Beneath Forbidden Ground Page 5

  Removing the rubber band wrapped around the poster, he laid the map flat on the large table, anchoring the curled edges with his cup, his wallet, and a couple of ashtrays left in the room. The map showed the entirety of Harris County, plus a small portion of neighboring counties. A series of color-coded lines cris-crossed the map, drawn almost ten years earlier when the investigation of the mysterious disappearance of four young women was at full steam. Blue lines represented the routes the women would have traveled from their homes or apartments to their job locations—at least for the three that had jobs. Green lines indicated the paths they, or their vehicles, would have traveled from work or home to where their cars were found. Finally, red lines connected the locations representing where the vehicles were discovered, each empty of any personal belongings.

  Penciled-in next to each vehicle location was the name of the women who had vanished into thin air: Freda Juarez; Tammy Crews; Betty Lynn Thomas; and Laura French. No bodies were ever found. Nation-wide searches had yielded nothing except several false identifications. The most puzzling and frustrating part of the case was the fact that absolutely nothing tied the girls, or their pasts, together. Countless interviews with family members and co-workers yielded no clues as to why they might be anywhere near where their cars were found. Three of them: Juarez; Thomas; and French had left work that day without mentioning any appointments, dates, or meetings. The fourth, Tammy Crews, was unemployed, as far as any family members knew. She was the youngest daughter of a prominent Houston civil attorney, estranged from her family in every way except for a stream of income her mother secretly funneled to her to keep up the rent on an apartment in the trendy Rice Village area.

  The case was worked diligently for over a year, spurred-on by Crew’s powerful father. He was a man of influence, and in spite of his luke-warm feelings for his daughter, he insisted on every possible lead being checked, then re-checked. He died of a heart attack almost a year to the day after Tammy’s disappearance. The case gradually eased to the back burner, not entirely due to the man’s passing, but mostly because the investigation was going nowhere.

  Murtaugh read through the thick file covering the case he had brought into the room, while Scallion stared intently at the map. “You know,” he said, looking up from his reading, “it was easy to see why some folks wanted to tie this in to the I-45 murders. They were still fresh in everybody’s memory.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But if you think about it, the cars in this case were found nowhere near I-45. Plus, these women didn’t exactly fit the mold of the ones along the interstate. I mean, as far as their backgrounds went.”

  “Were you involved in any of those cases?” Murtaugh asked.

  “Only after I moved to Harris County in the early eighties. I was still working in Chambers County in the seventies, when the first bodies were discovered. I guess I got involved in six, maybe seven after I moved over here. How ‘bout you?”

  “I worked around ten or so, mostly helping out with local guys in the communities where they happened.” Murtaugh took a second to peer through the window. “That was a miserable time. And you know, for a long time, no one knew just how bad it really was.”

  Scallion let his mind drift back to the crimes Murtaugh referred to, a series of murders, rapes, and missing young women unparalleled in Texas history. They were tabbed as the I- 45 murders because they occurred along or near the stretch of interstate highway starting just north of Galveston, and passing through Houston, a distance of some fifty miles. The crimes took place over two decades, beginning in 1971, then finally dwindled when similar events occurring in the late eighties seemed to be unrelated. The victim count was never actually known, since there were certainly women whose disappearances were not reported. Some were prostitutes, shadowy figures while alive, then swallowed up by the evil that stalked them. But overall, the numbers were thought to be in the dozens.

  At first, with the rapes and murders spread among several municipalities, the various jurisdictions investigated only those in their area. So if a serial killer was at work, it was an unknown fact, since no one bothered to share notes. Finally, in the eighties, when it began to grow obvious there was a regional problem, a task force was formed to coordinate the many different crimes and disappearances. The result was the unsettling conclusion there were several serial killers at work, rather than one. Very few arrests were actually made, and few cases solved.

  It wasn’t until the late nineties, when network shows such as 20/20, and Dateline began putting a spotlight on the Houston area crimes that the rest of the country was made aware of the scope of the so-called “Killing Fields”.

  Scallion shook the thoughts of the past from his brain, concentrating again on the well-worn map. He repeated out-loud what little information was known. “The only common thing existing between the women was the fact they were all reported missing within a span of a few days; the Juarez girl almost a week later, since she had no family or close friends to notice her absence. But other than that...”

  Murtaugh stood and leaned over the map. He placed four photographs he had pulled from the file flat on the poster. “One other thing,” he said, “They were all attractive women, at least according to these pictures.”

  “Yeah. That should’ve meant something.” But it hadn’t, so far.

  There were, in fact, two clues. Unfortunately, they were clues which led to an impossible number of scenarios. First, the vehicle belonging to Laura French, a 1989 Honda Civic, was found in the parking lot of a local hardware store in Waller, Texas, slightly more than forty miles from Houston. Like the three other abandoned cars, it had been discovered early in the morning, left during the night by unknown parties. Investigators had recorded the fact that an oil change sticker in an upper corner of the windshield indicated a recent lube job. Contacting the quick- change shop listed on the sticker, they verified French had visited the shop during her lunch hour the day before her car was found. The shop manager also stated that standard procedure was to list on the sticker when the next change was due – 3,000 miles later in her case, since her driving was mostly confined to the city.

  Simple math proved that when she brought the car in for servicing, the odometer read 34,550 miles, since the figure 37,550 was shown on the sticker. When the Civic was recovered, the odometer read 34,599. The car had been driven a total of forty-nine miles from the oil-change shop to it’s final destination. Allowing two miles from the shop to the insurance agency she worked for on the northwestern edge of Houston, then thirty miles to Waller, that left roughly seventeen miles unaccounted for. Everyone who had worked the cases, which now included Scallion and Murtaugh, was convinced those missing miles held the answer. But from the hardware store in Waller, there were an infinite number of locations within seventeen miles. A needle in a haystack seemed simple by comparison.

  The other evidence was the presence of dried mud on the floorboard of each car on the driver’s side. Plenty of samples were obtained, and the makeup of the soil easily identified. The kicker was that the soil type identified was prevalent throughout the region—there was nothing unique about any of the samples.

  Scallion breathed a frustrated sigh, settling into a chair. “There has to be an answer. Somebody, somewhere knows something.”

  “I know this has been voiced before,” Murtaugh said, “but maybe there is no connection. The cars weren’t all found the same morning, and they were spread over a thirty mile distance. Could just be coincidence.”

  Scallion thought about it, as he had several times since joining the case, then shook his head. “I can’t buy that, Denny. Call it instinct, if you want, but something ties these girls together.”

  His partner didn’t answer right away. Returning the photos to the file, he asked, “So whatta you think? Go back to the families again, see if their memories have improved over ten years?”

  Scallion could tell from the man’s tone he wasn’t too excited about that prospect, and neither was he. But it was the
only logical step. There were definitely other cases they could address; never a shortage in that category. The missing girls, however, pulled at him. Maybe it was because he had a daughter whose age would match theirs if they hadn’t met whatever fate had befallen them. He and Marti would need what people now called “closure”, and their families deserved no less.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Why don’t we split ‘em up? I’ll take the Crews and Juarez contacts, and you the other two.”

  The matter settled, the two cold case detectives prepared to face the muggy conditions, ready to scrape around the edges of old memories.

  7

  Arturo Juarez had immigrated legally to the U. S. in late 1991, several months following his sister’s disappearance. The two had aspirations of operating a restaurant together, providing Houstonians a taste of their native Panama. Freda was the oldest in her family, so she had come first to test the waters, managing to find work in one of the many Tex-Mex restaurants in the area. She sent money home whenever she could, and called at least every other week to let her parents know she was okay.

  It was a call they received from the restaurant manager that had changed everything. She had been missing from work for two days, and then her worn-out Nissan Sentra was found in the parking lot of an abandoned plant in Brookshire, nearly fifty miles away. Pulling her family’s phone number from her file, the manager’s main interest was in knowing if they had heard from her, and would she be returning to her job. Fearing the worst, Arturo and his father obtained temporary visas, allowing them to travel to Houston, hoping to find some trace of the girl. They were stunned and disheartened upon their arrival in Texas when informed that Freda’s disappearance was now being investigated along with three other similar cases of young women vanishing; their vehicles also discovered scattered west of the huge city. The Harris County Sheriff’s office had already begun taking apart her small apartment for clues, and talking to her co-workers. The two men could only listen helplessly, as the detectives handling the case went over what little evidence they had, before beginning to interrogate the confused Juarez family members about anything she might have mentioned to them.

  Following three weeks of no progress in the investigation, and with their funds running low, Arturo and his father returned to Panama, with promises from the authorities they would be updated on any developments. No calls came. The Juarez family began to accept what they knew to be true; Freda was gone, and would not return. The never-ending grief parents feel when losing a child, let alone not knowing what their fate had been, began to fester.

  Later in the year, when Arturo returned to Houston with a more permanent immigrant visa, assisted by a relative who had previously been granted citizenship, he made it a point to check in with the detectives handling the case from time to time. It became clear the case had reached a dead end, and interest in his sister’s disappearance was flagging. He had no choice but to move on with his life, hoping to create alone what he and Freda had dreamed about.

  Scallion knew this history, having read the section of the file on Freda Juarez several times. The visit he was about to make to Arturo Juarez’s restaurant would be the first time he had talked to the man himself. The drive south down I- 45 in the direction of Galveston brought back memories and images of the earlier series of murders, some too gruesome to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to ignore the fact some had occurred not too far from where he and Marti now lived—a little too close to home.

  He timed his arrival for mid-afternoon, usually a slow time for restaurants. The name on the facade above the cantina’s front door read Freda’s, paying homage to his presumed dead sibling. It was a moderate-sized establishment in a strip mall facing the frontage road running alongside the expressway. The sign went on to say Central American cuisine was featured, not limited to Panama. Entering, his senses were immediately alert to tantalizing aromas, the afterglow of lunch hour.

  A series of reactions came from Arturo Juarez when Scallion showed his badge and introduced himself. First was suspicion, a natural response to a police officer visiting a place of business, especially one owned by a minority. Next came a hopeful expression when told the officer was working on his sister’s case.

  “Is there something new on her disappearance?” Arturo asked quickly.

  Scallion hated deflating the man’s optimism, bringing on the final reaction of resignation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Juarez. I’m assigned to the Cold Case unit of the Sheriff’s office. We’re re-visiting Freda’s case, hoping to uncover anything that might help.” He scanned the restaurant, noticing mostly cleanup work under way. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  The deflated Juarez motioned with a nod of his head, “Follow me.”

  He led Scallion to a small office in the rear of the restaurant, with the detective observing the man’s appearance and demeanor, a habit he couldn’t break, nor did he want to. He liked the man instantly. He was roughly five-ten, a trim build, most likely staying in shape due to the rigors of running the place. Dark hair had a few specks of pre-mature grey, belying his age of no more than thirty. He seemed open and cordial, and spoke excellent English, which didn’t hurt.

  “Please, have a seat,” Juarez waved toward a chair across from his modest desk before taking his own seat. “I’ll tell what I know, but I assure you, it has all been said before, and it is not much.”

  Scallion had heard similar comments before. He had also uncovered many leads in his career that the sources didn’t know they knew—or had forgotten they knew.

  “I understand,” he said. “I realize this may be hard to go over again, but my aim is to do all I can to solve what happened to your sister.”

  The dark-skinned man leaned in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully, a far away gaze in his eyes. “Freda was everything to our family. She was the oldest, and my best friend. Intelligent, and beautiful at the same time.”

  The detective nodded agreement. “Yes, I’ve seen her picture. She was indeed beautiful. I know your family misses her.” He looked directly at the other man. “I must say, you speak English very well.”

  Juarez gave a slight grin. “Freda better than I. We both attended English-speaking schools in Panama. Our life-long goal was to come to America—Houston in particular. So we were trying to be prepared.”

  Scallion was now even more impressed by the young man; he hoped that in some way he could find answers for him.

  Juarez directed a questioning look at the detective. “Have any of the other girls been found? The ones who disappeared at the same time?”

  “I’m afraid not. We’re looking into their situations also. One thing I was hoping to determine was if you’ve become aware of any possible connections to the others Freda might’ve had.”

  Juarez’s face showed the first sign of frustration, but he simply answered, “We —my father and I—were asked that many times at the beginning. But, no. She had never mentioned them, and the officers who went through her apartment could find nothing mentioning their names.”

  “Any problems with co-workers? Maybe her manager?”

  “No. When I first came to Houston to stay, I talked to those who worked with her. I was not surprised to hear they all liked her. She had no enemies. Everyone liked Freda.” He paused for a second. “Her supervisor, the manager, seemed indifferent, which I understand. The restaurant business is hard, especially when it comes to keeping up with employees who come and go.”

  Scallion drummed his fingers on the note pad he was prepared to make entries on. Nothing had been written yet. “Was she having money problems? Any second jobs she could’ve had?”

  The question did at least raise an eyebrow on the other man.

  “No. However, I would not have been surprised if she was looking for something.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  Juarez paused briefly before answering. “Freda always gave us the impression she was getting along okay, as far as money went. She would wire my pa
rents some every few weeks, saying she had plenty for herself. When I finally had the chance to look at her finances, and talk to her landlord, I realized she was sending us more than she could possibly afford. She was falling behind on rent, as well as other things. That is the way she was, always thinking of others before herself.”

  Finally, Scallion had something to scribble on the pad. Money problems could be the key. But the key to which door? He thought back to the notes he had seen in the files on the girls. On more than one occasion the theory had been advanced they might possibly be involved in prostitution, a theory he paid no mind to. Not these girls. And from what he was learning today, definitely not Freda Juarez.

  He searched his brain for other ideas. Only one came to mind. “Did she have any hobbies, or outside interests?”

  Juarez gave a restrained laugh. “I don’t believe she had time for such things. And from her financial position, surely no funds.”

  Scallion instantly realized the question had indeed been ridiculous, wishing he could retract it.

  A far-off look settled on Arturo Juarez’s face. “Do you think we’ll ever know what happened to our Freda?” he asked with a hopeless tone.

  “I’ve learned never to make promises,” Scallion said. “But I can tell you this. I’ll keep looking as long as I’m able.”

  Juarez narrowed his eyes and nodded. “I believe you.”

  With no more ground worth covering, he thanked the restaurant owner for his time, gave his condolences for his sister’s presumed fate, and again promised to do all he could. Pulling away from the shopping strip, he made a mental note to bring Marti to Freda’s on one of their Friday night outings soon. He had no doubt the food would be worth the trip.