"Ill tell him the truth, that Im not the source."

"Then be prepared for an avalanche," said Smith. "This morning the judge slapped a gag order on this case. Hes furious about the pretrial publicity, and theres no doubt that youre the one hes after."

"Well then, Lieutenant Armstrong, how do you defend yourself?"

Glaring down at me from the bench, Judge McLamore cut an imposing figure.

"Im telling you the truth, Judge, Im not the leak. I did not release that letter."

The courtroom was packed. David watched from what during a real trial would be the prosecutors table, as newspaper and television reporters hovered in the gallery taking notes and shooting footage for the nightly news. In his vast and unquestioned wisdom, the judge allowed cameras into the courtroom. It was obvious that he intended to make an example of me.

"Then who is responsible?" asked the prosecutor in charge of the case, a pale, nervous man, openly peeved.

"Judge McLamore," interceded Stan Gaville, Priscilla Luca.s.s attorney. "We contend there is no real problem here. This is an over-reaction to a few harmless newspaper stories."

"We also have an objection to the placement of a gag order on this trial," shouted another voice in the courtroom. The speaker, a painfully thin man with a narrow mustache tracing a barely present upper lip, stood to get the judges attention. Who is he? I wondered. Just then I noticed Evan Matthews perched beside him.

"Sir?" said the judge. "I dont believe weve had the pleasure."

"Your honor, Ive been retained by the Galveston County Daily News to represent the newspaper in this matter," he said. "We believe it is in the public interest for citizens to be kept informed about the lieutenants investigation. If there is a serial killer on the loose, the people of Texas have a right to know. Our readers deserve to be kept abreast of the lieutenants investigation, not barred from information that could save their lives."

The judge, who relied on those same citizens to reelect him to office every four years, looked perturbed by this glitch in what he undoubtedly thought would be the simple task of dressing down one errant Texas Ranger. Meanwhile, I listened anxiously, uncomfortable that a media hired gun and the accuseds attorney were speaking on my behalf. Then again, besides David, they seemed to be the only ones in the courtroom on my side.

"Mr. Gaville," said the judge. "And, you sir, what is your name?"

"Jack Ballard, your honor," the attorney said. "With the Houston firm of Quincy and Ballard."

"Well, as I was saying," the judge said, clearing his throat. "Mr. Gaville and Mr. Ballard, of the Houston firm of Quincy and Ballard, I understand why youre not particularly concerned about the leaks and why its in both of your best interests for me to allow people involved in this investigation to be able to run off at the mouth about any old thing theyre investigating, whether its a real lead or the result of someones overactive imagination. But the prosecution has as much right as the defense to a jury pool that hasnt been contaminated over their eggs and orange juice by innuendo and baseless theories, proliferated by inflammatory headlines. I suggest you both sit down while I talk to Lieutenant Armstrong and get to the bottom of all this commotion."

Looking disappointed but resigned, Gaville followed orders. Ballard, however, planted his feet and looked sternly at the judge, obviously ready to wage war.

"Judge, to be of a.s.sistance to you and this court, my office has compiled briefs offering an indication of how other Texas courts have ruled in such matters," he said, his voice, raspy and raw, laced with a hint of condescension. "My clients and I believe that after reviewing these cases, youll agree with our conclusion, namely that many less restrictive avenues open to you offer more reasonable alternatives. The gag order you issued earlier today, with all due respect, your honor, is the most extreme of measures, overly drastic in circ.u.mstances such as these."

"Mr. Ballard..." the judge growled.

"Along with our belief that this is too drastic a measure, your honor, is our growing concern for the public safety. Our readers, in fact all Texans, have a right to be forewarned when a danger exists. The citizens of Texas desire and have a right to be alerted, to be given notice to take precautions, if it is true that a dangerous murderer roams unimpeded through our fair state, killing innocent citizens like Ms. Knowles and Mr. Lucas."

If the circ.u.mstances had been different, and I hadnt been standing before him awaiting judgment, I might have enjoyed watching as the judges anger seeped into the courtroom, a crimson flush crawling up his fleshy neck from the cusp of his unb.u.t.toned white shirt collar where it peeked out from under his black robe. But the judge let his irritation smolder and calmly addressed Mr. Jack Ballard, of the Houston firm of Quincy and Ballard, in an unemotional and precise voice, his teeth gritted in a determined smile. "Sir, Im sure that youre a good attorney and that the Galveston County Daily News is acting in good faith by bringing you before me today. Im certain that my friends at the newspaper, who have endorsed me every time Ive run for office since first winning this seat in 1984, would not waste this courts precious time simply in an effort to gain access to a c.o.c.keyed theory about a serial killer thats only of use as material for tomorrows sensational headline, now would they?"

"Of course they wouldnt, Judge," said Ballard, studiously scoffing. "The Daily News asked me to come here today to speak to you only out of concern for the safety of our citizens, the voters who elected you.

"Im sure you are here for only the reasons youve stated," said the judge, his smile edging downward. "And I can a.s.sure you that I am going to take your concerns under consideration as I monitor this case."

"Thank you, your honor," the attorney said. "I appreciate that, but-"

"Mr. Ballard, I promise you personally, and I promise all my fellow citizens, that should anything, and I mean anything, come across my desk that I believe is information necessary to ensure the safety of the good people of Texas, I will not only rescind this order but I will call the editor myself to get out the word on this phantom serial killer you keep alluding to. Is that sufficient for you, Mr. Ballard?" With that, Judge McLamore stared down at the attorney from his bench, his expression that of a school princ.i.p.al with a repeated truant before him.

Not to be denied, the attorney objected, "But, Judge, we believe time is of the-"

"I know what you believe, Mr. Ballard. Youve already told me," the judge interrupted. "Now, may I proceed with this hearing?"

"Yes, Judge," the attorney said, resigned. "But Id like our objection to your gag order formally recorded in the record, so we may appeal your decision to a higher court."

Judge McLamore turned to the stenographer recording the hearing, a long-necked woman with dyed red hair, who wore a tight leopard-print dress and black high heels. Her name was Molly Sanchez and courthouse scuttleb.u.t.t had centered for years around her alleged affair with his honor the judge.

"Mrs. Sanchez, have you entered each and every one of Mr. Ballards objections and every single one of his golden words spoken in the courtroom today carefully into the official record of this hearing?"

"Yes, Judge."

"Well, then, Mr. Ballard," Judge McLamore said, his smile carefully anch.o.r.ed as he stared down at the man before him. "I ask you again, may I now proceed with this hearing?"

"Certainly, Judge," said Ballard, who reluctantly reclaimed his seat beside Matthews.

That matter now disposed of, the judge returned his gaze to me, and I knew that I would be the recipient of all the added animosity Mr. Ballard had generated in a man Id already heard from the bailiff had promised hed have "that d.a.m.n woman ranger" for lunch.

"I ask you, Lieutenant," he said, seething. "Tell me, if youre not the leak in this case, who is?"

"Judge, Ive been too busy chasing a killer and working toward solving this case to worry about finding the leak."

Id never imagined that statement would put the matter to rest, but the judge leaned forward and frowned dolefully at me, waiting for something more from this troublemaker whose very presence had brought bedlam into his courtroom.

Just then, I heard a cell phone ring. The judge craned his neck about the room, looking for the offending party, but said nothing as David hurried from the courtroom. Maybe I wouldnt have said next what I did if I hadnt noticed Scroggins and Nelson in the gallerys back row. Both, but Nelson in particular, looked delighted with the spectacle the case had become, especially with my awkward position before the judge. In a calmer moment, I would have realized that this tack would win me no favors.

"I suggest the leak might as easily be here on the island," I said, turning back to McLamore. "All the information Ive gathered with Agent Garrity has been shared with Galveston RD. That agency and all their officers working the Lucas case were shown copies of the letter and all other evidence uncovered during this investigation. Perhaps GPD should initiate an investigation to determine who on their force might have released the information."

"Are you insinuating, Lieutenant, that a Galveston officer investigating this case is leaking information to the press?" the judge asked, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Why would any officer working for GPD, the agency that initiated the warrant against Mrs. Lucas, leak information that could bring into question their case against her?"

I now faced a choice. I could explain my theory: that I was being positioned as a scapegoat to take the fall when the case against Priscilla Lucas disintegrated. I had no doubt that my suspicions were true and that Nelson and Scroggins knew they had a weak case. Neither was man enough to accept the blame when their indictment proved no more than a groundless accusation. But to do so, Id have to publicly question-in an open courtroom-the validity of the evidence against Priscilla Lucas.

"I dont know," I said.

"You dont know?" he said incredulously. "Did I hear you say that you dont know?"

"Yes, Judge," I repeated. "I dont know."

"When I was a young boy growing up here in Galveston, and I told my daddy stories he thought might not exactly be fact, he used to say to me, Son, that bird aint gonna fly. Lieutenant, thats what Im saying to you now, in front of all the people in this courtroom," the judge concluded.

Peering down at me, McLamore cinched his round face into a steely frown. "From this moment on, I want it known," he said, ready to do what hed intended to before Id even walked into his courtroom. "Anyone on either side of this case, from the police, the prosecution, or the defense, who talks to the press regarding the murders of Edward Travis Lucas and Annmarie Knowles will be held in contempt of court and jailed. I promise you that I will tolerate no further leaks."

Pounding his gavel, Judge McLamore frowned directly down at me. There was no doubt in my mind, and I knew in the minds of everyone in the room, exactly whom he was talking to.

"Judge," I said, planning to protest my innocence one last time. But when I saw David gesture toward me from the back of the courtroom, I changed my mind. He had something. I knew it. "Judge, thank you. I a.s.sure you, I will respect your order."

"I hope you do, and that you fully understand the punishment if you dont. Putting it bluntly, not only your career but your freedom is on the block here, Lieutenant," he said, then standing up, "This court is adjourned."

Outside in the car, David explained what hed just learned, that we had a possible break. In the lab, theyd discovered the dirt on the outside of the second envelope wasnt garden-variety soil as initially a.s.sumed.

"Its slag dust," he said. "Residue from a type of rock-like substance formed as a byproduct of smelting copper."

"So weve gone from plastics to copper smelting?" I said. "What does this mean?"

"Thats the $64,000 question," said David. "The guys at the FBI lab are making phone calls. They should have some answers for us by the time we hit the office."

Hed overestimated the wait. Moments later, while we were still in the car, my cell phone rang. It was Nguyen.

"Ive got some information for you. First, the Fort Worth lab just called. The fingerprint from the Neals back window matches the partial print from San Antonio. The bad news is that we ran the full fingerprint through the system and we still dont have a match on AFIS, so we still dont have a name," he said.

"At least weve now got a complete print," I said. "Thats something."

"Theres more. Ive done some investigating. Turns out, this type of slag has a couple of specialized uses that may help you."

"They are?"

"This is going to bring back some bad memories, Lieutenant Armstrong," Nguyen said with a worried sigh. "It seems that the prime user of this compound is the railroad. Its routinely used in a couple of ways, under track beds and as ballast in empty cars."

"The railroad," I repeated.

It was one of those moments every investigator dreads. How could I not have known?

Twenty.

I dont know why youre so certain this involves the railroad. Its not like last time, is it? It couldnt happen twice?" Roger James said, scratching his head over a visit from a Texas Ranger and an FBI agent, unannounced and late on a Tuesday afternoon.

"It could be," I said, still fighting the nagging doubt that it was possible, that there was any chance such horror could be repeated.

We were at the South Central Railways main office, a three-story brick building skinned with smoky mirrored windows, hidden behind a row of trees in far north Houston. Id worked with Chief Special Agent James, in charge of South Central Railways police, years back, on one of the most terrifying serial murder cases in the states history, that of Angel Maturino Resendiz, dubbed by the press "The Railroad Killer." For two years, Resendiz rode the rails, haphazardly choosing victims. An illegal immigrant whod begun his career in crime as a burglar, he developed an insatiable taste for killing. In all, he admitted to at least nine murders in three states-Illinois, Kentucky, and Texas-including the brutal killing of a Houston doctor, the case which earned him a c.o.c.ktail of lethal drugs as Texa.s.s thirteenth execution of 2006.

How could we not have realized? I wondered. Why didnt it occur to any of us that we might have a copycat?

Even as I second-guessed our investigation, I knew why: because these murders were so different from those of Resendiz, who raped then bludgeoned his victims to death. Because copycats were incredibly rare. And if we were right, he mimicked Resendiz in only two ways. First: if he was riding the rails, he most likely learned the tactic from watching Resendiz evade authorities for months as he circulated on thousands of miles of track that crossed not only city, county, and state lines but in and out of his native Mexico.

The second similarity: motive. Like our s.a.d.i.s.t, Resendiz claimed to be on a mission from G.o.d.

Should that have been enough? Should we have known?

No. If we connected every crime where the killer believed he or she was on a mission from G.o.d, wed have enough gruesome cases to fill an anthology of murder. Every city has one, every year, men and women who kill their spouses, their neighbors, even their children, all claiming divine instruction, some delusional, others just plain evil.

In most ways, our killer was on the opposite side of the serial killer scale from the so-called Railroad Killer. Resendiz had been disorganized, left behind scads of fingerprints, clues, DNA. Hed attacked his defenseless victims while they slept. Thered been no bondage, no torture, just torrents of unleashed anger as he battered his victims to death. The bodies were discarded as they lay, sometimes covered with a sheet or a blanket, not posed as they were in the recent murders. And while our guy took no souvenirs, Resendiz pilfered small pieces of jewelry, little mementoes, gifts to bring his wife on his trips back home across the border.

Id worked the Resendiz case only in a minor capacity, as a profiler, and I ran into James for the first time when we collaborated on a statewide two-day roadblock of all trains in Texas. A blond, blue-eyed man with the build of a football player, he coached his young sons soccer team and collected fly-fishing lures. During the Resendiz investigation, James proved resourceful, worked hard and long hours, and never backed down, not even when the case erupted into a public-relations catastrophe for the railroads. In the final weeks, as the frenzy built, Texans became so spooked that train whistles no longer evoked dreams of romance and faraway places but brought home the realization that Resendiz could be anywhere, at any time. Folks across not just the state but the nation, even those in small towns, locked their doors and windows. Families who lived near tracks kept their children inside.

"Lets not talk about all this just yet," I said. "Right now, we need to see if our suspicions are even probable."

"We do use slag for ballast, but all the railroads do. So, how does that help you?" he asked. "This guy could have run across it anywhere. You know, its used to line track beds for every railroad in the country. He could have walked across a railroad track and picked it up."

"We called Harkins Plastics on the way here," I explained. "They ship their specialized resin, the dust that was on the first letter, exclusively on South Central trains. We could be looking at a guy who rides all the trains, but were also wondering if our guy is a South Central employee."

Jamess face turned a pale shade of yellow, and he looked suddenly ill. "Yeah, sure thats possible. But he could have gotten that plastics debris other places, too, right?"

"Sure, anythings possible," I said, understanding why James didnt like my line of reasoning. "Maybe Im wrong, but just play along with me for a few minutes. We need to go over your map of the railway lines through Texas. All of them."

"h.e.l.l, you know where that is from last time," he said, a certain resolution in his voice. "Come on. Lets get this over with."

Moments later, wed left his office and walked into the dispatching center, where the railroads traffic controllers watched computer monitors tracking the progress of trains throughout Texas and Louisiana. On the screen, red lines indicated track down for repairs. Yellow signaled occupied track. Green represented open track, available for pa.s.sage.

"They communicate with the engineers through a radio system and signal lights on the tracks," James explained to David, a first-timer in the inner-workings of the railroads.

Just then a red light flashed on a pole above one of the cubicles. The corridor manager ran from his office and peered over the shoulder of that booths controller, deep in thought with sweat coating his square forehead.

"Got a problem," James said, nervously. "Just a minute."

We all watched as the manager, portly and fifty-something, shouted orders to the controller: "Tell the southbound to slow down and pull the northbound into the siding, two miles ahead," he barked. "Get that train outta there."

For five tense minutes, no one spoke. Finally, just as the southbound train hurled toward it, the northbound, indicated by a second arrow on the screen, swerved onto a siding. Relieved, the manager demanded, "d.a.m.n, George, why didnt you tell me sooner you had a situation developing here? Howd that happen?"

George, a wiry man with a thick white pompadour, shrugged. "I didnt realize they were that close. Shouldnt have happened, but the northbound was delayed. Someone mudded a signal outside Corpus again. Cut the time between the trains too close."

"Weve got more problems these days." The corridor manager sighed. "Swear Ive got to get out of this business. Like to give me a heart attack, I keep this up for another ten years."

"That happens often?" David asked James.

"Lately, yeah," he whispered. "The lieutenant here knows most of this from the last go-around. The illegals will do about anything to stop a train and get on board. They cross the Rio Grande and hop the nearest train, not particularly caring where they end up. They fan out across the country that way. To get a train to stop, they cover up a signal lens-packing it with mud or old clothes. Without a signal indicating the track ahead is clear, the engineer is forced to stop. While the crews investigating, the illegals cut the seal on a boxcar and get inside or hide at the ends of hopper cars."

"Is that how you transport plastic resin? In hopper cars?" I asked.

"Yeah. And the slag is dumped in open gondola cars. The illegals climb on top of the rock and sit on it."

"You know, James, this could be just like the Resendiz situation-our guys a rider. Theres no reason, at least not at this point, for anyone to a.s.sume hes an employee," said David.

"Maybe that makes the most sense," I admitted. "As active as this guy has been, as unbalanced as he is, hed have a tough time holding down a job."

"Thats a good thought. Lets hope youre right," said James, leading us to a large, highly detailed map of Texas, framed and hung against a back wall. Black lines hatched with slashes represented train track.

"Okay, here we go," I said, dialing my cell phone. Id already alerted the captain, and hed pulled out our map pinpointing the murder locations. One by one I relayed the addresses to James. On the map, the first, Louise Fontenots home in Bardwell, fell within half a mile of a train track. Mary Gonzaless San Antonio rental house, another match, with a track just behind her dead-end street.

Next I read off Dr. Neals Fort Worth address. The nearest track was miles away.

"Looks like youve struck out." James shrugged, looking relieved.

"Find the address of Neals office," I asked the captain.