by Deanna King
Next, he took out the pictures of her body. Jack had seen his share of dead bodies. He hated it, but it came with the job. He thought briefly back on when he had gone with his parents to ID Cole’s body. Cole was the first dead body he had ever seen. He had been the fool, adamant screaming brother who had needed to see firsthand. He shook it off and resumed going through pictures of another dead soul, a perfect stranger, but he would get to know her better during this investigation
She had been fully clothed, no signs of tearing or ripping of any garment, apparently no sign of her being sexually assaulted. No rape kit processed. What made the investigating detectives so sure a sexual assault had not occurred, and why not at least check?
The shot to the back of the head was at close range, and the medical examiner reported it was a large caliber gun, a hollow point .38. CSU reported there had been no large amount of blood or bits and pieces of brain matter in her car, other than what had been transference. The car was not the murder spot. If her killer murdered her in the car, there would have been blood and brain matter spattered all over the inside of the car. The clothing was free of blood-spatter. If she had been wearing those clothes when she took the bullet, her brain would have spattered all over them. He couldn’t see it; someone shot her head off then redressed her. Blowing off a face was very personal. Cutting off all her fingertips, postmortem, why had they done this? The driver’s license indicated that it was Celeste Mason, who had not shown up for work, and no one knew where she was, so it had to be her.
What had the motive been for killing her? There was no evidence of a robbery; she had nothing but costume jewelry on. Why had someone wanted her dead? Motive, he needed a flipping motive to work with and he had zilch.
He scanned over the cataloged items listed that were in her purse.
Items in Victim’s Purse:
One fake leather purse, color black. Contents: One ChapStick compact with mirror, one small red comb and brush. One women’s wallet, black, with three dollars cash and eighty-five cents in loose change, a driver’s license, social security card, no photos. Car key on plain key ring, three other keys attached. One dozen condoms, the kind that came in a long strip.
One car key, and one apartment key, the third key a key to the boutique. She was a supervisor, makes sense. The strip of unopened condoms in her purse—he found that odd. All the people the detectives questioned said she was a shy, keep-to-herself, young woman, and reportedly no boyfriend. Why would she carry condoms?
He went over the items again. The condoms and the lack of photos in her wallet niggled at him. He passed it off, it was nothing; he was just reading things into things. He continued to study the crime scene photos.
She had been wearing pants and a plain blouse with a jacket, all from Bella’s Boutique. The owner, Bella, confirmed they were clothes sold in her store. There were several scarves stuffed in the pocket of her blazer, silk scarves that did not match her other clothing.
Bella had stated that those clothes had been the clothes she had seen her wearing on the last day she worked.
All of these small things brought up more questions, and he knew something wasn’t right, this was more than it appeared. Furthermore, damn it, what had been the killer’s motive?
Her dark-blonde hair gathered in a ponytail, or what had been left of it, had come loose from an elastic tieback. The decomposition accelerated due to the heat and humidity, normal Houston weather. He knew from the number of years on the job that due to these environmental phases, that and the presence of sepsis sped up the decay of the corpse. It had not been determined how long she had been out there. No definite date or time of death, it had been an educated guess at best.
The phone on his desk rang, and he answered, “Jack West.”
“Jackrabbit, this is Yvette, I found the information you needed, dollface. It says that Pete Bullard died last year.”
“Sorry to hear that, I didn’t know. I guess they don’t tell everyone when they have services. Damn, that’s a shame. What about Ian Simpson, did you get a lead on him?”
“Uh-huh, he ain’t dead, but he’s in a home for…you know, those people with memory issues. He’s got dementia or sumtin’ like that, I guess.”
He wondered if the old guy would remember anything.
“Jackrabbit, you want to know where he is or a phone number or something?” Yvette sounded impatient.
“Yeah, give me his address.”
It was a nursing facility located in south Houston, in between the Deer Park area where he lived and Friendswood. He thanked Yvette, and she gave him a girlie laugh.
“Whatever you want, Jack, it’s yours, and I mean that.” Then she snickered before she hung up. He wasn’t sure, but he figured he was blushing at her implied remark.
Ian Simpson—he needed to take a stab at talking to him. He heard that people with dementia remembered things from long ago and forgot things that happened five minutes prior. He’d follow up with him, then cross that off his list.
He thought back on her purse contents again. A strip of condoms in her purse was strange. No pictures in her wallet bothered him too. He had a ton of the murder book to review, and reports to comb through, but he needed to get out of the office for a while, and he needed coffee on the way out.
Lucky had come back and resumed his reading. He guessed that it had been a short visit with Bennie. He closed the binder, slipped it into the top file drawer, and locked it.
“Lucky, I am going to head out and see if I can’t talk to a few people while it’s daylight. I’m not coming back to the station, see ya in the a.m.”
Lucky waved him on as he kept reading.
He grabbed his suitcoat, went to the board to write out for the day, and waved as he passed the captain’s door. Stopping in the break room, he grabbed a cup of rather thick coffee that had been on the burner since morning. It was 3:45. He took the stairs two at a time, went through the back hall, and to the HPD garage to check out a car.
He was headed to Waller, Texas, first to talk to a woman the deceased had worked with at the Silver Moon. He decided he would take the department car home and leave his truck parked in the station’s parking garage. On his way in tomorrow morning, he was going to stop and get some rubber hip boots. He was going to need some when he went out to the crime scene. Last week it had rained almost every day, and he knew it would be the same muddy scene as it had been twenty-five years ago.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jack took the Loop west and then twisted around until he was headed south. Traffic was not too bad, at least not yet. He took the notebook and flipped it open to the address: 1220 Arcadia Place, Waller, Texas. He would take I-10 to FM 359. He knew the address was not on a sidewalk-lined street or even a paved street. He had been all around Houston, the city limits, and the outskirts, but he had never been to Waller. He sat back and drove hoping she was home.
Stopping at a mom-and-pop convenience store, Carter’s Stop and Grab, he bought something to drink; he was parched. A balding man wearing a painter’s canvass jumpsuit was standing behind the cash register next to a woman who sat on a stool to his left working a crossword puzzle book.
“Hiya, what can I do you for?”
He sat the 16-ounce bottle of water, a bag of hot fries, and a Butterfinger on the counter as he fished out his wallet. “Pretty hot today, huh?”
“It sure is, Officer.”
He laughed, wondering what his “tell” had been.
“What gave me away?” He handed him a ten and waited for him to speak or at least ring up his purchases then give him his change so he could be on his merry way. Plainly, the older man was in no hurry.
“Gwaffff,” his course laughter sounded like a decre
pit bird.
“Ain’t no tell, I just got a peek of your sidearm, udder wise I’d a not known. I’d a just thought you were some businessman going off road for sumtin’ ta drink.”
“I’d say you were very observant. That’s a good thing if you have late hours here.”
“Yep, we do.”
The old goat handed him a handful of change and his receipt and then walked to the back not saying another word.
By Jiminy, when he was done with business, he was done with business, and it made no never mind to Jack, he had places to be. He politely said good-bye to the woman whose head was stuffed in the crossword puzzle book. She gave, if any, only a slight nod that she had heard him. His mom had taught him to have manners. He always used them, even if the other party didn’t acknowledge.
FM 359 was only five miles, and he spotted it right away. Someone had made a sign out of fence slats and had painted them bright green with the words, Welcome to Waller painted in white and underneath in black paint someone painted in the phrase, We aren’t big, but come on in anyway.
Taking a right turn off the Interstate, he hit gravel a hundred feet in; so much for paved roads from this point on. He blew up dust as the tires crunched the white rock road, and through the cloud of dust, all he saw was land on either side of him.
Could be that no one lived on this FM road any longer, a useless trip. There wasn’t a house in sight for the next three or four miles. He was about to hang it up and turn around when he spotted the trailer park off in the distance. There were twenty or thirty trailers spread out, dirt roads between them. No sign was up, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t at the right place. He pulled the black Dodge Charger into the drive knowing that it was no longer black but more a shade of dingy “dust” like a crop duster had showered it with a load of white powder. A couple of little old women were sitting on the porch of the first trailer he came to. Jack rolled down his window after letting the dust he had kicked up settle a bit.
“Excuse me, ladies, I’m trying to find Arcadia Place. Am I in the right spot?”
One of them shook her head but didn’t say a word. She was sipping a glass of iced tea through a straw. The other one was a rather heavyset black woman wearing her housecoat and completing her ensemble with a head full of pink sponge rollers.
“Naw, sir, it’s up the road a piece, you gotta have more money to live up there.” She crossed her flabby arms.
“Yeah, what she says. Ain’t but two trailers that sit there, you can’t miss it. Take a left by the old green truck that’s parked out on the corner and go about a mile, youse gonna see two trailers about a half a football field apart. Who ya looking for, mister?” She pulled at her long faded dress that only half covered very skinny and very white legs, and she smiled revealing that several teeth were missing.
“I’m trying to find 1220 Arcadia Place and Jenna Berrie.”
“Hey, is she in trouble, mister?” the toothless skinny white woman asked.
“Nope, just wanna talk to her.”
The directions were by way of an old green Ford truck. He smiled. Only in Texas, he thought.
“Thank you, ladies, you being out here saved me from going door to door and on such a warm day too.” He waved, rolled up the window, and then he cranked up the air and put the Charger into reverse, driving away leaving more white-colored dust behind him.
Damn, the country roads in Texas were long, and on a hot Texas day, the road grew longer. Were those two women sure about the directions? Just as he was about to give up, he saw it. There it was—the aged green Ford truck. A ton of scraggly weeds grew in it, around it, and through it, the hood was missing, and there was no motor. It had doors, but he was more than positive they were rusted shut. The tires were flat, and he was sure they had become part of Mother Earth again. Thank goodness for the old women and the truck, since there had been no signs, street or otherwise. He turned the Charger into the drive, kicking up white chalky dust with every rolling inch of his tires. Jack felt like he was eating and breathing dirt.
He saw two trailers and one had a sign hanging on the gate of the chain-link fence that surrounded it: We are 11, not 12.
The other trailer had to be 2012 Arcadia Place. The way the neighbors advertised their own address was humorous. There was a car and a beat-up Jeep that sat to the side of the small double-wide. He hoped that was a sign that someone was home.
Taking his coat off the passenger seat, he opened the door and shook it out then put it on. He patted the inside pocket feeling his notebook and pencil and then made sure his Glock was unstrapped for use, always being prepared. No partner with him way out here, it would take too long to get back up. He just stayed on the offensive, better to be prepared than not.
He knew that a single vehicle on gravel made enough noise to start dogs barking. No dogs barked, and he found that odd. Everyone had dogs out in the country in Texas. He stepped up on stairs built of wooden pallets; they had created a nice and roomy porch with handrails on both sides. Someone had taken the time to sand it and put on a coat of redwood paint and varnish to fancy up the place.
As he reached the top step within range to stick his arm out and knock, the front door opened. A slim woman nearing her sixties, with dark shoulder-length hair streaked with gray, stood there.
She crossed her arms with a resolute posture. “Whatever you’re selling, mister, I am not buying, or if you got pamphlets on saving my soul, I am not interested. I already got all I need and a Bible too.” Evidently, she had not seen his gun when he put on his jacket and he was somewhat entertained with the idea she thought he was a door-to-door salesman. This was a first. He always got made—everyone knew he was a cop.
“No, ma’am, I’m not a salesman, I’m Detective Jack West, with the Houston Police Department. I want to ask you a few questions about a former coworker you knew about twenty-five years ago.”
He was sure she had to beat the salesmen and Bible thumpers off with a stick out here in this overpopulated area. Had she “made” him, or was she testing him? Who knew, but it was hot standing in the sun wearing a suit coat over a long-sleeve shirt, and he was worn out from driving.
“Do you mind if we go in and talk?”
“Proof, please.” She stepped back and closed the door giving him just enough room to show her his badge.
Now she was being cautious, what a ninny. Just because it was daylight did not mean only nice people were active doing God knows what. It would have been safer if she had called out through the door first, asking him to state his business and brandishing a tire iron in her hand for protection.
“I guess it’s real.” She opened the door and let him into her trailer.
“You can sit there.” She pointed to a sofa decked out in a daisy pattern and looking a bit worn. He sat but did not make himself comfortable as it would have done no good. He was sitting on a thin cushion and he felt the springs give with his weight, not just give either…they were trying to poke a hole in the seat of his pants. He shifted over an inch or so adjusting, sitting closer to the edge, and the poking springs disappeared.
“You want some water or something?” Her voice vaguely monotone and flat, she acted uninterested as to why a Houston detective was calling on her.
“Yes, ma’am, a glass of ice water would be nice.”
His bottled water was gone, and it was rare for him to take offered refreshments, but he was a bit dry-mouthed. Besides, it was Texas, and it was hot.
Handing him the glass, she backed up and took a seat across from him in a worn-out cloth rocker recliner, and she began rocking.
Jack took a big drink, and the cool water felt refreshing, clearing out his dusty throat. He knew she was waiting for him to tell her why he’d come t
o see her. Jack took out his notebook and pencil, ready to take notes.
“You worked at the Sta…uh, the Silver Moon back sometime in the eighties, correct?”
“I did, and you were fixing to call it the Station, right? I knew the name had changed since I worked there. I worked there for about three and a half years, give or take a few months here and there.”
“Were you acquainted with a Celeste Mason back then?”
“Acquainted, yeah, I guess, but we weren’t friends if that’s what you want to know.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Listen, I tried to be friends with everyone. I liked her and so did the other girls who waitressed. You know we tried to help each other, like a sisterhood. I was sad she was murdered. Although, I didn’t cry because you know I wasn’t close to her.”
He thought all women cried at everything no matter what, especially if it was someone they had known. He guessed he was wrong.
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“Not really.”
“Not really? Either she did or she didn’t. Which was it?”
“Most guys liked her. She was pretty, I guess, I don’t go for women. She was kinda standoffish about men. One of the bouncers, Jed, sorta made sure no one bothered her.” She pulled one leg up under her but kept the rocker going with her other foot. “Huh, it was all business for her, but…” she stopped.
“But what?”