Read Online You Can’t Stop Me by Max Allan Collins, Matthew Clemens - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins, Matthew Clemens
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started with a baker’s dozen files; when he was finished, he had a smaller stack, and began to make a list on a yellow pad.
Laurene Chase was at the top. In descending order came Michael Pall, a DNA scientist with the Oklahoma State Crime Lab; chemist Chris Anderson from Meridian, Mississippi; Billy Choi, a tool mark and firearms examiner from New York; and computer forensics whiz Jenny Blake, Casper, Wyoming.
The taller stack of files had other strong possibilities, and he would not be distraught if he had to return there. In any case, he would have a better chance of making this work with a dependable number two who would keep her head when all about them, especially her emotionally invested boss, might be losing theirs.
The biggest liability would be if he was unable to assemble the right team—and the chemistry between team members was something that could not be predicted. A second major liability was himself—no police department anywhere would dream of assigning a crime scene analyst to investigate the murder of his own family.
He’d already heard from Carmen that this morning’s media outlets were rife with editorials and interviews with experts condemning his participation—on MSNBC, a retired LA detective turned bestselling author said, “I’ve heard of having a fool for a client, but this is ridiculous.”
Beyond any ethical or practical concerns, having such an emotionally involved crime scene analyst on the team was one thing; having that analyst head up the team was another. It could easily be a recipe for disaster…which was why his choice for a second in command was key.
The first name on his list.
Laurene Chase.
By mid-morning Sunday, Harrow found himself leaning against a rented Lexus at the far end of the parking lot of Our Savior Baptist Church on the northeast side of Waco. He blew out a ribbon of smoke from his second cigarette. The sun was bright but pleasant, the temperature in the mid-seventies, Harrow enjoying a breeze. Spring in Texas included the scent of flowers Detective Harrow couldn’t identify, though the evidence was pleasing enough.
These days, Harrow was smoking again, but out of a sort of half-assed respect to his late wife, he tried to keep the habit at bay. He wore a navy blue polo, jeans, and black Rockys, the cop shoes he seemed to have worn every day of his adult life.
As the congregation emptied out of the brick church down wide cement stairs, Harrow stubbed the cigarette out under his toe, then stood a little straighter, searching for his friend. This was a mostly African-American congregation, dressed in Sunday best and proud of it, parading past the pastor after a brief exchange, then mingling with other worshipers below a while before slowly dispersing to their cars.
Harrow liked black churches—right now, there were smiles and laughs and loud talk and hugs and backs getting slapped. Predominantly white churches he’d attended since childhood had always seemed stiff and vaguely guilt ridden. And at this kind of church, the women, older ones anyway, wore hats! What the hell ever happened to white women in hats?
Last out was a tall, slim, milk-chocolate woman in a fitted gray business suit and open-collared pink dress shirt under a gray vest. Her long black hair was battened down in tight cornrows, and she wore tiny silver hoop earrings that caught sunlight and glinted. That same sunlight made the woman squint, but her oval, black-framed glasses took up the battle, tinting darker against the brightness. When she glanced toward Harrow, she added a wide smile to her ensemble.
She started toward him, and he met her halfway, next to a silver Toyota Camry that would prove to be hers.
As she neared, her smile turned sly, and she said, “Not too often do we get a real, live TV star out here in the boonies.”
“Waco’s hardly the boonies, Laurene.”
“Maybe not. But I sure didn’t expect to see a Hollywood type like you turning up at a
Laurene Chase was at the top. In descending order came Michael Pall, a DNA scientist with the Oklahoma State Crime Lab; chemist Chris Anderson from Meridian, Mississippi; Billy Choi, a tool mark and firearms examiner from New York; and computer forensics whiz Jenny Blake, Casper, Wyoming.
The taller stack of files had other strong possibilities, and he would not be distraught if he had to return there. In any case, he would have a better chance of making this work with a dependable number two who would keep her head when all about them, especially her emotionally invested boss, might be losing theirs.
The biggest liability would be if he was unable to assemble the right team—and the chemistry between team members was something that could not be predicted. A second major liability was himself—no police department anywhere would dream of assigning a crime scene analyst to investigate the murder of his own family.
He’d already heard from Carmen that this morning’s media outlets were rife with editorials and interviews with experts condemning his participation—on MSNBC, a retired LA detective turned bestselling author said, “I’ve heard of having a fool for a client, but this is ridiculous.”
Beyond any ethical or practical concerns, having such an emotionally involved crime scene analyst on the team was one thing; having that analyst head up the team was another. It could easily be a recipe for disaster…which was why his choice for a second in command was key.
The first name on his list.
Laurene Chase.
By mid-morning Sunday, Harrow found himself leaning against a rented Lexus at the far end of the parking lot of Our Savior Baptist Church on the northeast side of Waco. He blew out a ribbon of smoke from his second cigarette. The sun was bright but pleasant, the temperature in the mid-seventies, Harrow enjoying a breeze. Spring in Texas included the scent of flowers Detective Harrow couldn’t identify, though the evidence was pleasing enough.
These days, Harrow was smoking again, but out of a sort of half-assed respect to his late wife, he tried to keep the habit at bay. He wore a navy blue polo, jeans, and black Rockys, the cop shoes he seemed to have worn every day of his adult life.
As the congregation emptied out of the brick church down wide cement stairs, Harrow stubbed the cigarette out under his toe, then stood a little straighter, searching for his friend. This was a mostly African-American congregation, dressed in Sunday best and proud of it, parading past the pastor after a brief exchange, then mingling with other worshipers below a while before slowly dispersing to their cars.
Harrow liked black churches—right now, there were smiles and laughs and loud talk and hugs and backs getting slapped. Predominantly white churches he’d attended since childhood had always seemed stiff and vaguely guilt ridden. And at this kind of church, the women, older ones anyway, wore hats! What the hell ever happened to white women in hats?
Last out was a tall, slim, milk-chocolate woman in a fitted gray business suit and open-collared pink dress shirt under a gray vest. Her long black hair was battened down in tight cornrows, and she wore tiny silver hoop earrings that caught sunlight and glinted. That same sunlight made the woman squint, but her oval, black-framed glasses took up the battle, tinting darker against the brightness. When she glanced toward Harrow, she added a wide smile to her ensemble.
She started toward him, and he met her halfway, next to a silver Toyota Camry that would prove to be hers.
As she neared, her smile turned sly, and she said, “Not too often do we get a real, live TV star out here in the boonies.”
“Waco’s hardly the boonies, Laurene.”
“Maybe not. But I sure didn’t expect to see a Hollywood type like you turning up at a
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