they’ve been flashing on the news was Price at eighteen. But they had a photo that’s only five years old. There’s no way in Hell our John Doe is Price. Both white, six feet tall, basic build, similar coloring, but obviously not the same man. I’ll shoot an e-mail with the pic off to you … done. You have more contacts and resources. If you can find the real George Price first, more power to you. In the meantime, Black is trying to find out who our John Doe is and how he came by Price’s dog tags.”
Megan hung up the phone, perplexed.
Why did the killers think the homeless John Doe was Price? Had they never actually seen him before? Or was it so long ago they didn’t exactly remember him?
Or did this mean that George Price was part of the killing team?
“The victim in Sacramento isn’t Price?” Jack asked.
Megan shook her head. “This changes everything. We need to find the real George Price.”
“If he’s still alive,” Hans said. “Or wants to be found. He’s been AWOL for five years. He could have a new identity, be out of the country, in hiding. He’s not going to come forward knowing he’ll be prosecuted by the army for attempted murder as well as desertion.”
“What if he’s involved?”
“First Jefferson, now Price?” Jack said. “You’re really stretching it. Why would Price put his own identification around a man he just killed?”
Megan fumed. “How do I know? To stage his own death?”
“He’d know the prints wouldn’t match,” Jack snapped.
“At least I’m trying to figure it out! We don’t know what’s going on, but George Price was dead three days ago, and now he’s not. He’s still AWOL, but that man was killed by the same people who tortured and executed three other Delta Force soldiers who had all worked together for two years in Afghanistan. You tell me there’s not a connection somewhere. Maybe the homeless guy found the tags in the garbage, for all we know. But then how in the world did the killers mistake him for Price?” She couldn’t figure it out, and it was eating at her. Deductive reasoning was one of her strengths, but nothing in this scenario made sense.
“I’ll call Quantico and have them start looking,” Hans said. He shook his head and Megan felt his disapproval. “I’m surprised that you of all people made such an amateur mistake.”
Before she could respond to Hans, Jack said to her, “Maybe you should call in your friend from Rogan- Caruso-the one you have investigating me. Because he seems to be able to get information out of a magic hat. Though he didn’t get the goods that Price wasn’t Price.”
Megan’s brows furrowed. What was Jack saying? J.T., yeah, he would be a good contact. But Jack almost sounded jealous. What a ridiculous-ludicrous! — idea. She really was exhausted.
“Good idea,” she said absently. Jack mumbled something under his breath, but Megan didn’t hear the words. She watched Hans walk away and realized he was angry with her. She ran through everything that happened Monday-yeah, they made the assumption the victim was George Price; they took his prints to verify … but when CID came and took the body, Megan didn’t even question the man’s identity. Of course it was Price, why else would the army take him?
But she’d made an assumption that, though based on circumstantial evidence, was false. The entire case was in jeopardy
Except that the homeless John Doe had been killed in the same manner as the other victims, and therefore Price’s tags must have deliberately been put on the body. Price was connected somehow. This was no coincidence.
She looked around for Hans to explain, but he was across the room talking quietly on the phone, his back to her. And Jack was staring out the window, his back also facing her. She felt as if she would explode. She needed to talk it out, analyze every angle.
Someone rapped on the rectory door and Jack answered. “Hern, right?”
“Right. Good memory, Kincaid.”
Ranger Ted Hern came in, taking his hat off. “Dr. Vigo, Agent Elliott. Glad you’re both here. We may have a break.”
Hern’s expression was dour while he waited for Hans to wrap up his call. “Two dead bodies at a rest stop outside Blythe, California. And in the parking lot, the highway patrol found a military identification tag for Lawrence Bartleton.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hans said to Megan as he punched buttons on his cell phone, “I’ll get a military transport out of McAllen. We should be in California in a couple hours.”
Jack said, “I have a plane. I’ll take you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Hans said, putting the phone to his ear.
Megan caught Jack’s eye. He was a hard man, but he wasn’t too hard to read. He’d go with or without them. Scout was his friend, he felt responsible. Megan understood that all too well. “Jack’s contacts may come in handy,” she said. “And we can leave now.”
Hern said, “The victims were a young truck driver, twenty-three, and his wife. She was pregnant.”
“Any witnesses?” Megan asked.
“I don’t know. Barker and I can stay here and follow up on the autopsy and potential witnesses in the Bartleton investigation.”
“Father Francis may have seen a potential witness, or possible suspect, at the church Tuesday night. Can you get a sketch artist to work with him?”
“We’ll jump on it,” Hern said.
“Appreciate it,” Megan said. “My e-mail is on my card, and I can receive images on my BlackBerry. Get it to me as soon as you can.” She looked at Hans, who was on hold, and then asked Jack, “You have a plane that can fit all of us?”
“Yes.”
“How long to Blythe?”
“Three hours in the air, plus or minus.”
Megan glanced at Hans again. Why didn’t he want to use Jack? He wouldn’t have been her first choice, but right now the fastest way to Blythe would bring them that much closer to the killers. They’d been at a rest stop. Someone had to have seen
Hans said into the phone, “Sheryl? Sorry to bother you. I found transportation…. Thanks anyway. I appreciate it.” He hung up and said to Jack, “I guess you’re our pilot.”
Jack found Padre kneeling in front of the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the St. Ignatius chapel off the main church. He didn’t say anything for a long minute. While he often came to church because of Padre, he hadn’t really thought about the reasons, if there were any. Today, he took in the old, lovingly cared for stained glass, antique statues, worn wooden pews, simple altar with the polished brass tabernacle behind it, the candle in the sconce proclaiming Jesus was present. He’d given a lot of money to Padre’s church, but he never gave a thought to what it went to. In the back of his mind guilt spread. He was trying to buy off God.
Jack was no saint. He blamed God for most of the wrongs in the world. Blasphemy, he was sure. After all, God let Satan roam free. How else could a pregnant woman and her husband end up murdered at a roadside water hole? Where was God in that?
“I can feel your anger and frustration, Jack,” Padre said without turning around.
“I’m taking the feds to California. They have a lead on Scout’s killer.”
“Good.”
“I just talked to Tim. He’ll be here in half an hour. Until then, Ranger Hern will be around.”
“Hmm.”
Jack sat in the pew behind Padre. “Frank.”
