PART III RETURN TO VICTORVILLE
PART III
RETURN TO VICTORVILLE
The Texas–Louisiana Border
You really don’t notice your social class until you enter another one.
– Rob Henderson, The Wall Street Journal
Audrey and I drove east from Houston in my Minnie Winnie.
As I drove—at the speed limit—Audrey sat at the little fold-out dining table in the back, tapping on my digital whiteboard and reading my accumulated research on the LaToya Martyn case.
‘Geez,’ she said, ‘you’ve really gone deep into this. You’re saying that groups of young Black women, all prostitutes, have been going missing approximately every twenty-five years since 1877?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, keeping my eyes on the road. ‘And then the person investigating their disappearance goes missing or dies.’
‘My God . . .’
Suddenly, she dropped into the passenger seat beside me.
‘I got a question for you,’ she said.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Back at Angola, Cyrus said you’d applied to the FBI but got rejected. What happened?’
I shrugged as I drove.
‘After I got my doctorate in criminology, I applied to the Bureau. I took all the aptitude tests plus the academic and physi-cal exams. Scored in the top one percent. But when it came time for the intake, I was declined.’
‘Did they give you a reason?’
‘Yes. They said, “Personality not compatible with FBI standards.”’
‘Oh,’ Audrey said softly.
‘I get it,’ I said. ‘I’m not good with people.
And I’ve never been good at working with other people.
I think I’m just efficient in the way I work, but I’ve been told I come across as abrupt and not very sympathetic.
I’ve had difficulties with police and sheriff’s departments. They don’t like me much.’
‘Because you show them up.’
‘I reach conclusions faster than they do . . .’
‘. . . and so you make them look bad. That’s probably why the FBI dinged you, too. Didn’t want you making the square-jawed poster boys look slow.’
I said, ‘The thing is, I know it when I do it, when I say something that upsets someone, even though it’s the truth. I’ve worked with Dr Lucy to try and fix it, you know, to read people better and gauge when they’re upset, but sometimes, well, I just don’t see it.’
‘Dr Lucy?’
‘My therapist. She always tells me to try new things.’
‘And so after the FBI rejected you, you became a private detective?’
‘It suits me. I work alone most of the time. I’ve tried to work with other investigators, but only Linc Lewis will work with me. I don’t mind. I’m more efficient working by myself, anyway. I can work late. I can do deeper research. Other people slow me down.’
‘I hope I’m not slowing you down.’
‘Not yet. So far you’ve been very competent.’
Audrey snuffed a laugh. I didn’t know why. I hadn’t intended the comment as a joke.
‘You got a girlfriend, Sam?’
The question caught me by surprise.
I snuck a sideways glance at Audrey Mills as I drove.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, have you got a girlfriend?’
‘No. No, I don’t. I’ve, well, never had one.’
‘Never?’
‘Being direct and honest doesn’t work very well for getting dates. I’m very responsible with my spending and I’ve got considerable savings but I’m not good-looking, funny, charming or outgoing and that seems to be what women are looking for.’
Audrey gazed out at the horizon.
‘They eventually look for something more,’ she said. ‘What about your parents? They still around?’
‘My father left when I was four. He couldn’t handle my autism. Blamed my mother and one night he went out for a drink and never came back.’
‘And your mom?’
‘She was killed in a car crash when I was nine.’
‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘I went into foster care. It was pretty bad, given my issues. But after being rejected by a few homes, I got lucky. Ended up with Andrej and Melita Bartkowiak, a sweet Polish–American -couple in Houston who didn’t have much money but who’d raised twenty--seven foster kids.
‘They never said I was difficult. Never said I was a problem. They said I was special. They still live in Houston, down near NASA. Every year I send them a Christmas card and a check for seventeen thousand dollars to help them out.’
‘Seventeen thousand dollars! Every year? Why that particular amount?’
‘It’s the largest amount you can gift tax-free according to the Internal Revenue Service.’
‘Sam, just what kind of savings do you have?’
‘About $872,505.’
Audrey exploded with laughter.
‘What!’
She mustn’t have heard me right.
‘$872,505,’ I repeated louder.
‘So let me get this straight. You’re 37, you live alone in Houston, you work alone in Houston, you eat lunch alone at the same restaurant every day in Houston and you have almost a -million dollars in cash in the bank?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sam Speedman, I honestly believe there’s a girl out there for you.’
‘You do?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
I nodded. I was pleased to hear this.
We drove on.
I figured that since Audrey Mills had asked me about myself, it would be polite to return the favour and ask about her. (Dr Lucy has told me to do this.)
‘What about you? Do you like working at the FBI?’
She nodded. ‘Absolutely, although I’d rather not be in Victim Services.
Supporting victims sounds very noble but it’s a trap for female agents, a career dead end.
You’re thought of as a nurse, not an agent.
And the human trafficking stuff, Jesus. It affects you.
You don’t want to know what humans do to other humans. ’
‘Where would you like to work?’
‘In D.C. In the big league. Intelligence and Counter-intelligence.’
‘Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend?’
Given how objectively pretty she was, it was probable that she had a husband or a boyfriend.
‘I’m 35 and divorced,’ Audrey said flatly. ‘It became official a month ago.’
‘How long were you married?’
‘Two years.’
‘Was he at the Bureau, too?’ People in law enforcement often find spouses within that world.
‘Yep. Same class.’
‘Did he have an affair?’
‘Whoa, cowboy.’ Audrey turned to look at me. ‘What makes you jump straight to that conclusion?’
‘Two years is a very short time to be married for a woman in her thirties. Usually when a marriage like that fails so quickly it’s because of infidelity. I see this a lot.’
She looked at me oddly for a moment, then sighed.
‘I came home early from a trip and caught him in bed with my best friend. Found out he’d been banging her for years. Even fucked her on the morning of our wedding. Wanna know the worst part? My parents still like him.’
‘It hurt you, didn’t it? I mean, emotionally.’
‘I’m tough.’
‘Women get married for many reasons,’ I said. ‘Middle-aged women do it for financial security. Older women seek to maintain their lifestyle. Women who get married at 33 do it almost exclusively for romantic reasons. They think they’ve found “the one”. So it hurt you badly.’
Audrey kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the dashboard.
‘Y’know, Sam, I’m starting to see why cops and sheriffs have trouble working with you.’
A short time later, we came to the Texas–Louisiana border.
The border of these two states is delineated by the Sabine River which eventually drains into the Gulf of Mexico.
Some people find the word ‘Sabine’ unnerving since they associate it with the famous paintings The Abduction of the Sabine Women by Poussin and The Rape of the Sabine Women by Rubens.
These paintings depict the mass abduction and sexual assault of the Sabine women by the Romans, an objectively awful event.
But the Sabine River isn’t named for those women. Rather, its name derives from the Spanish word for cypress—sabinas—since the river is flanked by many of these trees.
That said, it’s still a rather unnerving river.
Alligators inhabit it.
In the cooler months, thick fog covers it.
On the Louisiana side of the river, there are only swamps: the untouched wilderness of the Sabine National Wildlife Refuge, with the Gulf at its southern edge and Victorville at its northern one.
The Texas side is very different.
It has been overwhelmed by heavy industry.
We were driving on the Texas side, past the countless petrochemical and liquid natural gas plants of Port Arthur.
They rose like silver mini-cities.
Methane flames burned atop high steel towers.
Huge liquid natural gas domes lined the docks.
Tanker ships waited at those docks, receiving their cargo via industrial hoses.
Silver pipes of every size snaked a thousand ways.
Chimneys belched clouds of noxious gases.
The smell was indescribable.
Normally, if I’m driving from Houston to Louisiana, I take the I-10, but today I took the 73 because it looped past Port Arthur on the way to the border.
I wanted to go that way for a very specific reason.
‘That’s the Kingman plant,’ I said, pointing to a particularly large petrochemical plant and shipping terminal off to our right.
I pulled the Minnie Winnie to a stop in front of it.
We got out and gazed at the giant complex.
Chain-link fences guarded it.
Warning signs hung on the fences:
danger: carcinogenic toxins.
warning: no swimming or boating near terminal.
caution: submerged objects.
Skulls, crossbones and biohazard symbols were on almost every sign.
‘What are you looking for here?’ Audrey asked as I gazed at the petrochemical plant and the empty bayou beyond it.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ve found on many cases that the land is like a witness. It’s often helpful to go out and see it for yourself. Let it speak to you.’
Audrey raised her eyebrows. ‘Speak to you? That sounds -unusually poetic for a guy like you.’
‘I didn’t mean it to be,’ I said.
We got back in the Minnie Winnie and continued on our way.
Ten minutes later, we crossed the high concrete bridge that spanned the Sabine River near Orange and entered the great state of Louisiana, heading for Victorville a second time.
We drove into Victorville.
As he had the day before, the red-moustachioed deputy watched us as we cruised past the sheriff’s office.
This time, however, instead of going to the boat ramp, we headed for the two-street town’s second street.