Secession: The Storm (39 page)

Samantha Temple studied the body, or what was left of it, with a keen eye. Even for the experienced, homicide detective, the scene was shocking.

“I found the arms!” shouted a patrolman, some 30 meters away.

The area was on the edge of Harris County, thick with underbrush and scrub trees. A citizen hunting his lost dog had found the pooch – and the body.

Thankful she opted against high heels today, Sam trekked down a seldom-used lane, the thigh-high weeds only slightly lower along the two parallel paths where a car’s tires would pass.

She found the officer standing with his back to the grisly discovery, the youngish man with a green face merely pointing to the remains.

Sam could understand why. The two arms, separated at the shoulders, were lying about six feet apart. Ropes were still attached to the wrists, the lanyards no doubt hastily cut away from the vehicle that had been used to pull the victim apart.

“Not a good way to die,” Sam commented to the pale officer. Bending closer to examine one of the limbs, she continued, “From the looks of his wrists, they were torturing him… pulling him apart slowly.”

Her comment tipped the scales between full on nausea and his current hue, the young HPD officer rushing away, coughing and gagging on his own vomit.

Sam ignored the upheaval, moving to examine what was once a left arm. “Nice watch,” she noted, using her pencil to brush away a small clump of grass. “You weren’t some homeless guy… or a doper who owed money to some vicious loan shark.”

The crime scene investigation unit arrived a moment later, high-end digital cameras snapping photographs of every possible piece of evidence. Sam noted her footfalls on a diagram and then instructed one of the technicians to do the same for the still-puking officer.

“This happened less than 48 hours ago,” announced another agent. “From the rope burns on the hands and wrists, I’d say the victim died slowly. He was being tortured… maybe interrogated.”

“I bet he talked,” Sam observed. “I bet he told them anything they wanted to know.”

“He lived for about 1 minute after his arms were dismembered,” noted the medical expert. “Actual cause of death most likely due to hemorrhaging. He was brutally beaten as well, the disfigurement of his face and skull the result of a blunt instrument… maybe a blackjack.”

Satisfied that the surface area and near-proximity to the body had been detailed, the CSI officer gave Sam the okay to search the body.

“Who
are
you?” she wondered, taking a knee and patting down the corpse’s pockets. The first thing she found was a press identification card. Wiping the blood from the plastic encased ID, Sam inhaled sharply when she read the name. “Ross Garcia,” she said aloud. “Now who did you go and piss off?”

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was on the road, driving to the victim’s home address. On the way, she couldn’t dismiss the commonality of Abe Hendricks, Ranger Bass, Sal Perkins, and the now-deceased Ross Garcia. She reached for her phone.

“Hello, Detective Temple,” Zach answered in a cheery voice. “What can this Texas Ranger do for you?”

“I just finished working a crime scene, and I ran into an old friend of yours,” she answered. “I’m sure you remember Ross Garcia, the man who became famous for interviewing Abe Hendricks and flashing your fistfight all over the national media.”

“Yes,” Zach replied, his tone cautious. “And what did Mr. Garcia have to say?”

Sam ignored the question. “And when was the last time you encountered Mr. Garcia, Zach?”

“I’ve not laid eyes on the man since that morning in Mr. Hendricks’s yard. What’s going on, Sam?”

“Someone tied ropes around Mr. Garcia’s ankles and wrists, and then proceeded to pull him apart. My guess is they used a pickup truck, and the culprits most definitely did it nice and slow.”

“When?”

“The medical examiner thinks it was less than 48 hours ago. Anything I should know, Ranger Bass?”

The gap of silence on the other end told the detective that Zach was choosing his next words carefully.

“As I’m sure your brilliant mind had already deduced, I sent Mr. Garcia an anonymous copy of Abe’s papers. Other than that, I’ve not had any contact with him since that morning when your ex-boyfriend and I had our minor altercation.”

“No contact?”

“No, none. And if I were you, I wouldn’t rush to the conclusion his death is related to those documents. There’s no way anyone could know he had them. I just dropped them off yesterday morning at the station.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone what you were doing?”

“No. I started to call you, but decided against it. I didn’t want to involve you in something that might be over-the-top dangerous. I’m pretty sure somebody’s been trying to take me out.”

“Now that’s stunning news – someone wants to kill Ranger Bass. I’m utterly shocked. Why would anyone want to end the life of such a nice, polite, low-key guy like you?”

“I know,” Zach teased back. “I guess they heard that the good die young.”

“And you were going to fill me in on this little tidbit at what point in time? Or had your brilliant deductive skills already eliminated the possibility that someone might associate me with you, and thus concluded I was not in danger?”

“I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” Zach replied. “It’s entirely plausible that Mr. Garcia’s murder was due to a completely unrelated story he was covering. He was, after all, an investigative reporter. This might have been purely a coincidence. Where are you now?”

“I’m heading over to Mr. Garcia’s home. He resided on the west side… out in Katy. Are you in Houston?”

“Not yet. I’m still about an hour outside of town. The governor is going to be visiting your lovely city in the next few days, and I’ve been assigned to do a little pre-arrival screening. Why don’t you give me the address, and I’ll meet you there. It’s on the way, after all.”

“Suit yourself,” she replied. “I suppose you might get lucky and notice something I’ve missed.”

An hour later, Zach’s pickup rolled up next to Sam’s city-issued car. “Was Mr. Garcia single?” the ranger asked.

“Divorced,” Sam replied, eyeing what should be an empty home.

They discovered the front door locked, two days’ worth of mail still crammed in the box. Working their way around the exterior of the upscale homestead, Sam was a little surprised when Zach drew his weapon. “What?” she mouthed, reaching for her own pistol.

Nodding toward the back door, Zach whispered, “The glass is broken out… right above the lock.”

“I need to get Katy PD out here,” the detective nodded, raising her cell phone.

After Sam had called for backup, the duo decided to go ahead and enter the Garcia residence.

From the moment Zach set foot in the rear entryway, it was obvious the place had been tossed. Papers, dishes, pans and the contents of each drawer and shelf were scattered on the floor. Every container of food in the refrigerator had been searched and discarded, the stench of spoiled groceries mixing with a stream of soured milk running across the floor.

The couch and chair cushions had been dissected, every picture on every wall pitched into the middle of the floor.

“Somebody was definitely looking for something. I wonder if this was before or after he was murdered.”

“The forensics team should be able to tell from the spoiled food,” Sam replied.

They entered what had been Ross’s home office, the paneled walls and built-in shelves lined with books accenting the massive desk, printer, and filing cabinets. Zach peered inside an open closet door and then shook his head. “This happened after he was murdered. The safe is open, and it wasn’t cracked. Whoever was torturing the man managed to get the combination.”

Sam was at his side a moment later, her eyes scanning the safe and the litter of papers scattered around the opening and floor. “Do you see the copy of the documents you sent him?” she asked.

Zach glanced around, finally shaking his head. “Nope. Don’t see them. But we have no way of knowing they were ever here.”

Throwing the ranger a dirty look, Sam bent, her hand seeking a thin coating of white dust she spied on the baseboard. After rubbing a finger through the substance, she took a sniff and frowned deeply.

“What?” Zach asked, now clearly intrigued.

“It’s fingerprint powder,” she announced. “We use aerosols nowadays, but I’m sure that’s what this is. Someone with access to a fingerprint database surely can procure aerosols. That’s just weird.”

“There’s another use,” Zach sighed, rubbing his chin in thought. “You can tell how recent a copy was made if you mix the right chemicals together.”

“Shit. You’re right. How did you send Garcia those documents?”

“I delivered them to the Channel 3 offices, slid the envelope through the mail slot.”

Sam shook her head, deep worry evident in her eyes. “Well, whoever pulled Mr. Garcia apart at the seams now knows those were recent copies. They also know someone has the originals. I’d be watching my back, Ranger.”

“I have been, Detective. Believe me, I have been.”

“What are you going to do?”

Zach rubbed his chin, trying to think it all through. “Right now, nothing. The governor is coming to Houston, and from there we’re flying to Washington. At least the trip will give me some time to come up with a plan.”

“I will keep working this end, but I don’t expect to find much. Whoever did this was a pro. I’ll let you know first thing if I get lucky.”

Zach removed his jacket, draping it over the hotel chair without ceremony, not giving a shit about potential wrinkles. Next came his boots, shoulder holster, tie, shirt, and finally the soft-sided body armor that was now like a second skin.

He was in the shower moments later, hot water pounding against his exhausted shoulders and tense neck. The last two days had been a non-stop whirlwind of stress, and Governor Simmons’s itinerary wasn’t even one-quarter of the way complete.

“At least the Secret Service guys are pros,” he muttered through the warm spray.

Taking off from Houston had been bad enough, every security man in the world developing a sudden aversion to flying since the incident with Abe’s rifle and President Clifton’s plane. Landing in DC hadn’t been a bucket of beer.

Then came a seemingly endless agenda of dinners, meetings, diplomatic functions and other activities associated with a man who had recently exploded onto the national stage. The fact that Simmons could soon be a head of state made all the pomp and circumstance even more intense.

Tomorrow morning, Simmons’s entourage was heading to New York and the United Nations.