Beneath Forbidden Ground

by Doug McCall

  “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?”

  Nuchols flattened out his lips again, shaking his oily head. “Don’t know what to say ‘bout that. Can’t say I recall a place by that name.” He seemed to be grinding again, judging what to say. “Ain’t saying I never been there. Just don’t have a memory of it.”

  The older detective had been sitting quietly, burning away inside at the man’s arrogance. He decided to open the door to their trump card. “You ever own a harmonica, Bernie?”

  There was a slight narrowing of the orange-suited man’s eyes. If the man posing the question didn’t notice it, his partner did.

  Nuchols’ mind was clicking away, evidently coming to rest on the belief the lawmen knew his history. “Oh, I might’ve fooled with one awhile back, but it was just a hobby. Lost interest going from one place to the next.”

  “Were you playing one back about the time you and Mr. Becker roomed together?” Murtaugh asked.

  The man responded with a scowl, “How the hell am I supposed to remember that? Done my share of drinkin’ over the years. Things get kinda fuzzy.”

  Scallion, reached in his pants pocket, extracted, then put on his latex gloves. Digging into his coat, he next pulled out the plastic bag containing the music store purchase—a Hohner model harmonica, very close, but slightly different in design to the one sitting in the M E’s office in Houston. Without speaking, he laid the bag on the table, in clear view of Nuchols.

  The man sitting across locked his eyes on the instrument, leaning in slightly to get a closer look. His chest heaved, indicating a deeper breath than he probably wanted to show, but he said nothing.

  Scallion, un-zipped the bag, holding it up by its sides so that the harmonica slid onto the table. “You know, Bernie,” he said, looking squarely at the man, “forensics can do amazing things these days. Like collecting DNA that’s been hibernating for several years. You’d think it was impossible, but those little buggers can get trapped inside something and last for decades—maybe even longer.”

  Nuchols was only half-listening, continuing to stare intently at the device. His eyes squinted, then widened. A sly smile slowly crept across his face as his body relaxed, easing back into his chair. He grinned at the younger detective. “You don’t say.”

  “And I’ll tell you something else the witnesses told us about the night of the killing,” Scallion continued, noticing the sudden change in the man’s body language. “They said they heard the sounds of a harmonica playing outside the club, right before Becker was murdered. So, we’re thinking, maybe it was you out there serenading your roommate, right before you sliced him up.”

  Obviously feeling confident in recognizing the bluff, Nuchols suddenly leaned forward. “You know what? I think I will have a drink of water. Your wild-ass story’s startin’ to tire me out.” He poured a cup, then sat back in his chair, taking a gulp.

  Scallion remained calm. He gave a quick sideways glance at Murtaugh, who let the faintest of smirks sneak from the corner of his mouth. Scallion hoped the creep on the opposite side of the table didn’t pick up on it.

  “We don’t think it’s a wild story at all, Bernie,” Scallion said. He patted the harmonica with a gloved hand. “This is all the proof we need. Why don’t you go ahead and tell us about it?”

  Nuchols’ evil grin stretched wide. Draining the rest of the water, he tossed the crumpled cup on the table. “I don’t have a damn thing to tell you about that killin’, since I had nothing to do with it.” He slapped his hands on the top of the table, giving signs he was ready to end the meeting. Pushing his chair back in order to stand with his shackled legs, he stabbed a crooked finger at the musical instrument. “You’re wastin’ my time. And you ain’t gettin’ crap outta that piece of metal.”

  Shuffling to the door, he banged on it to get the guard’s attention.

  Feigning a surprised look, Scallion picked up the harmonica and sat back in his chair. “Oh, this? I guess you’re right about that, Bernie. This is just something my partner and I picked up at a music store here in town this morning.”

  Nuchols stopped dead still. A confused look appeared on his drawn face.

  “But we do have another one, not exactly like it, but pretty damn close. We figured it would take someone with your experience to notice the difference. You did good on that.” Scallion paused, letting it sink in. “Now the other one, the one you threw under the Road Runner Icehouse? It’s back in our forensics lab in Houston. And guess whose DNA we found buried deep inside?”

  The door opened, but Nuchols didn’t move. “But you ain’t got my...” His words stuck in his mouth as he saw it. The cup! He lunged toward the table.

  Scallion’s hand was quicker. He grabbed the cup, holding it up for Bernie Nuchols to see, just as the man got tangled in his leggings, falling across the chair he had just left. “What? Your DNA? I think we do, Bernie. This should do nicely. You threw the cup away. The camera will prove that. It’s ours now.”

  As the guard stood the struggling, cursing prisoner upright, Murtaugh leaned across the table to bid him farewell. “Enjoy your time in Oklahoma, scum-bag. We’ll be waiting for you in Houston.”

  20

  The sleek, black Mercedes slowed to a stop at the gate. The driver punched in a code on the keypad clipped to his visor, not having to worry with the metal box mounted on a stand approximately ten feet in front of the gate. The lattice steel barrier slowly slid behind the adjacent concrete wall, and the car drove through. The sport coupe glided down the short cobble-stone drive, soon approaching the last house on the right. It was one of only ten homes in the exclusive compound, each unique in its carefully designed luxury.

  Kevin Brand punched a second button on his visor, activating one of three garage doors attached to his Spanish-styled showplace. Entering the garage, he once again rubbed the leg of his passenger, who cooed with what he judged to be delight. As the door closed behind the Mercedes, he leaned to nibble on her ear while cupping a breast, hoping to prolong the mood he’d done his best to develop during the course of the two hundred dollar dinner at his favorite restaurant, a classy steak house on Post Oak Road specializing in Argentinean beef.

  The woman giggled as she shifted away. “Let’s go inside first, Kevin. I wanna go for a swim. I’m too full for that now anyway.”

  “Okay,” he sighed, not trying to mask his disappointment. He opened the driver-side door, while keeping an admiring eye on her, watching as she swung her long, beautiful legs through her door. Well aware his money was the only thing that kept her coming back, he was always grateful when she made herself available for a night of unrestrained passion. Sometimes, it required a little patience.

  He followed her across the Mexican-tiled kitchen floor, and into the large great room. Massive skylights allowed the full moon to splash patterns across the dark, captain’s-plank wood flooring, creating the most alluring setting he could’ve ordered-up.

  “Do you want the two-piece you keep here?” he asked, walking down the hall toward his bedroom.

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, kicking her high heels off. The four glasses of Pinot Noir sent her sideways, before quickly righting herself.

  Coming to a halt, Brand turned back to watch. He’d seen her disrobe many times
, seen every angle of her tall, tan, naked body. But he could never take his eyes off her when she performed one of her impromptu strip-teases. His heart rate went into overdrive as she undid her shoulder-length golden hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. In a matter of seconds, she was stripped bare, heading for the french doors leading out to the pool.

  Casting a teasing glance in his direction, she asked, “You coming?”

  Exhaling to release some of the steam, he answered,“I’ll be right out.” Retreating to his bedroom, he removed his clothes, grabbed a white, monogrammed robe and draped it over his arm.

  Halfway through the great room, he was brought to a sudden stop by the chiming sound of his intercom system. “Crap. Who the hell could that be?” he muttered to himself, not wanting anything, or anybody, to interrupt his Friday night romp. Walking into the hallway, he stood before the wall-mounted box, pressing down on the receiver button.

  “Yes?”

  “Brand? This is Luther Kritz.”

  Brand hesitated, mystified. “Kritz? What in the hell are you doing here?”

  There was a short hesitation before the man spoke. “Listen, Brand. I’ve been doing some serious thinkin’ about your proposal. Finally decided I don’t have much choice. I wanna talk to you about details.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. I wanna get it settled while I got it on my mind.”

  Brand was puzzled, and more than a little suspicious. “But I’ve got... can’t it wait til Monday? Or, how ‘bout tomorrow? We can meet for lunch at the club.”

  “Come on, Brand. If you want a deal, it’s now or never. Good chance I might change my mind tomorrow.”

  Brand ran a hand through his hair, trying to decide how important the investment was to him. He thought about the woman, by now stretched out on her back, floating on a vinyl raft over the pool’s surface, the moon bathing her glorious body. What the hell? Ginger wasn’t going anywhere—she would most likely stay the night. “All right. Come on back. Last house on the right. I’ll buzz you in.” He hit another button, putting the gate in motion.

  Wrapping the robe around him and tying the cord around his waist, he quickly opened the french doors. Leaning out, he yelled into the night air to warn Ginger to stay outside while he conducted a little late business. He then headed for the liquor cabinet built into the counter between the great room and the kitchen, mixing himself a drink, and waited.

  A couple of minutes later, Kritz rapped on the front door using the bronze door knocker, ignoring the door bell. Fidgeting impatiently, he waited for Brand to answer.

  “Come on in, Luther,” Brand said as he flung the door open.

  Surprised at the sight of the white, terry-cloth robe, Kritz was taken aback for a second, standing and staring at the man.

  Noticing the reaction, Brand said, “I was about to take a swim. Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  As Brand turned to lead the other man through the entry foyer, Kritz let his eyes roam through the parts of the house he could see from where he stood, trying to satisfy himself the man was alone. He knew he lived by himself, but didn’t want to take any chances. Hidden from his view were the clothes the woman had discarded only minutes before, nestled in a chair, its back to him. If he had looked a little closer, he would have seen the high heels under the chair. Feeling confident, he followed.

  “Glad you finally came to your senses, Luther,” Brand said. “Let’s go into the kitchen. We can talk at the table.”

  “Just a minute,” Kritz stopped him. “Before we hammer things out, I wanna make sure you’re willing to drop your ideas about the lake.”

  The other man turned quickly, swirling his robe open to reveal bare legs. He stared. “What? Now wait a minute, Luther. You came to me. I have no intentions of throwing my money into this deal unless that wasted piece of land is used for development. That’d be crazy. If you thought otherwise, you’re wasting my time.” He was instantly sorry he’d let the man in; Ginger was waiting.

  Kritz’s face turned dark, his eyes bulging. “Sorry you see things that way, Brand.” He reached into a pocket, producing a Browning revolver, aiming it directly at Brand’s head. “You leave me no choice.” He had expected the answer the man gave. Matter of fact, he had hoped for it, wanting an excuse to kill the man.

  Brand’s face showed confusion for a fleeting second, then registered terror. Taking a step backwards, he almost stumbled. “Are you insane!?” he yelled. He heaved his glass at the man, just as the gun was fired.

  The round struck Brand in his right shoulder, knocking him back. He screamed, as blood began to spurt. Falling to the floor, he was horrified to see the crimson discharge beginning to puddle-up. He started to crawl clumsily toward the great room.

  Startled by the reverberating sound of the gun firing, Kritz hesitated to pull the trigger a second time. But he felt he didn’t need to. Trailing behind his whimpering victim, he used a large foot to flatten the man to the floor, then clubbed the back of his skull with the handle of the revolver. There was a crack, then a sickening groan. Reaching down, he un-tied the sash on the robe, yanking it out. Leaning over the man’s still squirming body, he wrapped the cord tightly around his neck, and squeezed with all his might. In little more than a minute, the body was still.

  The hulking man stood, trying to catch his breath, knowing the job was finished. Stuffing the gun and the cord into separate pockets, he looked around to calm himself. Had he touched anything else? Other than the door knocker, which he would wipe clean—he didn’t think so. He needed to check out the intercom system, and was about to search for it, when the french doors opened, and a voice rang out.

  “Everything okay, sugar? What was that noise?”

  Startled, Kritz stared at the sight of a naked woman standing in the doorway.

  It took a second for Ginger to recognize the fact that the large form in the room did not belong to Brand. When she did, the two locked eyes on each other, both trying to decipher the situation. Covering herself as well as she could with her hands, she asked, “Who are you? Where’s Kevin?”

  Kritz didn’t respond, unsure of what to do, or say.

  She scanned the room, her eyes coming to rest on Kevin Brand’s motionless legs, visible behind the stranger. Her eyes grew wide; she started to tremble. Opening her mouth to scream, nothing came out. She turned to retreat through the open door.

  Kritz chased after her, drawing his revolver once again.

  In the outside darkness, she tripped on the leg of a pool-side chair, falling onto the unforgiving granite surface. Scrambling to her feet, she saw the man drawing near. Pushing the chair into his path, she finally managed to release a yell, muted by her choking tears.

  Banging his leg on the chair, Kritz roared with pain and anger. Quickly deciding the sound of another gunshot might alert neighbors, he knew he had to silence the girl by other means. Lunging, he managed to grab her legs, knocking her to the ground once more. She landed face-first, bloodying her perfect nose, stunning her into silence.

  He straddled her body, using his full weight to his advantage. Reaching for the sash in his pocket, he put it to use again, strangling the life from the helpless woman. Standing over the still body, he was alarmed by the sweat cascading from his face and arms onto the victim’s back. Even though it was past 10:00 p. m., the Houston temperature still hovered in the high eighties, with humidity to match. Knowing the perspiration would be pointed evidence, he grabbed the woman’s arms, half-dragging, half-carrying her body to the pool’s edge, then flinging her in. Hopefully, the chlorine-laced water would destroy any traces of his fluids.

  Exhausted, panting, he stood leaning with his hands on his knees, once again having to gather himself. Raising his pants-leg, he was glad to see the collision with the chair hadn’t drawn blood. Listening carefully for sounds of neighbors who may have been roused by the struggle, he heard none. Retracing his steps, he collected the sash, seeing it now coated with blood from the wo
man’s busted nose. He couldn’t leave it here. Balling it up, he returned it to his pocket.

  Back inside, he continued his search for the intercom, finally locating it in the hall. Studying it closely, he thought he recognized the brand and model. It was the type that might house a tape, set to record conversations between the house and the gate. There was no time to search for tools to dismantle the box, so he went to work with the gun, banging the device into submission. Using his pocketknife to cut the connecting wires, he then yanked furiously until it became dislodged, and carried it under an arm as he prepared to leave.

  Stepping over the body of Brand, he looked around for any possible signs he had been there. He was sure he hadn’t touched anything that might leave prints. The only connection to him would be the bullet lodged in the man’s shoulder. He would solve that problem by disposing of the gun before the night was done. Memories of another late night a decade earlier came flooding back; a similar night of desperate self-preservation—just like this one.

  Pulling up slowly to the gate a few minutes later in the rental he had used, the barrier opened automatically from the inside. He had chosen the economy-sized car, knowing his extended cab pickup would be easy to spot, and remember. Pulling through the gate, he drove away, leaving his deadly handiwork behind. He was satisfied the lake, along with its secrets, would not be disturbed.

  Brandy Walker reacted slowly to the several rings of the doorbell, which was instantly followed by a series of loud bangs. Reluctantly, she opened the door to her apartment without asking the caller to identify himself. It could only be one person.

  “You trying to wake the entire building?” she asked in her lazy Texas drawl.

  “What took you so long?” an agitated Luther Kritz said as he slammed the door behind him, pushing his way past her.

  “Hell, Luther, it’s past eleven. Since you didn’t call to ask me out, I’ve been in bed for an hour, which is not my idea of how a Friday night should be spent. At least, not alone.”