Criminal puzzles In Texas

Chapter Fifteen

The station breathed with a low hum — the quiet chatter of dispatchers, the occasional crackle of a radio, the gentle squeak of polished boots against vinyl flooring. Fluorescent lights cast a pale, clinical glow across the open floor, tinting everything in cool blue. At her desk, Victoria sat with squared shoulders and a mug of black coffee cradled in both hands. The mug’s warmth barely reached through her fingers, but she welcomed it anyway — a small comfort as the weariness from a full day pressed down on her limbs.
Her uniform was crisp, the creases still sharp from the iron that morning. But beneath the surface, exhaustion pulsed — a familiar, dull ache at her temples, the heaviness of worry over Samantha’s first day of school mixing with the nerves of her own first night shift in San Antonio’s downtown precinct.
Before she could finish her coffee, footsteps approached. Victoria looked up to find her supervisor, Alan Cain, looming beside her desk. He wore his usual dark blazer over a collared shirt, but tonight his face was more serious than usual — jaw tight, brow creased with tension.
“Victoria,” he said, voice low but urgent, “we’ve got a situation at Sweet Treats Bakery on Main. Break-in, possibly more. You’re with me. The first responders are already on site.”
She was on her feet before he finished speaking, fatigue forgotten. “You want me on forensics?”
Cain nodded as they moved swiftly down the corridor. “Exactly. I need you on physical evidence. We need to document everything. Fast. Clean. Precise.”
The two climbed into Cain’s unmarked vehicle, the cruiser gliding out into the night. The city outside was quieter now — shop fronts shuttered, the downtown lights glowing softly against the dark sky. On empty sidewalks, neon signs blinked sleepily, and a few lone pedestrians lingered near bus shelters. As they neared the bakery, the red and blue lights of patrol cars painted the intersection in flickering color. Yellow police tape flapped lightly in the breeze, marking the scene like a warning ribbon.
Glass sparkled like ice beneath the rear security light. The bakery, usually warm and inviting in daylight, looked ghostly under the harsh beam. The scent of sugar and cinnamon still hung in the air — now disturbingly mingled with coppery blood and the sterile sting of disinfectant.
Detective Chris Goffin was already at the scene, arms crossed as he briefed them. “Rear window’s smashed. Clear signs of a struggle inside — blood near the counter. We’ve got partials on the till and tracks in the alley.”
Victoria pulled on her gloves, crouching by the broken window. Her flashlight beam swept across jagged shards embedded in the frame and scattered like brittle leaves along the sidewalk. She took her time, studying the angles. “Glass sprayed in both directions. Entry was aggressive. Fast.” She swabbed a smear of dried blood along the jagged edge, sealed the sample, and labeled it before standing and stepping inside. The interior was a surreal mess of pastel décor and overturned shelves. A birthday cake lay splattered on the tile floor like a broken watercolor. Cupcake trays were scattered, and a bouquet of toppled helium balloons bobbed weakly above the carnage.
Steven Taylor, the lead CSI tech, was dusting the cash register. He glanced up as she approached, lifting a transparent film. “Got a partial. Metal button. Could give us something.”
Victoria accepted the evidence, logging it with practiced hands. “Thanks, Steven. Every piece counts.”
They moved together through the space, documenting drag marks across the counter, a knocked-over stool, and what looked like the faint imprint of a shoe on the linoleum. Out in the alley, she took slow, careful steps around the footprints tracked through fresh mud. Her casting tray caught the deep grooves of the tread — a clear heel, circular texture in the sole.
From a few feet away, Cain watched her in silence, nodding slightly as she sealed the mold.
“You’ve got an eye for this,” he murmured. “You’re exactly where we need you.”

By the time they returned to the precinct, the night had thickened around the building. The lab processed evidence swiftly. The partial fingerprint hit: John Smith — mid-thirties, two prior burglary convictions, a known drifter in the downtown loop. Meanwhile, the blood matched Jane Dole, the bakery’s owner. She had been treated for a bruised shoulder and a head wound — shaken but coherent.
In the briefing room, the grainy footage from the bakery’s security cameras flickered on a wide monitor. Victoria stood beside Cain, arms folded, watching as the figure slithered through the broken window. He moved with speed and cold purpose. When Jane entered the frame, he shoved her aside with brutal indifference and wrenched open the register.
“Didn’t even flinch,” Victoria muttered, her voice tight.
Cain exhaled through his nose. “He’s escalating. He was ready to hurt someone tonight.”
By dawn, a team had raided Smith’s last known address. Over the radio, Goffin’s voice crackled: “Suspect in custody. Shoes match the alley prints. We’ve got a navy jacket with fibers consistent with the bakery’s curtain material.”
Cain nodded, turning to Victoria. “Come on. Let’s see if he talks.”
In the observation room, the fluorescent lights cast sharp angles across the interrogation table. Through the glass, they watched Smith slump in his chair. He fidgeted, eyes darting as Goffin laid each piece of evidence before him — the print, the shoe cast, the footage, the fibers. With each item, the man’s bravado drained away, until finally, he sighed.
“I needed the cash,” he said, his voice low. “Didn’t think anyone would be there. It wasn’t supposed to go like that.”
Cain didn’t speak. He just glanced at Victoria, a quiet affirmation in his eyes.
“Good work,” he said later, as they stepped out into the pale light of early morning. “You processed everything cleanly. Built the case piece by piece.”
Victoria’s shoulders eased. She nodded, quiet pride blooming behind the exhaustion. “We did what we were supposed to.”
He clapped a hand lightly to her shoulder. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

The sky had begun to shift into soft pinks and golds as she pulled into her driveway. The city was waking now — joggers cutting across dew-speckled lawns, café windows flickering to life, morning radio shows humming from car windows. Victoria sat for a moment in the stillness, letting her mind slow.
She pulled out her phone and typed quickly:
“Good luck today, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

Across town, Samantha sat on the 422 bus, her backpack balanced neatly in her lap, thumbs tracing its zipper back and forth. Her hoodie was zipped halfway up, sleeves tugged past her wrists, concealing the nervous clench of her hands. With every passing stop, her gaze flicked toward the front of the bus, searching.
But Dylan hadn’t boarded.
Her stomach knotted slightly. The nervous buzz from last night’s excitement now hovered as anxious energy under her skin. She sighed quietly and pulled out her phone.
When the message from her mom appeared, something in her heart eased. Her fingers moved quickly in response.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll tell you everything when I get home.”
She smiled to herself, sat up straighter, and turned to the window — where the outline of the school was now rising, tall and new and full of potential.

Back in the car, Victoria leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes just for a moment. The ache in her muscles deepened, but so did the satisfaction. In one night, she made a difference. And now, so was Samantha — in her own way, in her own world.
Different paths. Same courage.