Beneath Forbidden Ground (18 page)

“Just anxious to get my problem solved. I hope you’re the right person for the job.”

Mr. Jones didn’t respond right away to the implied insult. He took another pull from his glass. “What did our mutual acquaintance tell you about me?”

Kritz sat back in his chair. “Okay. So he
did
say you were dependable. And discreet.”

The other man was silent again. He scanned the room for likely eaves-droppers.

Evidently seeing none, he continued. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Smith. Are you familiar with the name, Guido Ventura?”

The name was recognizable. “Sure. Isn’t he that mob boss mixed up in the death of Lieutenant Governor Corrigan last year? And somebody else too—a banker maybe?”

Mr. Jones snorted through his crooked nose. “I don’t think he’d agree with the term, ‘mob boss’. Mr. Ventura’s a business man, just like you and me. The D. A.’s been diggin’ for eight months now to link him to those deals you mentioned, but he’ll never make his case.”

Kritz was growing impatient. “What in the hell does that have to do with what I’m here about?”

“Just trying to prove a point. You see, I did most of Mr. Ventura’s...let’s call ‘em special projects... for almost twenty years. For some reason, he picked somebody else to handle that job. It got all fucked up, put the spotlight on Mr. Ventura. If he had given me the assignment, none of that woulda happened. I
never
make mistakes.”

“Okay, you’ve made your point. You’re good at your job. So, let’s get down to business.”

“And exactly what
is
our business?”

Kritz reached into his pants pocket, extracting a folded-up piece of paper. “Here’s the name.”

Mr. Jones reacted quickly, speaking emphatically, but without raising his voice. “Christ! Put that away! Don’t ever write nuthin down.”

Not used to taking orders, Kritz took his time folding and replacing the paper. “Name’s Kevin Brand,” he said, glaring at the other man.

“Kevin Brand? Any relation to the furniture guy?”

“His son.”

“Hell, you didn’t need to write that name down. Would’ve remembered it easy. Why the hell you got it in for him?”

“What difference does that make to you?”

Showing a wicked smile, Mr. Jones replied, “It doesn’t. Only trying to find out how important the problem is to you.”

“Let’s just say Brand could make trouble for me if he’s not stopped.”

Another snort pierced the dim light. “Stoppin’ him shouldn’t present any problem at all, if we’re talkin’ about the same thing.”

Kritz paused for a moment. “I think we are. And your fee for making sure of it?”

“It’s a flat fee—no negotiating. Twenty-five up front. Another twenty-five after it’s done. Cash, of course.”

“Twenty-five what?”

“G’s. Thousands. However else you wanna say it.”

Kritz considered the amount. No way he was willing to pay the whole fifty. He might be able to justify enough for the down-payment, then renege on the rest. But from what his contact had told him about this creep and his associates, it would be sure suicide. “You’ve got to be kidding,” was the only reply he could muster. “I was expectin’ about half that amount.”

Mr. Jones’ face twisted into an evil frown. “You were
expectin’
? You’re living in a fantasy world, Mr. Smith. Like I said, no negotiating.”

Kritz was accustomed to give-and-take in his dealings. Surely the man would bend a little. “I’m sure we can find middle ground here. We can....”

Mr. Jones threw down the last of his drink, placing the empty glass on the table with a thud. “Why’re you wasting my fuckin’ time, Mr. Smith? The price is the price. If you want my services, you know how to reach me. Otherwise, good luck with your problem.” He stood from the table, tugged on the cuffs of his black, long sleeved shirt, and walked quickly toward the door.

Thinking there might be a chance the guy would reconsider and return, Kritz watched the door for a moment, and waited. When it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen, he sat, running a hand through his sweaty hair, wondering what in the hell he could do now. Only one answer came to mind.

19

A dry, hot breeze blew through the streets of downtown Oklahoma City Friday morning. Towering office buildings in the core of the business district created a wind-tunnel, drawing the currents even more briskly along the concrete corridors. Detective Denny Murtaugh parked the rental in a metered slot on North West 6
^th
Street, and the two men stepped out. It was 9:30 a. m.; an hour remained before their appointment at the Oklahoma County Detention Center, only minutes away by car. They had decided the night before how they wanted to spend their time waiting. There was something they wanted to see.

The day before had been a long one. The only flight with seats available to Will Rogers Airport out of Houston had been on Southwest out of Hobby. A required stop-over at Dallas Love Field had them arriving in the Oklahoma capitol city too late to arrange a face-to-face with Bernard Nuchols, so things were pushed to Friday morning.

Before checking out of the La Quinta Inn near the airport in the morning, Scallion had asked the desk clerk about nearby music stores. Told of one located on South Western Avenue, just off I-40, he and his partner had the clerk sketch out a map to the shop. Arriving at the store shortly before 9:00, a short wait was needed before opening time. Once inside, a search failed to find exactly what they were looking for, but they managed to find something close. Hoping the expense would be justified, Scallion made the purchase using his own credit card.

Leaving the parked car, they turned a corner, walked a half block south, then crossed North Harvey Street. Pausing for a moment, on the sidewalk, they took in the panorama of the Oklahoma City National Memorial. Neither man spoke for a few minutes, choosing to allow the scene to speak for itself. For anyone with a soul, and especially lawmen, it was a sobering spectacle. The memorial was a dramatic tribute to the men, women, and children who had perished beneath the ruble of the Murrah Federal Building on that fateful day in April of 1995.

Entering the open-air facility occupying the former location of the federal building, Scallion and Murtaugh went their separate ways, each strolling slowly down opposite lengths of the tranquil reflecting pool. The surface of the rectangular body of water was as smooth as glass, the steady gusts of wind producing not a single ripple. It produced a strangely calming effect. For a fleeting second, the mirrored surface reminded Scallion of the murky waters of the Cypress Bridge Acres lake. The thought was quickly gone, as he focused again on the magnitude of the unique monument to the senseless devastation.

Receiving news of the bombing, now almost six years earlier—which seemed impossible—created one of those moments similar to the day of the Kennedy assassination; he could recall precisely where he was, and what he was doing. Great tragedies have a tendency to freeze moments in time forever. He tried, but without success, to imagine what it must have been like for the innocent people trapped inside that morning. It was clearly obvious the citizens of the community had taken great care in memorializing their lost.

He and Murtaugh came together at the far end, then moved together along one side to the individual monuments symbolizing each of the victims, spread across a gently-sloping grassy area, facing the pool. Writing on a marker indicated the symbols were as near as possible to the actual locations where each person died.

“Christ, Pete. It kinda makes you wonder why we waste our time with a piece of garbage like Nuchols,” Murtaugh said, while staring at one of the monuments. “His one lousy crime seems like nothin’ compared to this. They had...how many dead here?”

“One-hundred and sixty-eight, as I recall. Nineteen of them kids. They were in a daycare facility. Another six-hundred or so were injured.” Scallion pondered his partner’s comment. “I guess what our guy did does appear kinda petty, when you put it like that. But we do have a job to do. That’s the only way to keep things in perspective.”

Murtaugh nodded slowly, letting his gaze scan the setting. “One thing I do remember,” he said, “is how quick some of the media were to blame foreign-backed terrorists. And I guess we were all guilty of that, to some extent. It was a real wake-up call when it turned out to be one of our own. Somebody with his own twisted ideas about justice.” The veteran detective paused for a second. “Well, he’s going to get what’s coming to him, but somehow it’s not nearly enough.”

Scallion didn’t answer, choosing to nod in agreement. Thoughts of Marti, and their two kids suddenly occupied his mind. As he had so often lately, he found himself desperately wanting to be with her—make sure she was okay. He was ready to put this trip behind him, and go home.

Before entering the interrogation room in the Oklahoma County Detention Center, the Harris County Cold Case detectives had two requests of Detective Cecil Swanson, the Oklahoma County officer Murtaugh had corresponded with about Nuchols. Swanson was puzzled about the items asked for, but soon produced a Zip-Lock bag and two pair of latex gloves. Scallion and Murtaugh stuffed the gloves in their pants pockets, while the younger detective put the item purchased earlier in the morning in the plastic bag, and placed it in an inside coat pocket.

Swanson led them to the room, a ten-by-ten square enclosure containing a table and four chairs. “You guys want me in there with you?” Swanson asked. “He’s not the most agreeable person you’ll run across.”

“Nah,” Murtaugh answered. “We’ll be fine. You will video it and record it?” He looked expectantly at the Oklahoma officer.

“Roger that. I’ll have a copy for you before you leave, and we’ll keep a backup in case you need it. Oh, and we’ll put coffee and water, along with cups on the table.” It was standard procedure used to loosen up suspects.

It was a few minutes past 10:30 when the door to the interrogation room opened, and two sturdy uniformed officers escorted a shackled Bernie Nuchols in. He was a relatively thin man, but with sturdy-looking arms covered with tattoos, contrasting dramatically with the orange prison jumpsuit he wore. He appeared to be in his late forties. Close-set grey eyes, glaring from an elongated, pock-marked face measured the strangers. Oily brown hair was pulled into a pony-tail.

“Would you mind removing his wrist bracelets?” Scallion asked one of the officers.

The escorts looked at each other, then shrugged. “Okay. But the leggings have to stay on.”

His hands freed, Nuchols massaged his wrists for a second, then took a seat across from the other two. He glanced suspiciously from one to the other. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “I know you’re cops—I can smell you. But don’t recall bustin’ heads with you two before.”

It was standard procedure not to forewarn suspects about the nature of such interrogations, or the identity of the interrogators. Doing so would allow time for alibis and stories to be invented.

Ignoring the insult, Scallion raised his hand to interrupt the man. He looked in the direction of the camera, then identified himself, Murtaugh, and the suspect, along with the time and date, and the location of the interview.

Nuchols didn’t look at the camera, instead stared intently at the man doing the talking. When the introduction was over, he snarled. “Harris County? What the hell does Harris County, Texas want to talk to me about? Ain’t you got enough to do down there without hasslin’ me?”

“We’re actually with the Cold Case Department, Mr. Nuchols,” Murtaugh spoke, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he did. He held the pot up, offering the other two a cup.

“I’ll have water,” Scallion said, reaching for the container.

Nuchols said nothing, giving a slight shake of his head in refusal.

“You ever been in the Houston area, Mr. Nuchols?” Murtaugh asked after taking a swallow.

The wasted-looking man hesitated before answering. His mind seemed to be at work, deciding what he should or should not admit to. If they
knew
he had been there, it might be damaging to deny it. “I recollect I may have been at one time. But shit, I’ve been a lot of places. Kinda hard to keep ‘em straight.”

“How ‘bout the summer of 1994? Do you
recollect
you might’ve been there then?” The older detective’s intent was to mock the man with his own words—possibly rile him.

A sinister grin appeared on the worn face. “Maybe. How the hell am I supposed to remember that far back?” Nuchols had been down this road before; he wasn’t about to take the bait.

“So you don’t remember where you were then?”

“Can’t recall dates and places that easy. Hell, I’m not even sure what year this is.” The man replied with a smug, self-satisfied grin, revealing missing teeth.

Scallion leaned in, taking over the interview. “The name Freddy Becker mean anything to you?”

Nuchols gave an obvious show of trying to remember, pursing his lips, staring at the ceiling. “Name has a ring to it. Can’t place it.”

“Thank hard about it, Bernie...you don’t mind if I call you Bernie, do you?”

The suspect shrugged. “Whatever turns you on, man.” He gave the appearance he had nothing to fear from the two lawmen, who were evidently on a fishing expedition.

“Well, Bernie, we’re here investigating the murder of a Freddy Becker back in the summer of that year. We’ve got witnesses who say you owed Mr. Becker some money. They also say you two roomed together for awhile in a trailer out near Hempstead. Does that jog your memory any?”

Nuchols gave the detective a feigned, innocent look. “Yeah. I guess I did know some hard-tail by that name. Don’t know nuthin’ about any money. And I sure as hell don’t know squat about any killing.” The look transformed into a glare.

Scallion re-filled his cup with water, then took a sip. He tried hard not to focus on the paper cup sitting in front of Nuchols, which remained untouched. “Would it surprise you to know there are witnesses who placed you outside the Road Runner Icehouse the night Mr. Becker was killed?”