Читать книгу Fully Committed - Janie Crouch - Страница 9

Chapter Three

The next day Jon was ready to dig a hole and bury himself in it.

For one thing, it was one million degrees outside. He missed the Rocky Mountains of Colorado Springs where Omega Sector: Critical Response Division headquarters was located. He missed the crisp air, often cool even now in June, and the ability to go out and run first thing in the morning or even in the afternoons a lot of the time, and still be pretty comfortable.

Because this face-melting heat of Corpus Christi was probably going to kill him.

Not that he would be going out for a run anytime soon. Why run outside when he could just run in circles inside Corpus Christi Police Department, accomplishing nothing?

He was sitting in Captain Harris’s office, along with Zane Wales and Frank Spangler. Spangler was categorically dismissing the complaints that had been called in against him by Jasmine Houze’s doctor. He actually called both the victim and Dr. Rosemont “irrational.”

Wales had remained silent, refusing to either confirm or deny what had happened in the hospital room.

And while Jon appreciated that the younger man probably didn’t want to get Frank Spangler in trouble just before his retirement, Zane’s silence was not helping the case. If the Corpus Christi PD wasn’t careful, they were going to lose control of the case entirely. One phone call from Jon and this case would be under federal jurisdiction rather than local.

That was a last-resort option and Jon didn’t want to do that if he didn’t have to. But he wouldn’t hesitate if something like that happened again. He’d already made that clear to Captain Harris privately.

“We’re going to need another forensic artist,” Jon said to the other men.

“Well, that’s too bad, since I’m the only one currently licensed in the county. And in our county only people licensed in forensic art are allowed to talk to witnesses or victims in an official capacity.” Spangler sat back, secure in his own importance.

“My resources aren’t limited to your county, Spangler,” Jon said. “And believe me, I would go in there with a paper and pencil myself before I would let you further traumatize another woman like yesterday.”

Spangler let out a loud huff. “You see there, Captain? This sort of unfriendly attitude is what we have to deal with all the time from Agent Hatton, all but impeding our investigation—”

Jon resisted the urge to jump out of his chair. Barely. “Are you kidding me? You just had a complaint filed against you from one of the top trauma doctors in the state. And you want to say I’m impeding the investigation?”

“Boys, enough,” Captain Harris interrupted in his Texan drawl. “Hatton, please use your federal resources to find another forensic artist.”

The captain’s contempt for anything federal was evident by the way he said the word with a sneer.

“Fine.” Jon’s teeth were clenched, but he got the single syllable out.

“Now, if you don’t mind, Agent Hatton, I’d like to talk to Detective Spangler alone. Sort through some things.”

Somehow Jon didn’t think that the “sorting” would involve any sort of reprimand whatsoever. Spangler’s snigger and mock salute to Jon suggested the older man knew it, too.

Jon nodded, got up and left. He was afraid if he stayed he would end up punching Spangler, a man who was at least twenty-five years older than Jon’s thirty-one. Jon’s mom had taught him better than that.

Although Jon wasn’t entirely sure his mother wouldn’t have punched Frank Spangler herself if she’d been around yesterday.

He made his way over to the desk the department had given him in the darkest, stalest corner of the old brick building. It was right next to the copy machine and cleaning supplies, so it pretty much ensured that Jon dealt with a constant flow of interruptions and had a headache from the chemicals.

Still, it was better than being outside where his shoes would probably melt into the sidewalk. And this was nothing compared to August’s heat evidently. That made Jon, a Cincinnati boy at heart, make a mental note to never travel this far south during that month if he could possibly help it.

He sat in his desk chair and spun it around so his back was to the rest of the desks, giving him at least a semblance of privacy. The copy machine wasn’t so loud that way, either. He speed-dialed the direct office line for his boss, Steve Drackett, at Omega.

“You bought a cowboy hat yet?” Steve asked by way of greeting.

Jon chuckled slightly. “No. But I’m considering just killing someone on this force and taking his.”

“That bad, huh?”

“To say they don’t want me here would be a gross understatement. Don’t mess with Texas and all that.” Jon sighed. “We’ve got a new victim as of yesterday.”

“I heard.”

Jon wasn’t surprised his boss already knew about Jasmine Houze. Steve tended to know a lot of things about a lot of things.

“I haven’t talked to her yet. There was a whole brouhaha at the hospital with one of the senior-ranking detectives. Guy doesn’t have bedside manner worth spit and traumatized the poor victim even more than she already was.”

“Guy sounds like a problem?” his boss asked.

“Yeah, but he’s a year out from retirement, so nobody’s going to do anything about him unless he really screws things up.”

“You need me to send in help?”

Jon leaned back farther in his chair. “No, I can handle it. I’m not here to make friends. But I guess I should tell you that I gave the police captain final notice about federal takeover.” Jon explained exactly what had happened with Frank Spangler and the complaint.

“Well, I’ve got your back. You say the word and Omega will completely take over. I can have more agents down there in four or five hours.” Steve chuckled. “I could have them there in less if you were here to fly them.”

Jon smiled at that. “Thanks. It’s better for everyone around here if the locals handle it. Good for morale and community relations. If they can’t get it together, I’ll let you know.”

“Any actual progress?” Steve asked.

“Nothing, Steve. That’s what kills me. I can’t even blame it on Corpus Christi PD. I may not like any of them personally, but they’re not inept. This guy is smart. A planner.”

“You got a profile worked out on him yet?”

Jon spun his chair around so that he was facing the rest of the desks in the station. The activity and blur of noise actually helped him think.

“He’s educated, or at least smart enough to know not to leave any DNA behind. Not even skin cells. These rapes are definitely acts of dominance, not rage. The perpetrator is in complete control of his emotions.”

“I thought reports said the women had been beaten?” Drackett cut in. “That’s not anger-based?”

“I don’t think so,” Jon replied, leaning back farther in his chair. “He only hits them enough to stun them. None of the women has had any broken or fractured noses or cheekbones. If the beatings were out of anger, the facial trauma would’ve been much greater. It was a deliberate move to keep them from being able to see and identify him.”

It was great to let his thought process have free rein with someone who wasn’t throwing unnecessary questions or playing devil’s advocate just to try to stump him. That was how his conversations with the local detectives had gone over the past week: a constant battle to one-up him.

“Nothing else about this guy is consistent but the craniofacial trauma. His victims are of varied race and age. The times of the attack are all over the place. The locations of the attacks are varied, also—most have been at the victims’ homes, but one was at a hotel.”

“And no evidence found at any of the scenes?”

“Nothing usable. None of the women got a clean punch or scratch.” A single scratch from any of them would’ve given them trace DNA under their nails, but none of them had been able to do any damage to their attacker. “Each time, as soon as they opened the door, he hit them hard and fast, dazing them and causing swelling in both eyes, effectively blinding them.”

He heard Steve’s muttered curse. It echoed exactly how Jon felt.

“If that’s the case, I’m sure none of the victims has been able to provide any sort of identifying marks or features,” Steve said.

Jon grimaced. “No, not at all. But I have to say, if Frank Spangler has been the only forensic artist available to talk to the victims, maybe more information can be gathered from them, if his actions yesterday are anything to go by.”

“Were there other complaints lodged against him?”

“No, but even if he wasn’t as combative with the other women as he was yesterday, he still wasn’t going to inspire any confidence in the victims. We need someone else, Steve.”

“Omega has a few on retainer, but none in Texas. Let me make some calls and see what I can find out.”

“Okay, I’m heading over to the crime scene. I’m not expecting much, but at least I’ll be able to see this one firsthand rather than through pictures like the others,” Jon said.

“Good luck. I’ll send you the info when I find someone.”

Jon ended the call. Steve would find another forensic artist if there was one around to be had. If not, he’d work his magic and find someone who wasn’t around. Steve always made sure his agents had what they needed. And God knew Jon needed a better artist than Frank Spangler.

He saw Detective Wales making his way over, cowboy hat still firmly on his head. “You ready to go check out the crime scene?”

Jon lifted a single eyebrow. “We’re going together?”

The younger man rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you out on a date, Hatton. Captain just said Spangler probably needed to stay away from anything having to do with Jasmine Houze, so I thought we would go together since we’re both headed out there anyway.”

Maybe Wales was just trying to make up for not saying anything to the captain about Spangler’s true behavior. Whatever it was, Jon would take the peace flag being offered to him.

The drive from the station to the victim’s house was mostly made in silence except for the country-western music coming from the radio of Wales’s SUV. Honestly it wasn’t half-bad. Maybe Jon should give the genre more of a chance.

Jasmine Houze’s home was close enough to the beach to be desirable, but not so close that the price would be in the stratosphere. She was probably a good fifteen-minute walk from the water itself. The neighborhood looked to be in decent shape, certainly not a place where you were afraid to open your own door in the middle of the day.

At least that was what everyone had assumed until yesterday. Jon would damn well bet there was a whole new set of chains and bolts that had been installed on neighboring doors in the past twenty-four hours.

The houses were just far enough apart from each other to afford some privacy. The victim’s was one of the four on the street that had large shrubbery in the front yard. Better for privacy.

Unfortunately it made the attack more private, also.

The three front steps leading up to the house had been taped off. Jon could see that the crime lab had already been here: print dust lay all along the railing leading up to the house and the door frame. If this was anything like the other scenes, it would soon be evident that the rapist had worn gloves.

Although Jon and Zane looked around, inside the house didn’t yield any more results than outside. They would wait for results from the crime lab, but Jon wasn’t holding his breath.

Their next two hours were spent talking to neighbors. Uniformed officers had already taken preliminary statements, but follow-ups were always necessary. Just as with the porch and the house, they discovered nothing. No one had heard anything out of the ordinary yesterday. No one had seen anyone unusual or suspicious walking or driving around lately. No strange cars. Nothing out of place.

Jon was frustrated, but he wasn’t surprised.

“I read your preliminary behavioral analysis of the perp,” Zane said as they stepped out into the heat after talking to the last neighbor.

He had read Jon’s report? That did surprise him. He’d expected it to end up in the electronic trash bin on Wales’s computer. He was sure that was where it had ended up in most everyone else’s.

“Did you agree with the analysis?” Jon asked.

Zane shrugged and adjusted his hat to settle more fully on his head. “I don’t disagree with any of it. Like you said, our guy is smart, focused, patient. The other rape cases I’ve dealt with haven’t been that way. It’s been more about rage and dominance.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah, most rapists have those characteristics. And maybe our guy does, too, and has just figured out how to hide it.”

The detective pondered that for a moment. “I guess what doesn’t sit right with me is the fact that he’s so smart we’re having to sit around and wait for him to strike in order to gather more info.”

Jon nodded. He had thought almost the exact same thing yesterday. His eyes tightened behind the sunglasses protecting him from the blazing sun. They were waiting for this guy to make a mistake. And that was not a position Jon wanted to be in.

They were almost back at the station when Jon got the text from Steve Drackett.

Found you a forensic artist. Exceptional recommendations from FBI in Houston. Full file sent.

“Looks like Omega found us another forensic artist,” Jon said to Zane. “Maybe this will get us somewhere.”

Everyone, especially Spangler, was glaring at Zane upon their entrance into the station. Evidently no one was thrilled with the younger detective’s choice to spend time with Jon. Zane shrugged in half apology and left Jon, heading in a different direction.

Jon sighed. So much for making headway with the locals. But as he’d told Steve, he wasn’t here to make friends. He grabbed a Coke—not a soda, pop or cola; they were all called Coke here, he’d been told—and went to his desk, the smell of cleaning agents permeating the air.

He was hot, he was frustrated and he was getting tired of the literal and figurative toxic environment surrounding him.

Most of all, Jon was frustrated that they couldn’t get ahead of this bastard.

He sat down to pull up the file on the computer the department had given him—surprisingly one that worked—so he could print the info Steve had sent him on the forensic artist right away.

He took a sip of his soda then almost spewed it out.

Because, damn, if he didn’t find the familiar features of Sherry Mitchell staring back at him.