashtray. Occasionally he’d ask a question, but mainly he listened. I talked about Louise Fontenot, Mary Gonzales, and Dr. Neal. I explained how we’d used forensic evidence to tie Gabriel to the railroad, about the Freedom Fighters and the two-day search that had yielded little. When he
asked, I verified that the INS connection was a ruse and that Gabriel was the target. I also detailed why I believed the search was doomed to failure.

“So, this Gabriel is a Resendiz copycat?” he asked.

“Yeah, in some ways he is, just smarter.”

“Shit, Resendiz caused a near panic in this state,” he said, tapping off an ash. “This is going to send people through the roof again, looking over their shoulders, afraid of their own shadows.”

“I know,” I said.

“They need to be warned though, so they can take precautions,” he said, angry and I knew frustrated with all he’d been through trying to report on the investigation. “Why the cover-up? They don’t want to jeopardize their case against Priscilla Lucas?”

“Like I said in the beginning of this conversation, I can’t comment,” I said. “But, now I’ve got a question for you.”

“I can’t tell you who my source is,” he objected. “I’m grateful for the interview, but that’s someplace I can’t go.”

“That’s not my question. I already know Detective Nelson’s your mole,” I said. I paused and Matthews didn’t object, but I wasn’t sure I’d guessed right. He didn’t react to Nelson’s name, and I wondered if I’d been wrong. “You’ve been all over this story. You’ve had it right from the beginning. What I want to know is, why haven’t you run the San Antonio composite?”

Matthews looked almost embarrassed, stared down at his cigarette and frowned. “The directive from your office said this guy may have been a witness in the Gonzales killing and was wanted for questioning. My editor, in his vast wisdom, went with the story about the murder and suspicions it was connected to the Lucas killings, but then, somehow, I still can’t figure out how, decided not to run the composite. We were short of space that day. He wouldn’t run the sketch without confirmation that this guy was a
suspect in the island killings. No one at your office or the FBI would talk. Not even my source,” he said. “Funny thing. At times, I’ve had a feeling my mole, as you called him, really didn’t want this guy found.”

Just what I’d suspected.

“Now,” I said. “With what I’ve told you, will you run it?”

“Yeah, now I can run it.”

With that, I took a copy of the new sketch out of my pocket.

“Then run this one, too,” I said. “It’s Gabriel as a kid. It could help get this guy caught and save some lives.”

Matthews took the sketch. “Ordinary-looking bastard to be this evil.”

“One more thing,” I said. “If I’m not overstepping my bounds, I’ve got a suggestion for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Bad choice of words when you’re dealing with a Texas Ranger,” I said, chuckling. He laughed along with me, and I thought maybe Evan Matthews wasn’t such a bad guy after all. “First, you have to warn people to lock their doors and windows, especially if they’re living anywhere near a railroad track. Like I said, this is just like the Resendiz thing, and that’s how this guy’s been getting in, through open windows.”

“No problem.”

“Second, how about running profiles on the victims with your piece, especially Dr. Neal and Mary Gonzales? Your article will be about a serial killer who claims to be an instrument of God, punishing sinners. Mary and Dr. Neal were truly good people.”

“I don’t know…”

“Listen, Evan, we both want this guy caught, right?”

He didn’t answer, but I went on as if he had. “A story on his victims, one that shows them for what they were, just good, ordinary
people, will make him angry. We need him angry. That’s when he’ll make mistakes. Right now, he’s just too damn careful. We need him rattled.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Make sure you describe this guy as he really is,” I said, staring hard at him. “He’s not an archangel. He’s a sniveling coward who’s killing for no reason other than to appease his own sick fantasy.”

I got up to leave and said, “You can quote me on that.”

In the car on the way home, I felt the weight of the last few days slip away. No matter what happened the next morning when the story broke, I knew I’d done the right thing, and I understood that I had no real choice. There was something else: recounting the past two weeks for Matthews had brought a lot of the investigation back into focus, including those first days. I dialed David on my cell phone, without looking at the clock.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“David, it’s Sarah.”

“What time is it?”

“Not too late,” I said. “Listen, I want to head out early tomorrow morning and drive back to Bardwell. You up for it?”

“Why? We already—”

“No we didn’t. We both planned to stay there longer. We cut the trip short to try to talk Judge McLamore out of signing the arrest warrant,” I reminded him. “What if Miss Fontenot was his first victim? Maybe Gabriel knew she was the town gossip because he grew up in the Thicket.”

“Yeah, but Quaker said our guy’s Southern,” David objected.

“Lots of East Texas folks talk with a little Louisiana in their voices,” I pointed out. “It wouldn’t be a stretch.”

David was silent for a minute. “I’m supposed to be back out on the stakeout tomorrow.”

“Do you really think that’s the way you’ll stop him?”

“Well,” said David, cautiously. “Tell you what. Pick me up at five and have a Thermos of coffee with you. We’ll be there when the sun comes up.”

D
avid was waiting on his front porch, a newspaper tucked under his arm, when I drove up at precisely five the next morning. He slipped into the passenger seat beside me, motioned away the Thermos I offered, and said, “I’ve already had a pot. My phone’s been ringing since three. Did you see the Galveston newspaper? I ran out and picked one up this morning.”

“No, but I brought apple crullers,” I said, holding up the white paper sack. He waved it away, uninterested. “Apparently you’ve had breakfast, too?”

I claimed a cruller and took a bite, the sugar coating sticking to my lips. Knowing the furor I’d begun by talking to Matthews, before bed I’d taken the precaution of turning off my cell and leaving the ranch phone off the hook. In hindsight, it was an excellent decision.

“The captain, my boss at the Bureau, everyone’s calling. You’re in a mountain of trouble,” David said, slapping the newspaper open on my lap. “Sarah, how could you have put your career on the line this way?”

The banner headline screamed:

RAILROAD KILLER COPYCAT ON RAMPAGE
TEXAS RANGER ADVISES: “LOCKYOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS.”

The
Daily News
had my interview with Matthews front and center. As I skimmed the article, I couldn’t help thinking how the story had undoubtedly thrown the newsroom into chaos. As I’d suspected he would, Matthews had called everyone reachable for comment, including psychiatrists who detailed the traits of such killers. The captain, probably roused out of a deep sleep, had choked out a “No comment.”

The editors had devoted more than a quarter of the front page to the main piece. To my great satisfaction, the dominant images were the two sketches of Gabriel, side-by-side, front and center. My picture was tucked into the copy, a file photo taken at a drug-bust briefing I’d given a few years back, but in large block print they’d run my parting quote from the night before: Gabriel is “a sniveling coward, killing for no reason other than to appease his own sick fantasy.”

Under a black-and-white shot of the outside of the Lucas family’s Galveston beach house, the caption read:
Barred by a gag order, Lt. Armstrong refuses comment, but other sources speculate that the Galveston double murders may also be tied to the serial killer, who calls himself Gabriel
.

“You’re smiling?” David said. “This makes you happy.”

“It looks like a lot of folks didn’t sleep well,” I said. “And it looks like Matthews got it right.”

On page four, the main article wrapped around ads for a local Internet service provider and one touting free interest and no payments for six months on waterbeds. They’d also run a spate of accompanying articles, quickly thrown together by other reporters, including a recap of the gruesome career of the Railroad Killer, Resendiz.
I found what I was hoping for on page six, profiles of Gabriel’s victims. In the photo that accompanied a piece on Dr. Neal, he examined a woman in the clinic where he volunteered. The article explained that the doctor had been instrumental not only in founding the much-needed facility but bringing in the federal and state funds necessary to keep it running. In the second paragraph, a young woman who’d survived cancer credited the doctor with saving her life. Near the end, a nurse speculated that without Dr. Neal the facility would be forced to close. “Our patients are poor, and they need this clinic. Where will they go?” she lamented. “How could anyone do this to a man who did nothing but good work for others?”

“Apparently, the killer mistakenly believed Dr. Neal performed abortions,” the reporter wrote. “In fact, the doctor worked with infertile patients hoping to have children.”

As happy as I was about the coverage of Dr. Neal’s career, the next photo was the one that washed away any lingering doubts that I’d done the right thing. In a snapshot from the previous Christmas, Mary Gonzales stood before her family’s small tree decorated with homemade ornaments, surrounded by her children. “Mother dreamed of America’s promise for her children,” the headline read. “She was a wonderful woman and a devoted mother,” said the manager at the restaurant where Mary worked. “She worked hard and dedicated herself to improving her family’s life.”

I’d nearly forgotten he was there when David demanded, “Sarah, why?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I said. “We had an obligation to warn people as soon as we were sure.”

“But you know what this could mean for you,” he said.

If I didn’t, I soon found out. I’d turned my cell phone on only as I drove up to David’s front door. Although it was barely sunrise, it rang. When I clicked on, the captain’s voice left no room for misinterpretation. He was furious.