by Larry Enmon
“Looks like we’ve found the garden spot of Dallas,” Frank said.
Rob kept his eyes open for other raiders as they ascended the rotten stairs. Frank knocked on the trailer door and sniffed. He made a face.
“Do you smell something?” Frank asked.
“Sewer connection probably needs adjustment.”
Frank glanced over his shoulder, sweeping the entire park with his gaze. “This whole place smells like a septic tank, if you ask me.”
Rob knew how much his partner hated foul-smelling places and people. Hell, he couldn’t even stand to smell Rob after a workout, so this place had to be torture.
Frank knocked again, grimacing. The rumble of a TV blaring vibrated the trailer.
After the third knock, a female voice inside screamed, “Will someone frigging answer the door?”
Moments later the volume dropped, and the door eased open. A teenage girl leaned against the frame. She had dirty blonde hair and wore a black Lady Gaga T-shirt with a pair of skimpy red shorts.
Rob and Frank produced their identification. “Does Eddie Jones live here?” Frank asked.
She leaned forward, studied the IDs for a second, and then turned and hollered, “Mama, the police are here to arrest Eddie again.”
“We don’t want to arrest him, just talk,” Rob said.
“Mama, come here.” she shouted.
“Did you say police?” an older woman’s voice called from a back room.
“Yeah,” the girl shouted.
“Shit. What’s he done now?”
“Y’all can come in, I guess.” Skimpy red shorts opened the door and stepped aside.
If Rob had blinked, he would have missed it, but Frank’s nose actually twitched as they ventured further into the living room. Rob couldn’t blame him though. The combined smells of dirty diapers, a litter box in need of cleaning, and cooking odors mixed with the pall of low-hanging smoke from a cigarette still smoldering in an overflowing ashtray made Rob’s stomach turn.
A skinny woman scooted around the corner carrying an infant on her hip. A half-smoked cigarette hung from her shriveled lips. She eyed the girl. “Come and get her. She’s yours.”
The girl lifted the baby from the woman’s arms and strolled down a dark hall.
“Are you Mrs. Jones?” Rob asked.
The woman took a long drag and exhaled smoke through her nose. “Yeah. Which police are you?”
Rob and Frank both displayed their credentials. “Dallas,” Frank replied.
“Figures,” the woman said. “Have a seat.”
There was no doubt in Rob’s mind that the last thing Frank would do was sit on anything in that house. Dirty clothes and trash were everywhere. Children’s toys, half broken, littered the room, and dirty plates with bits of what looked like old tacos lined the coffee table. Flies munched on the remains.
“No, thanks. We’ve been sitting all morning,” Rob said.
“You after Eddie?” the woman asked.
Mrs. Jones looked as if her lower jaw had retreated into her neck. The weak chin, three to four missing teeth, and limp blonde hair sent chills through Rob. She probably wasn’t over forty but looked sixty-plus. Some referred to people like this as white trash. A sad generational curse of ignorance and poor decision making. But Rob still took issue with the name.
“Yes, ma’am. Is he here?” Frank asked.
“Is he in trouble for anything?”
“No, ma’am, we just wanted to ask him a couple of questions.”
She lit another cigarette from the butt of the one she was smoking, then snuffed the first one out, as well as the one smoldering in the ashtray. Rob was about to choke on the atmosphere. He tried breathing through his mouth, but that left a nasty taste. He moved to one side in an effort to escape the direct drift of the smoke, but it followed him.
She blew out a long breath. “He ain’t here.”
“Does he live here?” Frank asked.
“Hasn’t in several years.”
“Can you get in touch with him?”
“Don’t have no phone—lives on the street, homeless.”
Frank studied her for a second and jammed his hands in his pockets. “We still need to talk to him. Know where we can find him?”
“He’s in the jungle somewhere.”
Rob asked, “You mean under the overpasses downtown?”
She took a seat on the sofa and rested her scrawny frame against a cushion. A sneer spread over her weathered lips. “Only jungle in Dallas—ain’t it?”
“It would help if we had a recent photo,” Frank said.
She motioned to a ledge above the sofa. “Take your pick.”
A line of pictures rested on the wobbly shelf. A baby photo was nestled next to a high school graduation photograph. Rob picked up a picture, which showed a young man in desert camo posing in front of a tent.
“Was Eddie a Marine?” Rob asked.
Mrs. Jones took a drag and exhaled before answering. “He had problems before he joined. After Iraq he was really fuc—screwed up. You sure he’s not in any trouble?”
“No, ma’am,” Frank said. “We only wanted to ask about a tattoo he has.”
She perked up. “Oh, you mean that big one on his back?”
Frank stepped forward. “You know about it?”
“Not much, except that preacher man he lived with paid to have it done.”
“Preacher man?” Frank asked.
The hairs on the back of Rob’s neck rose. Preacher man. Bible. Wormwood.
Mrs. Jones crossed her legs and nodded. “Yeah, Eddie lived with him and his flock for a while.”
“What was the preacher’s name?” Frank asked.
She paused, looking at the floor. “Brother something or another. I can’t recall.”
“Where’s the church?” Rob asked.
“Don’t know, somewhere in South Dallas.”
“You recall the denomination?” Frank asked.
“Naw, it wasn’t a church like that. Don’t have nothing to do with any regular church.”
“Okay, thanks.” Frank headed to the door.
“Hey, police.”
They glanced over their shoulders.
“Tell him to call me … so I know he’s still alive.”
After they closed the trailer door, they pulled in a long breath of fresh air. Even the odor of sewage that permeated the trailer park was better than the stench in that place. Rob hit the key fob and the doors unlocked. The little black mutt charged Frank again. This signaled the rest of the park’s kennel into a spasm of barks and howls. Frank kicked, getting closer this time, but still missed. Once safely inside the car, he looked at Rob.
“What kind of preacher pays for a full-back tattoo?”
Rob cranked the car and maneuvered onto the street. The case was alive again, that was for sure.
Frank checked his watch. “Let’s swing through the jungle and see if he’s around.” Frank’s eyes had that old sparkle. He was back on the scent.
12
Katrina finished lunch that Friday as Sister Judy and another woman cleaned up her room. The other woman was new. She was more of a girl than a woman—no way had she seen twenty yet. She resembled Katrina: same build, same light blonde hair. She hadn’t spoken since coming in except to introduce herself. Said her name was Annabelle. Sister Judy kept a close eye on her while they worked, and Annabelle seldom looked up and never made eye contact.
Sister Judy strolled over and looked down at Katrina with a motherly countenance. “Would you like to move upstairs tomorrow?”
Katrina didn’t answer for a moment, still suspicious.
“Brother John said since you are doing better, he’d like to have you join us for services tomorrow, and we can move you to an upstairs bedroom after dinner.”
Behind Sister Judy, Annabelle’s eyes widened. She shook her head.
Katrina got the hint. “No, thanks. I’m fine here.”
Sister Judy pouted. “It’s mu
ch nicer upstairs. Just ask Annabelle.” Sister Judy posted her fists on her hips, waiting. She gawked at Annabelle while she leaned over the commode with a toilet brush in her hand. “Isn’t it much nicer upstairs?” Sister Judy asked Annabelle.
A forced smile parted Annabelle’s lips. “Yes, much nicer.”
“See?” Sister Judy said. “We’ll get you moved tomorrow afternoon. By the way, do you need any feminine hygiene products?”
Katrina looked up into the kindly eyes. “What kind?”
“Well, when’s your next period? You’ll need something then.”
“Not for a while,” Katrina answered.
Behind Sister Judy, Annabelle shook her head, and her frightened eyes sent a tingle up Katrina’s spine. A sick doubt enveloped her.
“We’ll make sure you have what you need when you need it, dear,” Sister Judy said.
From upstairs there was a crash of metal on wood, and then a scream.
“Judy, help. I’ve scalded myself,” a woman called. Loud crying, like someone in horrible pain, bled through the wooden ceiling and the door the two women had left open when they’d arrived. Sister Judy scrambled up the stairs and disappeared. Annabelle ran to Katrina, knelt, and grabbed her hands.
“You shouldn’t have told her about your period,” Annabelle said. She kept her gaze on the stairs.
“What … what are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
Annabelle held her hands tighter. “He’ll come for you tonight.”
Katrina’s gut tightened. “What are you talking about?”
From upstairs Sister Judy’s voice rang out, “Ruth, come here. I need you. Karen’s hurt. Bring the first aid kit.”
Katrina broke loose from Annabelle’s grip. “What do you mean? Who’ll come for me?”
Annabelle kept her head turned toward the stairs and whispered, “When he comes, and he will, the only way to stop him is to do something disgusting. He’s a clean freak. They’ll drug your supper so you won’t resist him—don’t eat it.”
Footfalls from upstairs announced that a crowd had gathered. Steps sounded from the stairs, and Annabelle ran back to the toilet. She gathered her cleaning supplies and placed them in the basket as Sister Judy reached the bottom of the steps. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Annabelle and Katrina.
“We’re finished here, Annabelle. Come help out upstairs. We have a mess to clean up.”
Annabelle kept her head low and eyes down as she left.
Sister Judy picked up the tray of lunch dishes, smiled her gentle smile, and followed. The sound of the door shutting and the lock being set sent Katrina into uncontrolled weeping. She hugged herself, rocking from side to side, and shook, staring at the cold concrete floor. Tears streamed down her face, but she fought making any sound that might tell them Annabelle had done more than clean her room.
* * *
The jungle was that area of Dallas where I-30 and I-45 met and the downtown freeway overpasses provided acres of coverage from the elements. Its proximity to Deep Ellum, a neighborhood of arts and entertainment venues, had always made it a popular place for the homeless. They could walk a few blocks and panhandle or, if they were lucky, catch some scraps from one of the many restaurants. The city had gone to great lengths to fence off the area under the overpasses, but the homeless always found a way back in. It was just too sweet a deal.
Rob parked the car on Dawson Street, and they walked toward the massive highway complex. Few people milled around this time of day, but the population would increase as the evening progressed. You could smell the jungle as you neared it. As the weather heated up, it only got worst. Frank’s nose twitched a little more with each step. Places like this always creeped Rob out. There were basically two types of homeless: those who avoided the police and those who wanted to fight the police. Lots of mental illness, alcohol, and drug use. The guy who wouldn’t give you a second look today might be the same guy who would jump you tomorrow. You just never knew.
“Excuse me, sir.” Frank motioned to an old man with a shopping cart. “We’re looking for someone. Perhaps you can tell us if you’ve seen him.”
The old man ran a hand through cotton hair and leaned on the handle of his cart, which was piled high with black plastic garbage bags. “I’ll try. You police?”
“That’s right,” Frank said. “Know anyone named Eddie? Young white fellow, about six feet, weighs around one ninety.”
“Naw, sir, don’t ring no bell. You say his name’s Eddie?”
“Yeah,” Rob answered.
The old man lowered his gaze and shook his head. “I knows a fella called Ed, but he’s not near one ninety.”
“Is he here?” Frank asked.
“Naw, but Pete might know where he stays.”
“Who’s Pete?” Rob asked.
The old man pointed. “He’s the mayor here. Knows everyone. That fella in the black overcoat against the concrete pillar.”
Rob considered the figure sitting on the ground in the distance, an old brown fedora pulled low over his eyes, his chin resting on his chest during the afternoon siesta. Frank led the way under the overpass. The rhythmic sound of traffic passing overhead and cool shade made a comfortable setting for a nap.
They walked in a sea of trash. Crushed cardboard boxes for sleeping and hundreds of wrappers, cans, bottles, and dirty clothes littered the ground. The odor of rot drifted through the breeze. Several jungle residents scurried away as the pair approached. If they’d had a big neon sign flashing “Cops,” they couldn’t have been more obvious.
They made their way through a narrow passage between a stretch of ragged tents and blue tarps and a couple of burned-out fifty-five-gallon drums, finally stopping in front of the man with the fedora.
“Mr. Mayor, we need to talk.” Frank nudged the bottom of the man’s work boot with the toe of his shoe.
The black man pushed up his hat with an index finger and eyed them. He appeared to be in his midforties and had short, well-kept hair and a thin mustache. “You police?”
“Yes,” Rob said.
The man stood and brushed the dust off his pants. “I’m Pete.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. “We have a problem?”
“Nope,” Frank said, “but we’re looking for someone. Hoped you’d help us find him.”
“Who?”
“Eddie Jones. Young white guy, about six feet, weighs one ninety or so.” Frank flashed a photograph of Jones.
Pete’s surveyed the photo with suspicious eyes. He removed his hat and wiped his headband with a handkerchief. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing. We don’t want to arrest him—only talk,” Frank said.
Pete leaned against the concrete pillar. “About what?”
“We have a message from his mama, who lives off Elam Road,” Rob answered.
“What’s the message?”
“We’ll tell him when we see him,” Frank said.
Pete smirked. “We have a guy named Ed who hangs around sometimes, but he’s not one ninety. Looks a little like that picture. He’ll probably be here this evening.”
“Thanks,” Frank said.
More people drifted down Dawson toward the shade of the overpasses as Rob and Frank strolled to their car. Few of the folks made eye contact with them, at most giving only furtive glances.
* * *
They parked in the employee garage and Frank led the way into the CIU area. Terry stood near Rob’s cubicle, reading a folder. He looked up when they entered.
“Well, have the Rangers solved the case yet?” Frank asked, sitting on the edge of his desk. If the expression on Terry’s face was any indication, something good had happened.
“We furnished the Rangers all the information we have,” Terry replied, closing the folder and tucking it under his arm. “You two are hot stuff with the chief.”
“What?” Rob asked.
“He said he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have on the case.”
Frank grinned. �
��In other words, the chief doesn’t want the Rangers pissing in DPD’s sandbox?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Terry replied.
Edna stuck her head out of her office. “Anything?”
Rob said, “Not yet. Interviewed the guy’s mother, but he doesn’t live there. Stays in the jungle.”
Her brow rose. “He’s homeless?”
“Looks like it. We checked, but he wasn’t there. Going to try again in a couple of hours.”
“Stay on it,” she said, and ducked into her office again.
Terry motioned them to his office and closed the door. “Edna’s holding on to the case for us,” Terry said, “but as soon as the Rangers get up to speed and throw manpower at it, they’ll start pulling ahead.” He looked at Frank. “If you want to keep it, don’t let them catch you.
“I understand,” Frank said.
Terry cracked his familiar grin. “Okay, get to work.”
On the way back to their cubes, Rob said, “What say we have an early dinner and then wait for Eddie for as long as it takes?”
“I thought Friday was date night for you and Carmen,” Frank said. Those two hadn’t skipped date night in years.
Rob was in his cubicle shuffling through a stack of folders. He glanced at Frank. “She left town today to see her parents in San Antonio. Be gone several days.”
Frank searched his partner’s face for any hint of trouble, hoping Carmen hadn’t gone into a bout of depression. But Rob was busy rifling through papers on the edge of his desk, his expression neutral. The Marine in Rob refused to convey emotion, so God knows what was going on at home. Damn aggravating.
“Fine,” Frank said, “but I want Chinese tonight.”
“Okay, flip you for who picks it up.” Rob reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.
“Hold on. Is that the dammed lucky Kennedy half dollar?” Frank asked.
Rob showed a hurt face.
“Well, is it?”
Rob shrugged and opened his palm. The Kennedy fifty-cent piece rested there.