by Doug McCall
“Thanks, Sandra. Folks, it’s good to be here tonight and visit with you smart people. I say smart, because you’ve chosen to live in one of the finest housing developments in all of Harris County, and probably in southeast Texas. And I’m glad to see Mr. Kritz here tonight,” he turned and nodded toward the big man, who didn’t smile, “because his foresight and attention to detail are two reasons this has been such a successful project. He started with nothing but bare land and a dream, and look at what it’s grown to.” Brand spread his arms wide, a move any preacher would be proud of. “I think he deserves your gratitude for what he’s done.” He led the group in another round of applause. It was obvious the man was enjoying having the floor; humility was obviously not one of his traits.
The furniture scion snapped his briefcase open, then pushed it to the side. “Now, folks, I have no standing in your organization—I own no property here. I am simply here to offer a few ideas that might enhance Cypress Bridge, make it an even better place to live, and a better investment for you homeowners. I have recently been in talks with Mr. Kritz about forming a partnership, one involving his remaining interest in Cypress Bridge, plus other future endeavors.”
Scallion was still observing Kritz. His face was reddening, mouth twisted in what was probably meant as a smile, but looked more like a sneer.
“One of the ideas I have mentioned to Luther has to do with the lake just outside.” Brand paused for a second. “Now, it’s a beautiful body of water, one I know you’re all proud of. But, if you think about it, it’s taking up valuable space. Including the space around it, you’re talking about a little over four acres of un-productive space. Enough room for twenty—maybe thirty homes.”
An elderly man near the front spoke up. “Wait just a damn minute! If you’re talking about doing away with that lake, you can just forget it! It’s one of our best selling points. It’s one of the reasons I decided to buy here!”
Several voices chimed in to show support, some louder than others.
Brand held out his hands in a defensive position. “I understand. Believe me I do. But, folks, just hear me out.”
Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted a stack of papers. “I’ve prepared some figures, along with a rough sketch of representative homes that could fit into the area. And, there are two factors you should consider that would affect you all. One of the expenses your yearly assessments have to pay is liability insurance for the lake, in case of accidents. Without the lake, you’d save that money. Upkeep would also go down, which is something to keep in mind. Finally, the additional assessments from the people who buy or build homes on these prime spots would most likely reduce what you’re paying now, since overall expenses would go down.”
The muttering grew more subdued. A few could be seen nodding their heads, apparently agreeing with the points made.
Kritz, seeing a shift in sentiments, couldn’t sit still any longer. Jumping to his feet, he waved his hands to get attention. He didn’t move toward the head table, apparently not wishing to stand near the younger man. Pushing his chair back, he addressed the crowd.
“As promising as all that sounds, I’m afraid it’s all wishful thinking,” the developer started slowly, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. “We all know that high interest rates are making it hard to move houses now. It would take years and years to have the houses Mr. Brand is suggesting occupied. So the cost savings to you he’s promising wouldn’t come about soon, if ever.” He furrowed his brow, attempting the most sincere expression he could muster. “But more than that, that body of water out there,” he pointed, “ is the symbol of Cypress Bridge Acres. Has been from the start, and should continue to be. And think about this. Once it’s gone, it’ll never come back. If you find you’ve made a mistake by digging it up—which I’m sure you will—you can never rebuild it.”
The tide seemed to be turning again, but it was impossible to read the mood of the gathering. He went on. “It’s true, Mr. Brand and I have had brief discussions about a partnership. But he’s jumping the gun a bit on where things stand. We’re not that close to a deal. This is your association, and these are your homes—I understand that. But as long as I have anything to say about it, the lake stays!”
The force of his final statement brought stares from his audience. A few looked at each other. Scallion happened to glance at Brand; a satisfied smile seemed to be showing.
Realizing he may have overstated his case, Kritz lowered his tone. “That’s all I wanted to say. I just urge you all to think twice before ruining the centerpiece of Cypress Bridge Acres.” With that, the large man stormed from the room, not speaking to anyone, and showing no recognition of the Cold Case detective, who sat slumped in his chair with his hand covering his face.
Kevin Brand resumed control of the meeting, saying he had information to pass out regarding his plans. His presentation finished, the president again took over, covering a few other matters, dragging things out to a tedious end. Following adjournment, several homeowners gathered around Brand, asking questions, while the others straggled out. Scallion hovered near the front door, wanting to have a minute with Brand. It was a long wait.
Shortly after 9:30, the last of the hangers-on filtered out the front entrance. Brand took a few minutes thanking the president for letting him attend, then headed for the door. Waiting outside was the Harris County Cold Case detective, showing his badge. “Mr. Brand,” Scallion said, introducing himself, “I wonder if you might have a few minutes for a couple of questions?”
Caught off-guard by the sight of the badge and the identity of the man who had stopped him, Brand hesitated for a moment. “Questions? Questions about what?”
The man’s cocky nature was more evident up close. Scallion looked around for nearby ears. Seeing none, he answered, “Just a few things about Mr. Kritz, and the disagreement you had with him.”
Brand looked back at the sales office. “In there? You were in there? What interest, may I ask, does the Harris County Sheriff’s Department have in a homeowners’ meeting way the hell out here?”
“Actually, our interests are confined to Kritz.”
Snorting a quick laugh, the man replied, “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. What’d he do? Forget to pay a few hundred traffic tickets?”
This was going to be tricky. In no position to expose the reason for the inquiry, Scallion had to dance around the edges. “Just a few things to clear up regarding some old cases we’re trying to put to rest.”
“In that case, let’s get out of this steam bath. My car’s over here.” He pointed to a dark Mercedes sport coupe parked on the street leading in to the complex.
Slamming the car door behind him a minute later, Brand cranked up the engine, turning the a. c. on full blast. He trained a suspicious eye on the detective. “Okay. What is it exactly you want to know?”
“What do you know about the man’s history?”
“Nothing that happened over two years ago. Only known him since then.” The cold air filling the vehicle, he set the in-car thermostat at seventy degrees, lowering the fan speed. “You see, I don’t particularly enjoy the furniture business, which makes my dad crazy. So to appease me, and keep me out of the way, he staked me to a few projects of my own. Done pretty well at it too. Bought and sold a couple of businesses, invested in partnerships here and there. That’s what drew me to Kritz. He’s done well with Cypress Bridge, but he’s strapped, needs more money—money I can provide.”
“So you didn’t know him, say, ten years ago?”
“Hell no! Ten years ago I was in the Bahamas, trying to find myself, as my dad puts it.” Brand then displayed a puzzled expression, indicating he’d like to know the reason behind the questions, but perhaps thinking he may be better off actually not knowing.
Scallion let his eyes wander out toward the lake. “Why do you suppose Kritz is so set on protecting that lake? I’m pretty much a water lover myself, but thought you made some valid points.”
Th
e dark-haired young man shook his head. “Beats the hell outta me. The Luther Kritz I’ve come to know the last two years isn’t the sentimental type. He’d sell his soul for a buck. It’s costing him millions in sales by being so damn stubborn. Might be a deal-breaker.”
“How close are you to gettin’ on board with him?”
“Except for the hang-up about the lake, I think we’re pretty close—closer than he’d admit. The arrogant s.o.b. sure needs my backing.” Brand hesitated, then looked at the detective and shrugged. “But, who the hell knows?”
Scallion inwardly cringed at the spoiled brat referring to anyone else as arrogant. It was hard ignoring the statement. “So, if you reach a deal with him, it’ll be up to the two of you whether or not to do away with the lake?”
“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 oth
er 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?”