Page 3 of Tex's Angel

I frown at him, hoping and praying this son of mine is telling the truth for once. “I’ve told y’all not to be calling me by my first name. It’s downright disrespectful.”

“You got it, Pops. I’d love to stay and chat with you but I gotta run upstairs and change. Toby told me he’s gonna be running fifteen minutes late today, he’s gotta drop his mom off at work on the way to school.”

I drain my coffee cup and stoically leave the kitchen without another word because I’m pretty damn sure my son just played me like damn fiddle and I fell for it, yet again. I should have known he was yanking my chain. None of his friends here in Las Salinas have a history of getting into trouble. Not that I know of, anyway.

As I shower and throw on my clothing, I realize the problem is me. I don’t trust him because he fell in with a bad crowd and got himself into so much trouble back in Texas. The only thing I could think to do was move him to California for a fresh start. Now, I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to find another bad crowd to hook up with. That ain’t right. Until he gives me a reason to suspect he’s up to his oldtricks again, I should show him that I trust him. Though it’s hard to do, considering how many times he messed up back in Texas. Still, he’s trying his best to earn back my trust and here I am, still suspecting him of wrongdoing. I need to be better, for my son’s sake and for my own peace of mind.

***

Smoothing down my trainer’s uniform, I lock up the house and walk past my motorcycle. God knows I’d love to ride it work today but I need to pick up supplies to finish the renovation on my master bath this evening after work. Also there’s the small matter of my supervisors not knowing about my personal life. I reluctantly climb into my pick-up truck instead. Pulling out of my driveway, I’m still pissed about the stand-off with Levi. He’s about as headstrong as his old man. For both our sakes, I need to find a way to get through to that boy.

I turn on the radio to a country music channel because it’s in my blood. My grandma used to say that you can take the man out of Texas but never Texas out of the man. I try to put all my problems out of my mind and just concentrate on work. Today’s gonna be a doozy.

I have to stop by work and sign out the van, because I have fourteen trainees meeting there. We’re visiting California Forensic Outdoor Research and Training Center, more commonly known as the body farm. It takes me almost twenty minutes to get to the academy and sure enough they’re all present and accounted for, along with my assistant.

I jump out of the truck and approach my assistant because I can see he’s already checked the sixteen-passenger van out. He’s got the clipboard and keys. “You drivin’ today, Doug?”

He nods, “Sure if that’s what you want.”

I jerk my chin towards the van. “Get her fired up. I want to have a word with the trainees. When he walks over to the van, I step out and give them a little pep talk.

“Alright, listen up everybody.”

The wide-eyed recruits sporting uniforms from several different police detachments move closer.

“As you’re all aware, today, we’re not gonna be talking about chasing perps, canvasing for clues, or writing tickets. Today, we’re gonna focus our attention on the victims that didn’t survive their fight against a cold-blooded murderer, the ones who died.”

For the longest time there was no postmortem cadaver education in California, so law enforcement officers didn’t get any real training on the general breakdown of a human body when exposed to temperatures and humidity of the climate in this state, for that reason the body farm is an invaluable part of training.

“For many of y’all this will be the first time you’re eyes on with human bodies in various states of decomposition. If y’all can’t handle seeing dead bodies, then law enforcement is not the profession for you. Trust me, if y’all end up working homicide this knowledge will become invaluable when y’all come face-to-face with your first crime scene. Knowing how to assess a dead body can mean the difference between solving a case and it ending up a cold case.”

One of the men speaks up, “What does our assessment mean? Isn’t it the crime lab’s job to process the crime scene and feed us the details?”

I manage to hold back from snorting a laugh and answer the trainee’s question, so we can get moving. “Yeah, the crime lab will eventually render a report with all the information you’re lookin’ for. Of course by that time, your perp might be several states away. Also, the crime lab makes mistakes. If y’all don’t know what you’re looking at when you survey the crime scene, how will y’all know to challenge them on the details?”

Another man nods. “I totally agree with Mr. Jones. I want to learn everything I can, so I know what I’m looking at. The goal is to bring justice to the victims, and we can’t do that effectively without being able to separate out important clues from meaningless information.”

Yet another trainee brought one hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “I heard this part of the training is considered the washout phase. If we puke our guts up and cry like a little girl, we get the boot.”

Smothering back a smile, I give him a slight nod. “You’re not wrong about that. This class is the one the separates those who have what it takes to be successful in this field of law enforcement from those who don’t. But we don’t expect y’all to be without feelings, sure it might be bad at first, but y’all get used to it. It’s the ones who can’t, that end up leaving.”

Doug drives the van over and slides open the door. “All aboard, for the body farm.”

Our trainees surge forward and clamor to get seats, each wrangling his own thoughts and feelings about what he wasabout to see. I’ll wager that not many of these men gave any thought to forensics when they interviewed with their individual police departments, much less thought they’d be looking at an assortment of decomposing bodies intentionally displayed as part of their training. We talk quietly about the importance of forensics in solving crimes all the way to the site.

Eventually the trainees grow quiet as the van turns off onto a secondary road, then immediately turns into a large empty parking lot. They would have to be oblivious not to see the crows and other scavengers circling overhead. I take the lead, and we meet up with our tour guide. As we progress along the neatly laid out paths, the guide explains what we’re seeing every step of the way, explaining the importance of what we’re seeing. How every single body tells a story the officer desperately needs to understand. To their credit, our trainees are diligent about taking notes and asking pertinent questions. Some of ‘em look a bit green around the gills, but we ain’t marking them down, it can be a shock at first. But in the end, you don’t see the body—you’re too busy trying to assess the scene and what it’s telling you. I’m real proud of them, how they maintain professional composure and try to wring every bit of educational value out of the experience that they can. Thankfully, they manage to complete the tour without throwing up. That’s always a plus.

As we walk back to van, the trainees are quieter and more introspective. I know they’re all gonna leave this place today with a deeper understanding of what it means to work homicide. It’s not all badges, patrols, and the thrill of the chase. It’s about respect for the victims and getting them the justice they deserve.

And that’s what originally drew me to this line of work. I was a man teaching the kind of skills that were hard won, not by taking college classes, but by seeing active combat and workingmy ass off as a cop for ten long years back in Texas. With any luck these men would turn out to be good cops who passed on the information they gained from my training.

Chapter 3

Clara

It’s been another long day and I’m dying to get a good night’s sleep. After setting my house alarm, I fall into bed, exhausted but happy. I’ve always been a light sleeper but tonight sleep proves to be an elusive bedfellow. I toss and turn, unable to get comfortable. I know what’s causing my anxiety, but I don’t allow myself to ruminate over it. Instead, I punch my pillow to soften it up and force myself to close my eyes.

When sleep finally takes me, I just know that tonight is going to be alright. Nothing is going to disturb my sleep, not blaring horns, terrible nightmares, or any damn thing else. I deserve a peaceful night’s sleep and tonight I’m going to get it. My dreams are usually much better than my real life.

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