Chapter Two

Holcombe turned back toward the truck. Crime Scene techs moved methodically, snapping close-ups of random angles in the bed, bagging pieces of debris, and marking points of interest. The portable floodlights cast sharp shadows across the scene, highlighting the chaos in a way that made it feel staged. Crime scenes at night always had a movie-set quality to him.

Nguyen approached, holding his tablet. “You’re lead on this one. What’s next?”

Lead. In the Major Case Unit, being lead wasn’t about rank or seniority. It was about rotation. Your turn came up, and you took the wheel. That meant making every decision and taking every bit of heat if those decisions didn’t pan out. Holcombe exhaled slowly.

“First,” he said, “let’s confirm our crime scene isn’t this lot. Get patrol to walk it. Have them look for casings, blood—anything. I’ve already got Robinson's working warrants and running backgrounds. I’ll call Madison about the truck owner’s apartment.”

Nguyen nodded, tapping the screen on his tablet. “Want K-9 to sweep the field for a weapon?”

“Absolutely,” Holcombe said. “And tell them to keep an eye out for anything that might ID the victim. Purse, wallet—whatever. Have them search the lot, the homeless camp, and the tree line.”

Delgado wandered over, rubbing lotion into her hands. Her face carried the drawn, weary look of someone at the tail end of a long shift. “Victim’s processed. We ran her prints, but she is not in any of our systems.  I’m taking her back to the lab. But heads-up, I’m still on call this weekend, so I’m not cutting into her tonight. I’ll have the techs handle the clothes and do a surface check on the body. Autopsy starts at 10 a.m. tomorrow unless something blows up.”

“Noted.” Holcombe scribbled the time in his notebook. “I’ll be there. Thanks, Delgado.”

Delgado nodded and headed toward the van. A few officers paused their conversations as they watched the vehicle roll away, the amber flashing lights disappearing into the traffic on the feeder road. Holcombe motioned to the highway exit ramp, still steadily dropping off cars into the city streets.

“What do you think? Driver or Torres has a body, wants to get rid of it, pulls off here to put it into the woods?”

“Maybe,” Nguyen said slowly. Holcombe could see the other detective working out the scenario. “Where did the driver go? Why did they go? Did the rain stop them from going into the woods?”

“Yeah, we gotta find Torres,” Holcombe replied with a huff.

Holcombe pulled out his phone and stepped over to his SUV’s open hatch. He punched Madison and Robinson into a conference call, setting the phone on the edge of the hatch so he could read his notes while they talked.

“Madison, where are you?” he asked, cutting to the point.

“Just about to pull up to the address for Anthony Torres. It’s an apartment complex off Monroe, near Hobby,” Madison replied, her voice clear but laced with movement—probably parking her car. “HPD units are here too. They’ll back me up.”

“Good. Let’s get everyone on the same page,” Holcombe said, glancing at Nguyen, who was already wrangling patrol officers nearby. He recapped the situation for the team. “Here’s what we know so far. We’ve got no ID on the victim—Latina, mid-30s to 40s. Prints don’t come back for criminal history or anything else, so she is Jane Doe. Preliminary from Delgado says she died of a single gunshot wound to the chest, close range. No exit wound. The estimated time of death is four hours ago, and the body was found two hours ago by patrol. No signs of sexual assault. Right now, we’re treating the truck as a transport vehicle, not the murder scene. Robinson, you’re on warrants and backgrounds. Madison, you’re handling Torres. Nguyen’s running the scene here, and K-9 is en route.”

He paused, staring down at his notes. A body in a truck bed, no ID, no apparent motive—it was set up for a dead-end case. Holcombe hated dead ends. They sat in his gut, heavy and unresolved.

“Don’t worry, Ray,” Madison said, her voice breaking the silence. “I’m about to knock on Torres’ door. If there’s a murder scene, I’ll find it.”

Holcombe’s frown softened. “Good. I’ll catch up with you in about twenty minutes. Text the group with updates as they come in. Let’s keep everyone on the same page.”

“Got it,” Madison said.

“Thanks, guys,” Holcombe said, picking up the phone and ending the call.

Nguyen called out to a small group of patrol officers, waving them toward him like a squad leader prepping for a mission. “I’ll have the guys start the sweep of the parking lot.”

Holcombe gave him a curt nod.

Holcombe picked up his phone and checked his messages. No updates from Mike. He texted: Caught a homicide case, just starting to work the victim. I’ll catch up tomorrow.

Before he could put his phone back in his pocket, a text appeared from Robinson with a link to the warrant to search the vehicle. Holcombe opened the link and scanned the document to confirm that he was legally allowed to search inside the vehicle. 

He walked back over to the truck, putting gloves on as he went. “Fenton, we have permission to get in the truck.”

“Perfect. Luckily, with the window down, I have been able to get some good shots, but now I can get the floorboards.”

The white Ford F-150 was a few years old, probably retired from a fleet that belonged to a utility company or contractor. Holcombe had observed that the bed of the truck had rust spots where a toolbox had once been removed. The residue on the rear window showed where decals had also disappeared when the truck went to the auction block. 

Fenton opened the passenger door and snapped a few more photos, the strobe light quickly illuminating the interior. “I’ll let y’all go through it and then see if there is anything else you need me for.” She turned away from the truck, pulled the camera off her neck, and walked away. 

Holcombe started on the driver's. He had already taken a peek inside the cab, seeing if there was a weapon or something else visible that would justify opening the door before a warrant arrived. Holcombe opened the door, carefully moving his flashlight along the floor. He turned, looking inside the storage area that was against the driver's door. Receipts and various other pieces of trash were recovered and placed on the driver's seat. Looking under the seats revealed more trash. It, too, was deposited on the seat. 

Holcombe quickly shuffled through piles of papers. Receipts for fast food restaurants, convenience stores, bars, and other places in the neighborhood were normal. He started to put them into piles, looking at dates. 

The receipts went back as far as six weeks, but there were four receipts that were more recent. Four nights in a row, Torres went to a place called The Last Dock. From the receipt, Holcombe could see that it was a bar. The most recent was for last night, showing that he was there until midnight. 

“I might have something. It looks like he went to the same bar every night this week. He might be a regular.” Holcombe said out loud before realizing he was the only one next to the truck. 

“Did you say something?” Nguyen asked, strolling up. He pulled out his phone and started taking his own pictures of the cab. 

“Found receipts for a bar called The Last Dock. It looks like he went there a lot. Maybe we check it out if the apartment is a bust.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’m not finding anything over here but trash from food wrappers.” 

Holcombe sighed and stepped back from the truck. “I’m going to walk the scene and come up with a story.”

A body moved from the murder scene made his job harder. Holcombe would often stand in the middle of the murder scene, taking in the details, absorbing the emotions of hate and fear that still lingered. It connected him to the victim. 

He turned around and faced the parking lot entrance. He imagined the truck coming into the parking lot from the feeder road that ran parallel to the Gulf Freeway. It drove across the parking lot through the cluster of police vehicles and crime scene equipment that had not yet arrived. 

He looked over where the truck was parked. 

“Why here?” Holcombe asked loudly. 

“Why here?” Nguyen repeated the question back to him. He walked over, putting his hands on his hips. “Well, you can’t see it from the frontage road very well, and the lights are out here, so it’s not too bad of a place to hide.”

The truck was parked in a spot that was wide open, even though there were better places to hide it. Holcombe finished the thought for his partner, “Yeah, he would’ve pulled around behind the building or even over here next to the homeless camp if he really wanted to hide it.”

“Right. So, if you’re coming here, is someone waiting for you?” Nguyen continued with their Socratic method of investigation. 

“Maybe. Or you have a car you stashed. Maybe you cut through the field.” Holcombe surmised, pointing off into the distant lights on the other side of the field. 

“Yeah… maybe you ditch it, use the open field to cross over there too, uh, Clear Lake City Boulevard, and find a ride.”

“I don’t know. Why abandon the truck with the body in it? You can hide it in some other places around here and take the truck somewhere else. You can even set fire to it.”

Nguyen sighed. “Yeah, we don’t have enough information yet. For all we know, this guy pulled off here because he thought this store was still open.”

Holcombe smiled back. “Fair enough.”

It was frustrating, though, to have so many unanswered questions. Even early on in an investigation, you start to put together a story quickly. Where the victim was found? Was it their home or office? Who did the victim live with? Who found the victim? All these questions were at the forefront of Holcombe’s mind whenever he received the call out to another body. Another victim. As he learned more about the victim, the story would unfold, and all of his questions would be answered. 

Because, in the end, everyone had a story.