The fact that the girl on crutches had headed out of the building rather than turning right to go to the dance hall was further evidence that her presence at both purse snatchings was not likely coincidental. She'd probably been in on the heist, her job to impede the victims in their attempts to pursue the thief.
I pushed the mic on my radio again. “Look for a young woman on crutches, too. She's wearing⦔ I raised an inquisitive brow and looked to the women for details.
They both shrugged and shook their heads. This lack of details was exactly why it was so hard for law enforcement to track down these types of criminals. The victims were too upset to register details and retain information.
Dominique gave me an apologetic smile. “The only thing I remember were her boots.”
“Me, too!” Lisa cried.
They were as bad as that woman last week. “Were the boots tan and pink?”
“No,” Dominique said. “They were black on the foot part, and a bluish-green up the leg.”
“Somewhere between turquoise and sea-foam green,” Lisa clarified.
As if that description would mean anything to the male officers. “She's wearing boots,” I said into my radio mic. “Black and light green.” Close enough. No sense confusing them.
“Is that all she's wearing?” came Derek's voice. “Just boots? Hell, that calls for an APB.”
Blurgh.
The guy was such an ass.
“Just look for crutches, okay?”
Really, how many women on crutches are there likely to be out here hobbling around the stock show grounds?
Turning my attention back to the women, I asked, “Where were you just prior to going to the bathroom?”
“In the dance hall,” Lisa said.
“Do you think the thief could have followed you from there?”
“It's possible,” Lisa said. “We'd been in there for a while. Had a couple of beers. That's why we needed to visit the ladies' room.”
Chances were the thief had watched the two of them drink those beers, knowing that as their cups emptied their bladders would fill.
“What about before that?” I asked, trying to gather as much information as possible in an attempt to figure out the thief's MO.
Lisa looked up in thought. “We had dinner at Blue Mesa Grill on University.”
“Then we drove here,” Dominique continued. “We parked and headed straight for the dance hall. We don't come for the animals or the rides. We come for the bands.”
Lisa's eyes snapped wide. “We didn't go straight to the dance hall. We stopped at the ATM, remember?”
Dominique's eyes went wide, too. “That's right!”
I summarized the obvious conclusion. “The thief had probably been watching the cash machine and followed you two after you made the withdrawals.”
“Yikes.” Dominique shuddered and cringed. “That makes me feel so â¦
violated.
”
Another FWPD officer arrived then with a small blue ice pack. He handed it to Lisa.
“Thanks,” she said.
I nodded in acknowledgment.
As he stepped away, I advised them to cancel their debit and credit cards as soon as possible. I jotted down their contact information and told them I'd file a report.
Lisa looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Do you think you'll catch them?”
“I can't promise you we'll catch them,” I said. “But I can promise you we'll do our best.” Always did. Brigit and I gave 110 percent. I knew 100 percent was the purported maximum, but if Sophie
+
Clint
=
â¥
then we were living in a world where math made no sense and I could tack on an extra 10 percent if I damn well wanted to.
“Is something going on?” called a familiar female voice from down the hall.
I turned to find Trish LeGrande, a television reporter from Dallas, trotting toward me, her cameraman hurrying along behind her. Trish was decked out in rodeo garbâjeans, a pair of tan boots embossed with magnolia flowers, and a fringed suede western-cut jacket in her trademark pink. A pink scarf encircled her neck, tied just so, the ends sticking out at jaunty angles. She'd worn her butterscotch-colored hair in a long braid and topped it off with a pink-banded cowboy hat.
Trish used to do strictly the upbeat human-interest stories for the station, reporting on chili cook-offs, child music prodigies, firefighters rescuing kittens from trees. She'd recently begun reporting on more serious matters, though she still handled the occasional fluff piece. Given her outfit, she'd probably come here simply to cover the event for the news, snag some sound bites from kids at the midway or couples scooting their boots in the dance hall. But it was clear from the intense look on her face that she'd be thrilled to get the scoop on a breaking story of greater magnitude.
“Well?” she demanded when she reached me. “Is there a story here?”
I stiffened. For one, street cops were supposed to refer all media to the police department's public relations office. For two, I didn't want news of the mugging to get out until I'd had time to discuss it with the supervisor on duty, maybe even the chief himself. The stock show and rodeo was a huge annual event, bringing lots of tourist dollars into the city. If word got out that the event wasn't safe, not only could it put a dent in the revenues, but it could also further damage the reputation of the Fort Worth Police Department, which had already suffered after the bombings and the domestic assault. Thanks to shows like
CSI,
the public assumed extensive forensic evidence existed at every crime scene and thought every case could be solved in an hour or less. In reality, many crime scenes provided few, if any, clues, and it could take months or years before a crime was solved, if ever. And thirdly, it was thanks to this woman that embarrassing footage of me after the mall bombing with tuna salad in my hair had been repeated ad nauseum on local news and gone viral on the Internet.
I forced a smile at Trish. My first inclination was to say
I've got a story for you. It starts with a dark and stormy night and ends with a house crushing you flat, you witch.
But instead I said, “Please c-contact our public relations office if you have questions. Thanks.”
She tossed me a look that said
pfft!
and turned to Lisa and Dominique. “You two look upset. Is that a bruise on your forehead? Has something happened?”
Lisa threw her hands in the air, evidently reenergized by this new source of sympathy for her plight. “We were robbed at gunpoint! Two thieves stole our wedding rings and purses in this bathroom right here.” She pointed at the door.
Trish raised a butterscotch brow and looked up, as if quickly thinking through what she might say for her lead-in. She turned to her cameraman. “Start rolling.”
He lifted the camera to his shoulder and pushed a button. A red light came on to indicate the equipment was in use.
As Trish stepped up next to the women to begin her coverage, I seized the opportunity to sneak away, tugging on Brigit's leash to hurry her along. We exited the building and turned to head to the tower where the PD had its makeshift headquarters for the event. I spotted another trash can on the way, and stopped to poke through it with my baton to see if the thief might have dumped the purses there. Purse snatchers and pickpockets often ditched the purses and wallets they stole as quickly as possible to avoid being caught with the evidence. With any luck, I'd find one of the purses. Maybe the thief had eaten a greasy funnel cake before her crime spree and left clear fingerprints. Really, if you're going to wish for luck, you might as well go all the way, right?
Unfortunately, luck was not with me. There were no purses in this trash can, either.
As I continued to make my way toward the tower, another can caught my eye. Something was sticking out of the top. Something long made of wood and topped with padding.
A pair of crutches.
Looks like luck may be with me after all.
I hurried toward the can, but a trio of boys just old enough to be out on their own beat me to it. One of them pulled the crutches from the can, pulling some trash with them, the papers fluttering to the ground around the bin.
“Look at me!” the boy called, slipping the crutches under his armpits, crooking a leg up behind him, and lurching forward. “I'm Tiny Tim. God bless us, everyone!”
I raised my palm and ran up. “Stop!”
The boy took one look at me, noted my uniform, and reflexively lifted his hands over his head. The crutches slid out from under his arms and fell to the sides, hitting the asphalt with a clatter. “I didn't steal the crutches! I swear! I found them in the trash!”
I put my hand down. “It's okay,” I told him. “I just need to take those crutches with me.”
One of the other boys bent to pick them up for me.
“Don't touch them!” I cried.
The boys exchanged confused glances.
“They're evidence in a crime,” I explained. “If you touch them it could wipe off any fingerprints.”
I told the boys to have a good time and stay out of trouble, clipped Brigit's leash to my belt, then pulled a pair of latex gloves from my pants pocket. After slipping the gloves onto my hands, I gingerly picked up the crutches, grasping them near the rubber tips at the bottom where it was less likely there would be prints. I carried them upside down into the tower and down the hall to the temporary police station. Unfortunately, the shift supervisor desk was being manned by none other than the Big Dick.
Blurgh.
He leaned back in the chair, his feet propped up on the wooden desk as he played Doodle Jump on his cell phone. He looked up when he heard me approach and his phone gave off the slide-whistle sound of his long-nosed green avatar plummeting to his death. Derek's patronizing tone and disgusted expression let me know he considered me little more than a pain in his ass. “What is it now, Luz?”
Nice to see you, too.
“I just took a report on a purse snatching. The victims said that a woman on crutches got in their way when they tried to chase the thief.” I held up the crutches, one in each hand. “I found these discarded in the trash can. I think they might be evidence.”
He stood and gave the waistband of his pants a firm, nut-juggling tug. He reached out. “Give 'em over. I'll have 'em dusted for prints.”
No doubt he'd also claim credit for solving the crime if any prints lifted from the crutches matched someone in the criminal database. I knew how Derek operated. I also knew that, like me, he hoped to make detective someday.
“Nice of you to offer,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “But I'll turn them over to the crime scene tech myself.”
He shrugged, though the flash of anger in his eyes told me he wasn't pleased. “Do it your way, then.” He plopped himself back down in the chair and resumed his game.
I radioed dispatch and requested a tech to come collect the evidence, then pulled a folding metal chair up to the other side of the desk. I motioned to Derek. “Let me use that laptop. I need to file a report.” Might as well get it done now while the details were fresh in my mind.
He pushed the laptop across the desk and went back to playing games on his phone. As I entered the report, I told him about the theft the weekend before. “Given that the MO appears to be similar, I think the culprits may be the same in both crimes. Looks like we've got a serial
stealer
on our hands.”
He looked up from his phone. “Have I told you how much I miss your puns since we stopped patrolling together?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I'll tell you now how much I miss them.” He shot me a sour look.
“Not at all.”
Fine with me. I didn't miss his sexist comments, sports radio shows, or excessive sweat, either. Seriously, the guy must have an undiagnosed glandular problem.
As I finished inputting my report, Derek placed a call on his phone. “Hey, Chief. Got some news.”
It was no secret that Derek was Chief Garelik's golden boy. Within a year of Derek being assigned to the W1 Division, arrests had doubled and the crime rate had been cut in half. I suspected his heavy-handed interrogation techniques and intimidation tactics had led many repeat offenders to seek gainful employment or relocate elsewhere. Derek could always be counted on to volunteer for the most dangerous assignments, too. Drug busts. Serving arrest warrants on violent suspects. Handling risky domestic violence calls. Derek and Chief Garelik were also hunting buddies. The chief had gory photos of the two of them with their bloody kills on the bookshelf in his office. Still, it rankled that the Big Dick could exploit their personal relationship and go directly to the big cheese when the rest of us street officers had to obey the usual chain of command.
Derek's eyes met mine over the laptop's screen as he filled the chief in on the phone. “We've got someone robbing folks at the stock show. One last weekend and two more tonight.” He paused a moment to listen to the chief. “Officer Luz took the report. I'm on supervisor duty tonight. I wasn't out on patrol.”
His words seem to imply that had he been out on patrol, his mere presence would have deterred the thieves from committing their crimes.
“Just a second. She's right here.” Derek held his phone out to me. “The chief wants a word with you.”
I held the phone to my ear. “Good evening, Chief.”
“Good God A'mighty, Luz!” Chief Garelik barked, so loudly I had to pull the phone away a few inches lest he burst my eardrum. “I sent you and that dog over there to keep an eye on things. How could you let this happen?”
Anger boiled up in me and I felt my stomach tighten into an exasperated ball. For one, the chief had sent me and Brigit here for PR purposes. He'd said so himself. And I'd more than delivered. Brigit and I must have had our photos taken at least three dozen times in the past week. Secondly, no officer, no matter how diligent or observant, could prevent every crime, catch every criminal. Thirdly,
kiss my ass. And kiss Brigit's fluffy ass, too, while you're at it.