LITMIR.BIZ

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the second case of bedroom abduction we’ve seen in the past two years. The last one was over in Palo Verde, and the child was murdered in a similar manner. I found it listed on VICAP, the FBI’s violent criminal apprehension program. I showed it to the lieutenant. He told me I was chasing ghosts.”

      Garon’s eyebrow lifted. “Did you check for other unsolved child homicides?”

      “I did,” Marquez said somberly. “I found two in Oklahoma eight years ago. They happened about a year apart, and the children were abducted from their homes, but in daylight. I showed the cases to my lieutenant. He said it was coincidence, that there were no real similarities except the kids were strangled and stabbed.”

      “The victims,” Garon replied. “How old were they?”

      Marquez pulled out a BlackBerry and brought up a screen. “Between ten and twelve years of age. They were raped, strangled and then stabbed.”

      “God!” Garon burst out. “What kind of animal would do that to a child?”

      “A really nasty one.”

      “I’d hoped that the red ribbon would show up in those VICAP postings that matched this homicide. But I had no luck.” Marquez looked up from the BlackBerry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. He handed it to Garon.

      Garon opened it and looked inside. “A red silk ribbon?”

      “The murder weapon,” Marquez said. “The first officers on the scene were San Antonio P.D. They found it tied tight around the neck of the ten-year-old girl. Her body was found in behind a little country church north of here yesterday. We transported the body here to our medical examiner for processing. We haven’t released that bit about the red ribbon to the press.”

      Garon could guess why. All homicide detectives tried to hold back one or two pieces of evidence so that they could weed out potential suspects who were lying about their involvement in the murder. Every police department had at least one mental case who tried to confess to any violent crime, for reasons best left to a psychiatrist.

      He touched the ribbon. “It might have something to do with his fantasy,” Garon mused, having participated in seminars by the FBI’s behavioral science department, observing profilers at work. Modus operandi was the method used to kill. Signature was a feature linking all victims of a serial killer in a way that was important only to the killer, and it never changed. Some left victims posed in obscene ways, some used a particular marking of victims, but a number of serial killers left something that identified them as the suspect.

      Garon glanced at the detective. “Have you checked the database for similar ribbons at other crime scenes?”

      “First thing I did, when I saw the ribbon,” he replied. “But no luck. If there was such a ribbon, maybe it was overlooked or held back from the file. I’ve tried to contact the police department in West Texas, at Palo Verde, where the last homicide occurred, but they don’t answer phone calls or e-mails. It’s a tiny little jurisdiction.”

      “Good idea. What do you want from us?”

      “A profile would be a good start,” he said. “My lieutenant won’t like it, but I’ll talk to our captain and see if he’ll make a formal request for assistance. He mentioned the profiling to me himself.”

      Garon smiled. “I’ll fill in one of our ASACs, so that he’ll expect it.”

      “Not the SAC?”

      “Our special agent in charge is in Washington, trying to appropriate funds for a new project we’re trying to get started, partnering with the local middle schools to discourage kids from using drugs.”

      “He might need to ask somebody with more money than our government seems to have,” came the dry reply. “On a local level, our own budget is cut to the bone already. I had to buy a digital camera out of my pocket so that I could get my own crime scene photos.”

      Garon laughed shortly. “I know that feeling.”

      “Is it true, that a lot of cases never get listed on VICAP?” Marquez said.

      “Yes. The forms are shorter than they once were, but it takes about an hour to fill them out. Some police departments just don’t have the time. If you could find a second case with a red ribbon involved, I might be able to help you convince your lieutenant that there’s a serial killer loose. Before he kills again,” he added somberly.

      “Can you spare us an agent, if we put together a task force to hunt this guy?”

      “We can spare me. The rest of my squad is trying to run down a mob of bank robbers who use automatic weapons in holdups. I’m not essential personnel to them. My assistant can run the squad in my absence. I’ve worked serial murder cases, and I know agents in the Behavioral Science Unit I can call on for help. I’ll be glad to work with you.”

      “Thanks.”

      “No sweat. We’re all on the same team.”

      “Do you have a business card?”

      Garon took out his wallet and pulled out a simple white business card with black lettering. “My home phone is at the bottom, along with my cell phone number and my e-mail.”

      Marquez’s eyebrows lifted. “You live in Jacobsville?”

      “Yes. I bought a ranch there.” He laughed. “We’re not supposed to be involved in any business outside the job, but I pulled strings. I live on the ranch. The manager takes care of the day-to-day operation, so I have no conflicts.”

      “I was born in Jacobsville,” Marquez said, smiling.

      “My mother still lives there. She runs a café in town.”

      There was only one café in town. Garon had eaten there. “Barbara’s Café?” Garon asked.

      “The same.”

      He frowned. He didn’t want to step on the man’s toes, but Barbara was a blonde.

      “You’re thinking I don’t look like a man with a blond mother, right?” Marquez smiled. “My parents died in a botched robbery. They owned a small pawn shop in town. I was just six at the time. Barbara never married and had no family. I used to take mom and dad food from the café. After the funeral, Barbara came and got me out of state custody and adopted me. Quite a lady, Barbara.”

      “I’ve heard that.”

      Marquez checked his watch. “I have to run. I’ll phone you when I’ve talked to my captain.”

      “Better make it an e-mail,” Garon replied. “I expect to be in meetings for most of today. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

      “Okay. See you.”

      “Sure.”

      

      IT WAS A GOOD DAY, Garon thought as he drove himself back to Jacobsville. The squad was working witnesses at the last big bank robbery to find any information that would further the investigation. Men armed with automatic weapons were a danger to the entire community of San Antonio. He’d talked to the senior ASAC about setting up a task force in concert with San Antonio homicide detectives to work on the child murder. He had a green light. The ASAC had a friend in the Texas Rangers. He gave Garon his number. They were going to need all the help they could get.

      He glanced toward the Carver place as he drove by. Her car was still sitting in the driveway. He wondered if she could start it again. It was a miracle the piece of junk ran at all.

      He pulled into his driveway and almost ran into the back of a silver Mercedes convertible. A familiar brunette with dark eyes got out, dressed in a black power suit with a skirt halfway up her thighs that showed off her pretty legs. He knew her. She was the realtor who’d just gone to work for Andy Webb, the man who’d sold him this ranch. Her aunt was rich; old lady Talbot, who lived in a mansion on Main Street in town.

      What was her

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