To the cops who patrolled Dallas’ richest and most exclusive neighborhoods throughout the 1990’s, Mitch Shaw and his cute girlfriend, Jennifer Dolan, must have looked like a couple of rubes. For one thing, they cruised through the neighborhoods in a turquoise Toyota Tercel. Turquoise! Jennifer always drove, usually with her window down, her magnificently teased hair and dangling costume earrings fluttering in the wind.
Harry Fikaris and Roger Wedgeworth miss the flashing red lights, the yellow strips of crime scene tape, and the stench of dead, bloated bodies. With little provocation, they’ll wax nostalgic about the adrenaline rush of a call in the middle of the night and the frantic, sleepless chase that follows. This, after all, is why they got into the crime-solving business in the first place.
It was close to three in the morning last February 7 when Clint Hart walked into the Tau Kappa Epsilon house near the campus of Southwest Texas State University in San Marcos. The TKE bid-night party had broken up a couple of hours earlier, and the house now appeared to be empty.
ON FRIDAY NIGHTS IN AMARILLO, after the high school football season and its hopes have faded, there is a restless energy on Western Street, where students from Amarillo High and its crosstown rival, Tascosa, idle in empty parking lots, leaning out the windows of their pickups to discuss the night’s possibilities.
ON A STIFLINGLY HOT AFTERNOON in late August, at an abandoned oil field twenty miles south of Houston, more than a dozen people hunted for the bodies of dead women.
SHE WAS NOT ONLY THE APOTHEOSIS of Texas beauty but also a poster girl for Southern charm, which made the manner of her death all the more dreadful.
He waited in the dark. It was late and the countryside was quiet, somehow sleeping through the blare of the train. Nobody heard the whistle as a warning anymore. He jumped off onto the tracks.
ON THE NIGHT OF NOVEMBER 22, 1995—Thanksgiving Eve—Sergeant Mark Bergmark and reserve officer James Purcell of the Comanche County Sheriff’s Department had nothing more pressing to do than drive around Lake Proctor, a meandering body of water on the Leon River eighty miles southwest of Fort Worth.
I SPENT A SATURDAY NIGHT IN MID-APRIL HELPING chaperone a dance in the cafetorium of Danforth Junior High, the school in Wimberley where my older son Jake attends eighth grade. My assignment was to guard the door at stage left, making sure no one left the building before the dance was over.
ON MAY 1 DALLAS CITY COUNCILMAN AL LIPSCOMB is expected to be reelected handily to a seventh term, an estimable achievement for a man who used to wait tables at a downtown executive dining room and has spent most of his political career, as he puts it, “being obnoxious and being told to shut up.” Lipscomb, however, will barely have time to savor the victo