Chapter Seven
Seven
The onslaught had started.
A row of white vans occupied the metered spaces in front of the police station.
A pair of television reporters stood at opposite sides of the building talking to cameras, likely recording clips for the five-o’clock news.
Leanne recognized the blonde she’d seen at the gas station yesterday, but the other reporter was new.
Was she from Austin or Dallas, maybe? Leanne didn’t want to get close enough to find out, so she drove around to the back and parked between the dumpsters and the jail entrance.
She tapped in her four-digit door code and hurried down the dim hallway, which smelled of vomit and disinfectant.
The booking desk was empty. Same for the his-and-hers jail cells.
Leanne passed the break room, ignoring her growling stomach as she made a beeline for the bullpen.
She’d skipped breakfast because of the autopsy, and she hadn’t had time for lunch.
Looking over the sea of cubicles, she saw that McBride’s office door was closed again.
She crossed the room and tapped her knuckles on the door.
After waiting a few seconds, she leaned her head in.
The room was empty, the desk cleared of paperwork.
The lingering cigarette smell told her he’d been in at some point in the past few hours.
She closed the door and glanced through the window at the reception room.
Nadine was on the phone, and Leanne recognized the reporter with his mop of white hair camped out on the sofa with a laptop perched on his knees.
Marty Krause with the Madrone Sentinel. He was pecking away at his computer and looked like he was in no hurry to leave—at least not without a quote.
“Hey, Leanne.”
She turned to see Mark Rodriguez walking toward her holding a Dairy Queen bag that smelled of warm French fries.
“Hey, you know where the chief is?” she asked.
“No idea. I just got here.”
Leanne wended her way back to her desk, where she found a thick manila file folder with her name on a yellow sticky note.
She grabbed the folder and darted a glance at the reporter.
He hadn’t noticed her yet, but Leanne ducked into a conference room just to be safe.
She dropped into a chair and began combing through photographs, starting with the wrist picture, which Izzy had thoughtfully placed at the top of the stack.
Leanne dug her phone from her jacket pocket and called her.
“Did you get the file?” Izzy asked.
“I did, thanks. Turns out it’s a tattoo of a butterfly,” Leanne said. “The ME confirmed it.”
“That’s good news, right? Any ID yet?”
“No.” She flipped through the pictures, trying not to focus on the grisly images as she made her way through the stack. “He also mentioned something about a bone fragment?”
“The deer bone, yeah. I got a picture of it.”
“How do you know it’s a deer bone?”
“That’s what Josh thought it was. He does a lot of hunting, so I figured he’d know.”
“Where was this, exactly? I didn’t see it.”
Leanne paused on a photo of what resembled a broken stick bleached white by the sun. The bone fragment was partly covered by weeds, and Izzy had placed a metal ruler beside it to provide scale.
“This was the far northwest corner of the crime scene,” Izzy said. “Over near where we found the empty water jug?”
“I’m looking at the photo now.”
“Josh collected it,” Izzy went on. “He turned it over to the ME’s people, I think. Hey, by the way, is Chief McBride there? I had something to ask him earlier, but he wasn’t in.”
Leanne glanced at his closed office door again. “No. I haven’t seen him all day. Listen, let me let you go. Thanks for the printouts.”
“No problem.”
Leanne disconnected and called Josh. He answered on the first ring.
“How was the autopsy?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I missed it.”
“What? Why?”
“McBride sent Rodriguez instead.”
“Why didn’t—”
“Where are you?” she cut in.
“At the courthouse. I’m supposed to testify this afternoon about that drug bust near Quicksilver Road.”
“Have you seen the chief today?”
“No. Why?”
“I need to talk to him about that tire tread I made a cast of. The ME confirmed the victim was dragged to that dump site, not thrown from the train.”
“Okay. So?”
“So that means we need to track down the vehicle that took her out there. The tire tread could be our best lead.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that,” Josh said. “He’s focused on the Moriarty thing. I hear he and Novak are putting together a press conference.”
“Why? McBride hates press conferences.”
“Why do you think? The shit’s hitting the fan. Reporters are coming in from all over the state. They’re camped out around the courthouse. We’ve got a lot to answer for.”
“But Novak wasn’t even the DA back then. He was fresh out of law school,” Leanne said. “And McBride wasn’t the chief.”
“Yeah, well, he was there. So was your dad,” Josh added, as though she needed the reminder. “These reporters are going to want something, and we can’t just ignore them. It’s a hot story—innocent man gets out of prison and all that.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Sean Moriarty confessed. And her blood was in his car! It’s an airtight case.”
“That’s not what his lawyer said.”
Tendrils of fear unfurled inside her. “Where did you see his lawyer?”
“He was on freaking CNN. I’m telling you, Leanne, this thing’s blowing up.”
“But—”
“Look, I can’t get into this now. They’re about to call me into court. We’ll talk later, okay?”
She got off the phone, fuming.
A hot story.
What about the homicide victim from yesterday? Sean Moriarty’s trial was fifteen years ago. Of course, in that case the victim was a white girl, so the story would live in infamy, and every reporter in the state wanted a piece of it.
“Hey, I didn’t know you were here.”
She turned around. Nadine stood in the doorway.
“I snuck in the back,” Leanne said.
“Did you get my message? McBride wants an all-hands meeting at four.”
“Four today?” Leanne checked her phone. “That’s in half an hour. And I need to go to the crime lab before close of business.”
Nadine shook her head. “Sorry, but he said no exceptions. Four o’clock sharp, all hands.”