“Pablo!” he shouted. “Turn up the TV!”
Pablo obliged, and the ancient Zenith TV behind the bar blasted into life. The fuzzy channel at least had clear sound.
The reporter was saying, “So far, three men in three different states, all U.S. Army veterans, have been found dead-execution style.” Pictures of three soldiers in uniform flashed on the screen, but the images weren’t clear enough for Jack to make them out. He could tell, however, that Scout wasn’t one of them.
“According to the Austin Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an active role in the case, sending two agents from Washington, D.C., to assist local authorities in tracking who may be the first serial killer targeting our armed forces….”
Serial killer?
The reporter continued. “If anyone has information about these crimes, please contact Detective Jose Vasquez with the Austin Police Department at …”
Jack left. Austin P.D. be damned. He was going straight to the top.
He sat in his truck and called Washington, D.C. His brother Dillon was living with a fed. And dammit, Jack would pull every string and make any promise if it led to justice for Scout.
For the first time since he’d seen Scout’s body, Jack believed he had a decent shot at finding his friend’s killer.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The VFW Hall that Duane Johnson had frequented every Monday night for a poker game was located on the dilapidated side of the Austin business district. As Jose Vasquez drove Meg and Hans across town, the scent of thunderstorms hung in the air even though the colorful, sunset-hued sky was clear. Megan was exhausted. This was their last stop before checking into a hotel Agent Davis had secured for them.
The hall was more than half full, with the majority of patrons in their late fifties and sixties. Vietnam era, Megan thought. Still, a decent number of men were in their thirties. And while women had a larger role in today’s armed forces, there were only a handful in the establishment.
Taking the lead, Vasquez led Megan and Hans over to two men sitting at a table on the far side of the back room. Two of three pool tables were in use.
“Reggie, Norris, meet Special Agent Elliott and Dr. Vigo from the FBI. They’re here to help find Duane’s killer.”
Reggie was as white as Norris was black. He was tall, skinny, around forty years of age; Norris was tall, linebacker-wide, and at least sixty, if not older. He also had only one eye, but it didn’t miss anything. Both were drinking draft beer.
“Hmm,” Norris said.
“Skeptical?” Hans asked.
Norris shrugged. “Been a couple months.”
Megan sat down next to the men. “Sometimes it takes awhile, but neither Hans nor I are backing down.”
“Yep.”
Megan tried a different tack. “Where were you stationed?” she asked.
“Fort Meade,” Reggie said. “Spent three years in Iraq.”
Norris stared. “Ord.” He sipped his beer.
Meg nodded. “California. I know it.”
Norris raised an eyebrow. “It’s closed.”
“Right. In 1994. I lived there when I was ten. My father moved around a lot.”
“Army brat.”
“One of the brattiest.”
Reggie chuckled. “Somehow, I don’t see that.”
“Just ask my brother. He was so fed up with army brats that he joined the navy.” She rolled her eyes.
The men laughed, and Megan breathed easier.
“You really think you can catch Duane’s killer?” Norris asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” Megan said. “I don’t give up.”
“Easily?”
“I don’t give up.” She had a few cold cases on her desk that she still worked. She hated to lose; she hated more to have a killer walking free while his victims were six feet under.
“We told the detective everything we know.”
“My partner, Hans Vigo, and I have some questions. They might sound strange.”
“Did Vasquez say you’re a doctor?”
Hans shrugged. “Depends how you define ‘doctor.’ I have a Ph.D.” Hans had three, but Megan didn’t elaborate. “I might be able to save you if you start choking on peanuts, but if you need emergency brain surgery, you’re dead meat.”
The men laughed again, and Hans sat next to Megan.
“What do you want to know?” Reggie asked. “We told Vasquez everything about Duane. He plays poker with us on Monday nights-that’s when his restaurant is closed. He’s known for his ribs, but it’s the hamburgers that bring me out on payday.”
“We’re a tight bunch here. We’d notice strangers hanging around,” Norris said. “Nothing bizarre or out of the ordinary for as long as I can remember. Duane was a good guy. Paid his taxes. Loved his kids. Hell, he even loved his ex-wife. Dawn was a good woman, they just couldn’t live together, you know?”
“They were still getting it on,” Reggie said.
“Shut up, kid,” Norris said.
Reggie waved his hand in the air. “Duane wouldn’t care. What do you think, that Dawn had something to do with his murder? Not a chance.”
Megan said, “What I’m really interested in is Duane’s military background.”
Both men grew serious. “Why?” Norris asked.
“Have you seen the news? Two other veterans have been murdered in a similar manner.”
“You mean that homeless vet in Sacramento?” Norris said. “Just saw that tonight, before you walked in. There wasn’t much to the story. Just that police thought it might be connected with Duane’s case, but they didn’t give us shit in the report. Same as we been hearing for the last two months. No offense, Jose.”
“None taken.”
“So you remember the news story?” Hans asked, one eyebrow raised.
“ ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ “ Norris quoted.
“I was at the crime scene,” Megan said. “George Price is my case.”
“And that’s connected to Duane?” Reggie asked. “How?”
“There are three victims, all were army, all with multiple tours, and thus far there are about ten years of overlapping enlistment. We’re trying to find any common posts or assignments.”
“It wasn’t just a random act of violence?”
“No,” Megan and Hans said simultaneously.
Hans added, “Someone is targeting specific veterans. He will kill again if we can’t figure out the connection and stop him.”
Reggie and Norris drank their drafts simultaneously. “What do you want to know?” Norris finally said. “We don’t just sit here and talk about our lives like this is Oprah’s studio.”
Megan nodded. “You probably know where Duane served.”
Reggie nodded. “He did basic at Fort Bragg.”
Megan made the note. “1982.”
