Beneath Forbidden Ground (17 page)

“Not exactly. It requires an eighty percent approval vote by the homeowners before cosmetic changes like this are done. That’s why I had to state my case to them.”

“How do think you did?”

Brand shook his head. “Hard to say. Maybe fifty-fifty.”

Scallion digested what the man had told him, and the fierce debate he had witnessed in the meeting. There remained little doubt in his mind why the developer needed to protect the lake, and what was beneath it. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Brand. I guess that’s all I need.” He reached for the door handle.

“Wait. Is there some reason I
shouldn’
t be in business with this guy?”

Scallion hesitated, looking back at the man. “I really can’t say. But if I were you, I’d go slow.” He climbed out of the Mercedes.

Brand frowned, evidently digesting the detective’s comment. He then leaned across the passenger-side seat before the door closed, craning his neck to look up at the lawman.

“One other thing, detective. Even though I’m not in the family business, I stay on good terms with my dad. If you ever need any furniture, mention my name. I’ll see you get a good discount.”

“Thanks.” Scallion shut the door on the car, and hopefully on the spoiled brat son of a man the entire city respected. It was late—almost 10:00. He needed to get home; Marti would be worried.

17

“I’ve got something for you on that harmonica, something I think you’d like to see.”

Scallion was in the middle of going over his impressions of the homeowners’ meeting with Murtaugh Thursday morning when the call from Marla Evans came. He had almost forgotten about the Becker case, and the fact they were waiting to hear back from the M. E.’s forensics expert on the results of the examination of the instrument. How long had it been? Two weeks? Actually, a little less.

“That’s good news, Marla,” Scallion said. “That was quick.”

“It turned out to be a challenge. I like challenges, so I put your case on the front burner.”

Scallion was leery of the favor, but had no choice but to accept it. “Great. What do you have for me?”

“Aren’t you curious enough to come see in person?”

He quickly thought about what his answer should be. Not wanting to insult her by refusing, he didn’t want to appear too anxious either. “Of course. My partner and I are in the middle of something now. How would around ten-thirty work?”

“I’ll be waiting. And Pete, you won’t be sorry.”

Scallion hung up, bothered by her tone that was a touch too friendly, with a touch of tease to it, yet intrigued by what she’d found. He decided to use his partner as a buffer. “Say, Denny. Marla Evans has evidently pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Wants to show us something.”

“No kiddin’? You mean the Becker case?”

“Right.”

Wrapping-up the description of his talk with Kevin Brand following the meeting the night before during their drive south to the M. E.’s office, Scallion could tell something was eating on Murtaugh. The enthusiasm from the previous days was missing. He decided to take a stab. “Everything okay with your daughter?”

The inert-appearing detective trained puffy eyes on the passing scenery. “Not unless two attempted escapes are okay.”

“Christ, Denny, I’m sorry to hear that. Did she hurt herself?”

“Only when they had to subdue her the second time.” Murtaugh paused for a beat, emitting an audible sigh. “The real hurt happened a long time ago, when she first hooked-up with a boy friend who turned out to be a pusher. They warned us when we dropped her off up in the woods last weekend her chances of full recovery were slim.” He shook his head slowly. “But what in the hell else can we do?” It really wasn’t a question; more of a statement of helplessness.

Scallion was silent, knowing nothing he could say would help.

“Damn it, Pete! Our other two have had their problems, but nothing like this. It’s about to drive her mother and I crazy.”

Scallion drove the county-issue vehicle into the M. E.’s parking lot, found a slot, then let the car idle for a moment. “Listen, Denny. If you need to take off to take care of anything, just do it. I’ll cover things if there’s something you have to do.”

“Appreciate that, partner.” Murtaugh paused, then gave Scallion a questioning look. “How have you and your wife been able to avoid crap like this?”

“Can’t take much credit for it myself. You know, the kids are Marti’s. I think they get it from her. That, plus the luck of the draw.”

The older man let out another sigh of resignation. “Maybe so.”

Marla Evans’ reaction when spotting both detectives entering her lab was undeniable; a quick smile, changing instantly to a frown when spotting the older man. None-the-less, the glasses found their way into her lab-coat pocket.

“Detectives,” she greeted crisply.

Scallion noticed the formality. He regretted her guarded tone, suddenly aware of a strange mixture of relief and guilt. Murtaugh’s presence was a necessary evil.

“What’ve you been able to conjure up for us, Marla?” he asked, hoping to keep to the business at hand, and cut things as short as possible.

Marla looked from man to man, then turned toward a desk behind her. “Over here.”

When they had reached the desk, she took a seat on a swivel-stool, and began, “Now, unfortunately, by the time we had brushed away the soot coating the instrument, any possible prints were eliminated too. I’m afraid that couldn’t be avoided. Once we got it relatively clean, we were able to identify it as a Hohner model—a German company. It’s a style they refer to as diatonic, which actually has nothing to do with our analysis.”

Scallion and Murtaugh exchanged glances, each wondering how much of an education on mouth organs they were going to have to absorb before she gave them what they were here for.

The item in question was enclosed in a clear plastic bag, different from the one it had arrived in, lying behind a microscope . She pulled it toward her. “Some Hohners, we discovered, are single-piece, which would’ve made digging into that type virtually impossible. Our baby here can be broken down by removing the screws you can see on the ends.” She pointed. “We had to contact a local music shop that handles these to make sure we wouldn’t do any damage to the internal parts, which consists of wooden reeds in a comb-like arrangement.” She paused, peering up at the officers leaning over her shoulder. “We had to be very careful. Not only because the reeds are delicate, but also not to compromise any DNA that might remain.”

“And was there any?” Murtaugh asked, growing impatient.

“We were able to isolate a few samples. Used a polymerase chain reaction test, or PCR test, and
did
get results.”

The senior detective snorted. “Yeah, we were hoping you might use the polymer...whatever test.”

Marla simply stared at the red-faced man. She didn’t like him being here, and liked him even less for mocking her work. “It’s the most useful tool we have,
Detective
,” she said, biting her words off. “Do you want the results, or not?”

Murtaugh backed off. “Sure, Marla. Sorry.”

Feeling uneasy, Scallion avoided eye-contact with the other two.

Marla was now looking hard at the younger detective, no doubt blaming him for bringing the other with him. She managed to relax some. “We were lucky in that the reeds are wooden. I would’ve thought they might be metal. Wood absorbs moisture better, retains it.” She turned to peer into the microscope, placing a thin glass plate on the viewing stage. “Here, you can take a look at the first sample.” She rolled her chair to the side, so that Scallion could lean in.

Closing his left eye, Scallion looked into the lens with his right, allowing a few seconds for his vision to adjust. What he saw was a series of vertical lines of various shades of black, white and grey. He had seen lines like this before, all similar to the bar codes he had seen on grocery products. Even though they meant nothing to him, he was sure they meant something to her, and that was all that mattered. Pulling back from the lens, he said, “Okay. So?”

“All those lines and colorations are like fingerprints. They are unique to one individual, to within a millionth of a percent of accuracy. The bad news is, I checked this sample against all local, state, and federal DNA data bases out there, but couldn’t find a match.”

Scallion looked at Murtaugh. “Maybe we can bring you a match.” The other man nodded.

“Okay,” Marla said. “In the meantime, let me show you another slide. This will look a little different.” She replaced the slide with another.

Scallion resumed his place, staring once again into the lens. The vertical configuration from before was replaced by a helter-skelter design of crystalline shapes, even more confusing than the former. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

“Blood.”

The two detectives stared open-mouthed.

Marla crossed her arms, displaying a satisfied smile. “You heard me correctly, gentlemen. We were able to harvest minute blood splatters within the reeds, in addition to saliva, which is where the first sample came from. Just like before, there were no matches in the criminal data bases. However, when we checked against our own victim records, we found the DNA of this sample to be a perfect match to one Freddy Becker. The victim in your case, perhaps?”

The men still couldn’t speak at first, stunned by the unexpected good news. Scallion finally asked, “Are you saying we’ve got the suspect’s DNA
and
the victim’s blood together in the harmonica?”

The smile grew larger, more triumphant. “Why, yes. Unless, that is, someone else blew into the instrument after the man was killed, which I think is highly unlikely.”

“But how...?” Murtaugh’s question tailed off.

“I think I see it,” his partner answered instead. “The suspect either dropped the harmonica, or stuck it in his shirt pocket while he sliced Becker’s neck open.” Scallion made a motion demonstrating placing something in his pocket. “The cuts were violent enough to produce a lot of blood. Could’ve easily fallen into the ...what did you call them, Marla?”

“Combs—and reeds.”

“Right. Then that’s it. That may have been the reason he tossed it under the building, thinking no one would ever find it. All we need is to get a DNA sample from our suspect.”

Murtaugh nodded. “Then we’d better hurry. Last time I talked to the guys in Oklahoma, they were running out of excuses to hold him. I’ll get on the horn, make sure they keep him under wraps. Get clearance from Otto for a couple of plane tickets too.”

While the other man moved away to use his cell phone, Scallion thanked the forensics expert for her work. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Marla. I owe you one.” He instantly realized how loaded the remark may have seemed.

She blushed only slightly this time, gaining confidence by her success. She let a sly smile creep out. “I tell you what, Pete. You can buy me lunch some time. But just you. Leave Mr. Sensitivity at home.” She nodded at the man busy on the phone.

He nodded. “Sure thing, Marla. You got it,” he said, while knowing he would most likely never follow up on her offer.

18

The dimly-lit air of the seedy bar reeked with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Mid-afternoon, and Spike’s Bar and Grill was occupied by a small smattering of regulars; the rest would drift in an hour or so later, on their way home, stopping by to delay having to face a nagging spouse, or perhaps the loneliness of no one waiting at all.

The establishment was similar to hundreds of its type in the Bayou City, situated in the middle of a strip shopping center on a busy street running perpendicular to the southern arc of loop 610. Within sight of the landmark Astrodome, it had in times past seen a decent amount of activity following night home games of the Astros; even more during the earlier days of the Oilers. Those days were all gone now; the Astros having moved to a sparkling new park downtown, and the Oilers having deserted the city all-together, reincarnated in Tennessee. Another NFL team for Houston was on the horizon, but the bar owner was certain things would never be the same.

A dark figure sat at a corner table, nursing a scotch and soda, hunched over, glancing nervously around at nothing in particular. He turned his wrist to read the dial on his watch. The guy was late. He decided to give him five more minutes, then split. Any longer might mean the whole thing was a setup.

The door of the bar swung open, revealing the large, dark outline of a man set against the bright outdoor light. He took a few steps in, then stopped, apparently letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Casting his gaze around the room, he locked onto the man in the corner, who gave a slight nod of his head. The newcomer’s long legs required only a few strides to reach the table.

“You Mr. Jones?” Luther Kritz asked.

The man seated measured the other, having to lean back to observe his face. The bulk of the man didn’t intimidate him; he had dealt with some larger than him before. The equalizer he always carried strapped to his waist could easily cut them down to size. “If you’re Mr. Smith, then I am.” He pushed the chair opposite from him away from the table with his foot. “Take a load off.”

Kritz folded his mass into the chair, never taking his eyes off the man across. His features were dark, made even more so by the faded lighting. Black oily hair was combed-back on both sides of his narrow, pointed face, giving the appearance of a weasel.

“You’re a little late,” Mr. Jones said, without a hint of a smile.

“You know how the traffic is in this friggin’ town,” Kritz, a. k. a., Mr. Smith, growled back. “Can’t get anywhere on time.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No. Don’t plan on bein’ here that long.”

Mr. Jones showed the hint of a sneer in the shadows. “What’s the matter? Don’t like my company?”

“Don’t give a damn about your company one way or the other. Just want to get our business over with.”

“Well, well, well. Sounds like you’re pretty anxious,” Mr. Jones said, taking a slug of his drink.