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.
Annie took in Jennifer Nolan’s appearance once again—the stringy hair, the bathrobe. “Jennifer, did you bathe or take a shower after he left?”
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. Annie gently rested a hand on Jennifer Nolan’s forearm, careful to avoid touching the ligature marks that encircled the woman’s wrist, just in case some fiber remained embedded in the skin.
“Jennifer, did you know the man who did this to you? Can you tell us what he looks like?”
“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. Annie intercepted the cigarettes without a word and set them aside. It was probably too much to hope that Jennifer Nolan hadn’t brushed her teeth or smoked a cigarette after the rapist had left the scene, but oral swabs would have to be taken nonetheless. Any trace left behind by the rapist could provide a key to identifying him.
“Horrible. Like f-from a nightmare,” the woman said, as spasms rocked her body. “Feathers. Black feathers.”
“You mean an actual mask,” Annie said. “From Mardi Gras.”
C haz 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.”
Annie hustled after him. “The rapist
made her
take a bath. Big difference, jerk. You of all people should be able to relate to a woman wanting to bathe after sex.”
“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 Jennifer Nolan’s trailer. “You turned on one of our own. What’s the deal with that, Broussard? He come on to you or something? Everybody knows you think you’re too good to do a cop.”
“Yeah, well, look what I’ve got to pick from,” Annie sneered. “In case you’re interested, there’s a rape victim sitting just inside that open door, asshole. She says the guy was wearing a black feather Mardi Gras mask.”
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?”
Annie chewed back the temptation to point out no one had proven Renard guilty of anything. Stokes punched her buttons. He said black, she said white. Hell, she
believed
Renard was their killer.
“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,” Annie said as he popped the trunk of his Camaro.
The department wasn’t large enough or busy enough to warrant a separate crime-scene unit.
“Was it dawn yet? Or was it still dark?”
“Dark.”
Meaning their rapist was long gone.
“Great,” Mullen muttered.
Annie took in Jennifer Nolan’s appearance once again—the stringy hair, the bathrobe. “Jennifer, did you bathe or take a shower after he left?”
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. Annie gently rested a hand on Jennifer Nolan’s forearm, careful to avoid touching the ligature marks that encircled the woman’s wrist, just in case some fiber remained embedded in the skin.
“Jennifer, did you know the man who did this to you? Can you tell us what he looks like?”
“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. Annie intercepted the cigarettes without a word and set them aside. It was probably too much to hope that Jennifer Nolan hadn’t brushed her teeth or smoked a cigarette after the rapist had left the scene, but oral swabs would have to be taken nonetheless. Any trace left behind by the rapist could provide a key to identifying him.
“Horrible. Like f-from a nightmare,” the woman said, as spasms rocked her body. “Feathers. Black feathers.”
“You mean an actual mask,” Annie said. “From Mardi Gras.”
C haz 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.”
Annie hustled after him. “The rapist
made her
take a bath. Big difference, jerk. You of all people should be able to relate to a woman wanting to bathe after sex.”
“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 Jennifer Nolan’s trailer. “You turned on one of our own. What’s the deal with that, Broussard? He come on to you or something? Everybody knows you think you’re too good to do a cop.”
“Yeah, well, look what I’ve got to pick from,” Annie sneered. “In case you’re interested, there’s a rape victim sitting just inside that open door, asshole. She says the guy was wearing a black feather Mardi Gras mask.”
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?”
Annie chewed back the temptation to point out no one had proven Renard guilty of anything. Stokes punched her buttons. He said black, she said white. Hell, she
believed
Renard was their killer.
“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,” Annie said as he popped the trunk of his Camaro.
The department wasn’t large enough or busy enough to warrant a separate crime-scene unit.
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