Chapter Thirty-Six
Thirty-Six
The lobby of the crime lab was buzzing with cops from an alphabet soup of agencies, and the twentysomething front-desk clerk looked utterly overwhelmed.
Leanne stepped away from the traffic snarl and listened to her missed phone messages as she waited for the crowd to subside.
After the last paunchy detective walked out, Leanne approached the counter.
“Hi.”
The clerk glanced up, wide-eyed. She had wispy blond hair and a smattering of freckles on her nose, and she looked even younger up close.
“I got a call about some evidence ready for pickup. I’m Detective Everhart.”
She dropped her gaze to the heap of paper in front of her. “Everhart…Everhart…”
“With Madrone PD. I just spoke to someone on the phone?”
“Everhart, you said?” She reached for a file tray and thumbed through a stack of thick manila envelopes.
“Yes, with Madrone PD. The evidence was expedited.”
“Must have been one of our technicians who called. Did they give a name?”
“No. This was something bulky, though. It was in a flat cardboard box”—Leanne held up her hands—“about this big?”
Her face brightened. “That’s probably in the intake room, then. That’s where we keep bulk items. Sorry, I should have asked. This is my first week.”
“No problem. Can you direct me—”
“One moment, I’ll get it.” She stood up and rushed through the door behind her desk.
Leanne checked the clock on the wall, then stepped over to the empty seating area and listened to another missed message, this one from Josh.
“Hey, just a heads-up. The chief’s looking for you. You’re probably on your way in, so…if you are, ignore this.”
Then a message from Mark.
“Leanne, hi. I was at the station house, and McBride was asking where you are. Just FYI. Later.”
And then Nadine.
“Hey, hon. What’s your twenty? The chief wants to talk to you, and he’s in a foul mood. Gimme a call.”
Leanne stared out the lobby window, fuming.
Her deadline had come and gone hours ago.
Did she have a suspect? No. What she did have was a criminal profile based on a boatload of facts, all supporting the idea that not only had her department completely botched the investigation of Hannah Rawls’s murder sixteen years ago, but they’d mishandled multiple others since.
She pictured McBride leaning back in his chair as he spouted his platitudes.
The desert’s a cruel place.
Dehumanize and deprioritize, that was his motto. Who cared if a serial killer was out there preying on women, so long as he didn’t target any more ranchers’ daughters?
Was Alma Cruz’s missing daughter a victim, too?
After going out drinking with friends, Marisol Cruz had disappeared from a parking lot in Fort Stockton not far from where Valeria Reyes and Ana Ortiz were last seen.
A high school girl with her whole life ahead of her, suddenly gone.
Each one of these young women was somebody’s child, somebody’s sister, somebody’s friend, and yet their cases had attracted little attention.
In Marisol’s case, almost none at all. Six years after her daughter’s disappearance, and Alma Cruz was still suffering through day after day with no answers.
Frustration smoldered inside her. Was Leanne the only one who saw these victims as people?
She pinched the bridge of her nose. No, she was not.
There was Sandra Torres. And Jen Sayers.
And Patty Paulson. They cared, even if the chief didn’t.
But he was an obstacle, and she needed to figure out a way around him.
“Detective?”
She turned.
The clerk was back with a cardboard box. “Found it,” she said, setting it on the counter. “It’s not as heavy as it looks.”
Leanne walked over. “Yeah, it’s made of plaster.”
“I just need you to sign this,” the clerk said, passing her a clipboard.
“Thanks.” Leanne signed and handed it back.
“One of the envelopes was wedged behind the shelf in there, so sorry it’s all dusty.” She set a pair of manila envelopes on the box.
“No problem. Thanks again. And good luck with your first week.”
Leanne tucked the envelopes under her arm and returned to her car, replaying her flood of missed phone messages.
Obviously, the chief wanted a meeting ASAP, probably so he could yank her case, if he hadn’t already.
Now she either had to wrestle control away from Mark Rodriguez or work behind the scenes to get him to use the profile she’d just obtained as a road map for his investigation.
But Rodriguez was a junior detective and not likely to rock the boat.
Maybe she’d be better off working through Duncan and the sheriff’s office.
Duncan might listen to her, but Travis Malcom was the lead detective, and she and Travis had a history of butting heads.
No matter how insightful the criminal profile was, Travis would almost certainly reject it if he knew it came from her.
No, he would reject it. No question. Because he had a fragile ego, and he was in charge.
Which meant she had to find a way around him, too—yet another obstacle to deal with before she could get down to the business of solving this case, which was the only goal that mattered, and yet here she was, wasting her energy navigating self-important men and their bullshit.
She hated the politics of it all.
Leanne slid behind the wheel and set the box on the passenger seat. The return address on the top envelope consisted of a scrawled name, Robert Goldberg. The envelope flap was bradded closed, not sealed. She opened it and tugged out the paperwork.
The three-page report included a large photo of the Ridge Grappler tire with black sidewalls, the very same shot Duncan’s tire expert had used with his write-up.
Goldberg’s typewritten notes were practically identical to Duncan’s guy’s, but the Austin expert had included a few key details, such as a note about a nicked tread, which—according to the Austin expert—had likely resulted from running over a hard metal object.
If and when Leanne zeroed in on a suspect with these tires on his vehicle, that one tiny detail might prove critical for linking the suspect to the crime scene.
Leanne moved on to the second envelope, which was thinner.
No technician’s name on the outside, and the flap was sealed.
She tore open the envelope and slid out a one-page form with the heading, “EP Crime Laboratory.” The form was filled out by hand, but she didn’t see a technician’s name at the top.
She flipped the envelope over again, but the only writing on the back said: L. Everhart, Madrone Police Dept.
A cold feeling settled over her.
She studied the form again. “Chemical Testing, unknown substance.” It was different from any form she’d seen previously from a regional forensic lab.
She turned it over. Beneath a few more lines of handwritten notes was a signature, plus the name Wayne Oldham written in messy block letters.
She flipped the form over and noticed the date at the top.
The form had been filled out sixteen years ago. October fifth, to be precise, the same year Hannah Rawls was murdered.
This report was meant for Lee Everhart.
He’d never picked it up. Why? Maybe because it fell behind a shelf or got misplaced or forgotten. Meanwhile, police had plunged ahead with their investigation, closing the net around an innocent man.
October fifth. By the time this report came into existence, Sean Moriarty was sitting in jail awaiting trial for Hannah’s murder.
Leanne’s heart thrummed as she read the report again, trying to make sense of all the jargon. Maybe this was something inconsequential and routine—some evidence her dad had submitted that didn’t really matter.
Madrone evidence used to be sent to the El Paso lab routinely. It was the closest place. But the lab there had become notoriously backlogged with drug cases in recent years. Why did McBride still use it? Did he really have an in there, or was he trying to stymie her progress?
Leanne read on. Sample tested for the following: amphetamines, barbiturates, cocaine…The list continued.
None of the chemicals was marked, and at the bottom someone had circled “None of the Above.”
The second half of the report was labeled “Further Analysis, Mass Spectrometer.”
Handwritten notes included reference to phenidone, and a chemical formula, C9H10N2O.
Leanne sat back and stared through the windshield.
She pictured her dad’s legal pads filled with to-do lists from the early days of the Rawls investigation.
He’d mentioned something about going to the lab.
And something about white powder on the victim’s clothes.
Leanne had assumed that powder was drugs, and maybe he had, too.
But was this that unknown substance? Had her dad sent it in for testing?
Holding the report in her hand, she felt a sudden connection to her father. An odd dizziness came over her as his words echoed through her brain. Intuition is your friend.
It was one of her dad’s favorite sayings. And right now, her intuition was telling her this clue was important.
A ringtone broke the silence. She grabbed her phone. It was Nadine again, but Leanne ignored the call as she tapped open the browser and looked up the word.
“Phenidone: organic compound, common developing agent used in BxW film developers.”
Darkroom chemicals. Of course. He was a photographer. From the very beginning, this clue had been right there in front of her, but she hadn’t understood it for what it was.
Leanne’s heart thudded as she looked around the busy parking lot, so many cops and border agents and detectives, all streaming back and forth, going about their routines. But nothing about today was routine anymore. Today was a watershed.
She had to do something. Now. This minute. Before anything else happened. She didn’t have time for diplomacy or politics or another round of pointless arguments with the chief.
With trembling fingers, Leanne tapped out a text to Duncan. Thoughts racing, she got on the road.