Fully Committed. Janie Crouch
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no evidence found at any of the scenes?”
“Nothing usable. None of the women got a clean punch or scratch.” A single scratch from any of them would’ve given them trace DNA under their nails, but none of them had been able to do any damage to their attacker. “Each time, as soon as they opened the door, he hit them hard and fast, dazing them and causing swelling in both eyes, effectively blinding them.”
He heard Steve’s muttered curse. It echoed exactly how Jon felt.
“If that’s the case, I’m sure none of the victims has been able to provide any sort of identifying marks or features,” Steve said.
Jon grimaced. “No, not at all. But I have to say, if Frank Spangler has been the only forensic artist available to talk to the victims, maybe more information can be gathered from them, if his actions yesterday are anything to go by.”
“Were there other complaints lodged against him?”
“No, but even if he wasn’t as combative with the other women as he was yesterday, he still wasn’t going to inspire any confidence in the victims. We need someone else, Steve.”
“Omega has a few on retainer, but none in Texas. Let me make some calls and see what I can find out.”
“Okay, I’m heading over to the crime scene. I’m not expecting much, but at least I’ll be able to see this one firsthand rather than through pictures like the others,” Jon said.
“Good luck. I’ll send you the info when I find someone.”
Jon ended the call. Steve would find another forensic artist if there was one around to be had. If not, he’d work his magic and find someone who wasn’t around. Steve always made sure his agents had what they needed. And God knew Jon needed a better artist than Frank Spangler.
He saw Detective Wales making his way over, cowboy hat still firmly on his head. “You ready to go check out the crime scene?”
Jon lifted a single eyebrow. “We’re going together?”
The younger man rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you out on a date, Hatton. Captain just said Spangler probably needed to stay away from anything having to do with Jasmine Houze, so I thought we would go together since we’re both headed out there anyway.”
Maybe Wales was just trying to make up for not saying anything to the captain about Spangler’s true behavior. Whatever it was, Jon would take the peace flag being offered to him.
The drive from the station to the victim’s house was mostly made in silence except for the country-western music coming from the radio of Wales’s SUV. Honestly it wasn’t half-bad. Maybe Jon should give the genre more of a chance.
Jasmine Houze’s home was close enough to the beach to be desirable, but not so close that the price would be in the stratosphere. She was probably a good fifteen-minute walk from the water itself. The neighborhood looked to be in decent shape, certainly not a place where you were afraid to open your own door in the middle of the day.
At least that was what everyone had assumed until yesterday. Jon would damn well bet there was a whole new set of chains and bolts that had been installed on neighboring doors in the past twenty-four hours.
The houses were just far enough apart from each other to afford some privacy. The victim’s was one of the four on the street that had large shrubbery in the front yard. Better for privacy.
Unfortunately it made the attack more private, also.
The three front steps leading up to the house had been taped off. Jon could see that the crime lab had already been here: print dust lay all along the railing leading up to the house and the door frame. If this was anything like the other scenes, it would soon be evident that the rapist had worn gloves.
Although Jon and Zane looked around, inside the house didn’t yield any more results than outside. They would wait for results from the crime lab, but Jon wasn’t holding his breath.
Their next two hours were spent talking to neighbors. Uniformed officers had already taken preliminary statements, but follow-ups were always necessary. Just as with the porch and the house, they discovered nothing. No one had heard anything out of the ordinary yesterday. No one had seen anyone unusual or suspicious walking or driving around lately. No strange cars. Nothing out of place.
Jon was frustrated, but he wasn’t surprised.
“I read your preliminary behavioral analysis of the perp,” Zane said as they stepped out into the heat after talking to the last neighbor.
He had read Jon’s report? That did surprise him. He’d expected it to end up in the electronic trash bin on Wales’s computer. He was sure that was where it had ended up in most everyone else’s.
“Did you agree with the analysis?” Jon asked.
Zane shrugged and adjusted his hat to settle more fully on his head. “I don’t disagree with any of it. Like you said, our guy is smart, focused, patient. The other rape cases I’ve dealt with haven’t been that way. It’s been more about rage and dominance.”
Jon nodded. “Yeah, most rapists have those characteristics. And maybe our guy does, too, and has just figured out how to hide it.”
The detective pondered that for a moment. “I guess what doesn’t sit right with me is the fact that he’s so smart we’re having to sit around and wait for him to strike in order to gather more info.”
Jon nodded. He had thought almost the exact same thing yesterday. His eyes tightened behind the sunglasses protecting him from the blazing sun. They were waiting for this guy to make a mistake. And that was not a position Jon wanted to be in.
They were almost back at the station when Jon got the text from Steve Drackett.
Found you a forensic artist. Exceptional recommendations from FBI in Houston. Full file sent.
“Looks like Omega found us another forensic artist,” Jon said to Zane. “Maybe this will get us somewhere.”
Everyone, especially Spangler, was glaring at Zane upon their entrance into the station. Evidently no one was thrilled with the younger detective’s choice to spend time with Jon. Zane shrugged in half apology and left Jon, heading in a different direction.
Jon sighed. So much for making headway with the locals. But as he’d told Steve, he wasn’t here to make friends. He grabbed a Coke—not a soda, pop or cola; they were all called Coke here, he’d been told—and went to his desk, the smell of cleaning agents permeating the air.
He was hot, he was frustrated and he was getting tired of the literal and figurative toxic environment surrounding him.
Most of all, Jon was frustrated that they couldn’t get ahead of this bastard.
He sat down to pull up the file on the computer the department had given him—surprisingly one that worked—so he could print the info Steve had sent him on the forensic artist right away.
He took a sip of his soda then almost spewed it out.
Because, damn, if he didn’t find the familiar features of Sherry Mitchell staring back at him.
Sherry was just as lovely in her photo as she had been in real life. It was just a head shot, so unfortunately those legs he’d seen yesterday in the hospital weren’t in it, but her long blond hair and clear blue eyes were.
Although Jon could appreciate her attractiveness, he was damn well ticked off at the woman.
How could she have stood there in the hallway yesterday and let Frank Spangler interview the victim? Not say a word about her profession?
And evidently she was stellar at it. If this file was anything to go by, Sherry Mitchell was considered by her supervisor