"Weve found railroad cars painted inside with the thirteen stars," added James. "And weve found bodies-illegals-murdered, the women raped first, with the stars cut into their chests."

David and I exchanged a glance. What we were hearing was different but eerily similar to our guys victims.

"Of course, its a thinly veiled argument few if any of them really care about," continued Keitel. "Beneath all the rhetoric, its simply an excuse to do whatever they want. Over the years, weve arrested and successfully prosecuted a few for stealing, drugs, got one guy for murder, but for the most part, weve got a disappointing record. The truth is that even with post nine-eleven homeland security, we cant police the majority of the trains that ride our tracks. Theres just not enough money or manpower. These guys know how to hop on unnoticed. They fall asleep and the next morning theyre in a new state, a new city. They stay until theyre either bored or the police pay too much attention. On the trains, the illegals pouring in from over the Mexican border are their most common prey. They steal from, rape, and sometimes murder them. First because they hate anyone whos not born here. Second, that population is available and easy."

"And when they disappear..." I began.

"No one misses them, except their families in Mexico, and what can they do? Nothing," Keitel continued. "Someone throws an illegals body off a train while it barrels through some little town, and to the people there, its a stranger. Theres rarely any identification, and its someone no one in town cares about. Their deaths rarely warrant any public notice."

"Theres no pressure to find their killers, and no one reports the murders to ViCAP," said David, looking at me, as we both began to realize how all the pieces were locking into place. "They were invisible from the beginning, and now theyve just disappeared."

We sat silently for a moment, thinking over all Keitel had told us.

"Did you tell Mick about our murders?" I asked James.

"No," he said. "Thought you and Agent Garrity should be the ones to explain what youre looking for."

"Of course," David said. "What weve got here are a series of at least five killings...."

Keitel listened intently as David continued. He nodded at times as if he antic.i.p.ated what he might hear next. When David finished, concluding with the account of the most recent murder, that of Dr. Neal in Fort Worth, he pulled out the composite drawing.

"This is our guy," he said. "Now, does he look familiar, or does any of what Ive told you fit anything youve seen or heard?"

"Yeah," Keitel said. "It sure does."

With that, he shuffled through his notebook until he came to a nearly blank page. The name across the top read Gabriel. No picture, it offered only a description, slim build, blue eyes, and blond hair. Age: early twenties. Under favorite weapon, someone had noted: hunting knife.

"If this is your guy, hes going to be tough to catch," said Keitel. "Ive never had the pleasure or the misfortune to meet him in person, but hes legendary in the Fighters. The other members rarely talk about him. Its almost like a superst.i.tion: if they dont mention his name, he doesnt exist. And hes someone none of them want to cross paths with."

"What do you know about him?" I asked.

"We know hes ruthless, that he kills simply for the love of killing," said James. "We know hes probably the one responsible for at least a half-dozen murders on the railroad during the past two years, most of them illegals with their throats slashed."

"And we know hes a religious fanatic," added Keitel. "On the train, he holds court, preaching to the others on the will of G.o.d."

"That sure sounds like our guy," I said. "Anything else that can help us?"

"Hes been trying to recruit, pull together an army from the Fighters," said Keitel. "So far, no one we know of has enlisted. These guys are bad news, but to a man everyone Ive met is afraid of this guy. No one wants to get too close."

"The name, of course, is from the Bible. Gabriel was one of G.o.ds angels," James noted.

"Yeah," said David. "Gabriel the archangel was G.o.ds messenger. Hes the one who broke the news to Mary that she was carrying Christ."

"This guy hardly seems the bearer of good tidings," said Keitel.

"But it fits," I said. "This is the way our guy sees himself, his delusional self-image."

It was then that the door opened and Scroggins walked in, just as David asked, "How do we find this guy?"

Twenty-three.

Five oclock the next morning, just as the sun came up, I stood in the waiting room of the white clapboard train station in the center of Killdeer, Texas, a Hill Country burg north of Austin. The biggest thing in this little town? The Dewberry Festival.

For one weekend every June, the local police chief blocks off Main Street, and booths spring up where housewives sell their wares, handmade dolls, everything from paper-towel holders to tennis shoes decorated with bluebonnets, and homemade dewberry jam, tarts, and wine. Next to the largest structure in town, the high school football stadium, a traveling carnival raises a temporary camp, providing the townsfolk with the opportunity to ride a Ferris wheel or win a stuffed animal. When hungry, they line up at trailers, where grills fashioned of thick black oil-field pipe belch smoke. Their proprietors sell chopped or sliced beef brisket, smoked long and slow over smoldering mesquite, served on buns, topped with onions and pickles, and smothered in a rich, thick barbeque sauce. When they cut the meat, fat runs like juice from an overripe tomato.

The thought of it made my mouth water. Thered been no time for anything, especially eating or sleeping, since the previous evenings spring rolls. The night had evaporated in a flurry of activity. By midnight, Captain Williams, David, and I had pulled together a task force at South Centrals main office consisting of the higher-ups at DPS, HPD, and sheriffs departments from all the surrounding counties. It felt like dej vu. Wed done the same thing to try to catch Resendiz. It didnt work then. I had my doubts that it would work now.

Be that as it may, to pull off our plan, we needed cooperation and officers from nearly every police outfit in Texas. Our intention was to stop and search as many trains as possible in the next forty-eight hours, for the purpose of apprehending our bad guy. The fingerprint comparison of past South Central employees had drawn a blank, and we were now even more certain that the man we looked for was the one who called himself Gabriel.

With hundreds of trains barreling through the state each day, Roger James helped us map out our strategy. As wed done during the Resendiz go-around, we would focus on railroad hubs, locations that boasted a concentration of activity. In addition to dewberries, little Killdeer had another peculiarity: nearly forty trains crossed through this town daily.

They came because of the train yard. Bordering the town, adjacent to the terminal, it covered more than fifty acres. Filled with hundreds of idle railroad cars, the yard was contained within a rusty chain-link fence. On miles of track, laid on top of the slag that first connected our killer with the railroad, the cars lay idle for days, months, and sometimes years, waiting to be needed, at which time theyd be scheduled for transport, made up into a train, and hauled away.

Altogether we had twenty such search sites and nearly three hundred officers, barring none, the largest single task force in Texas history. While I supervised twenty deputies in Killdeer, six hours away, north of Dallas, David headed a similar operation in another small town. Scroggins was in charge of the activity in a town thirty minutes east of Houston, while Nelson spearheaded a large contingent of GPD officers monitoring the Galveston train yard. Captain Williams oversaw the activities in Houstons busy railroad terminal, bordering downtown. Meanwhile, watching over all of us, James surveyed the action on the computer terminals in South Central headquarters, hovering over the controllers stations on the lookout for anything suspicious. We communicated on a private radio band, set up just for the task force.

"d.a.m.n," I muttered when the snack machine in the terminal ate my fifty cents and failed to deliver peanut-b.u.t.ter crackers.

Just then the radio crackled.

"Lieutenant, its Roger James."

"Go ahead."

"Were ready to go, and youve got the first one, an eastbounder. It should arrive within five minutes. Its approximately three-quarters-of-a-mile long, mainly hoppers of resin, gondolas filled with rock, and boxcars and chemical tankers headed to the ship channel. The engineer has already been notified that h.e.l.l be stopping at the Killdeer yard for a search."

"Got it," I answered. Clicking off the radio, I called out to the dozen men milling inside the station. "Were moving. Train number one will be here in five minutes."

Then, on the radio, I hailed eight other deputies stationed along the track. "Get ready, any minute now," I ordered. "Watch for anyone jumping off that train."

We took our places. My post was outside the yard office, next to the main track. It was there we planned to stop each train for inspection. Once we searched them, wed send the trains on their way and set up for the next.

The roar of that first train storming toward us reached us well before we could see it. I felt my pulse quicken as it drew closer, felt the rumble of the earth beneath my feet even before it rounded the final bend, becoming visible down the track. Id forgotten how imposing a train is close up until it stopped within a few feet of me. The engine loomed twenty feet high, its cars stretching far into the distance, disappearing behind a grove of oak trees. My crew went into immediate action. Two officers at the head of the train walked toward the rear, covering both sides. Simultaneously, four split off from the center of the train, two walking forward while their counterparts proceeded toward the rear. At the same time, two officers stationed at the rear ran toward the center. As the men pa.s.sed each hopper car, they checked the platforms that bordered the fronts and backs, where the cars angled inward, leaving enough room for a man to ride. At each container car, they inspected the numbered tin seals that secured the doors, to see if any had been cut, an indication someone might be inside.

All went without incident until, a thousand feet away, I heard someone shout "Stop." A man dressed in dark clothing could be seen running from the train, with a deputy in pursuit. "Police, stop now or Ill shoot," the officer ordered again. Still, the man raced ahead until the officer pointed his gun toward the clouds and pulled the trigger. As the warning blast echoed through the train yard and surrounding woods, the man fell to his knees, where he was handcuffed and brought to his feet. As the others continued the search, an officer escorted his prisoner to the terminal.

"Not our guy," he shouted out as he approached me.

Instead, the man the officer urged toward me had dark hair and eyes, a complexion the color of a deep golden tan. "Illegal," he said. "Cant understand a word. Keeps saying something like qui-dad-dough?"

"Cuidado" I explained. "Hes asking you to be careful with him."

"Ah."

I was just about to order the officer to run the mans prints, to make sure he wasnt wanted for anything, and then release him, when the captains voice blared over the radio: "All stations. Weve had a change in plans. Were already acc.u.mulating a number of illegals. This situation will certainly worsen throughout the day. Under the Homeland Security laws, INS will be dispatching agents to each outpost. Theyve asked to have all illegals detained."

"I thought wed decided not to do that this time. We had swarms after the last go-around, and they had nothing to do with our guy. If we detain them, I have to a.s.sign men to guard them. I need every body Ive got to conduct the searches," I radioed back. "Our priority is to find Gabriel, and we just havent got that much manpower."

"As I pointed out to the captain, we cant do that," Scroggins cut in. "Under federal law, were required to detain them for INS, Lieutenant."

"Agent Scroggins is right. Cant be helped," the captain agreed.

The radio clicked off and I turned to the man, whose entire body trembled with fear.

"Lo siento, senor. Necesitas esperar el INS," I said, explaining he had to wait until an INS officer arrived.

"Take him inside," I ordered the officer. "Find out where he can be locked up, and then get back out here. We need your help."

As we would do with each train that afternoon, we took our places to inspect the hatches on the tops of the hopper cars bins as the train departed the terminal. We knew from the first operation that riders often unlock the lids and then lower themselves inside, lying horizontally on top of the cargo, like the plastic resin. "In the south, in spring, fall, and especially summer, the boxcars and container cars get too hot to ride inside," James had explained to the newcomers at a hastily called task force meeting in the wee hours of the morning. "So they ride on top of the cargo in the hoppers, where they can leave the tops open, get fresh air, and stay cool with the breeze."

On twenty-six-foot ladders, at four different positions, I placed men to inspect the tops of the hopper cars as the train moved slowly out of the terminal. Halfway through the long chain of cars, a deputy suddenly yelled, "Found something."

I radioed James who communicated with the engineer, ordering him to stop the train again. We ran up the track after the train, the deputy whod said hed seen "something human" leading the way. In the sixth car we searched, we found what had attracted his attention. Protruding from a bin of plastic pellets, we found a motionless, cold arm.

"We need to pull this train into the yard," I ordered the engineer. "Notify your dispatcher and make it happen."

I knew what wed find-a body. If they didnt ease themselves carefully on top of the plastic pellets or the gondolas of rock, maybe bring along a flattened cardboard box to lie on, a certain number of the riders were drawn into the cargo. Unable to pull out, the plastic pellets slowly sucked them in, like quicksand, suffocating them.

Ten minutes later, we had the train safely tied down on a yard track. As my crew searched another train that had just pulled into the terminal, two switchmen cut the car with the body out of the train. Then they coupled the remaining cars to the train and signaled the engineer. Nearly half an hour after its scheduled time, the first train was on its way.

The local police chief monitored the operation as his men unloaded the small, bright yellow b.a.l.l.s of resin that covered the body. Although no one suspected the man might be alive, the town doctor stood vigil nearby. Uncovered, the arm belonged to a young Hispanic man, maybe even a teenager. The officers laid the body out on the ground and the doctor slowly removed the clothes and examined it. "No surprises. My guess is he suffocated," he told me a while later. "You can order an autopsy, but this doesnt look like murder to me."

By noon, with another day and a half ahead of us, we had one body on its way to the Houston medical examiners office and thirty-five illegals-men, women, even two children found with their parents inside an otherwise empty boxcar-detained in the yard office lobby, guarded by five officers I couldnt afford to lose in the search, but I had no choice. I gave one of the local deputies money, and he brought back thin burgers on stale buns for the officers and the unfortunates caught in our web. I couldnt eat. Somewhere, that morning, Id lost my appet.i.te. I couldnt imagine how the day could get any worse until I heard a thrashing overhead. I looked up and discovered, hovering above the terminal, a TV news helicopter.

"Theyve found us," I radioed to the captain.

"We know," he said. "The press conference starts at one P.M."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Sarah, theres no other way."

Twenty-four.

This is the largest task force in Texas history," the captain said to the television cameras.

"Whos the target?" asked a reporter.

"While we cant comment at this time," he said, to a chorus of protests, "we can tell you that INS is involved and that this is a combined effort of many agencies. Our intent is to enforce our borders, to put teeth into the Homeland Security laws."

"This doesnt look like youre just rounding up illegals. This dragnet is a lot like the methods used to try to trap that railroad killer, Resendiz. Have we got another serial killer riding the trains? Is it true that youre looking for Lieutenant Armstrongs supposed serial killer?" a voice prodded.

Watching on the small television inside the main lobby, I knew before the camera revealed his face that the reporter would be Evan Matthews.

"As I said, we cannot comment on specifics at this time. All we can say is that this is a combined effort enlisting the aid of many agencies and that INS and Homeland Security are both actively involved. We should have more information for you at the end of the sweep."

"When will that be?" another reporter prodded.

"No comment," said the captain.

"Since the INS is involved, can we conclude that this search is targeted at apprehending aliens entering the country illegally and traveling via railroad?" another reporter asked. "And that theyll be deported out of the country."

"As Ive said, I have no comment on specifics at this time. You can infer what you wish from the fact that the INS is an integral part of this operation."

"Is that really what all this is about?" Matthews shouted. "Or is that spin to cover up a ma.s.sive manhunt for one man?"

"Again, no comment," the captain said.

"Just answer the question, Captain Williams," he said. "Should the people of Texas be on the lookout for a serial killer?"

Without answering, the captain turned and left the hastily erected lectern in the parking lot outside our Houston offices.

"Sometimes that Matthews guy gets things right. People should be warned," I muttered to no one in particular. I noticed an officer standing behind me at the doorway-munching on a candy bar-shrug.

Of course, the press attention hadnt come as a surprise. Everyone in charge acknowledged from the beginning that we couldnt keep the task force a secret, not an action this ma.s.sive, one with so many agencies involved. Still, wed hoped for more time, at least one full day, before the information flooded the television news. Scrogginss decision to call in Homeland Security and INS played right into the hands of the muckety-mucks at the central office. The captain had been instructed to say precisely nothing while insinuating we were involved in a sweep for illegals crossing the border. The biggest disappointment was what the press coverage would do to the manhunt. Whether or not Gabriel realized the effort was aimed at him, hed be alerted to the existence of the search points. Sure, there was a chance he might not see the television and newspaper coverage, but not much of one. We already had evidence he read the newspapers: the newspaper clip hed personally mailed to me at the office.

The afternoon wore on like the morning. The train stations lobby bustled with all the illegals, the vast majority young men. INS arrived and the agent in charge, Tim Preston, who looked more like an accountant than a law officer, worked through the paperwork with each of the detainees. After processing, they would all be fingerprinted, checked for outstanding warrants, and then sent back across the border, most to Mexico but others to Colombia, El Salvador, and Guatemala.

About four that afternoon, when I had a break in the action, I put a deputy in charge and did something Id been considering all morning: I walked into the lobby and motioned for the back half of the line to follow me. Preston looked up, startled.

"Where are they going?" he asked.

"Its too crowded in here. This is a fire hazard," I explained. "Im going to break them up into a couple of rooms and have them brought out when youre ready."

"Good idea." He nodded. "Ill let you know when to bring in the next batch."

"You bet," I said.

At the yard office storage room, nearly empty except for shelves of office supplies, I motioned and the first group filed past me, entering their temporary prison without protest or questions. Many had been through this drill before, and for them being detained was a minor inconvenience. Within weeks theyd cross the Rio Grande again and hop another train. A little more than half my charge of illegals secured, I stationed a deputy at the door and then continued on with the remainder of my procession to an empty office, furnished with a desk and a few chairs. Antic.i.p.ating my orders, the remainder of the prisoners breezed past me, until I reached the end of the line, the final four would-be immigrants, a family with two small daughters, maybe five and eight. I motioned for them to wait outside the room, and they stopped, the children looking up at me, their eyes clouded with fear.

"Deputy c.o.x," I called out to one of the men nearby. "Secure these prisoners. Im going to put this family in a separate room. Keep the children segregated from the rest of the population."

"Sure," said c.o.x, a plump deputy in his fifties. "Good idea, Lieutenant."