They both stared at the paper, and then at Logan. “I’m sorry,” Sandy said.
“Thank you.” He nodded. “Who else was local around that time? Did you ever see Jeff Chasson or anyone from the film crew?”
“I don’t think so,” Sandy said.
“Think harder.”
She chuckled. “If I’d seen that Jeff Chasson before, I’d know it, trust me.”
“What about the other men? The director, Bernie Firestone, or Earl Candy?” Kelsey persisted.
Sandy shook her head.
“A lot of the rodeo guys were around back then. There was some kind of local rodeo thing going on,” Ricky said.
“Corey Simmons?” Kelsey asked.
“He wasn’t staying here,” Sandy replied. “This is the first time I know of that he’s gotten a room here. I think he was at one of the chain hotels, but he used to come to the bar at night with the others.”
Ricky studied the paper, and his eyes seemed sad.
“As far as the film guys go, I might’ve seen both of ’em in here, maybe on a Saturday night—or another night when we had entertainment. It was busy—half the world was around.” He looked back down at the paper again, and then up at Logan. “This girl…I think I’ve seen her, too, although it’s hard to tell from sketches, you know?”
“You saw her here?” Kelsey asked. “At the Longhorn?”
“No. I saw her at church. The Congregational church, about five blocks behind the Ripley’s side of the plaza.” He shrugged. “It’s my church. I like it there.”
“Was she a regular?” Logan asked.
“No…but I saw her a few times. I’m sorry. I can’t remember better than that, and I may be wrong.”
“That’s great, Ricky,” Logan told him. He turned to Kelsey. “Ready to go?”
“Ready,” she said. Waving goodbye to Sandy and Ricky, they left by the front door.
Logan was moving quickly that morning. He jogged to his car, pausing at the passenger side, as if remembering he should open the door for her—and then deciding that he shouldn’t because they were partners and not a couple going out on a date. He slid into the driver’s seat, and Kelsey got in beside him.
“The phones will probably be ringing off the walls—or they would if they were on walls these days,” Logan said.
She agreed. They drove to the station where they were greeted by the desk sergeant before they could head over to the task force.
“Ten calls already. Some are crackpots, telling me they envision the girls on a lily pad or some such thing, but I’ve got everything down. I’m assuming you want even the crackpots.”
Logan thanked him. Kelsey saw that it was just eight when they entered the room, and so far, they were the only ones there. Logan got on the phone, returning the calls they’d received, while Kelsey studied the information they had on the unidentified women she’d given J names.
She brought out the files she’d been working with and read them through.
“Jane Doe, strangled, discovered by a rock pile, semihidden, near a pond in a public park. Jenny Doe, found in a trash dump, stabbed to death. Judy Doe, strangled, again found in a public park. Jodie Doe, dragged out of the river, drowned. Julie Doe—most recent victim until Vanessa Johnston, dead about a month—strangled and left in a pond, discovered by divers. Josie Doe, found in a compost heap, stabbed to death.”
She compared the names to Jane’s sketches and notes, and started adding her own comments.
Josie Doe was actually Sherry H-something, according to Sandy and Ricky. And the girl Ricky had seen at the Congregational church had been their drowning victim, Jodie Doe.
Logan covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “This caller believes that our Jane Doe is his niece, Linsey Applewood. She’s from New Orleans, and no one’s heard from her since she disappeared out of her uptown apartment.”
Kelsey nodded and included that information. Logan asked the man questions, making notes as he did, then took another call. He was quiet, listening.
He hung up and looked over at her. “That was Reverend Milton from the Congregational church. Ricky was right. She was there. She and her husband didn’t stay long, because he didn’t think the church focused enough on family issues. That they were too permissive and not following the dictates of the Bible.” He hesitated. “Reverend Milton paid a courtesy call on the family, and the husband said his wife had left him and moved back to New Mexico.”
“I guess she didn’t move back.”
Logan looked at her a moment longer. “The husband’s an actor,” he said. “And we met him yesterday.”
Chapter Thirteen
The fact that they knew that one of their victims had been married and never reported missing because she’d supposedly left her husband and moved back home did not make that husband guilty of murder. It did, however, make him a “person of interest.”
Jackson accompanied Logan when he went to pay a call on the actor, Ned Bixby, who’d been portraying one of Santa Anna’s men in the documentary.
He knew that he wished the “person of interest” had been Jeff Chasson, and he knew, too, that was wrong.
He just didn’t like the man.
And Ned Bixby had seemed humble and nice enough.
They’d phoned his home and gotten no answer, and when they’d phoned the studio, they learned that Ned had called in sick that day.
They tried walking around the man’s house, and they spoke to his neighbors. He’d gone out that morning, and they hadn’t seen him since. He hadn’t looked sick.
They visited Reverend Milton, who was sad to hear that the young wife, Cynthia Bixby, was dead. “She was a sweet, quiet little thing. Her husband seemed to answer for her all the time. I had a lovely talk with her once when she came to church alone. She was excited to be living in San Antonio—both of her parents have passed on and she was an only child—and she loved the area. She was big on the history of San Antonio. She had a teaching degree, but her husband wanted her to stay home and raise a family.”
“Did they seem to be having any marital problems?” Logan asked.
“No—I mean, other than the fact that she looked to him every time she was about to speak. They sat together. They even held hands. Then he called one day and said thank you, but they wouldn’t be back. He was looking for a church where he could be closer to God, and where he would know that he was on the right track to do God’s will. As I said, I went by after that, just a courtesy call, and I found Ned alone at home. He told me Cynthia had woken up one morning and told him she didn’t want to be married to him anymore, she needed to break away and live a life that was more fulfilling.”
“Was he angry, bitter, nonchalant? How did he appear?” Jackson asked.
“A little bitter, I think. He said she didn’t seem to understand that no matter what society dictated, God felt that a wife should stay home, raise children and honor her husband. She wanted to get out and see the world. He said he believed she wanted to drink and cavort and perhaps sleep with other men.” He shrugged, tapping his fingers on the desk. “I thought maybe she just wanted to make her own choice about what to order off a menu.”
Eventually, they left the reverend, and had an all-points bulletin sent out so they could find their “person of interest” and talk to him.
“We’ll have to leave it to the patrols and get back. Kelsey’s going to have her hands full at the station, even with Jane and Kat helping her and Jake returning. We’re not getting anywhere here,” Jackson said.
“I have an idea, one last try before we go back.” Logan mentally consulted his notes. “Come on, one more drive. That’s it.”
Logan drove to the edge of the city. Jackson didn’t question him until they pulled onto a quiet road.
“Is this where the pond is?” Jackson asked.
Logan nodded. “I gather it’s down there. Divers were cleaning it out when she was found.”
Jackson followed him as he walked across the park. Logan saw the man perched glumly on the rocks by the pond and motioned to Jackson, who walked around the other way.
Ned didn’t look the same as he had the day before, when he’d been a member of Santa Anna’s army. Gone were the beard and mustache, and the hat. He was clean-shaven, his hair dusky blond. He was young, too, no more than mid-twenties.
“Ned,” Logan said, approaching him.
The young man looked up. Panic streaked across his face and he stood, obviously planning to run in the opposite direction.
“Don’t. Don’t run,” Jackson said. He had his gun at the ready. Jackson wasn’t going to shoot; Logan knew that. But Ned Bixby didn’t.
Bixby turned to him again, then back to Jackson. Defeated, he looked at Logan.
“I didn’t do it,” he said. He lifted his hands and let them fall. “I was angry with her, yes. But I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t kill her. I could never raise a hand against her. I loved her.”
“We just need to ask you some questions,” Logan told him.
“Sure. Oh, yeah, sure. I believe that in the eyes of the world, I’ll be judged quickly. Guilty,” he said wearily. “Isn’t it always supposed to be the husband?”
“Two out of six?” Jane asked Kelsey.
“I’m sure we’ll have more once we piece together everything we’ve got,” Kelsey said.
Kat cleared her throat. “We have a definite ID on our first victim, Jane Doe. I’ve just compared the dental records, and the young woman is Linsey Applewood, out of New Orleans. She’d lived there since graduation from Tulane. She didn’t have a roommate, and she didn’t say a word to anyone, just packed up one morning and left. But she must’ve intended to come back. The apartment was full of her belongings and the landlord finally put them up for auction.”
