Cruz had waited a while to contact the prison doctor who’d dropped in unexpectedly at the parole office asking questions about Cole Hansen. That’s how long it’d taken him to figure out that Cole, his most recent parolee, was probably on the run.
Normally, he wouldn’t even think of the man until at least two weeks after he’d first reported in. Then he’d drop in on the ex-con and administer an unscheduled pee test. He’d either congratulate him or violate him. Sounded simple, but really wasn’t. Cruz had come to understand that nothing was ever that black and white in the world of corrections and rehabilitation.
Based on the prison doctor’s concern, he decided to spend some time trying to track Cole down right away. Angie had said Cole hadn’t even stopped by Jesus Saves as Cruz had advised. Investigating last known addresses, phone numbers, and associates, he’d found nothing. A complete bust. No one had seen or heard from Cole Hansen since his release from prison.
And, now, to top it all off, when he tried the number on the prison doctor’s business card, it went straight to voice mail. He attempted to contact her in Crescent City, but prison authorities told him she was on an unspecified leave of absence.
What the hell?
A lot of coincidences were starting to pile up, and Cruz didn’t like that.
Chapter 27
Cruz knew from the tone of Slater’s voice that the news was bad. “Do I really want to know?” he joked as he held his office phone in one hand and a parolee file in the other. He relaxed back in his swivel chair, keeping his next appointment waiting.
“I sure as hell didn’t when my friend Clarence West called me,” Slater answered in a troubled voice. “Autopsy – or what passes for one in a case like this – is complete: no fiber, no prints, no DNA. Bullshit nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘what passes for one?’”
“They’re so understaffed and overworked in his county that when a case like this one comes in – a homeless person, no family, no contacts, obvious knife wounds and blunt force trauma, they’re not going to do more than a cursory exam and lab work.”
“Nothing internal?”
“No point. In their opinion it’s not an important illegal homicide. They’ll put two, almost-retired detectives on it, who’ll dick around for a few weeks, interview people. Nobody sees or knows anything.” Slater heaved out a heavy sigh and continued, “It’ll stay open, go cold in a month, and be forgotten in a year.”
“Shit,” Cruz said.
“Yeah, shit.” A long pause over the line. “Anything on your case?”
“Patch Wilson, our number one pathologist, is on vacation, somewhere in the Bahamas, and his replacement is ... well, let’s just say, he’s not as thorough as Patch.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”
“Mason Foster, but it’s Patch’s assistant, Howard Casey, who does most of the work. Dr. Foster doesn’t like to mess up his manicure.” Cruz’s voice was full of sarcasm.
“Well, no one could be as good as Patch, could he? Being as he’s the best in the business. Haven’t heard of this Foster guy, but Howard Casey – that name almost rings a bell.”
Cruz continued, “We’ve gotten everything we could from the substitute coroner – lab work’s back, no fingerprints or DNA except the vic’s, but we did find the backpack in a dumpster near Jesus Saves.”
Slater was familiar with Angie Hunt and the work she did at the shelter. “Anything in it?”
“No, but it belonged to Dickey. Angie ID’ed it and Detective Flood’s got it in evidence now.”
“No leads?”
“So far, RPD hasn’t kept me in the loop,”
“So what’s next?”
“Hell if I know.” Cruz spat out the words. “RPD has the same attitude toward the homeless that your friend’s county does.”
“There’s one thing left,” Slater said, disgust in his voice.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Wait for another murder and hope the crazy fucker gets careless.”
The parole office was dead quiet at this time of the day. Cruz fiddled with a pen on his desk blotter, reflected on the latest death. If it was the same killer, he was an arrogant bastard, didn’t seem to care how quickly his victims were found. The homeless woman was somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-five years old, scrawny, nearly toothless – and carved up much like his parolee Dickey Hinchey.
He shook off a wave of pity for her wasted life.
Determined to track down the doctor, Cruz reached one more time for his landline. The phone rang, a jarring sound that made him jerk back his hand.
The first words the woman on the other end of the line said were, “I need your help.”
Distracted, Cruz didn’t recognize the voice immediately, but sensed the urgency and fear in it. “Who is this?”
“Frankie Jones,” she replied shortly. “I asked you for information about Cole Hansen?”
Of course. The stormy gray eyes, the long dark hair, the medical doctor who looked nothing like a medical doctor. “Dr. Jones. Yes, I tried to catch you before you left my office yesterday.”