Corpus Delicti

By John Foxjohn

Houston has a problem only David Mason can solve.

For three years one of the most sadistic serial killers had been preying on women. Time after time he eluded the Houston police without leaving a trace. When two FBI investigative teams fail, the bureau sends David Mason back to his hometown.

Returning to Houston would bring trouble David hadn’t anticipated. An ambush from his personal life awaited him. With that going on, he had to face a more critical predicament. He hadn't been in the field in years, at his request—the smell of crime scenes was affecting him.

But all this was the least of his problems: he had to match wits with the smartest killer he’d ever faced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Foxjohn
• Release date: May 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310577307

John Foxjohn

The Pineywoods of East Texas have produced many things, including award winning and best-selling author John Foxjohn. Known as the master of pace, Foxjohn is considered a rising star in publishing. Not only has Foxjohn published books in six different genres, but three different ones have become best-sellers. In 2014, Foxjohn's romantic suspense, Law of Silence, received the prestigious WMP Award of Excellence for the best book of 2014. Despite the book sales and accolades, Foxjohn says, "I'm just a country boy at heart. "I was born and raised so far back in the woods that they had to pump sunshine to us." With little to do but hunt and fish, Foxjohn's environment created an atmosphere that fostered imagination and dreams, something he would excel at. At the tender age of seventeen, he quit high school and joined the army. Foxjohn's six years would see him graduate from jump school, Ranger school, and become the youngest sergeant in peacetime army. A tour of Viet Nam and Germany highlighted an extremely successful stint for Foxjohn. After an honorable discharge, Foxjohn followed that up with ten years in law enforcement, including a long tour as a homicide detective. Fulfilling a promise to his dying mother, Foxjohn graduated from college and began a new adventure of teaching and coaching football. Foxjohn had another of his childhood dreams left to accomplish. When he was twelve, he read a book about Crazy Horse. He said then that one day he would write a book about the fabled Lakota war chief. After retiring, Foxjohn became a writer, and the first book he wrote was an historical fiction titled The People's Warrior: a book about Crazy Horse. Today Foxjohn spends an enormous amount of time traveling in Texas and across the country, signing books and talking and teaching writing groups about the craft of writing.

Book preview

Perfume, elegant like a light floral bouquet, swirled about him as the next player glided in front of him. His chest tightened, and he almost gasped trying to suck in air. He didn’t know anything about her—name, age, what her face looked like, anything, but he’d known her all his life. Her wavy, long blonde hair, her gracefulness, how her derriere shook, and the way she enjoyed men looking at her.

She hadn’t glanced at him, but he was well aware of her interest, and she wore the perfume just to entice him. She wanted him.

Easing onto the elevator behind her, he moved to the rear, away from her, catching a glimpse of full lips, bright blue eyes, and provocative smile.

His skin crawled with desire.

The woman leaned forward to punch the first floor button, and his breath caught. Her wedding ring gleamed in the light. She half-turned her head to see what floor he needed. He nodded, not wanting to talk to her, yet.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out and stroking her hair. They would have a long conversation when he finished with the one he already had—when they played the game.

Her brain waves connected with his. She wanted him—needed him. Without talking to her, he knew she would savor him like all the others had.

The elevator doors opened too soon for him, and he followed at a distance as she exited the building. She turned to the right and he went left. He didn’t need to follow her. He knew where she had been in the building and he could get all of the information on her he needed. He had to have her. A smile creased his face. First, he would finish his current game.

He’d grown tired of Karen and would end their relationship soon. Like all the rest, she didn’t understand the game. She had wanted to play, but by her decree, not his. Everyone played by his edict in the end. No matter what they said, how much they begged, they loved him, needed him, and he gave them what they needed. More important, he gave them what they deserved.

Perspiration popped on his forehead thinking about his new love, wondering what her name was. Without starting the engine of his black Mercedes convertible, he leaned back in the seat and loosened his tie, hoping to relieve the anxiety. It helped only a little.

When he started the engine, he turned the air on full blast and adjusted the vents. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes as cold air blasted across his clean-shaven face, reviving him.

Slamming the shift into reverse, he stomped on the gas, and his car shot out of his assigned parking space. Rubber squealed as he accelerated toward the exit of the garage. The guard raised the arm before he arrived and waved him on.

Fighting the heavy Houston traffic along North Shepherd Drive, he drove for fifteen minutes before exiting on Veterans Memorial. Thirty minutes later, he swerved into the parking lot of Excalibur Assisted Living facilities.

Stark against the gray sky, the four-story retirement home resembled Tara, straight from Gone with the Wind. Oak trees and gazebos broke the outline of acres of rich, green grass. He inhaled the aroma of a fresh-cut lawn and let the fragrance ripple through his soul.

The two enormous pillars at the entrance always captured his attention. He loved the design, the lines of the building, and from the moment he first viewed the structure, he knew this was the perfect place.

He wanted nothing more than for his father to get well and come home, but that wasn’t going to happen. Cost no longer mattered. His dad needed and deserved the best and would get it, no matter what.

A young couple greeted him, breaking his thoughts. He nodded and strode toward the entrance. He took the elevator to the third floor, and his wingtips made no sound as he lengthened his stride down the polished tile hallway to the room at the end.

Easing the door open, he peeked in, and entered when he discovered his father sitting in the chair by the window, staring out. Now a shell of his former self, the ninety-two year old man suffered from advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. Before his massive heart attack three years before, he had lived alone and taken care of himself, proud of his independence. When he left the hospital, he needed full time attention and hated it. With the onset of his disease, he required more attention than a nurse could give him at home, and it tore the son apart to have to put his father into a home like an old horse put out to pasture.

He wanted and needed him as much now as ever. He closed his eyes for a moment as he shook, fighting back tears. He’d never have his father again. He was on his own.

Struggling with his emotions, he pulled a chair up, taking a thin, cold, liver-spotted hand in his. Sometimes the old man resembled himself, mind clear and healthy, but other times, he didn't recognize anyone, including his son—like now.

The blank expression in the old man’s eyes tore his insides out.

His wrinkled face turned toward him. Are you the doctor?

Tears welled in the son’s eyes and his throat constricted. He tried to speak but couldn’t at first. I’m your son, Dad.

The old man’s bald head, one that once held a shock of black hair, nodded as if he knew, but he didn’t. When will the doctor be in with my medicine?

Glancing at his Rolex, the son said, The nurse should be by in about an hour.

As the old man turned back to the window without acknowledging he’d heard, his son ran his fingers through his hair, choking back tears close to the surface. Moments passed before he said, I’m thinking of putting your house up for sale.

The old man turned to face him and nodded as if he understood, but his eyes said he didn’t.

I fixed up the basement. I think you would like it. I have a guest in it now, and you would like her, too. His heart fluttered. She’s like Mom.

Again the old man nodded and presented his son with a weak smile, but he turned his gaze away and continued to stare out the window, chuckling at something.

With the old man staring out the window, he continued as if his father understood every word. She’s like Mom in many ways. She also pretends she loves me. His throat constricted and he had to force the words out. Like Mom, she really hates me, doesn’t want to play. I need to finish the game with her. I saw another one today in the elevator, and she looks just like Mom, too.

He talked for a long time as the old man chuckled at something outside the window, a faraway smile twitching the corners of his lips.

When his father knew everything going on in his life, he rose and trudged to the door. His backward glance found the old man still at the window chuckling.

﴾••• ﴿

Melissa Adams tried to stop her lips from trembling and the bile rising in her throat as she stared into the woman’s lifeless marble eyes. Her efforts didn’t work. She spun away from the dead woman she should have saved.

Stuffing her hands into her pockets to keep the men from seeing the effect the body had on her, she marched from the putrid alley. Crumbled seashells and glass crunched under her feet with each step, but she tuned the noise out as she had done with the odor of spoiled meat the killer left. Dammit, she had to stop this bastard, but for the first time in years, she didn’t know how, where to turn.

If the killer did to this one what he had to all the others, dying had to be a Godsend—something she’d have begged and prayed for. Even the famous BTK killer hadn’t tortured his victims this badly.

Serial killers leave patterns of how they select their victims, even the ones who think they don’t, but if this killer left a pattern other than the victim’s physical description and what he did to the body, no one, herself included, could find it.

Three months of investigation had passed, turning over every rock, and she had as much information now as when she first started. Her team hadn’t added a single piece of evidence the FBI team before her, or the Houston police department, hadn’t found.

Thirty-five women had died at the hands of this demented animal.

The public, media, town leaders, and her bosses wanted answers. All she could give them was a naked female, young, long blonde hair, married, and dead with a pre-mortem tic-tac-toe game and two X’s, two in a row, carved into her stomach and chest.

Melissa snapped her eyes closed. Did the victim scream while he sliced the game into her skin? Or had she gone far beyond the point of feeling pain?

Gary Hessler, her next in command, joined her and stood with his hands on his hips for several moments. He wiped his mouth. What now?

Not knowing what to say, she shrugged. When she gained some semblance of control, she turned to face him. Nothing looks different. Same positioning, same kind of dump area. She sucked in a deep breath. Same description.

She dropped her eyes when he nodded but didn’t respond. We need to identify her.

I’ll get on it as soon as they get her in, he said.

He turned away as she looked up, but she caught tears welling in his eyes. Their inability to stop this killer affected all of them, and not just the FBI. The alley where the killer dumped the victim’s body had all kinds of police officers milling about. In a normal murder crime scene cops from all over would congregate, talk, look, joke around. They wanted to know what was going on, get firsthand knowledge. But this crime scene was different. The tomb-like silence indicated everyone’s failure.

Melissa adjusted her coat against the wind and asked, Is everyone on the way?

Gary turned back to face her. Should be here any minute. He spread his hands wide. We’ve investigated hundreds of these. Why is this one different from the others?

His question didn’t surprise her. The same one popped into her head several times a day, every day, and victim after victim. She inhaled a deep breath. We’ve had serials who desecrated the body after killing them, but we have never had one who inflicts so much torture on them before he tires of it and puts them out of their misery. We’ve also never had one this smart.

He shifted his feet. What are you going to tell the reporters?

Her head snapped up. Same damn thing I told them the last time. Same damn thing I tell everyone. She kicked a car’s tire, and tensed when he put his hand on her shoulder.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. I’m sorry, Gary.

No need to apologize. I understand. This is getting to all of us.

Hours later, with the scene processed and people in the area interviewed, Melissa trudged off from the others and talked to Mike Austin, another team member, on the phone.

Melissa groaned to herself as Larry Crane, the Houston homicide division commander, separated from the others and strode toward her like the Neanderthal he was. Big, with short brown hair and grey at the temples, Crane’s personality and his domineering ways grated on her like a jackhammer pounding on concrete.

She’d had problems with other local law enforcement officers over the years, the ones who resented the bureau and anyone associated with it. She’d had problems with some simply because she was a female and a supervisor, but the problem with Crane didn’t seem to stem from any of that.

Holding up one finger, she continued her conversation as Crane, hands on hips, tapped his foot.

She rolled her eyes and turned her back on the egotistical idiot, but that didn’t help. He continued his foot tapping. She wanted to rip his throat out. At last, she hung up, put the phone in her coat pocket, and turned to face Crane.

His chin jutted forward, his eyes narrowed, and his words harsh and rasping, We’ll get everything to the lab. Won’t find anything. Same razor-like object and the killer sterilized the body.

I know, but we have to process it in case he slipped up.

He stared at her for a long moment. Everyone’s screwing up around here but him. He didn’t this time, either.

She should let it go—ignore Crane, as she did most of the time, but now he insinuated she’d messed up. She grasped the lapels of her coat putting her hands in striking position, and stepped closer. She wanted to kick his balls up around his eyes.

For a long moment, they stared with neither saying anything. Melissa took a deep breath, trying to control her rage. Since you are so good, Captain Crane, she pointed toward the street, why don’t you go out there and stop this guy?

His face burst as red as Melissa’s hair. That’s your job, and you haven’t done it.

Stepping close, she jabbed his rock-hard chest with her finger. That’s right. It’s my job. It’s my job because you couldn’t do it and turned it over to me. If you are so good, know so much, go get him, bad boy.

Their loud voices had everyone staring at them. Milton Anderson, a lieutenant, strode forward and tapped Crane on the shoulder. Captain, could I talk to you for a moment?

When Crane spun around and marched away, tension drained from Melissa. She couldn’t understand why the idiot seemed to go out of his way to antagonize her. He did it on purpose and had from the moment they met. His personality matched a rattlesnake’s.

She closed her eyes tight. This guy has to make a mistake sometime.

Yeah, Anderson said, but I don’t think this one was it.

I don’t either, but we have to process it, she said.

Wind blew Melissa’s hair into her face and she swiped it away, wishing she’d put it up. For the life of me, I can’t understand what he means by that childish game.

Half the cops and most of the media are playing it trying to figure out what he means.

FBI agents, too, but she wouldn’t tell him that. She shivered and snuggled deeper into her coat. Have you looked into missing persons reports?

Yeah, we have five matching her description. Two won’t work. Came in the last couple of days. One has been missing too long, so we have two that could be the victim. He shifted his feet and dropped his eyes, fidgeting with his tie. Why can’t we catch this guy?

Melissa liked his use of we. She had to give it to the local department. They called in the FBI when they couldn’t handle it. They had assisted in any way possible, and they weren’t running around hollering the bureau wasn’t doing anything. The bureau couldn’t catch him. Like Anderson, it was we can’t or we haven’t Crane was the only exception. No one had said anything to Melissa, but she thought his actions embarrassed even his own people.

She sucked in a painful breath. He’s one of the smartest I’ve ever seen. She just hoped not too smart or they would never catch him and more women would die.

There’s no pattern whatsoever, and if there are previous ones, we can’t find them. She hesitated for a moment. You and I know it doesn’t make sense this guy started his current spree without doing this before. There have to be more victims either here or in other places. It’s almost like he started right here, but that goes against everything I have been taught or seen in the last twenty years.

Anderson nodded and didn’t say anything for a moment. The director told us you were the best.

Melissa winced. Almost as if he was saying if she couldn’t catch him, no one could. She wasn’t the best, but the best didn’t go to the field any more, and would never come out on this one. She forced a smile. I’m not the best. Let’s see if we can get the body identified.

Already made the call.

Okay. I’m going to the coroner’s office. She swiped hair out of her face.

When she turned to leave, he hollered after her to watch herself. This wasn’t a good neighborhood.

Nodding, deep in thought, she strode out of the alley. Darkness closed in, and with the cops leaving the area, loiterers crept from the shadows. Several whistled at her and she paid it no attention, but one slithered near her when she reached her car.

Hey little red. Why don’t you and I have some fun? A big grin plastered across his face.

She wasn’t in a mood to put up with a lecherous jerk, or take any crap, either. She extended her keys to unlock the door, but he caught her arm. She spun to face him. Get your hands off me.

He grabbed his crotch, leering at her. You ever had a big one?

Snapping her Glock from the holster inside her jacket, she cocked the hammer back. The metallic clicking over-rode the sounds of the area, causing the man’s eyes to become pancake sized.

Pointing the gun two inches from his hand holding his crotch, she snapped, Get away from me or I’ll blow your brains out.

His lips trembled and he changed colors. Lady, that thing ain’t aimed at my brains.

It’s aimed at the only brain you possess. Her voice hissed, Try me.

When he eased back two steps, a uniformed officer caught his arm. He jerked his head to see who had him and let out a deep sigh when he discovered the patrolman. This fucking woman wanted to blow my balls off. That shit can’t be legal.

The cop grinned at him. Why don’t we go someplace and talk about what is legal.

As the cop led him away, his partner cocked his head with an odd expression. Ma’am, I know you’re FBI and all that good stuff, but we frown on people, no matter who, blowing people’s balls off. 

Melissa didn’t respond and opened the car door after the patrolman headed out after his partner. She pulled out and headed west. She hadn’t handled that situation right, but she hadn’t handled anything right since the moment she arrived in town. Dammit, she had to stop this bastard. Tremors shot through her and she banged her open palm on the steering wheel.

Horns blared and tires screeched. She jerked her attention back to the road and a dark sedan sped around her, giving her the universal salute.

She eased to the right lane and shoulder, putting the car in park, leaning back and closing her eyes. Whatever game this killer was playing, the last victim was the second in a row. For some reason they couldn’t discover, he killed three, carved in three X’s, and drew a line through it like he’d won. Then he started the game over with one X.

If he kept to what he usually did, three would come soon.

Chapter Two

Larry Crane, the Houston homicide commander, slammed the door to his unmarked car. He cranked the engine and spun the air conditioner knob all the way on. The vents spewed out air with a tinge of cigarette smoke. He sighed. Officers weren’t supposed to smoke in the cars, but some did.

He’d been on the Houston Police Department for twenty-five years and knew better than to let her get to him. He jerked his seat belt and snapped it in place. Bitch. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, choking it, thinking about her neck.

The car screeched and gravel shot out when he accelerated away from the crime scene. He didn’t know why the little redhead got him so mad. She walked around as if her shit didn’t stink—nose stuck in the air. She hadn’t done a thing since she arrived. Why they sent her he couldn’t figure. Said she was the best. At what they didn’t say.

Larry had told them from the start not to bring in the damn bureau, but no, they wouldn’t listen to him. Now, here they were with the second FBI team and those morons still didn’t know any more than the Houston detectives did. They hadn’t done one thing he, or any of his detectives, couldn’t have. The only thing they’d done was send in that stuck-up bitch.

Flexing his hands a couple of times, he dodged in and out of traffic, hit the loop, and headed to his west Houston home. Ten minutes later, he pulled into his circular driveway and even in the dark, the tall grass in his yard reminded him he needed to mow.

Once inside the house, he flipped on the light, marched to the kitchen, and jerked the refrigerator door open, scanning the inside. A six-pack of Miller Lite in bottles stood sentry duty over a lone bottle of ketchup.

If that woman hadn’t pissed him off so much, he would’ve thought to stop at the store and get something to eat.

He opened his pantry on an outside hope, but a box of powdered milk stared back at him. What could he make with ketchup, powdered milk, and beer? He wasn’t sure. That guy they used to show on TV would have whipped out his pocketknife and made a gourmet meal with those items, but he didn’t have a pocketknife.

Closing the door, he trudged to the living room and flopped in a threadbare recliner facing the TV. A dilapidated sofa sat catty-corner to his chair, the only other furniture in the room. He leaned back, eyes closed, sipping his beer. He’d been ready to retire for two years, but refused until someone caught this guy. He’d sworn he would get him, and then they pulled the rug out from under him. Now, while this woman was fiddle-farting around, he was stuck.

He didn’t want to think about the real reason the female FBI agent made him that angry. It had more to do with him than her.

The truth was he’d failed to bring the monster in. Because of his failure, the city had to do something, and the FBI had been the best choice for everyone. He couldn’t understand why he treated her the way he did and had never talked to another female the way he did her. He just didn’t like her attitude.

Someone knocked on his door, and his eyes snapped open. Who would come to his house at this hour? He took another swallow and debated whether to answer it.

Setting the bottle on the carpet beside his chair when the knocking continued, he rose, grumbling as he lumbered to the door. When he opened it, his frown changed to surprise as he found Inspector Thomas Sheath, the commander of all HPD investigations, standing there.

What’re you doing here?

You going to let me come in?

Sure, he stepped aside and held the door. Come in.

Thomas stepped in and stopped, scratching the back of his head. You’ve really decorated the place since Marge left.

Larry slumped into his chair and indicated the sofa. Want a beer?

Thomas shook his head as he examined the sofa like someone buying a three-legged race horse. He eased down and crossed his legs.

Haven’t had time to decorate.

You and Marge divorced four or five years ago and you haven’t had time?

Larry nodded and drank the last of the beer—set the empty bottle on the floor and crossed his arms. You didn’t come here to discuss my house.

You’re right, I didn’t. What’s going on with Melissa Adams?

What did little miss prissy two shoes tell you?

She didn’t tell me anything, but several others overheard the two of you yelling at each other at a crime scene. Tapping on the arm of the chair for a moment, Thomas said, Maybe I’ll have that beer.

Larry plodded to the kitchen, opened the beer bottle, and flipped the top into the trash. When he returned to the living room, he handed the beer over and sat in silence for a couple of moments.

Thomas took a drink and glanced around for a place to set his beer. When he didn’t find one, he leaned back. So, what’s up with you two?

Nothing, Larry mumbled.

We’ve known each other a long time, Thomas said. Went to the academy together—partnered a few times. Heck, I was best man at your wedding. This isn’t like you.

I know, but she gets under my skin.

His friend cocked his head. Under your skin? Woman who looks like she does? Son, you should be trying to get her under your sheets—forget the skin. He cocked an eyebrow. That is if you have any sheets.

I wouldn’t touch that woman with a ten-foot pole.

The inspector arched an eyebrow as a small smile edged the corner of his lips. After several moments, he nodded. Uh-huh.

﴾••• ﴿

Leroy Burleson, trying to hide his boredom, leaned against the bar in the back of the Ritz-Carlton’s conference room beside his friend Gary Humphrey. FBI agents loitered in groups, filling the room. Some mingled from group to group, drinks in hand, and laughter and snatches of conversation swam around the room.

Leroy shook his head and glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. He hated these social gatherings. The bureau had these cocktail parties to get everyone together, out of the office, with their minds on something other than work. A chance for them to mingle, get to know each other. None of that happened. The agents and office staff always remained in their little cliques, talked about nothing but what went on in the office, unless they were gossiping about someone in a different clique.

Gary elbowed him. Have we been here long enough to qualify as being here?

Before Leroy answered, the noise level dropped and groups turned to stare at the entrance. A man, shorter than most, stepped into the room. Well-dressed, with gray at the temples, he had two bodyguards trailing. The crowd began to form lines to shake his hand.

Who’s that? Gary asked.

Removing his hands stuffed in his pockets, Leroy cocked his head, staring at his friend as if he’d grown a second head. In utter astonishment, he asked, You don’t know who he is?

Nope. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.

Leroy chuckled and scratched his neck. It’s time you met him. Follow me. Without waiting, Leroy moved through the crowd, his size plowing the way for his friend who followed.

Gary reached out and caught his friend’s shoulder. Who is he?

Instead of responding, Leroy stopped a few feet from the man whose presence had caused the stir. The man’s gaze swept the crowd around him, but stopped on Leroy. His bored expression changed, and his face lit up