SERIAL

“Sheriff, we go another one” officer Hearne looked sick as he made the announcement over the two-way radio.

“Jesus! Are you sure?” replied Sheriff Hicks. Harley Hicks sat at his desk at police headquarters with a half full cup of cold coffee in his hand. His other hand was clutching the receiver on his C.B.

“I’m sure…Ned and his family…well…they’re …..damn it Harley just get here ASAP! Oh…and call Andy. Tell him to bring the best he has. We need some expert help here cuz I don’t have a friggin-A-clue one to pull together. Ah God!

Sheriff Hicks gave the over and out. He put down his cold cup of coffee, picked up the phone and dialed a long unused phone number. The phone rang three times before the answering machine clicked on. “You have reached the office of Andrew Davis, Forensics Unit for the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Please leave a detailed message with a phone number where you can be reached and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Thank you.

BEEP!

“Damn automation machines!” said Harley, under his breath. “Andy, this is Sheriff Hicks down in Guadalupe County. Listen…I got a homicide case today that seems to tie in with two previous cases in the last three months. You need to get down here like yesterday! It looks like it may be a recurrence of that 1986 case that went cold on you before you could close it. You’re the only one knows what’s what and can confirm. Call me when you arrive in town. I’m expectin’ ya by tonight. You know my number…and Andy, I’ll hold the scene as long as I can but just you get on down here pronto”.

Harley hung up, picked up his hat and keys and headed for the door. He tried to mentally prepare himself for the horror of what he knew he was about to see. It was the third case in less than three months. He had no earthly idea how he would manage to keep this one out of the media.

“Shoot!” he thought. Please God, don’t let it be happening again. And with that thought, he got into his patrol car and headed out to Lake McQueeney.

Chapter One

Andrew Davis replayed the message over and over in his head as he watched the stewardess push her cart up the aisles dispensing soft drinks to the passengers. He wasn’t even sure if stewardess was the politically correct term to use anymore but it was the only one he was familiar or comfortable with. Geez, it can’t be another occurrence of the 1986 case. He prayed it wasn’t and he kept his resolve firm that he would find no evidence at the scene in Guadalupe County to correspond with the unsolved murders from that case. Strangely, though, at the same time, a part of him hoped it was exactly that. He felt cheated that he never found enough conclusive evidence from 1986 to effectively come up with a distinct enough profile on the killer. It was so random and serial killings were anything but random.

Serial killers always followed some kind of pattern or ritual. They killed for all kinds of reasons but it always had something to do with something either missing or extremely abusive or traumatic in their pathetic lives. The trick was discovering the pattern of the killings. Who were the victims? How were the victims killed? In what manner? What time? How often did the killings occur and where? These were key questions in every serial homicide case. They helped to define what type of person, what age group and even what ethnicity the killer was. You could almost figure out what tedious occupation they performed daily as they masqueraded as normal human beings by day.

Ted Bundy was a case study serial killer, as was the Son of Sam (David Berkowitz) and even Jeffrey Dahmer. But the 1986 case in Selma, Schertz and Cibolo Texas baffled every FBI profiler in the business. No conclusion was ever made and before anything substantial could be collected at the seven scenes, the killer just stopped. He stopped! Serial killers do not stop. They keep on going until they’re caught or they die. And Andy never once believed the perpetrator had just simply up and died ever so conveniently. No…Andy speculated that the killer was far more wily and had simply gone to ground, waiting. Until now…..maybe. It remained to be seen and he had another 45 minutes of flight ahead of him and then 40 minutes of drive time from San Antonio International Airport before reaching Harley Hicks office.

The stewardess arrived at his seat and offered him his in-flight beverage. He opted for a diet coke. He sipped the fizzy refreshment as a little excitement built up inside of him. He was a forensics specialist. It was his life long passion and the thought of gathering evidence that no one else had even noticed, evidence that could make or break a case, got the blood flowing in his veins like no exercise could. He felt awful for the victims but he would do his damndest to help solve their murder. He leaned back into his seat and started to mentally go through the 1986 file in his head. He knew every piece of evidence and every victim by heart. Every one of them had been murdered cold upon returning home late at night inside their own homes. The homes did not offer much in the way of evidence of a break-in for most of the cases but the killer had always waited for his victims inside the perceived safety of their home. The very idea made you want to check every closet and under every bed just to feel somewhat safe.