her and she didn’t want him. So he stalked her. He terrorized her. He kidnapped her. He tortured her. He killed her.”
Gus cupped his hands together and held them up. “This is our evidence, Nick. Everybody in the state of Lou’siana can know Marcus Renard did it, but if we don’t get more than what we’ve got now, he’s a free man.”
“Merde,”
Nick muttered. “Maybe I
shoulda
let Hunter Davidson shoot him.”
“Then it’d be Hunter Davidson going on trial for murder.”
“Pritchett’s filing charges?”
“He doesn’t have a choice.” Gus picked up an arrest report from his desk, glanced at it, and set it aside. “Davidson tried to kill Renard in front of fifty witnesses. Let that be a lesson to you if you’re fixing to kill someone.”
“Can I go?”
Gus gave him a long look. “You’re not fixing to kill someone, are you, Nick?”
“I got work to do.”
Fourcade’s expression was inscrutable, his dark eyes unreadable. He slipped on his sunglasses. Gus’s stomach called loudly for Mylanta. He jabbed a finger at his detective. “You keep that coonass temper in check, Fourcade. It’s already landed your butt in water hot enough to boil crawfish. Blaming the cops is in vogue these days. And your name is on the tip of everyone’s tongue.”
A nnie loitered in the open doorway to the briefing room, a leaking Baggie of melting ice cubes pressed to the knot on the back of her head. She had changed out of her torn, dirty uniform into the jeans and T-shirt she kept in her locker. She strained to make out the argument going on in the sheriff’s office down the hall, but only the tone was conveyed. Impatient, angry.
The press had been speculating even before the evidentiary hearing that Fourcade would lose his job over the screwup on the warrant, but then the press liked to make noise and understood little of the intricacies of police work. They had written much about the public’s frustration with the SO’s failure to make an arrest, but they brushed off the frustration of the cops working the case. They all but called for a public hanging of the suspect based on nothing more than hearsay evidence, then spun around 180 degrees and pointed their fingers at the detective in charge of the case when he finally came up with something tangible.
No one had any evidence Fourcade had planted that ring in Renard’s desk drawer. It didn’t make sense that he would have planted evidence but not listed that evidence on the warrant. There was every possibility Renard had put the ring in that drawer himself, never imagining his house would be searched a third time. Perpetrators of sex-related homicides tended to keep souvenirs of their victims. Everything from pieces of jewelry to pieces of bodies. That was a fact.
Annie had attended the seminar on sexual predators at the academy in Lafayette three months before the Bichon murder. She took as many extra courses as she could in preparation for one day making detective. That was her goal—to work in plain clothes, dig deep into the mysteries of the crimes she now dealt with only at the outset of a case.
The crime-scene slides the class instructor had shown them had been horrific. Crimes of unspeakable cruelty and brutality. Victims tortured and mutilated in ways no sane person could ever have imagined in their worst nightmares. But then she no longer had to imagine. She had been the one to discover Pam Bichon’s body.
She had been off duty the weekend the real estate agent was reported missing. On routine patrol Monday morning, Annie had found herself drawn to a vacant house out on Pony Bayou. The place had been for sale for months, though the renters had moved out only five or six weeks previous. A rusted Bayou Realty sign had fallen over on one side of the overgrown drive. Something she had read in
Police
magazine made Annie turn in the driveway—an article about how many female real estate agents each year are lured to remote properties, then
Gus cupped his hands together and held them up. “This is our evidence, Nick. Everybody in the state of Lou’siana can know Marcus Renard did it, but if we don’t get more than what we’ve got now, he’s a free man.”
“Merde,”
Nick muttered. “Maybe I
shoulda
let Hunter Davidson shoot him.”
“Then it’d be Hunter Davidson going on trial for murder.”
“Pritchett’s filing charges?”
“He doesn’t have a choice.” Gus picked up an arrest report from his desk, glanced at it, and set it aside. “Davidson tried to kill Renard in front of fifty witnesses. Let that be a lesson to you if you’re fixing to kill someone.”
“Can I go?”
Gus gave him a long look. “You’re not fixing to kill someone, are you, Nick?”
“I got work to do.”
Fourcade’s expression was inscrutable, his dark eyes unreadable. He slipped on his sunglasses. Gus’s stomach called loudly for Mylanta. He jabbed a finger at his detective. “You keep that coonass temper in check, Fourcade. It’s already landed your butt in water hot enough to boil crawfish. Blaming the cops is in vogue these days. And your name is on the tip of everyone’s tongue.”
A nnie loitered in the open doorway to the briefing room, a leaking Baggie of melting ice cubes pressed to the knot on the back of her head. She had changed out of her torn, dirty uniform into the jeans and T-shirt she kept in her locker. She strained to make out the argument going on in the sheriff’s office down the hall, but only the tone was conveyed. Impatient, angry.
The press had been speculating even before the evidentiary hearing that Fourcade would lose his job over the screwup on the warrant, but then the press liked to make noise and understood little of the intricacies of police work. They had written much about the public’s frustration with the SO’s failure to make an arrest, but they brushed off the frustration of the cops working the case. They all but called for a public hanging of the suspect based on nothing more than hearsay evidence, then spun around 180 degrees and pointed their fingers at the detective in charge of the case when he finally came up with something tangible.
No one had any evidence Fourcade had planted that ring in Renard’s desk drawer. It didn’t make sense that he would have planted evidence but not listed that evidence on the warrant. There was every possibility Renard had put the ring in that drawer himself, never imagining his house would be searched a third time. Perpetrators of sex-related homicides tended to keep souvenirs of their victims. Everything from pieces of jewelry to pieces of bodies. That was a fact.
Annie had attended the seminar on sexual predators at the academy in Lafayette three months before the Bichon murder. She took as many extra courses as she could in preparation for one day making detective. That was her goal—to work in plain clothes, dig deep into the mysteries of the crimes she now dealt with only at the outset of a case.
The crime-scene slides the class instructor had shown them had been horrific. Crimes of unspeakable cruelty and brutality. Victims tortured and mutilated in ways no sane person could ever have imagined in their worst nightmares. But then she no longer had to imagine. She had been the one to discover Pam Bichon’s body.
She had been off duty the weekend the real estate agent was reported missing. On routine patrol Monday morning, Annie had found herself drawn to a vacant house out on Pony Bayou. The place had been for sale for months, though the renters had moved out only five or six weeks previous. A rusted Bayou Realty sign had fallen over on one side of the overgrown drive. Something she had read in
Police
magazine made Annie turn in the driveway—an article about how many female real estate agents each year are lured to remote properties, then
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