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

by John Foxjohn

  “We had a robbery-homicide at a gas station on Montrose the other night. I put together a picture line up for the clerk and we got a positive ID on a suspect.”

  “That’s good. Looks like you’re about to clear one.”

  “There’s a problem. Suspect’s a Houston cop.”

  David cocked his head, leaning back in his chair, skeptical. “A Houston cop went into a gas station, robbed them and killed someone without something covering his face?”

  Faulkner looked at him confused. “How’d you know he didn’t have something covering his face?”

  David half laughed. “If he had something covering his face you wouldn’t have a positive ID from a witness.”

  Faulkner looked embarrassed. “Makes sense.”

  David frowned. “Tell me about it.”

  “Clerk and owner were behind the counter when the robber came in. He demanded their money. The owner tried to reach his gun, and the suspect shot and killed him. He ran out, and the clerk called the police. Another witness in the parking lot didn’t see the suspect, but he did get a partial license plate when the robber spun out.”

  “You identified a suspect to put in the line up from the partial?” David asked.

  “Yeah, but the clerk didn’t pick him out. She picked out a cop.”

  David frowned and cocked his head, pursing his lips. “You had a good suspect in this, put him in a picture line up, and the witness didn’t pick him out. She picked out a cop?”

  “Yep.”

  David thought about this while Faulkner stood. He motioned for him to have a seat.

  He drummed his fingers on his chair. “This doesn’t make a bit of sense. You used cop pictures we have for line-ups, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let me see the pictures.”

  Faulkner handed David the six pictures. He spread them out across his desk. “Who did she pick?”

  Faulkner pointed to a picture.

  “Who is he?”

  “Gary Webb, a patrolman in the fourth precinct.”

  David frowned. “Montrose is in the fourth precinct.”

  “Yeah, he’d know the area.”

  David scratched his ear, and something occurred to him. Naw, they wouldn’t do that, surely. “Did Webb respond to the robbery call?”

  “First one to arrive.”

  David’s head fell back. “Crap.”

  “What? Did I do something wrong?”

  “Yeah you did, but it’s not your fault. You didn’t know. You should never put pictures of officers who responded to the call in a photo lineup.”

  “Why not?”

  Melvin Laird, an old detective about to retire, stuck his head in the door to say hello and goodbye. David wished him luck, and Faulkner nodded.

  “It’s psychological,” David continued. “Old hands around here call this mumbo-jumbo, but it isn’t. They send officers around to these stores and conduct classes with the clerks on what they should do if someone robs them. They go through a long list the clerks should do—watch the robber, check to see if they can later identify him. But clerks never, ever do these.”

  “Why not?”

  David smiled. “It’s one thing to do this in a classroom setting, but everything changes in the store when the robbery is taking place. It happens in seconds. Clerk is scared to death. They have this huge gun pointing in their face—trust me. No matter the size of the guns, they’re always huge. Clerk won’t look the robber in the eye or act like he’s watching them. He’ll be afraid the robber will think he’s trying to remember him and the robber will kill him.”

  Faulkner picked up the pictures and sorted through them.

  “Faulkner, I bet you the description the officers got matches the picture the clerk ID’ed.”

  Peggy marched in, laid a folder on David’s desk, and told him the inspector asked him to review it and get back to him before he left for the day.

  “It matched to a tee,” Faulkner said.

  “They always do. First safe person the clerk sees is the first police officer who arrives on the scene. This face sticks in their memory. You can look at any robbery and look at the description they give and it’ll match the first officer on the scene. It’s a big red flag when it doesn’t.”

  “Dang, the lieutenant’s getting a search warrant for Webb’s house,” Faulkner said. “What should I do?’

  David laughed. “My first thought is to let the LT go through with it, but you’d better not. Go tell him what I said. If he still insists, demand he take it to the inspector.”

  “What if he won’t?”

  “Then bub, you take it to the inspector. It’s your butt on the line.”

  Faulkner nodded and left.

  Henry sauntered in as the young detective left, and gave David a questioning look.

  David told him the story. Henry shook his head. “If they don’t get a supervisor in here who knows something, someone’s going to get their butt in a crack.

  Mills and Combs stormed in while they talked. Combs had been on the force fifteen years and Mills about seven. They were both tall and slim. Mills had a light complexion with sandy blond hair, but Combs had thick, jet black hair and dark skin.

  David and Henry got along with Mills, but no one got along with Combs. David considered him a flaming jerk, and David’s promotion had fanned Combs’ jealousies. Combs had made comments, but David had let it go.

  “Mason, have you got my file?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

  “You’ve got no business with it. This is our case. You need to go back to turning in cops and keep your little brown nose out of our case. Let us handle the guy who shot you. We might even find him and give him a medal.”

  David had taken all this crap he intended to, and he would not let Combs bully him. He leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Combs, do you have a mother?”

  He narrowed his eyes and he frowned. “Yeah, I got a mother, idiot.”

  David cocked his head and rubbed his chin. “How would you like to go home and tell your mother a little brown nose kicked your butt?”

  “What? You can’t talk about my mother.” He lunged forward, but Mills stepped in between.

  David wagged his index finger back and forth at Combs. “Son, you don’t want me. Only thing that’ll beat you to the hospital is the headlights of the ambulance.”

  Trembling, Combs balled his fists. “You can’t talk about my mother.”

  He should let it drop right there, but he looked into Combs’ glaring eyes. Combs thought he’d won this battle. He wasn’t about to let a bully think he’d won. Standing, he put his palms on his desk and leaned forward. Henry stepped between David and Combs. “That shows how stupid you are. I wasn’t talking about your mother, but I can fix that.” He went on to impugn his mother’s virtue.

  Combs’ face turned blood red, and he almost hyperventilated.

  “Get him out of here,” Henry told Mills.

  As Mills pushed Combs out, he tried to speak, but sputtered.

  Henry sat, letting out a breath. “I’m glad you aren’t stepping on anyone’s toes.”

  David’s blood pressure throbbed in his head. Tension, little by little, ebbed away, and he leaned back in his seat.

  “I thought we were going to have real trouble in here,” Henry said.

  “Naw, Combs isn’t that stupid.”

  Henry scratched his head. “You might have taken that too far. If you’d said that about my mother, I’d have shot you.”

  “Maybe, but I’m fed up with this stuff. I’m not going to let them bully me.”

  “Bullying again,” Henry said. “Bud, you need to get over that. It happened a long time ago. You’re still short, but nobody in their right mind is going to try to take you on. What’re you benching now?”

  “Three eighty-five.”

  “See what I mean? Let the past go, David.”

  He nodded. Henry was right, but wished it was that simple.

  Patterson stopp
ed by and asked what they’d found on the sniper. David and Henry filled him in on what they knew. David told him about the sheriff and his opinions.

  Patterson chuckled. “Old Sheriff Pointer. David, you met a legend. That man’s seen it all.”

  David’s eyes widened. “Are you talking about Sheriff Pointer from Montgomery County?”

  Patterson chuckled again. “Yep, can’t be another one. Did you know he’s a retired Texas Ranger?”

  “No. He said he’s been sheriff there for thirty-something years. He didn’t look that old.”

  “He’s a lot older than he looks. You wouldn’t know this, but he was with the Texas Ranger group who shot and killed Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “No joking,” Henry blurted out.

  “I’d listen to his opinions.”

  David nodded. “I put him in his late fifties.”

  “Late seventies would be closer to the truth. I’ll talk to you later,” Patterson said.

  Chapter 20

  When David arrived at work the next morning, Peggy told him they had a bunch of messages from people claiming to know about who shot him. He asked her if she’d give them to Mills and Combs.

  “I gave them all but this one,” she whispered. She handed him a pink telephone message. “I thought you’d want to see this one.”

  He read the message. A man claimed to have been sitting in a restaurant booth when he’d overheard a conversation with a young white male and an older female. This caught David’s attention—the man had said the two were talking about shooting a police officer who was responsible for his father’s death.

  “Thanks Peggy. You were right as usual.”

  David filled Henry in on the message.

  “This could be the break we need,” Henry said.

  “Yep, we need to talk to him today.”

  “Hey, I almost forgot, how about us getting together tonight? We’re off and not on call,” Henry said.

  “Beth and I’ll look forward to it. Where are we going to go?”

  “How about the Crab Palace on Main? We can sit around all night and eat crabs and drink beer.”

  “Sounds like a winner to me. Meet you there about six-thirty,” David said.

  “We have a date.”

  “Yeah, but don’t say that too loud. Someone might get the wrong impression.”

  David and Henry sat in their office waiting on their possible witness. Henry had called him and asked him to come by. Forty-five minutes later a white male in his forties knocked on David’s door.

  The man didn’t know what to do with his hands. At last, he played with his wedding ring.

  David introduced himself and Henry, and the man introduced himself as Bill Sporter.

  “Oh, you’re the one who was shot,” Sporter said.

  David nodded. “Mr. Sporter, I know this is hard, but try to relax.” David smiled. “We aren’t going to bite you.”

  He nodded and gulped. “I’ve never talked to cops”—he got a bewildered expression, turning red. “I mean policemen—before like this.”

  David smiled and leaned forward. “Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “We call ourselves cops. It’s no big deal.”

  Sporter nodded and gulped again.

  “You said you overheard a conversation about the shooting.”

  He told them he’d been sitting in a booth behind a young male and the male’s mother. He hadn’t heard the entire conversation, only snatches, but he heard the male say he’d shot the cop at the Italian restaurant.”

  David’s mind drifted off while he talked. He seemed like an Okay person but information like this never panned out.

  “Woman begged him not to do this because he’d get caught. Her voice rose when she told him that. They quieted down awhile, but their voices got louder later on. He laughed and told her not to worry because he’d left a shell casing to lead the detectives down the wrong trail.”

  David’s head snapped up. “What?”

  Henry jumped from his seat, startling Sporter, who almost babbled. David rose and strode around his desk. He pulled up a chair and faced Sporter. It took the man several minutes to calm down. He kept glancing at Henry.

  At last, David got him to continue. “He said he’d left a shell casing there to lead the detectives down the wrong trail.”

  David turned to Henry. “I want a sworn statement before he leaves.”

  Henry nodded, but turned back to the nervous man. “Sir, can you identify the male or woman?”

  “I might recognize the woman. She sat facing me and I saw her face when she got up to leave, but I didn’t see the male’s face.”

  Because they wanted the witness on edge, David went back to his seat and let Henry ask the questions. David rubbed his mouth. This was a legitimate witness. He knew the omitted information.

  “Can you describe him?” Henry asked.

  “Tall and slim with short brown hair, and he wore jeans and a white tee-shirt.”

  “When you say tall, how tall?”

  “Maybe an inch or two shorter than you are.”

  “Was there any design on the shirt?”

  “Not that I noticed. None on the back, and I didn’t see the front.”

  “Do you think you’d recognize the male if you saw him again?”

  Sporter hesitated, “I don’t think so. I only got a glimpsed his face from the side.”

  “What about the woman?” David asked. “Could you pick her out?”

  Sporter didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah, I think I’d recognize her.”

  Henry got the man’s sworn statement and David thanked him for coming in and told him they’d contact him if they needed to ask anything else. David told him if he did see the female, to call the police immediately and get a license plate number if he could. They sat in the office for a while thinking about what they’d been told.

  “Everything seems to point to Andrew Carlin,” David said.

  “Yeah it does.”

  David leaned back, frowning. “Did anything about his statement not make sense to you?”

  “No, why?”

  “How about the part about leaving the shell to lead us down the wrong trail. I wonder about that,” David said.

  “Yeah. Me, too. He described Andrew Carlin.”

  David sat for a long time, tapping his fingers on his desk. Why would he think the casing would lead them down the wrong path? If he’s trying to lead the police down the wrong path, he has to know what path they’d take. David sat straight. “Henry, did you watch the news report on TV about the sniper?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “What channel did the report?”

  “Channel eleven, I believe.” He thought a moment. “Eleven. Jennifer Michaels did it.”

  “What bothers me is how the shooter got my media photo.”

  “Hadn’t thought about that,” Henry said.

  “I think I’m going to call channel eleven,” David said.

  “You call them if you want to. I’m going home.”

  David called the station and asked to speak with Jennifer Michaels but had trouble getting through until he gave his name. The receptionist transferred him immediately.

  “Sergeant Mason, this is Jennifer Michaels. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m fine Ms. Michaels. I’d like to get together and talk to you for a few minutes.”

  David had seen and heard her on TV. Her voice had a soft, well-modulated quality, and not a hint of a Texas accent.

  “I would love to talk to you,” she said. David could hear the excitement in her voice. “I can be at your office in five minutes.”

  He expected to run by and see her for a few minutes, not her rushing to see him. He shrugged. “Okay, I’ll be here.”

  Michaels showed up about five minutes later, and she had to break traffic laws to get there in that time. He guessed they must be slow on news, or she thought she might break a big one.

  She looked taller in person than on TV. Black hair touched her collar, her
bangs draped all the way down to full eyebrows, and her brown eyes sparkled with excitement.

  She stuck her hand out to shake, and gave David’s hand a few sharp tugs. David thought she tried to overcompensate for being a woman in what she believed to be a man’s business.

  “Is your shoulder still bothering you?” She asked, taking out a spiral notebook and a pen.

  “It’s stiff, but it’s Okay.”

  “Do the police have a suspect in the shooting yet?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it. But I wanted to meet with you to ask you some questions.”

  She frowned and put her pad down. “Okay.”

  “Where did your station get my picture you used the night the sniper shot me?”

  “Oh, the police information officer gave it to us when you got the life saving award a year ago. We kept a copy on file in case we needed it.”

  He’d known this, but wanted to make sure. “Could I come or call anyone at the station and get a copy?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, confused. “The program manager wouldn’t want to let it go.”

  David nodded. “How would I go about getting a copy of that exact picture?”

  “I’d think the easiest way would be to contact the police information officer. I’m sure he has more than one copy. What’s this about?”

  “I can’t tell you on the record,” he said.

  She looked at him for a moment. “I’m a reporter. I make my living on the record.”

  “Well, I can’t talk to you about it. It would have to be off the record for right now.”

  “Right now? Will I get the full story later?”

  “You’ll be the first reporter I tell anything to.”

  “Okay, I agree.”

  David told her about his blown up picture with the bullet holes. They talked for a few more minutes and she left.

  He checked with all the station managers and editors in Houston and received the same response from them all. No one had requested a picture. It made sense. That would’ve been stupid on the shooter’s part if he’d gone to the media to get David’s picture. They’d remember it, and the sniper wasn’t stupid. He had to have gotten it another way.

  David looked at his watch. Six-thirty. He took the stairs to the second floor and the closed information office. With all the doors on this floor locked, he didn’t meet anyone in the hallway.