Page 62 of Devil's Hour
“You have no idea how right you are,” Felix said.
Royce narrowed his eyes. “Stop being cryptic and get on with it.”
“I heard the DA’s office is going to drop charges against Franco Humphries.” The mere thought of the suspected serial killer walking free turned Royce’s blood to ice.
“What?” Royce asked.
“Why?” Sawyer demanded to know.
“My sources tell me that a key piece of evidence they need for trial is missing from the evidence locker,” Felix said. “The defense team is planning to submit a request to have their own experts test the piece of fabric. They’re claiming the DNA, if it really was his, was planted by dirty cops. Now it’s suddenly gone. From what I hear, they have no case without it.”
“No fucking way,” Royce groused. “Humphries was the last case I worked with Marcus. That bastard had terrorized and raped those co-eds. He made a mistake, and we busted the son of a bitch—cleanly and by the book.”
“Babineaux was going to trial with a single piece of physical evidence tying him to a murder?” Sawyer asked.
Bile burned Royce’s throat. “It was Tara Riker’s bedsheet. She was his fourth victim, and the only time he fucked up. It had both her blood and his semen on it. He’s a fucking animal. He cannot go free.”
“Hey, I agree with you. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard from four different people. If Babineaux can’t produce the sheet for the defense to test, then it calls into doubt it ever existed in the first place, lending credence to the theory that the police planted evidence to make the arrest.”
Fuck. Things had gone from bad to worse. “Thanks for the heads-up,” Royce said begrudgingly.
Felix cleared his throat and ran his finger under his collar. Royce recognized the nervous gesture.
“Just say whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“I believe you if you say the arrest was clean and by the book, but the fact does remain that the evidence is missing.”
“So you say. It was probably just returned to the wrong evidence box,” Sawyer countered.
“That’s one possibility,” Fleabag said slowly. “Another one is that someone accepted money to make it disappear.”
Royce felt like the reporter sucker-punched him in the stomach. He was having a hard time breathing. Sawyer squeezed his biceps to calm him. “Fuck you, Fleabag. No one in my unit is dirty.”
“Are you sure?” he countered.
“Yeah, I’m fucking sure.” He suspected the reporter was thinking about Marcus, whose suicide occurred within a few weeks of Humphries’ arrest. Maybe Royce didn’t know Marcus as well as he thought, but he’d stake his life on this. Marcus wouldn’t help a serial rapist and killer walk free.
“Ifhe walks, he might be aiming to settle a score,” Fleabag warned.
“I’ll be fucking ready.”
“It isn’t you that I’m worried about, Locke.”
Candi.Royce was nearly paralyzed by fear.
“Anyway, consider the score settled between us,” Fleabag said as he walked away.
“Not by a longshot,” Sawyer fired back without looking away from Royce. “Breathe, Ro. Let’s deal with one dumpster fire at a time, yeah?”
Royce knew he was right, but it didn’t do much to ease his worries. Sawyer had said it himself: Fleabag was a hellacious investigative reporter who’d probably cultivated sources with people from every walk of life. He hadn’t made accusations, and he hadn’t pumped them for information. Felix simply gave them a warning.
“Let’s go inside. You go talk to the chief, and I’ll pay a visit to Tobias.” If anyone had inside knowledge, it would be the stalwart guardian of the evidence locker.
“Good plan.”
Rigby’s assistant hadn’t reported for duty yet, so he knocked on the chief’s door and waited for her to grant him entrance. She took one look at Royce’s face, and said, “Oh God. What happened?”
Royce recounted his interview with Ginny McGraw and phone call he had with Agent Hampshire.