Beneath Forbidden Ground (3 page)

He had come alone to the western edge of Harris County. His new partner – new only to the extent of their time spent together—Denny Murtaugh, having begged-off due to a dental appointment. It was just as well; this assignment could easily be handled by one person. Murtaugh was okay, as partners go, but he was just so different from his sarcastic, irreverent former sidekick, Wendell Ross. Leaving behind the homicide department of the Harris County Sheriff’s office six months earlier also meant parting company with Ross. Thinking of the younger detective brought a wry smile to Scallions face, picturing his current situation, laying flat-out on his stomach in a hospital bed in the mammoth medical center southwest of downtown Houston, the victim of
his
own new partner’s wayward gunshot flush into his rear end. His plan was to drop by for a visit to check up on his old partner later, using the golden opportunity to pay him back for years of insults.

“You can see there are four entry gates on each side of the palace,” the guide was saying, pointing with a long wooden pointer. “The four corners are each guarded by a splendidly designed watchtower, and the main gate is the larger one there.” He pointed again to the front of the model fortress. “You will also notice the spectacular halls within the compound are carefully arranged along a central axis, conforming to the axis of Beijing City itself.”

The problem with Murtaugh, from Pete’s view, was although his mind was still sharp enough, he seemed to have lost most of his enthusiasm for the job. Six years Scallion’s senior, he had hinted at hanging it up for good within a year or so. Thirty-five years on the force had taken its toll.

All in all though, Scallion was enjoying his new duties. Cold Case offered precisely what he, and especially his wife, wanted: a lower stress level, and reduced potential for danger. Cases which were separated due to time from the actual crime allowed a cooling-off of emotions and any initial hysteria. They could be re-opened quietly, without the constant clamor and criticism by the media and victims’ families. A few of the cases he had picked up were familiar to him; some he had worked while in homicide, but most he had either heard or read about.

The tour-leader rambled on, motioning for the followers to move to the nearby tomb. “The actual tomb built by Emperor Qin wasn’t discovered until 1974, when farmers digging a well unearthed it accidentally. You can imagine their shock and wonder at what they had stumbled onto. Historians believe Qin had it constructed to protect him during death, which explains the terra-cotta soldiers lined in perfect formation. You can see them reproduced here, at one-third scale, just as the Emperor had them arranged.”

He let the group take it in for a moment, then continued. “Over eight thousand warriors have been unearthed so far, along with hundreds of terra-cotta horses and chariots. Undoubtedly, one of the most exciting archeological finds of the twentieth century. Just imagine. They have been dated back to 210 B. C. That’s over two thousand years, folks.”

Only half listening, Scallion wiped perspiration from his nearly bald head. Mid-March, but the humidity of southeast Texas was already present, making things uncomfortable. Loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves, he continued to review in his mind the recent changes in his life as the man droned on.

He had accepted his new role soon after wrapping up the most satisfying case of his career. It had been put to bed after a wild nighttime shoot-out on the streets of downtown Houston, when a corrupt politician who Scallion was convinced had committed murder two decades earlier, and again the year before, was gunned-down in a case of mistaken identity. Confusion over the roles the various parties involved in the gun battle played left the general public in the dark about what had actually happened. The only thing that mattered to homicide detective Pete Scallion was knowing the ambitious lieutenant governor responsible for two deaths was silenced forever. And the trio of people whose opinion meant the most to him: his ever-supportive wife, Marti; his former partner; and the Harris County Sheriff, knew the truth, labeling him as a hero of sorts.

“In closing,” the guide was saying, “let me thank you all for visiting the Forbidden Gardens today. If there are no more questions, don’t forget to stop by our gift shop to pick up mementos of your experiences here.”

Scallion waited until most of the tourists had drifted away, then positioned himself behind the guide, who stood patiently answering a straggler’s questions. Seeing an opening, he introduced himself. “Mr. Truluck? Detective Pete Scallion.” He pulled his badge from a pants pocket, where he had concealed it to avoid curious eyes.

“Ah, yes. Detective Scallion. I didn’t know if you’d be here today or not.”

The trim little man displayed a satisfied grin, apparently pleased his call had not gone unheeded. Wearing a light-blue polo shirt, showing a Forbidden Gardens insignia over a pocket, and khakis, his fair skin showed none of the filmy perspiration covering Pete’s face and arms. He pumped the detective’s hand vigorously.

“Thought I’d take in the exhibits first. Very impressive.” Scallion’s gaze scanned the model of the Forbidden City once more, then looked back at Truluck, standing several inches shorter than himself.

“Yes. I certainly think so.” Truluck glanced at his watch. “I believe that was my last group today. Why don’t we find somewhere in the visitors’ center so we can have a seat and talk?”

While they walked, Scallion eyed the other man closely as he gathered information from him. Experience and intuition had taught him through the years a lot could be learned about an informant’s validity just by observing mannerisms. The call the tour guide had placed hadn’t mentioned what his news consisted of, so judgement would be reserved until it was offered.

“How long’ve you been out here, Mr. Truluck?” Scallion asked.

“Oh, almost since the beginning. And please call me James. You see, I retired from teaching history and social studies at Katy High a couple of years ago. Got a little bored, and this seemed a natural for me.”

“Well, I agree, it does appear to suit you. You seem to enjoy it.”

“Yes I do. A great deal.” The guide beamed a satisfied smile.

So far, James Truluck seemed lucid, and more importantly, credible.

Reaching the visitors’ center near the parking lot, Truluck led them into a small room tucked away in a corner of the building. The room contained a small conference table and a few chairs. They sat across from each other.

Leaning his elbows on the table, Scallion started the interview. “Mr. Truluck... I’m sorry, James, you said you have information on the Freddy Becker case?”

Truluck’s face lit up. “Oh, it’s better than information. I have evidence, or at least I’m pretty sure I do.”

Scallion tilted his head back slightly. “And what might that be?”

Now Truluck leaned in, adjusting his glasses. “Well, let me start at the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

“The beginning? You mean when the murder happened?”

“Yes. You’ll understand in a second.”

Seeing the man wanted to tell his story, Scallion nodded. “Okay. Shoot.”

Truluck shifted excitedly in his chair, ready to take the detective on another tour, this one through more recent time. “As I recall, the killing took place in 1994. I remember hearing about it, but didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, just knew it occurred at a bar over in Hockley. They called it ... something...I can’t recall what now.”

Scallion nodded, agreeing with what he’d heard so far. He hadn’t worked the case when it first was opened, but had recently become educated on the file. It wasn’t a high profile case, given the lifestyle of the victim. But the media liked to put names on murders, so it became known as, “The icehouse murder,” he reminded the other man.

“Right. That’s it. Well, a couple of times over the past few years, there have been stories covering it on TV, one of ‘em on that cable channel that shows cold cases around the country. The other was on one of the stations in Houston—don’t recall which one.” Truluck paused for a second, cocking his head to one side. “You know, there seem to be a lot of cases involving Houston on those shows.”

Scallion was all too aware. “Tell me about it,” he wanted to say, but thought better of it. He simply nodded his agreement.

“Anyway, each time it’s shown, one thing that keeps coming up is that people inside the bar reported hearing a harmonica being played outside, you know, in the vicinity of where the stabbing took place.”

“Yes, there are references to that.”

“Right. Well, they went on to say that the harmonica sounds stopped, or at least they didn’t recall hearing them anymore. When they went outside later, they found poor Mr. Becker with his throat cut, but there was no one else around, harmonica-playing or otherwise.”

It all rang true, based on what he’d read in the file. There had been a couple of suspects, one of whom was known to carry a mouth organ. But he hadn’t been seen by any witnesses at the scene that night, only possibly heard through his plaintive music notes. According to one of the club regulars, the man owed Becker money, and he expected the man to show up that night to pay up. This same suspect had a history of violence. He was currently residing in an Oklahoma City jail cell, awaiting trial on another knifing—this one not fatal. All of this, of course, he couldn’t relate to Truluck. “That all sounds about right,” Scallion admitted. “And this evidence you mentioned?”

Truluck suddenly pushed back from the table and rose from his chair. “Be right back, detective. Won’t take but a minute.”

Scallion waited impatiently as the little man hurried out the door, only to return quickly as promised. He was carrying a plastic bag, the type with a zipper to make it airtight. A wad of rolled-up paper could be seen inside, evidently wrapped around something.

Truluck un-zipped the bag, gently pulling out the paper, which proved to be a paper towel. Taking equal care to straighten out the crumpled paper, he exposed the mysterious contents—a dirty harmonica, covered by what appeared to be soot.

The detective leaned in for a closer look, intrigued, but not letting himself become too excited, realizing it could’ve come from anywhere. “I see,” he said, letting his eyes roll up to the beaming man. “Mind telling me where you found this?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. But it wasn’t me.” Truluck took his seat again. “You see, my son happens to work for a demolition contractor. They do a lot of work all around the Houston area. About a month back, the owner of the bar where the crime occurred sold out, making way for a new strip mall, as if we needed more of those. You may not have heard, but there’d been a fire in the bar late last year, and I guess he decided he’d had enough. Never rebuilt. Yesterday, after the top level—or what was left of it—was removed, my son was working in the basement. He spotted it laying in the rubbish and took it home with him. Guess he thought the owner wouldn’t miss it.”

Scallion was now interested. “And he gave it to you?”

“Right. We were on the phone last night, and he mentioned it to me, not knowing what it probably meant. So I went right over and got it, and here it is,” Truluck said proudly.

Scallion took a pen from his shirt pocket, twirling the instrument slowly around with the point. “Did he happen to mention exactly where in the basement he found it?” he asked without looking up.

“Best he could remember, it was within a few feet of the basement wall, near an air vent. He also said there was no screen on the vent. Since it was on the side of the building where the murder occurred, my theory is he—the killer, I mean —tossed it under there, thinking it would never be found. Then he just took off.”

Scallion hated it when citizens advanced their own theories, trying to play detective, although in this case, the man was probably dead-on. It could sometimes lead to fast-spreading rumors in the community, possibly even affecting the outcome of trials. But those same citizens
are
entitled to their opinions.

He gave Truluck a questioning gaze. “Did either you or your son...?”

“Play it? Course not,” Truluck said, interrupting the question. “Too nasty in the first place. Plus, I didn’t want to destroy any evidence you might collect from it.”

That
was
good news. Forensics could do amazing things now, especially in the area of cold cases. DNA could be trapped and preserved for long periods of time, and extracting it was becoming a rapidly improving science.

The other concerns he had placed on the back burner for most of the afternoon suddenly reappeared, brought on by the thoughts of scientific technology, which led him to those of medical technology. It was time to go. Thanking James Truluck for his diligence, and advising him to go easy on his pronouncements about the case, he re-wrapped the blackened harmonica, gave the man his card, then headed back into the city.

Heading inward on I -10, he couldn’t help being struck by the continued growth west of Houston, like spreading ripples on a huge pond. Development after development seemed to be springing up overnight. A billboard caught his eye, standing in front of an enormous, freshly graded-off parcel of land, the sign proudly announcing: COMING SOON– CYPRESS BRIDGE SOUTH. A picture of the developer, a man by the name of Luther Kritz, stared proudly at the traffic on the busy expressway, beaming a satisfied grin at the on-rushing vehicles.

3

From the second he walked into the hospital room, the grimace on Wendell Ross’s face told Scallion he was the last person the injured detective wanted to see. The humiliation of the nature of his wound could only be deepened by having to lie still, helpless while his ex-partner grilled him. Ross was lying on his belly, a pillow elevating his rear end slightly, drawing even more attention to the location of the damage.

“Figured you wouldn’t waste any time gettin’ here,” Ross said, spitting the words out of the corner of his mouth. His face was crushed sideways against another pillow, causing his lips to contort as if they were rubber.