Beneath Forbidden Ground Page 4

  He ignored the jab, accepting it for what it was. Though forthright when she felt the need, Marti possessed just enough ego to stand erect. They ate in silence for a few moments. Finishing first, as he always did, Pete pushed his bowl across the counter.

  “Have the kids decided when they’re coming?”

  “Chris is taking a couple of days off. Says he plans to arrive late Tuesday. He’s going to try and get in a half-day before heading out.”

  “Lori coming with him?”

  “Don’t think so. She’s right in the middle of her mid-term exams, may not be able to get away.” Marti slid from her stool, circling the counter and moving into the kitchen side. “And it’s really not necessary for her to even try. I don’t see why you three are making such a fuss over this in the first place. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  Lori was Chris’ fiancee. Their plans to wed had been moved back to June, at the completion of her second year of law school at U. T. His schedule was more wide open, due to a decent position at an Austin-based computer company.

  “And Julie?”

  “Late Tuesday. She can only stay until Thursday morning. She’ll drop Mindy and Matti off at my folks’ on the way.”

  “So we won’t get to see them?” Pete didn’t try to hide his disappointment.

  “I know...I know. Julie was afraid they might be confused about everything. I argued with her, but you know how headstrong she can be.”

  Chris and Julie were Marti’s kids from her first marriage to a Houston P D uniformed officer. He had been gunned-down in the line of duty a couple of years before she had met Pete through mutual friends. But that was only the technical version; they were his kids as far as he and they were concerned, complete with the challenges and heartaches that came with the territory.

  A new heartache was potentially brewing in the form of Julie’s new boy friend, or simply, new “friend”, as she referred to him. Marti, like most mothers, read more into it than that. A single mom to her two young daughters, Julie had managed to rid herself of one worthless husband slightly over a year ago, and Marti was clinging to hope she wasn’t falling into another trap. There was no evidence to lead to that conclusion, but she feared that sporadic child-support payments from her ex may be causing her to jump back into deep water too soon.

  Influenced by being raised by a school teacher, Julie also taught at an elementary school in San Antonio, which didn’t provide much in the way of income after child-care was factored in.

  Pete shared his wife’s concern. He had decided to take on the role of inquisitor when Julie arrived, since Marti would be in no condition to probe. It was something he wasn’t looking forward to; Julie was an adult—a stubborn one at that. The kids staying at his in-laws’ house in nearby Pearland might give more room to pry. In any event, both offspring had insisted on coming; it would be good having them around.

  “She said she’ll make a point to bring ‘em by next trip,” Marti assured.

  Pete’s offer to help clean up after the purposely lite dinner was refused. He settled into his favorite recliner in the den, with a clear view of the kitchen.

  Picking up the morning Houston Chronicle, then folding it in his lap without even reading the headline, he watched her. Small moments such as this always had the effect of crystallizing for him how lucky he was to have found her, saving him from the dark, spiraling hole his life was becoming after his first wife had left him cold, over two decades ago. Before he could block it out, a shiver went through his body at the thought of life without her. It was impossible to think about it without going insane. He quickly chased the idea away. He would take her at her word. “Everything will be fine.”

  5

  Proper procedure and a desire to not rock the boat told Scallion he needed to spend time sharing with his partner what he had learned about the Becker case. Friday morning, and as usual, he arrived at the Harris County Sheriff’s office building in downtown Houston long before Murtaugh. Waiting for his partner to arrive, he entered his notes from the previous day’s interview with James Truluck onto his p. c. Modern technology was supposed to make his job easier and more time-efficient, but stuck with using a hunt and peck method on the keyboard, the time saved, compared to writing out his reports, was negligible. At least it did look neater.

  Placing the bag holding the suspect harmonica on his cubicle desktop, he stared at it for a second. Anxious to take it on the fifteen-minute drive to the Harris County Medical Examiners office, he knew he had to wait for his senior partner. After all, the case was originally re-opened by Murtaugh a few months before Scallion had joined the department. Leaving the man out of the loop would be a serious breach of etiquette.

  Finishing his report, then clicking on the “save” function, he leaned back in his chair, just as a raspy, coughing sound warned of Murtaugh’s arrival.

  “Morning, Pete,” Murtaugh said, removing his tan blazer and hanging it on the back of his chair. Loosening his tie, he fell into the chair across from Scallion with what appeared to be an effort.

  “Denny. How’d it go at the dentist?”

  The older detective grunted, then frowned. “About as well as forkin’ over two-hundred bucks can go,” he snorted.

  “Ouch! He must’ve used a diamond-studded drill bit.”

  Murtaugh snorted a short laugh, then said, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you. All it got me was an x-ray, two fillings, and a numb lip the rest of the night.” He rubbed his jaw, then sucked on his bottom lip to make sure he had feeling back.

  Scallion eyed his partner for a moment, wondering exactly how long the man planned on hanging on. Approaching sixty-two, he was already well beyond the career life-expectancy for a cop. Reddish-grey hair cut short, and a rapidly expanding gut made him look even older. He was aware the man had been a good cop in earlier days, but his zest was clearly gone, apparently playing out the string.

  “So, how’d that deal out in Katy go yesterday?” Murtaugh asked, showing little actual interest. “Wild goose chase, I’ll bet.”

  Scallion swivelled in his chair to grab the bag. “Actually, maybe not.” Holding the bag up, he added. “The guy had a gift for us.”

  Murtaugh stared at the bag, then at Scallion. “What the hell is that?”

  Scallion un-zipped the bag, then carefully unfolded the paper wrapping. “Could be the harmonica those witnesses said they heard.”

  Murtaugh leaned across the space separating the two cubicles. His mouth sagged open while he reached into his shirt pocket for his bi-focaled glasses. “Where’d he dig that up?”

  “Under the floor of the icehouse, in the crawlspace.”

  The older man leaned back, frowning. “How come he looked there?”

  “He didn’t. His son did. The bar was damaged by a fire late last year, and the owner decided to sell out. The man—name’s Truluck, by the way—said his son was doing demolition work there. Found it, and happened to mention it to his old man. Turns out, Truluck watches a lot of tv. He saw some cold case shows that highlighted the Becker case, mentioning the harmonica sounds. He put two-and-two together and went and got it from his son.”

  Murtaugh raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “His son said it was found right inside an open vent, on the side of the building where the killing occurred. Chances are good it was thrown there by our guy.” Scallion re-wrapped the instrument and placed it back in the bag.

  “You’re thinkin’ it might contain DNA?” Murtaugh asked, doubt showing.

  Scallion nodded. “Possibly.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. You said there was a fire in the bar? One thing I know for sure is that heat and time together usually destroy any traces of DNA. The killing was, what, six, seven years ago? Looks like a long-shot to me.”

  Scallion’s hopes started to flag, not only due to the man’s defeatist attitude, but more from the fact he knew he was probably correct in his opinion. But with no other workable leads, it was hope worth han
ging onto. It was the only possible link to Bernard Nuchols, a. k. a. Bernie Nuchols, the man sitting in an Oklahoma City cell, and the man suspected in the Becker murder.

  Murtaugh seemed to sense the pall he had thrown over the conversation. He rubbed his red face, and gave a thoughtful look. “You plan on taking it down to Marla?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Tell you what. Why don’t you go on down, if you don’t mind going solo. I’ll get on the horn to Oklahoma City, tell’em to keep us up-to-date on Nuchols’ trial status in case we want to have a sit-down with him.”

  That was fine with Scallion. Matter of fact, he preferred to go alone. The man’s presence was beginning to be somewhat of a downer. Plus, he could use the time to himself to wrestle with Marti’s situation. It would’ve been nice to have someone else to confide in, but Murtaugh was not that person. Which reminded him, “Say, Denny. Before I forget. I’m going to have to take some time next week, maybe two or three days. Marti has a little surgery planned. I’ve already told Otto.”

  “Oh? Nothing serious I hope?”

  “Shouldn’t be. Just a female thing.” Scallion felt lousy not telling the whole story, but got an immediate impression his partner didn’t mind going it alone either. Either from years of rummaging through the trash bin of violence humans inflicted upon each other, or just his basic nature, he kept his countenance close at hand.

  “While you’re gone,” Murtaugh said, “I’ll start going back over the stories those witnesses gave at the time. Maybe try to contact them, see if they’ve remembered anything new.”

  “Good deal,” Scallion said. Grabbing his coat and the plastic bag, he left.

  The drive from downtown southwest to the Harris County Medical Examiner’s office took longer than expected. Rush hour traffic had thinned out, since it was already past 9:00, but construction on one of the main thoroughfares taking him where he wanted to go caused several detours. The 288 expressway had been his intended route, but he was forced onto South Main, taking him finally to Old Spanish Trail, where the M. E.’s office stood in the shadow of the enormous University of Texas Medical Center. He parked and entered.

  Passing with ease through the security check point at the entrance, Scallion followed the familiar path to the forensics lab. He swiped the coded card given him across the sensor pad at the door. Hearing the necessary click, he entered.

  Marla Evans was engrossed in her work as usual, leaning-in to peer into a microscope lens, while adjusting the focus knob. Her bunched-up hair had begun to sag, draping downward to almost conceal the lens. She was sitting on a stool, so that her white lab coat hung to the floor. Hearing one of her assistants greeting Scallion, she quickly looked up. Pushing away from the scope, she stood, pulling a wild strand of the dishwater hair out of her face, while removing her glasses and hiding them in a coat pocket. Her uniform and demeanor made her look older than her forty years.

  “Detective Scallion,” she said, with a touch of forced formality, probably meant for the eyes and ears of her two assistants. She wore a shy smile as she approached to greet him, a flash of redness in her thin cheeks.

  “Marla. Looks like you’re already hard at it.” He returned the smile, dampening it down a little, hoping to keep things on a professional level—for her benefit as well as his. She was indeed shy, which came with the territory. Sequestered in the lab most days, rarely associating with anyone other than her helpers, it made for what had to be a confining existence. The only exceptions being when someone like himself came calling, looking for assistance, or when she was called into court to testify. Tall and slender, she did nothing to try and enhance her appearance. But she had a stately presence, not at all unattractive.

  “In this town, it’s all we can do to keep up,” she said, with another self-conscious smile. “I can always use more help. I’ll bet I can find you a lab coat that fits and have you trained in no time.” She showed a little deeper red this time, apparently thinking she had dropped her guard lower than intended.

  Scallion laughed. “Afraid I don’t have the intelligence or the patience to perform your magic, Marla. I would subtract from your efficiency, rather than add to it.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” she said, blushing once more. She glanced at the bag he was holding. “Ah. And I see you’ve come adding fuel to the fire.”

  “Maybe so. But it’ll most likely be an interesting challenge for you. I doubt if you’ve ever had to poke around in a harmonica before.”

  “A harmonica?” she said, arching her eyebrows. “You’d be right about that. What’s the story?”

  Scallion handed her the bag. “Possibly left behind at a crime scene by a suspect.” He paused before continuing. “I assume, as usual, you don’t want too many details about the case, either when or where?”

  “Right again. Don’t want any possibility of being influenced to find what you want me to find.” She was falling back into her job persona. “Let’s get it out of harm’s way first.”

  Holding the bag in one of her latex-gloved hands, she walked to the far side of the lab, with Scallion following behind. Standing in front of a long counter, she slid the bag through a small door on the side of a metal and glass box approximately three feet wide by two feet deep. The ends were metal, and the top and front were glass for viewing purposes. Slipping her hands into and through flexible rubber openings in the front, she unzipped the bag, then extracted the paper from the bag, before carefully unwrapping the contents.

  “What’s this?” she asked. “Soot?”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’d better mention it may have been in a fire.”

  Marla, looked sideways at the detective, who was bending over next to her, observing. The closeness put her on edge again. “May have been in a fire?”

  “Actually, not directly in the fire, but close by.” Scallion recalled Murtaugh’s warnings about heat. He was hoping Marla wouldn’t completely discourage the effort without even looking.

  She didn’t answer at first, continuing to gently rotate the instrument with her gloved hands. “I’m assuming that whatever we’re looking for will be inside?”

  “Possibly. I suppose that’s for you to determine.” With their faces only a foot apart, he gave a disarmingly warm smile, then watched as she instantly broke eye-contact. He knew he wasn’t playing fair, but it was important he try and keep her interested enough to make an attempt. He did feel somewhat conspicuous about her reactions toward him, although at the same time he had to admit he rather enjoyed it—a guilty massage to his ego.

  “We’ll have to dis-assemble it, which might be a trick in itself. It’ll be a delicate operation.”

  “I’m sure it will be, Marla. Anything you can identify will be a big help to our case.”

  She pulled her hands free and stood facing him. “I hope you’re not in a hurry for an answer. We’re really backed up.”

  “Sure. I understand.” It was worth a stab. “How long, you think?”

  “Two, maybe three weeks. Depends on what luck we have getting it broken down.” She looked thoughtfully at the harmonica, indicating she might welcome the challenge, as he had hoped. Strange and unusual cases such as this couldn’t hurt the resume—if successful.

  Scallion thanked her for her time and efforts. “You know where to reach me if you find anything,” he said as he prepared to leave.

  “Right. Cold Case. How’re you enjoying the change of scenery?”

  “Good days and bad. I guess it’s a decent way to ease into retirement.”

  “Oh, I think you’ve got a few more years left in you,” she said, with one last nervous laugh. She turned to one of her assistants. “Jonas, give Detective Scallion a reference number for the evidence he was kind enough to bring us.” Turning back, she gave Scallion a wry, “thanks for nothing” grin, but with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

  He thanked her and headed for the door. She watched him as he exited the lab, not reaching for her glasses until the door was shut behind him
.

  6

  By the time he had arrived back at his office, Scallion had come to the conclusion it made no sense to get further embroiled in the Becker case until, and if, Marla could come up with something. She was the only hope. Of course, that was just his opinion; Murtaugh might have his own.

  His partner was on the phone when he reached his cubicle. Draping his coat over a hangar attached to the cubicle wall, Scallion folded his still solid frame into his chair, rolled up his sleeves, then spent a second entering the fact he had taken the harmonica for testing onto his p c. Everything had to be documented, no matter how obvious or trivial.

  Murtaugh ended the call he was on, turning around to face Scallion. “How’d it go with Marla?” he asked. “She give you any hope?”

  “Nope. But I wasn’t expecting any right off the bat. She said it’ll be awhile anyway. Crime marches on in the Bayou City, partner, so she’s got her hands full. What about your phone calls? Any luck?”

  “Not really. I was only able to reach two witnesses. Another one, the disabled mechanic, recently died, I found out. Cirrhosis of the liver. Seems he drank his sorrows away at that bar, plus several others. The two I was able to get in touch with still swear it was Nuchols, but neither one actually saw him at the icehouse that day. Becker told them he was going outside to wait for the creep and his money, but they can’t verify he showed, except for the harmonica sounds.”

  Scallion nodded, wiping the filmy residue of the Houston humidity from his forehead. “Say, Denny. What are your thoughts about putting this case aside until we hear back from the M. E.? I’d kinda like to look at those missing girls again, see if we can’t shake something out.”

  “Fine by me. We’ve got a lot to pick from, but that’d be as good as any.”

  “Let’s go into the conference room. I want to lay the map out again, see if anymore ideas hit us.” Scallion reached to the far end of his cubicle, grabbing a rolled-up poster leaning against the wall. Stopping for a cup of coffee from the department pot, he drained the last of it. Knowing it was proper protocol for the person who emptied the pot to re-fill it, he decided against taking the time, since it was close to noon. He joined Murtaugh in the rectangular conference/interrogation room down the hall from their small department.