knee-quivering standstill. But when he had drunkenly tried to break her the same way, she had balked. He had slapped her and pressed on. That’s when she started throwing punches. That was a long time ago, but it still pissed her off. But she couldn’t dwell on the past and she couldn’t avoid Laroy any longer.
At a little after 1:00 PM, the office receptionist brought back a folder sent over by Jack Birch. Victoria dropped it on the center of her desk and flipped it open to find copies of the crime scene tech’s preliminary report, the crime scene photos and Jack and Phil’s notes. That was better than good considering it had been less than five hours since Abby had been collected from the levee, but a lot less than what was needed to start making a case.
She flipped through the file, bypassing the crime scene photos altogether. She didn’t need to see them to be reminded of the brutality that Abby had endured. Instead she turned to Birch and Bastrop’s notes, a woefully thin sheaf of typed documents that told her nothing that she didn’t already know.
At the back of the file were the interview logs compiled by the uniformed officers who had canvassed the neighborhood around Canyon Street. Net result for their efforts? Zero. Not that the uniforms hadn’t gotten leads from residents who thought they saw something suspicious; they had gotten plenty and were running down every one, but Victoria doubted much would come of it. Suspicious activity was normal in that neighborhood.
She closed the file in frustration, leaned back in her chair and squeezed her eyes shut. Once again, she considered quitting her job and staying home with the boys. Being a mother and a housewife. But that idea scared her as much as it thrilled her. She had spent her entire life working to get where she was. Could she give it up? Should she?
Her maudlin train of thought was interrupted by a knock on her office door.
Jack Birch strode in without waiting for an invitation. He had a pair of thin manila folders in his right hand and an unlit cigarette in his left.
“Counselor,” he said as he crossed the room and laid one of the folders on her desk. “Updated copies of Abby Sutton’s case file. Not much new. Autopsy’s scheduled for seven tomorrow morning. The lab is processing the material from the scene as we speak. Got a rush on it thanks to Deputy Chief Ballast.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Victoria said as she flipped open the folder. The paper count had doubled in the last few hours, but she quickly saw that there still wasn’t one solid lead. That meant Valentine was still suspect number one.
Birch sat and fiddled with his cigarette as she paged through the file.
“What did Ballast say about Hockley and Erath?” she asked, looking up from the paperwork.
Birch shrugged. “It’s still my case, but I’ve been ordered to keep Laroy in the loop. That’s a decision I’m going to have to live with, but I don’t intend to be completely forthcoming. I’ll give Laroy enough to keep him out of Ballast’s office and out of our way.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Victoria pointed out. “Laroy isn’t stupid. He’s been a cop for a lot of years and any good cop can smell a load of bullshit before it hits the ground behind the bull.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll see how it goes.”
Victoria dropped her eyes back to the page before her, the list of Abby’s associates, a list that included the entire membership roster of the Confederate Syndicate, some thirty-odd redneck grease-balls with long drug and assault rap sheets. She scanned down the list, recognizing some of them as career felons.
“So, she was still running with the Confederate Syndicate?” she asked, looking up from the page. The Confederates had been formed by Garland Sutton, Abby’s father, back in the eighties.
Birch nodded. “She stuck with the Confederates when her daddy jumped on the Jesus wagon and started preaching on the internet,” Birch’s tone
At a little after 1:00 PM, the office receptionist brought back a folder sent over by Jack Birch. Victoria dropped it on the center of her desk and flipped it open to find copies of the crime scene tech’s preliminary report, the crime scene photos and Jack and Phil’s notes. That was better than good considering it had been less than five hours since Abby had been collected from the levee, but a lot less than what was needed to start making a case.
She flipped through the file, bypassing the crime scene photos altogether. She didn’t need to see them to be reminded of the brutality that Abby had endured. Instead she turned to Birch and Bastrop’s notes, a woefully thin sheaf of typed documents that told her nothing that she didn’t already know.
At the back of the file were the interview logs compiled by the uniformed officers who had canvassed the neighborhood around Canyon Street. Net result for their efforts? Zero. Not that the uniforms hadn’t gotten leads from residents who thought they saw something suspicious; they had gotten plenty and were running down every one, but Victoria doubted much would come of it. Suspicious activity was normal in that neighborhood.
She closed the file in frustration, leaned back in her chair and squeezed her eyes shut. Once again, she considered quitting her job and staying home with the boys. Being a mother and a housewife. But that idea scared her as much as it thrilled her. She had spent her entire life working to get where she was. Could she give it up? Should she?
Her maudlin train of thought was interrupted by a knock on her office door.
Jack Birch strode in without waiting for an invitation. He had a pair of thin manila folders in his right hand and an unlit cigarette in his left.
“Counselor,” he said as he crossed the room and laid one of the folders on her desk. “Updated copies of Abby Sutton’s case file. Not much new. Autopsy’s scheduled for seven tomorrow morning. The lab is processing the material from the scene as we speak. Got a rush on it thanks to Deputy Chief Ballast.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Victoria said as she flipped open the folder. The paper count had doubled in the last few hours, but she quickly saw that there still wasn’t one solid lead. That meant Valentine was still suspect number one.
Birch sat and fiddled with his cigarette as she paged through the file.
“What did Ballast say about Hockley and Erath?” she asked, looking up from the paperwork.
Birch shrugged. “It’s still my case, but I’ve been ordered to keep Laroy in the loop. That’s a decision I’m going to have to live with, but I don’t intend to be completely forthcoming. I’ll give Laroy enough to keep him out of Ballast’s office and out of our way.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Victoria pointed out. “Laroy isn’t stupid. He’s been a cop for a lot of years and any good cop can smell a load of bullshit before it hits the ground behind the bull.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll see how it goes.”
Victoria dropped her eyes back to the page before her, the list of Abby’s associates, a list that included the entire membership roster of the Confederate Syndicate, some thirty-odd redneck grease-balls with long drug and assault rap sheets. She scanned down the list, recognizing some of them as career felons.
“So, she was still running with the Confederate Syndicate?” she asked, looking up from the page. The Confederates had been formed by Garland Sutton, Abby’s father, back in the eighties.
Birch nodded. “She stuck with the Confederates when her daddy jumped on the Jesus wagon and started preaching on the internet,” Birch’s tone
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