Code of Deceit: A Mystery/Detective novel (David Mason series)

by John Foxjohn

  ***

  In the still night air outside the Pig Sty, the stalker smiled. He’d waited long enough. Too dang long.

  Since this was Mason’s favorite hangout, he’d scouted this area several times. He thought it ironic that Mason would die coming out of a honky tonk. He parked a half a block from the entrance, with the passenger side close to bushes, and eased around and removed the rifle from the front seat. Opening the back door, he took out a three-foot forked branch.

  He found the spot he’d chosen for this purpose. Fifty feet across from the bar’s entrance, a huge pecan tree butted up against the thick hedges with a slight break in the foliage. Here, he pushed the shooting fork he’d made into the soft dirt.

  He rested the rifle on the fork and sighted through the scope. Perfect. Mason will walk to his car. Even if he picks up a female in there, he’ll have to stop to unlock the door. When he reaches into his pocket for the key, he’ll face me in full view.

  Looking around, he ran what he’d do through his mind. He’d fire his shot, pull the stake, and run bent over behind the thick growth to his car. No one would see him or even know where he’d shot from. They’d find the spot, and find his shoe prints, but that wouldn’t tell them anything.

  Opening the bolt, he inserted the magazine, and closed a round in the chamber. He checked to make sure he had taken the safety off. He’d only have a few seconds to fire, and he planned to leave the shell casing to throw investigators down the wrong trail.

  He didn’t look at his watch. Time meant nothing now. The kill he’d waited this long for was all that mattered. As he watched, a car pulled in and parked two spaces from Mason’s Fiat. He peered over the scope as two women sat in the vehicle, combing their hair.

  He almost burst out laughing. They’re on the hunt too. Only difference, I’ll put my prey out of his misery.

  When the bar door opened, he jerked his attention away from the women. He pressed the stock to his cheek as Mason walked out. His finger cuddled the trigger. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he blocked the surroundings out. Mason strode forward, fumbling in his pocket for his key.

  A few more steps.

  Mason stopped suddenly and bent over, startling him. He’d almost jerked the trigger when the clumsy idiot dropped his keys. He ground his teeth. He would have missed.

  Ten feet to go, five more. He took up the trigger’s slack. His heart pounded, and his spirit soared. He had him. Before he put the final squeeze on the trigger, a form blocked out Mason.

  Releasing the trigger, he tore his eye away from the scope. He screamed to himself. Two women from the car stopped to talk to Mason, blocking his shot.

  He jerked his stake up, tromped to his car, and sat behind the steering wheel. He slammed his palm on the dash. “That idiot is lucky.”

  ***

  In an old office building close to the Harris County courthouse, Willie Tatum, attorney at law, sat behind his battered desk, sipping a Mountain Dew, his preferred morning beverage. With papers scattered over the desk, he scanned the report on the two ex-Houston police officers. Ashes from his unfiltered Camel dangling from his mouth fell, joining others. He didn’t bother to wipe them off. With a ruddy complexion and stark white hair, Tatum’s appearance gave no hint of the cunning legal mind behind his coal black eyes.

  Tatum, son of a poor South Texas farmer, left home at eighteen and joined the army, his desire to get away from poverty and farming. His journey took him to Europe. He learned to hate the army, and when wounded on Omaha Beach, he returned to Texas.

  Using his G.I. Bill, he graduated with honors from Baylor University Law School. Several larger law firms across the country tried to recruit him, but he’d made several decisions—he wouldn’t take orders from anyone, he wouldn’t farm, and he’d never be poor again.

  He rented an old building on a corner lot across from the Harris County Courthouse and hung out his shingle. He survived hand to mouth the first years. Had some cards printed off and passed them out at the courthouse. This brought him several clients, but none who paid much.

  Everything changed on March 18, 1951. He sat at his old desk and looked up to see Dr. Malcolm Meecham standing in his door and appearing apprehensive. Tatum recognized him from pictures splashed across newspaper front pages. Investigators charged Meecham, a wealthy medical doctor in Houston, for his wife’s murder. Everyone believed the doctor guilty, and it hit the national spotlight. Meecham couldn’t find an attorney who would touch him.

  The case Tatum had looked for landed in his lap. As the doctor’s only hope for an acquittal, he demanded a hundred thousand dollar payment. Meecham’s choice—pay the asking price, or go to the electric chair. He chose Tatum.

  In a landmark case, Tatum defended the doctor. He had no doubt Meecham was guilt but didn’t care. Many young attorneys ran around exposing the virtue of everyone’s entitlement to a defense. Tatum could care less. He cared about the money, period. Three weeks after the trial started, Dr. Malcolm Meecham strolled from the courtroom a free man. Police had botched the case, and a guilty man walked. It did two things for Tatum. It gave him a capital base to work from and publicity. No longer did he need to stand outside a courtroom and pass out cards. Criminals with money came to him.

  Now, thirty years later, he remained in the same office. He had refurbished the inside some, but not much.

  His intercom rang. “Mr. Tatum,” his secretary said, “your two clients are here.”

  Leaning forward, he pushed the button. “Send them in.”

  McMillian and Brophy stomped into his office and parked themselves uninvited in seats across from his desk. McMillian leaned forward. “What have you found out?”

  Tatum leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his protruding belly. “It looks like you two boys have got your rears in a crack.”

  “We aren’t paying you all this money to tell us the obvious. How are you going to get us off?” Brophy asked.

  Tatum leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. His mouth became hard. “I’m going to tell you two jerks something. I’m the person who can save your butt, and I mean literally save your butt. Have you seen what they do to ex-cops in the pen? You’ll get out and won’t know if you are a girl or a boy. I’d suggest you leave your smart mouths outside.”

  Brophy held out his hands, palms toward Tatum. “We’re sorry. This isn’t your fault—it’s Mason’s. Someone will get him and we’re going to enjoy it.”

  Tatum shook his head. They may be cops, or ex-cops, but these two were like all the other criminals who sought out his services. Always blaming someone else for the mess they got themselves into. Tatum pursed his lips. “Do you know Detective Mason?”

  “Nope. Never met him,” Brophy said.

  McMillian shook his head.

  “Well, I’ll tell you boys something. I do know Mason. Been in court against him and he did you two a huge favor.”

  “How’s that?” McMillian asked.

  Tatum rubbed his hands together. “He didn’t investigate this. He turned it over to IA. They did the investigation and filed the charges.”

  McMillian glared at Tatum. “How is that doing us a favor?”

  “Son—if Mason had investigated this, you’d have to stock up on Vaseline because your butts would be on the way to Huntsville. These detectives running around this city are lazy, sloppy, and don’t have a clue what they are doing. Mason’s not lazy, sloppy, and he darn well knows what he’s doing. He dots his I’s and crosses his T’s, and he turns over every rock. He handed this over to IA, and they’re bumbling fools for the most part.”

  “I guess we should send this super cop a thank you note,” Brophy said.

  Tatum shook his head, wondering why he put up with idiots like this. He leaned back in his chair. “No. I’m going to tell you what you’re going to do.” His eyes pinned them to their chairs. “You are going to do what I say, how I say it, and when I say it, and nothing else. If you don’t follow my instructions to
a tee, you march your smart rears out of this office and get another lawyer.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Brophy asked.

  “First,” Tatum held up a finger, “you are to have no contact with the police department whatsoever. Second,” he held up another finger, “you are to talk to no one about this case. I mean no one. Third,” he held up another finger, “you are to stay away from David Mason. You will not call him, talk to him, conspire to harm, or in any way come near him. There is a possibility I can get you off this crap, but if you go against those three points, I’ll drop you like a dog with bitterroot in his mouth. Do you understand?”

  Both nodded.

  “I’m serious. Last thing you need at this moment is David Mason on your butt.”

  They agreed and the three got to work.

  Walking out an hour later, McMillian and Brophy stopped on the sidewalk.

  “What do you think of that Mason stuff?” Brophy asked.

  “It’s crap,” McMillian replied. “That old idiot doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Mason’s going to get his.”

  Brophy laughed. “I didn’t think we let it go. When and how?”

  A tight smiled appeared on McMillian’s face. “We’re going to blow his butt away.”

  Chapter 9

  Henry arrived home at six-thirty. He’d called his wife before he left to let her know what time he’d be home. She’d throw a fit if he didn’t call. Naw, Patty didn’t throw fits. They’d known each other for a long time, and were about to celebrate their eighteenth wedding anniversary.

  They had gone to high school together, dated their sophomore year, and split up midway through their senior year. Henry had applied and been accepted for the police academy, and after he graduated, they sent him to the fourth precinct. One afternoon as he was patrolling the Dobie area, a car ran a stop sign. To his astonishment, Patty was driving the car. He let her go with a warning and an invitation for dinner. They got married three months later.

  Two rambunctious sons, both images of their father, helped occupy their three-bedroom brick house. Officers didn’t understand why Henry didn’t go drinking or play poker with them, and he couldn’t make them understand what he had at home meant more to him than what he’d find in a bar with a bunch of drunken officers.

  He pulled into the driveway and sat in his car thinking about today. He’d almost had to punch out two loud mouths in the break room. Forget them. David had made the right decision, but Henry had known all along he wouldn’t cover the mess up.

  He shook his head thinking about the arrogance and stupidity of Houston’s finest. It amazed him at times. David had spent fifteen minutes tracking down the officers’ actions, and they hadn’t tried to cover it up or anything. They assumed everyone would look the other way, and they’d be in the clear. He wished he could be like David. Something deep inside made David unique as a detective. He had the ability to go to a crime scene and block all external problems out—everything except the crime.

  Henry couldn’t do that. He arrived first at the Parker crime scene, and ambled through with Anthony’s math problems on his mind, and Mark’s problem of feeling inferior to the other kids. He saw the look on David’s face when he inspected the front door, which should’ve clued him in. Two people are not going to lie in bed asleep while someone kicks in their door. That’s what David sensed, and he should have.

  He had two years until retirement. Somehow, he had to hang on to open a bookstore like he and Patty planned. He could be with his family all the time, and raise his boys without a gun. Be a normal father.

  Patty kissed him when he walked in the door, and the boys ran and jumped on him. They wrestled for a few minutes until Patty called them to supper.

  Not hungry, Henry sat and picked at his food.

  “What’s wrong?” Patty asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is there something wrong with the pork chops? You haven’t touched them.”

  “No, they’re fine. Thinking is all.”

  “Anthony, Mark, run upstairs and get to work on your homework,” she told the boys.

  “Aw, mom, can’t we stay a few minutes?”

  “Go like I told you.”

  When they trudged off, Patty sat across from her husband with a concerned expression. Henry should have known he couldn’t get away with not telling Patty. She knew him too well. She also loved David like a brother.

  She reached across the table and took his hands. “What’s the matter?”

  He took a deep breath and told her about the body in the pond and about David’s decision.

  “Did you talk to him about it?”

  Henry frowned. What could he tell him? He’d told him to think about it. David listened to advice, but made up his own mind. When he made a decision, Henry or no one else could talk him into another direction, especially f he thought he was in the right, and he was. He rubbed his face. “David knows the consequences.”

  “Henry, did you tell him what happened to you?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “Why not? He needs to know.”

  “Patty, he doesn’t need to know what happened to me. He’s well aware what’s going to happen. David’s not stupid.”

  “You didn’t tell him they forced you out of burglary and to homicide over Finnery’s mess?”

  Henry took a deep breath and let it out. “They didn’t force me out. I chose to leave.”

  Her protective shield came. Patty, an only child, had always wanted a brother, and she had one in David. “They’re going to try to do the same to David.”

  Henry laughed. “Yeah, they’re going to try.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “There’s a big difference between me and David, and this’ll be fun to watch. They don’t know what they’ll be tangling with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Darling, I’m a lot different from David. I sit back and take things, and don’t like to make waves. They can say and do what they want to, it doesn’t bother me. I want to see them try to intimidate him.”

  “You don’t think they can, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “David spent all his young life fighting bullies. They picked on him, and he fought back with a vengeance. I’ve talked to people he went to school with, and there came a time when he scared them. I’ll tell you this—I’d rather try to sandpaper a wild cat’s rear end than try to intimidate David.”

  “He still shouldn’t have to go through this.”

  Henry shrugged. “No, but telling him what happened to me won’t help anything.”

  She sighed. “Okay. Hey, when do I get to meet this new girl he’s seeing?”

  Henry could see a dreamy look in her eye, and he knew she had a crush on David, but Henry didn’t have a jealous bone. He knew his partner, but more, he knew his wife.

  ***

  David sat with his parents at the kitchen table drinking coffee, and his mother insisted on feeding him. They talked for a while before David told them he had to leave. He had a stop to make on the way to the department.

  Beth occupied his mind while he stood in her mother’s backyard. He thought about her all the time. Different from the others he’d gone out with, she made him laugh, and they carried on intelligent conversations.

  He felt guilty in a way because he didn’t have a clue who killed her mother. He wondered if she thought about it. Although they’d dated for several months, they’d spent little time talking about the case. He believed she understood if he found out anything he’d tell her. He hoped this didn’t hang over their heads if he didn’t catch the killer, and at the moment, he had serious doubts if he would.

  Beth disappeared from his mind when a white male cut across the lawn. He noticed David and said hello.

  David returned his greeting and turned to go back inside the house when an idea occurred to him.

  “Hey, wait up.”

  In his thirties, with short bla
ck hair, a moustache, wearing khaki work pants and a blue work shirt, the man stopped, facing David.

  David removed his badge and identified himself.

  “Have I done something wrong, Detective?”

  “Not to my knowledge. We had a homicide here about a month ago.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. Is it Okay if I walk through here on my way to work?”

  David nodded. He was getting desperate to stop people in the neighborhood. “Do you come through here often?”

  The man pointed to a nearby refinery. “I work there and take this short cut. There isn’t anything wrong, is there?”

  Looking at the refinery in the distance, David said, “No, nothing at all. I hoped you saw or heard something. Where were you on July23rd?”

  “At work.” He turned to walk away, but David stopped him. “I need you to come to the police station with me,” David said.

  His eyebrows rose, hands on hips. He asked in an incredulous voice, “Am I under arrest?”

  David held his palms toward him. “No, no, I need you to look at our mug book and see if you might recognize anyone.”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “You may not think you did. I’ve seen this in the past. Witnesses don’t think they saw anything and when they look at mug shots, everything falls into place.”

  “I’ve got to go to work.”

  David touched his arm and steered him toward his car. “Don’t worry. When you’re through, I’ll drive to your job and explain everything to your boss. Your cooperation would help the police, and you might end up getting an award if you help solve the case.”

  David drove him in, sat him at a table, and had Peggy break out all the mug shot books they had for him to look at. Henry stood by his office with Lieutenant Spinks and Inspector Patterson. When they caught David’s eye, Spinks motioned him over.

  “What do you have?” Spinks asked.

  “That man’s name’s Raymond Wayne Cartwright, and he’s the one who murdered Ms. Harris.”

  Chapter 10

  With a confused expression, Henry cocked his head. “If he killed her, why is he looking at pictures?”