Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 2

The day that last letter hit Barrons desk, he contacted Jim Herald, a Rice University police officer. Sergeant Herald pulled up Petersons school records and discovered that hed been seen frequently in the university clinic, but the available records, due to privacy constraints, didnt indicate why. Herald then learned that Petersons supervising professor had repeatedly contacted authorities, alarmed by her students odd behavior, including angry outbursts. When Herald tried to contact Peterson, he found out that the grad student had checked himself into a private psychiatric facility.

Three weeks later, Herald heard Peterson was discharged and on campus.

When Herald went to the Shepherd School and knocked on a practice room door, the student amiably invited the officer in. Throughout their conversation, Peterson appeared forthcoming, explaining that a hospital psychiatrist had diagnosed his condition and prescribed meds. "Mr. Peterson was rational and cooperative. He was well-groomed and calm," Herald wrote. "He a.s.sured me that his obsession with Ca.s.sidy Collins has ended now that he is properly medicated, and that she would have no further correspondence from him. He asked me to explain the situation to Mr. Barron and Ms. Collins and to apologize for the concern his actions caused."

When Herald contacted Petersons professor, she reported that her gifted student had returned to his prior commitment to his studies and his music. At the end of his report, Officer Herald predicted Ms. Collins no longer had anything to fear from Justin Peterson.

Then, one week later, in mid-November, the stalker made his initial approach to Collins in the form of a text message she received while in a restaurant with a friend: "I look @ U & I C blood. Enjoying lunch? Argus."

"That must have ruined her appet.i.te," I whispered, although there was no one to hear.

Curious about the stalkers name, I keyed "Argus" into the Internet on my office computer and came up with Wikipedia: "From Greek mythology . . . a giant with a hundred eyes" that never slept. According to legend, Hera, jealous of the relations.h.i.+p between Zeus and a young princess named Io, sent Argus to watch the girl. Later, the G.o.ddess placed the slain giants eyes into the tail feathers of the peac.o.c.k.

What part of this ancient lore convinced the stalker to take Argus as his name was unknown, but another term popped up on the screen: Argus-eyed, defined as hawk-eyed, always vigilant. Certainly that fit Collinss stalker, who seemed to know her every move.

"I C U w/o ?, now & always," Argus text messaged a few days later. Then, that night, "Do U C me? No? U will."

As Ca.s.sidy Collins became more anxious about the text messages, e-mails arrived from Argus-eyed@ . . . , WatchingU@ . . . , and NeverEscape@. . . . All were short and to the point. "You belong to me. I will claim what is mine," read one.

Some implied that the stalker was near, in the shadows, watching, like the one that read: "The drapes in your bedroom were open last night. I could have reached out and grabbed you."

"Who is that U had lunch w/?" Argus text messaged, after Collins left a posh L.A. restaurant where shed hobn.o.bbed with her agent. "Y R U w/him?"

Then, that night, the stalker e-mailed: "Y R U sleeping w/ your drapes shut? Scared? Of me?"

"When she saw that message, Ms. Collins was terrified. She did have her drapes shut the night that text message came in, which is unusual for her," Barron noted. "She is convinced that the man was indeed watching her. The grounds to her estate are surrounded by a high brick wall and gated, patrolled by guards who saw no one, and we thoroughly searched, but we found nothing unusual."

Finally the e-mail that haunted Collins, the one that came back to her when she woke up panicking in the middle of the night, showed up on a brand new e-mail account Barron had set up for her only hours earlier: "You are dead. Argus."

"Two nights later, Ms. Collins performed at the Colosseum at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. Right before she went onstage, she received another text message, this one saying that Argus would be in the audience, waiting for her," Barron wrote. "Luckily, wed hired extra men to patrol the theater. Nothing happened, but Argus must have been there. The next day he e-mailed Ms. Collins again, and he knew that during the prior evenings concert shed missed her cue for her opening number.

"Ms. Collins has appearances in Texas approaching, and we request that the rangers do a risk a.s.sessment on this Argus, to give their opinion on the level of danger, and an evaluation of Peterson, to determine if he is a suspect," Barron concluded on the last page of the file. "We also need subpoenas for records from all the Internet providers this stalker has used. We want this man or woman identified, charged, and arrested."

Straightforward request, I thought. Too bad its not that simple.

Flipping again to the front, I found Rick Barrons phone number on his letterhead. "Mr. Barron, Im Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong, with the Texas Rangers," I said when he answered his cell phone. In the background, I heard what sounded like young girls screaming, a car door slam, and then the roar of an engine. "Ive been asked to review the file youve pulled together on Mr. Peterson and the stalker Argus."

"Its about time," Barron said, irritated. "Ive been waiting for some action from you rangers for days. Ca.s.sidys Dallas gig is this weekend and shes scheduled to open the Houston rodeo two nights later. We need to handle this situation quick, stop this jerk, before she gets on the plane for Texas."

Id forgotten that the captain said Collins would be opening the rodeo in a week. There isnt a bigger event in the city. It literally takes over Houston in early March, weeks of Stetsons, spurs, steer wrestling, and barrel racing. Reliant Stadium, the citys ma.s.sive football arena, transforms into the worlds biggest rodeo stage and, at the end of each compet.i.tion a country and western, pop, rock, or Tejano star puts on a show. Most of the year, Houston looks about as Western as L.A. But come rodeo time, folks polish their boots, get their cowboy hats steamed, and the whole city gets rodeo fever.

Considering his version of the events, however, I wasnt sure how Barron figured Texas was the issue. "I understand Ms. Ca.s.sidys concern," I said. "Yet, obviously this man, whoever he is, hes mobile."

"Mobile?"

"The text messages indicate that Argus knew what Ca.s.sidy did in L.A. and what happened at the Colosseum in Las Vegas," I said. "Maybe in L.A. the texts were lucky guesses, based on the time of day? Early afternoon means lunchtime. But in Las Vegas, I gather you believe Argus had to have been in the audience?"

"You bet he was. That SOB must have been there. No other way he would have known she missed her cue," Barron said. "Were not saying he cant travel, but, a.s.suming it is Peterson, well be coming to his home turf. Isnt that more risky?"

"Well, it depends," I said.

"Are you thinking this guy isnt dangerous? He was in the audience in Las Vegas and didnt try anything. Ive been telling Ca.s.sie that hes probably just a big talker trying to scare a young girl. Why if that son of a-"

"No, thats not what Im saying," I interrupted. "If Argus left his home territory, wherever that is, and traveled to be in the same city as Ms. Collins, bought a ticket to her concert, that means that he has to be taken very seriously. Most stalkers, especially those who use the Internet, dont do that. They dont travel and physically shadow their victims."

"Is there another possibility?"

"Yes," I said. "Its possible that this Argus lives in Vegas, and thats why he was in the audience that night."

"So, what do we do? How do we find out who this sicko is?"

"You need to keep an open mind, not restrict the investigation to Texas," I suggested. "And you need solid evidence."

"Im all for that. What do you suggest?"

"Unfortunately, we start by going down what will most likely lead to a dead end," I said. "As you requested, I will subpoena the Internet records. But I predict itll be of little or no use, because anyone savvy enough to find unlisted phone numbers to text message and private e-mail addresses knows how to cover his tracks."

"So, what do we do?" he asked. "Lieutenant, we have to stop this guy. Ca.s.sidys a wreck. Shes hardly sleeping. Youve gotta have more than that for us."

"Ill talk to Los Angeles P.D., since thats your home city, and well put traces on all her phones, all incoming text messages, to see if we can track one."

"Theyre coming through on the kids cell as all kinds of numbers," Barron said. "Sometimes the caller I.D. shows 'number withheld or 'private."

"Your guys scrambling the numbers," I explained. "But if we can trace the text messages in transit, maybe we can determine where theyre originating. While L.A.P.D. helps us out with that, Ill investigate this Justin Peterson. Just to see if he could be your guy."

"Okay. Sounds like a plan. But if this Argus isnt stopped, what do you think hes capable of?"

"Like I said earlier, Mr. Barron," I warned. "From the tone of the text messages and e-mails, and a.s.suming this stalker is really physically trailing Miss Collins, he needs to be taken very seriously."

Now that we had a plan, I needed to get busy. I hung up the telephone and called the captains secretary. "Sheila, get me a number for special crimes at L.A.P.D.," I said. "And send in Janet. I need to have some subpoenas drawn up." Janet was Janet Kirk, our civilian employee, a whiz at writing subpoenas.

"Sure," Sheila said. "But theres someone here to see you."

"I dont have any appointments. Who even knows Im back?"

"Theres a lady in the lobby. She says her name is Faith c.o.x Roberts, and she wants to talk to you about her sister, Billie."

Five.

My sister did not commit suicide," the woman whod taken over my office insisted, pacing in front of my desk like a nervous prosecutor addressing a jury in opening arguments. "I know it like I know my own name, like I know that the clock on your wall reads one oclock. My sister would not, did not commit suicide. She was murdered."

"How can you be so sure?" I prodded.

"I saw her that afternoon. We had lunch at the Four Seasons. We talked and laughed," she said, strain pinching her voice tight. "Billie wasnt depressed. She was successful, growing rich, and loving it. She invited me to fly to Manhattan with her to shop. Does that sound like a woman so miserable she fired a bullet into her head?"

"Mrs. Roberts," I said, trying to calm her. "Im really not the one you should talk to about the case. The detectives at H.P.D. are in charge."

"Ive tried to reason with that detective," she said, her lips anch.o.r.ed into a lopsided frown. Older than her sister, Faith Roberts didnt appear to have her sisters funds. She wore an ill-fitting pinstriped skirt and a long-sleeved white sweater. Cut short, her dark brown hair tapered awkwardly into a bob around her ears. Yet she had on an impressive pair of canary yellow diamond stud earrings, marquis cut, and carried a black purse with the Fendi symbol zigzagged across the fabric. Gifts from her dead sister?

"The Houston detectives have decided that this is a solved case, period, and theyre not about to open it back up. The governors office tells me you agree," she said, becoming even more agitated. "I know why H.P.D. wont listen to me. That detective thinks Im some kind of a loon. But Im not. You have to listen to me. You just have to."

"This is understandably a highly emotional time for you," I said, looking down at my watch. Doc Larson was supposed to be at the ranch at two. I had to leave and head home soon or risk missing him. "Its difficult to accept that a family member could commit suicide, and its not unusual for families to disbelieve it, even when its obvious."

"Too obvious," the woman stormed. "I saw the photos. It looked like a made-for-TV suicide. The whole thing was unbelievable. She even had the note right there on her body."

Had someone told her that I questioned the scene in the bedroom, troubled that it appeared too perfect? That wasnt possible. I hadnt told anyone except the captain. Even if she had heard somehow, it didnt matter. Id found no evidence of homicide and already pa.s.sed on the case. Faith c.o.x Roberts was H.P.D.s headache, not mine. Id learned my lessons. Id taken on more than I should have a year earlier on the Lucas case and regretted it. Id gotten in too deep.

"Im sorry they showed you the photos," I said, meaning it. "You shouldnt have had to see that. Im sure it was disturbing."

"I demanded to see them," she said, standing across from me at the desk, her hands locked in tight fists at her sides. "I had to see what they said my sister did. I had to know for myself."

"Mrs. Roberts, you need to limit your inquiries to the detectives in charge of the case," I said again. Sorry Id agreed to talk to her, all I wanted was for the woman to leave. "This is inappropriate. Its H.P.D.s case, not mine."

"Im telling you that detective already made up his mind. He doesnt believe me. He doesnt care," she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Youre my last chance to get justice for my sister, to find out who murdered her."

d.a.m.n, I thought. I promised Maggie. If Im not out of here in ten minutes . . .

Faith Roberts dropped into the chair opposite my desk. Her shoulders sagged, and she appeared to wear the weight of her sisters death like the heaviest of shawls. Finally, she spoke again, confessing, "I think I said some things to the Houston detective, things that made him conclude I wasnt thinking clearly. Things that led him to believe that Im some kind of a nut. But Im not. I promise you, Im not."

"What kind of things?" I asked.

Roberts hesitated and shook her head. "Id rather not say," she said, nervously drumming her fingers on the wooden chairs arm in a swift rat-a-tat-tat. "Obviously, I made a mistake confiding in the detective. Id rather that you dont get the same impression, that Im some sort of maniac."

"Your reactions, under the circ.u.mstances, are entirely understandable. Youve suffered a terrible loss," I said in my most rea.s.suring voice. Still, I needed to know. "But if you dont tell me what you said to the detective, Ill simply call and ask him. Wouldnt you prefer to explain the situation?"

"s.h.i.+t," she said, spitting out the word with all the force of a more substantial curse. She covered her mouth with one hand, her tomato-red polish chipped and splintered, as if shed been absent-mindedly peeling it away. When she spoke again, she pleaded, "I dont know why I even said that, about what I told that other officer. It has nothing to do with why Im here. Cant we talk about my sisters death? What does it matter what I said?"

"If you dont tell me, Ill call H.P.D. and ask the detective," I said again. "He will tell me."

The woman frowned, looking regretful and tired. She gathered her mouth into a tight bow. "h.e.l.l," she said, and then she paused. She waited for me to interrupt and let her off the hook. I didnt. "Well. I didnt really say anything all that shocking," she said, finally. She squared her shoulders, bracing, I gathered, for my reaction. "I just told him that my sisters communicating with me, letting me know she wasnt the one who pulled the trigger."

"Communicating with you?" I asked, glancing at my watch. I really needed to leave.

"Yes. Communicating with me," she said again. "Can we just leave it at that?"

"Not a chance," I said. "Youve got me for four more minutes, so I suggest you take a deep breath and go for it. Tell me how your dead sisters sending you messages, and why youre convinced she was murdered."

My intentions were good. I meant to leave for home in plenty of time to talk with Doc Larson, to be ready to answer all Maggies concerns about Emma Lou. Instead, forty-five minutes later, I weaved through traffic, rus.h.i.+ng home, hoping to beat Maggies school bus. I tried the ranch phone and Moms cell but she didnt answer either. I figured she was out in the shed with Bobby and Doc, getting the rundown I should have been there to hear.

Still, how could I have left? I couldnt take my eyes off Faith Roberts, much less tell her to go away.

"It happens every evening, right about six oclock," she said. "Six, you know, is about the time the coroner estimates my sister died."

"What happens?" I asked.

"Its always different," she said. "The day Billie died, before I got the bad news, I was home, picking up a pile of newspapers my husband left on the den floor, when the television clicked on. I hadnt turned it on, and no one else was there."

"Some kind of a fluke," I said, dismissively. "Mrs. Roberts, you cant place emphasis on a chance occurrence."

"When the television clicked on, it was on one of those crime channels, you know, the ones who have the real stories about real murders," she said. I nodded, and she started again. "I never watch those channels. Ive never had any interest in them. Neither does my husband, so why our television would be set there, that puzzled me. The topic of the program was a New York case, a forensic show featuring a coroner."

"Well, there are a lot of crime shows on television. Its not surprising that the TV was on one."

"That days episode was about a murder covered up by making it look like a suicide."

That was odd, I had to admit, but I said, "Coincidences do happen."

"I stopped and watched it. Im not sure why. Like I told you, I never watch those kinds of shows," she said. "I guess it was about two hours later, when the detective called to tell me that my sisters body had been found. He read the suicide note to me over the telephone."

"You think your sister was talking to you through that television program?" I asked. No sense in dancing around the implication. Im almost always in favor of getting everyones hand laid out, cards right side up on the table. "Mrs. Roberts, certainly you dont truly believe that?"

"Not at that point. As you say, I a.s.sumed it had to be some kind of bizarre coincidence. But then, late the following afternoon, I was at the funeral home with my husband, picking out my sisters casket," she said. "I was crying. I had been ever since Id heard the news. I was struggling with why Billie would have done this, when shed been so happy at lunch. I hadnt thought much about the TV show the day before. Really very little."

"Well, then, why are you now thinking it was anything more than chance?"

"Because of what happened next. I had a hard time choosing, so we were there a long time. Just before six oclock, my husband excused himself to return a business call and walked into another room. While I stood there surrounded by open caskets, wondering how something so terrible could happen and where I would get the strength to bury my sister, my cell phone rang," she said. Faith Roberts brushed a tear off her right cheek, and paused. "My cell phone rang, and I answered it. I said h.e.l.lo, but there wasnt anyone there."

"A wrong number," I speculated.

"My sisters name and cell phone number were on the caller I.D.," she said.

That, of course, was rather interesting. "Where was Billies cell phone?" I asked.

"Shed forgotten it on the table at the restaurant the day before. I left after she did and took it with me," she said. "Since I hadnt seen her to return it, I still had Billies phone in my purse."

Sure it was odd, but not unexplainable. "Phones sometimes dial by mistake. Its happened to me," I said with a shrug. "I was the last one somebody called, and his redial b.u.t.ton was accidentally pushed, and my phone rang. My mom has my number programmed into her cell phone. Something triggered the b.u.t.ton once without her knowing, and my phone rang. I could hear her talking to someone, but she didnt know I was listening. Its most likely that something in your purse hit the b.u.t.ton and made the call, thats all. You cant a.s.sume anything more than that."

Faith Roberts bit her trembling lower lip, and stared down at her hands. I wondered if shed be able to go on. To move the conversation along I asked, "I gather something happened again Sunday, at about six p.m.?"

Roberts nodded.

"Yes. I was in the sunroom at our house when the breeze picked up from an open window," she said. "It flipped the pages on an alb.u.m Id been looking through, collecting photos for the funeral. The page it opened to was a photo of Billie and me as children. We were holding hands. It was taken shortly after our mother died. The last thing my mother asked me to do was to always look out for my sister."

Faith was crying openly now, wiping away tears. It was getting harder to leave, but I really had to.

"This is very interesting, even quite sweet," I said. "But were talking about easily explained events, and I need to be on my way."

"Late yesterday, Monday, I was in my sisters office at Century Oil, cleaning out her personal items," she said. "Her company computer was turned off, not on standby, turned off. At precisely six, it clicked on, all by itself. No one else was in the room, and I was standing at least five feet away, boxing up family photos, so I didnt do it by accident."

It all sounded too farfetched, ringing cell phones and computers and televisions that flick on by themselves, so I renewed my decision to pa.s.s the buck to H.P.D., and I ventured, "As I said, this is interesting, but it really doesnt mean anything. You have nothing solid to investigate. Nothing to base a case on."