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The trailer reeked of tobacco smoke and the kind of mildew that grows under old carpets. Je
"No, no," she mumbled. "I don't want… Everyone will look."
"Je
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"Je
"Judas," Sticks Mullen muttered, letting himself in without knocking. "Looks like somebody already took care of her."
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She turned back to the victim, even though Mullen made no move to obey her. "Je
The woman's gaze drifted around the room until it hit on the wall clock. "In the night. I-I woke up and he-he was just there. On top of me. He-he-hurt me. "
"Did he rape you?"
Her face contorted, squeezing tears from her swollen eyes. "I t-try to be s-so careful. Why-why did this happen?"
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She shook her head a little. Whether she couldn't or didn't want to recall was unclear.
"Was it dawn yet? Or was it still dark?"
"Dark."
Meaning their rapist was long gone.
"Great," Mullen muttered.
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The tears came harder. "He-made me. An-and I had-to," she said in an urgent whisper. "I couldn't stand-the way I felt. I-felt him-all over me!"
Mullen shook his head in disgust at the lost evidence. A
"Je
"No. No," she whispered, staring at Mullen's shoes. "He-he was w-wearing a mask."
"Like a ski mask?"
"No. No."
She reached a trembling hand for a pack of Eve 100s and a white Bic lighter on the end table. A
"Horrible. Like f-from a nightmare," the woman said, as spasms rocked her body. "Feathers. Black feathers."
"You mean an actual mask," A
Chaz Stokes arrived on the scene eating a breakfast burrito. He was in one of his usual getups: baggy brown suit pants with a brown and yellow shirt that belonged in a fifties bowling alley. A crumpled black porkpie hat rode low over the rims of wraparound shades that were a testimony to the kind of night he'd had. The sun was nowhere in sight.
"She took a bath," Mullen said, striding down off the rusty metal steps of the trailer. "At least she didn't do the fucking laundry. We got a crime scene."
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"I don't need your mouth, Broussard," Mullen snapped. "I don't know what you're even doing in a uniform after last night."
"Oh, pardon me for arresting someone who was breaking the law."
"Nicky's a brother," Stokes said, throwing the butt end of his breakfast into a patch of dead marigolds along the side of Je
"Yeah, well, look what I've got to pick from," A
Stokes winced. "Jesus H., now we got us some kind of copycat."
"Maybe."
"What's that supposed to mean? Renard didn't do her and he did Pam Bichon. Or you got some other opinion on Bichon?"
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"What are you?" Mullen said, curling his lip. "Hot for Renard's shriveled little dick or something? You're all of a sudden his little cheerleader. Nick and Chaz say he did Bichon, he did Bichon."
"Go start knocking on doors, Broussard," Stokes ordered as the ambulance rolled into the trailer park. "Leave the detecting to a real cop."
"I can help process the scene," A
The department wasn't large enough or busy enough to warrant a separate crime-scene unit. The detective who caught the call always brought the kits and supervised as officers on the scene pitched in to dust for prints and bag evidence.
Stokes's trunk was crammed with junk: a rusted toolbox, a length of nylon towrope, a dirty yellow rain slicker, two bags from McDonald's. Three bright-colored plastic bead necklaces from a past Mardi Gras celebration had become tangled around a jack handle. Stokes pulled out a latent fingerprints kit and a general evidence collection kit from the neater end of the junk pile.
Stokes cut A
She walked away because she didn't have a choice. Stokes outranked her. The idea of him and Mullen processing the scene made her cringe. Stokes was a slacker, Mullen a moron. If they missed something, if they screwed up, the case could be blown. Of course, if Je
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From her studies, A