The Burial Place

by Larry Enmon

  Frank pulled out his cell camera and snapped a shot of the mural. “Thanks, Eddie.”

  Eddie sat up and tugged his shirt down, his face calm now, as if his anger and grief had slipped back into its hole.

  “What does the tattoo mean?” Rob asked.

  Eddie eased his jacket back over his shoulders. “The mark of the Prophet.”

  “But what does it signify?” Frank asked, crouching down to look Eddie in the eye and resting his forearms on his knees.

  Eddie shifted and raked his long hair into place. “That red planet is Wormwood poisoning the earth’s water.”

  “Tell us a little about Brother John,” Frank said.

  Eddie leaned forward. “He’s God’s messenger on earth. Sent to spread the warning to all that’ll listen of Christ’s return. You know, during our nightly meetings, he could quote the Bible? We’d play a game sometimes. We’d give him a phrase, and he’d tell us what scripture it came from. Or we’d just give him a scripture, and he’d quote it to us verbatim.” Eddie looked up in the darkness. “He could take a verse and talk for hours about what it meant.”

  “So where is he now?”

  Eddie lowered his head. “The house we rented burned one night. Everyone got out, but we scattered for a while until he could find another place. That’s when I drifted back into the devil’s temptations. By the time they found another house, I was too far gone. They wrote me off.”

  Frank patted Eddie’s knee. “I’m curious. Does each of the six disciples have the same tattoo?”

  Eddie wiped his eyes. “Yeah, and so does Brother John—the Prophet.”

  “Where was the house?” Rob asked.

  “Corner of Camp Wisdom and Houston School Road, but there’s nothing left now.”

  “Where did they relocate?” Frank asked.

  Eddie shrugged. “Don’t know. When they found out I’d gone astray, they disowned me. I never saw the other place.”

  “Where did you guys get the tattoos?” Frank asked.

  Eddie sniffed and wiped his nose. “Head shop in South Dallas.”

  “Think they’d know where the others are?” Rob asked.

  “Not likely,” Eddie said. “Besides, shop’s out of business.”

  “How many people occupied the old house, and what were their real names?” Frank asked.

  Eddie raised his head in thought. “Never knew anything but first names. Let’s see, there was Brother John, and Brothers Luther, Marshal, Turner, Lee, and Evan.”

  “Where are they now?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t know where any of them are anymore.” Eddie doodled his fingers in the dirt, not making eye contact.

  “Were there any women?” Rob asked.

  “Yeah, Sisters Ruth, Judy, and Karen.”

  Rob jotted down the names in a pocket notebook. “Any way of finding Brother John or the rest?”

  Eddie shook his head. “I heard they’d left Dallas, but don’t know where.”

  “Okay, Eddie. I think that’s all for now.” Frank stood.

  Rob dug for his wallet. He plucked out a twenty and handed it to Eddie. “Here, brother. Take this and get a meal and a bus ticket to the VA. This rough life on the street isn’t working for you anymore.” He stood and dropped his notebook back into his pocket.

  Eddie looked up, said, “Semper fi,” and slipped the money into his jacket.

  “Just one last clarification before we go,” Frank said.

  Eddie shifted his gaze to him.

  “Brother John is Wormwood. Right?”

  Eddie gaped at Frank as if he were the dumbest person on earth. “Of course.”

  On the way to the car, Rob whispered, “I can’t believe he believes in all that. He has real problems.”

  Frank kept his voice low. “Eddie isn’t the problem.”

  Rob edged closer. “What do you mean?”

  “The problem is, there’s a nutcase out there acting on what he thinks is God’s word.”

  14

  More people straggled into the jungle, keeping a wary eye on the pair as they worked their way to the hole in the fence. The melody from a harmonica floated in the breeze as they passed a group of men and a woman sitting on collapsed cardboard boxes. Laughter erupted from another bunch behind them. Although sunset wasn’t for another hour, long shadows fell on the street from nearby buildings. A low rumble of thunder and clouds boiling in from the north carried the smell of rain.

  Frank eased into the seat. A grimace crossed his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to piss like a baby racehorse.”

  Rob chuckled. That was Frank’s favorite line when he needed to go. “Too much green tea?”

  Frank settled himself in the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt, shaking his head at Rob. “Don’t be silly. You can never have too much green tea. Let’s stop at Nellie’s. We haven’t seen her in months.”

  Rob pulled out on the street, drove past the miserable collection of people assembling for the night, and hooked a right onto Cesar Chavez Boulevard. Nellie’s sat down the block on the right. The hole-in-the-wall convenience store was run by an elderly Chinese woman Frank had developed as an informant years earlier. Nellie knew everyone and everyone knew her. Information circulating around the neighborhood always found its way to Nellie.

  As they strolled in, she scolded them. “Where have you two been?”

  The harder she tried to appear mean, the funnier she looked. She stood less than five feet and had a tangled mop of thinning gray hair. The glasses perched on her nose wobbled with each word. No other store in Dallas had so many things in such a small space. The narrow aisles were overflowing with anything you could imagine to snack on. Rob sniffed—tacos.

  “Hey, Nellie,” Frank said. “Is the bathroom still in the same place?”

  She scowled. “Never come to see me unless you want something. Sure, help yourself.” She pointed to the rear of the store.

  “Hi, Nellie. Where’s your son?” Rob asked. “Thought he worked the evening shift?”

  She waved away the question. “Late class today. Be in soon. Hey, I got some more of those big bags of spicy jerky you like. Haven’t had time to unpack them. They’re in the storeroom before you get to the john.”

  “You’re the best. I’ll check them out,” Rob said, and followed Frank through the back storeroom door. Rob located the case of jerky as Frank opened the restroom door.

  Rob sorted through the box and found the best-looking package just before Frank left the tiny bathroom and squeezed into the tight hall.

  Rob looked up. “Wow, looks like you weigh five pounds less.”

  Frank had his mouth open, probably for a sharp comeback, when a scream sounded from out front. They pulled their guns, and Rob peeked out the storeroom door.

  A young Hispanic man with a shaved head, jeans, and white T-shirt shouted at Nellie, waving a pistol in her face. “Empty it.” He motioned toward the register with the gun.

  Rob pointed to himself and then straight ahead. He signaled for Frank to circle left. Frank sucked in a deep breath, and they silently slipped from the storeroom. Rob stayed close to the racks of merchandise, keeping his head low. By outflanking the guy, he and Frank stood the best chance of taking him by surprise.

  “Hurry, you old bitch.” the man yelled, pointing the pistol closer to Nellie’s head.

  As he closed the distance, Rob studied the tattoo on the guy’s neck. The number thirteen—Mexikanemi street gang, one of the worst. Rob raised his pistol, trying to bring the guy into his sights, but he didn’t have the angle. Any shot might also hit Nellie. Rob waited for Frank to get into position. He’d have a better angle. What was taking so long? Rob glimpsed over the rack of chips, and Frank stood there like a statue. Gun out, arms extended, pointed at the hijacker. He had the perfect shot. Why wasn’t he taking it?

  Nellie dropped the cash on the counter and the gang member grabbed her by the hair. He twisted it, and she howled with pain. “
Where’s the safe?” he asked.

  “No safe,” she sobbed. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  Rob kept his weapon trained on the gangster, waiting for Frank, but he never fired. Frank had a look that disturbed him. It didn’t seem normal.

  “Give me the rest, or I’ll kill you, now.”

  A hollowness invaded Rob’s stomach. Frank is out of it. Whatever was going to get done, he’d have to do alone. Shit.

  At that moment, Nellie shifted her stare to Rob. The wild kid noticed her gaze and jerked his head around. His eyes widened, but instead of dropping his gun, he turned it toward Rob.

  “Nellie, get down.” Rob yelled, and fired twice.

  Both rounds hit the guy’s upper chest. He fell back and released his grip on Nellie before sliding down the counter to the floor. His eyes remained open, and he still held the gun. Rob dropped to a kneeling position and tightened his finger on the trigger, ready for a third shot if necessary. When the kid’s eyes closed and his grip on the pistol released, Rob exhaled. Nellie screamed and ran for the register, pushing a button. A high-pitched alarm wailed inside the tiny store.

  Rob stood and advanced with his weapon trained on the guy. The smell of burnt powder hung in the air as he kicked the pistol from the man’s hand. Rob’s ears still rang from the shots. Two crimson stains on the man’s shirt merged and pooled on the floor. Rob looked for Frank. He stood where he’d last seen him—frozen. Gun extended, ready to fire—expressionless.

  “Frank.”

  Frank acted as if he hadn’t heard him, looking straight ahead. Not even blinking.

  “Frank!”

  Frank jerked his head to Rob.

  “Help Nellie.” Rob shouted over the alarm. He pulled his cell and dialed 911.

  Frank ran to Nellie as Rob stepped outside to hear what the operator was saying. Two minutes later, the street looked like a police car show. Red and blue lights whirled in the gentle rain. The ambulance collected the suspect as patrol officers established a police line with yellow tape. Detectives from the Special Investigations Unit arrived, and CSU personnel showed up to ask questions, take photographs, and collect spent shell casings and weapons.

  Rob’s phone rang.

  “You okay?” Terry asked.

  Rob blew out a breath. “Yeah, we’re both fine.” He glanced at Frank, whose deadpan expression was hard to read.

  “I just spoke to Edna,” Terry said. “We’ll meet you guys in Homicide when you get to the station.”

  “Thanks, Terry.”

  Gary Carson was the Homicide detective on the scene. Everyone knew him. Nice guy. Rob waived having an attorney present before giving a preliminary account of what had happened and surrendering his pistol to Gary for evidence.

  Carson eyed the pair. “Don’t discuss this, okay?”

  Frank and Rob nodded.

  “You guys wait outside. We’ll give you a ride to the station in separate cars.”

  “Right,” Rob said as he and Frank exited the store.

  They stood under the eaves while rain splattered the tops of their shoes. Neither had spoken since reinforcements had arrived.

  “You okay?” Rob whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  Frank nodded.

  Rob wanted to talk but wasn’t sure where to start. The most decorated officer in the Dallas Police Department had just frozen in the face of danger. Rob kept his voice low. “Look, I don’t know what happened, but it’ll be okay. We’ll talk it out later. For now, I plan to tell Homicide I had a better angle than you and that’s why you didn’t shoot.”

  Frank didn’t answer or look at him.

  “Hey. You hear me?”

  Frank nodded but remained silent. He kept his gaze on some point in the distance, as if he were watching the rain sweep the street clean.

  Rob’s stomach gurgled. This was going to be tougher than he’d thought. Frank had gone into silent mode. He often did this when he was in deep thought, blocking out the rest of the world to work through some kind of puzzle or problem. Was that what he was doing now? No use pushing it. He’d open up when he was ready.

  Rob ran his palm over his head and eyed his partner, knowing neither of them had the luxury of waiting for him to be “ready.” Frank had to settle this tonight.

  An hour later, when they finished up in Homicide, Terry and Edna met them.

  “You guys okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, no problem,” Rob answered.

  “You’re looking at a week administrative—at least,” Terry said, “but take as much time as you need.”

  Rob shrugged. “I’m okay, Terry. This isn’t the first guy I’ve smoked. I shot one while working SWAT, and God knows how many in Iraq.”

  Edna’s gaze was focused on Frank. “You should also take some time.”

  Frank gave her a half grin before his face fell back into a stoic mask.

  Rob was issued another pistol and scheduled a time to give a formal statement the following Monday. As they strolled down the hall, Terry placed a hand on Rob’s shoulder and said, “Do something to unwind. I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks,” Rob said.

  Edna and Terry kept walking, but Rob touched Frank’s arm. “We need to talk.”

  Frank’s gaze darted from one end of the hall to the other. “Okay, but not here.”

  15

  Ten minutes later, they meandered through the door of Sarge’s. The crowd was light on this rainy evening, mostly couples whispering quiet words in each other’s ears and sharing a drink. Rob knew Frank liked rainy evenings, especially at Sarge’s. Sarge always worked late on Fridays, and he spotted them as they entered. He stepped from behind the bar and laid a hand on Rob’ shoulder.

  “You two okay? Word’s already out about the shooting.”

  “Yeah,” Rob said. “Just another day at the office.”

  “I have a booth open.” Sarge grabbed Rob’s arm and led him to the rear. Frank followed but didn’t say a word.

  “You guys have a seat,” Sarge whispered. “Drinks are on the house. What’ll you have?”

  “Beer,” Rob said.

  “I’ll have the house red,” Frank mumbled, his gaze on the cardboard coaster near his hands.

  “Coming right up.” Sarge rushed toward the bar.

  Rob laced his fingers together and scrutinized Frank. “Can we talk?”

  Frank sighed and a grin swept across his lips. “If we have to.”

  “We have to,” Rob said.

  Sarge put a beer and glass of wine on the table. “You guys need anything else, just holler.” He marched to the bar, welcoming a group of new arrivals.

  Rob tasted his beer and eyed Frank. This dark rear booth was the most private, usually occupied by cops meeting girlfriends and/or hiding from their wives. More than one officer had ducked into the men’s room at the sight of his better half hiking through the front door. Rob kept his gaze on Frank until he finally looked up.

  “Talk to me, Frank,” Rob said.

  Frank’s sipped the wine and appeared to gather his thoughts. He stared at his hands. “I’m not what I appear to be. I’m a fraud.”

  Rob leaned toward him. “What are you talking about?”

  “After that incident in Vice, everyone believes I’m this cold-blooded, badass shooter, but I’m not. That wasn’t me.”

  Rob shook his head. “Frank, you killed four people in less than ten seconds.”

  Frank fiddled with a paper napkin, finally meeting eyes with Rob. “What if I told you it was my evil twin.”

  “Then I’d say you have a badass evil twin.”

  Frank had never talked to Rob about the incident, but it was legend around the department. Rob had never asked, probably believing Frank would tell him someday when he was ready.

  Frank ran his finger around the top of the wineglass for a moment before speaking. “I was working Vice one night and pulled an old queen out of a show when he poked his junk through a glory hole. He told me he had some good information if
I’d cut him some slack on the charges. What he said had the ring of truth, so I called Sarge. He was my sergeant at the time, and we agreed the information was worth more than a stupid Vice charge.”

  Rob sat back in the booth. “What was the info?”

  “A lot of johns in South Dallas were getting beaten and robbed by a gang of Crips operating a prostitution racket. The old queen said he knew all the players. Could put us right in the middle of them.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Because I turned the guy, I got to be the bait,” Frank said. “We had Vice cars all over the place as cover. All I had to do was pick up a whore and allow her to direct me to the place her pals were waiting to jump me. The Vice officers would move in and bag the lot. Anyway, that’s how it was supposed to go down.”

  “I take it things went sideways?” Rob whispered.

  “Yeah.” Frank grinned. “Real sideways.”

  “What happened?”

  * * *

  Frank had relived the event so many times in his mind he didn’t really have to remember anything. It all flooded back into his memory as clear as yesterday. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t forget.

  It had been a frigid February afternoon with a howling north wind, and heavy clouds hung over Dallas. A nasty light freezing rain had blanketed the city for hours. All the weather forecasters were predicting a hard freeze that night. Frank and the backup team had met with Sarge in a vacant parking lot off Grand Avenue. They stood shivering under the rusty, dilapidated overhang as Sarge went over the details.

  “Frank,” Sarge said, “you cruise Malcolm X between Oak and Hatcher. That’s the operational area.” Sarge turned to the other officers. “You guys position yourselves up and down the street so he’s always in sight. I repeat—always in sight.” Sarge ran his finger across a wilted paper street map on the soggy hood of the car. “If he picks up a whore, she might be one of the suspects we’re looking for. She’ll jump in and direct him to drive someplace to turn the trick.” Sarge pointed at Frank. “Keep your eyes open for tails. These Crips won’t let your truck get out of sight before they’re right behind you. They might even be waiting where she takes you.” He nodded to the other officers. “But we’ll be right behind them.” He wadded up the map. “Any questions?”