“Hello,” said a male voice.
Art turned as a man approached. The man appeared to be a doctor. “Hello.”
“Art, my name is Dr. Jindal. I am your doctor. How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, Doc, I don’t feel any pain.”
“Great. Art, would it be okay to talk to you about your injuries?”
He listened to Dr. Jindal. A lot of technical jargon, and all Art understood was, “You have cancer.” And “You only have a few weeks to live maybe a little longer.”
Art wasn’t scared. He knew life was not fair. In fact, he was a bit surprised he survived prison. Many a night he didn’t think he would survive until the next day. Of course, he wanted to live a long life, but tomorrow wasn’t promised to anyone.
Julie came in later.
She took his blood pressure. “Hey, you sure you don’t want me to call anyone for you Art?”
“No, no one to call.”
“Come on Art, having someone here to talk to will help you,” Julie spoke with a slightly higher pitched voice, placing a caring hand on his shoulder.
He stared off into space.
She smiled. “Art, do you have a wife? Kids?”
Art turned, and stared at Julie, his eyes meeting hers. “No, never found a woman that’d put up with me,” he said, managing a smile.
A crucifix dangled from Julie’s necklace.
Raised Catholic, Art hadn’t been to church in years. He believed in God, but worshipping the Almighty was something that took a backseat in his life. Now he was going to die in a matter of days. He wished he didn’t know the when. He could do it himself, but suicide was a mortal sin, and not an option. He hoped God would forgive him for what he had done. To get to Heaven, he would have to repent.
He pointed to Julie’s crucifix. “That’s nice.”
“Oh this? It was a gift from my husband on our first wedding anniversary.”
Art inspected it as if it was the only thing of importance in the entire world. He wouldn’t get to see or do many of the things he wanted to before meeting his maker.
She held the crucifix so that he could get a better look. “Are you religious, Art?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I haven’t been to church in years.” He thought again about God forgiving him. Art remembered some of the sermons from Father O’Malley when he was a kid. O’Malley’s words always calmed him. He looked up at her. “Can you do me a favor Julie?”
Chapter Six
Confession
Henry walked down the hallway like a sleepy puppy.
The hallway smelled too clean. He wiped eye-boogers from his left eye. His father-in-law was awake when he called, and had come over to the house. Most men didn’t like living near their in-laws, but Henry was happy they lived only a few houses down. They never said no, and it was hard to beat free childcare.
Henry saw Julie at the nurse’s station, and thought how beautiful she was. After eight years of marriage and two kids, her beauty still made his heart flutter.
He walked over to the station in time to watch her bending over grabbing a file off the floor.
“Hey, you, you were fast,” she said. “Who’s watching the kids?”
“Your dad.” He grabbed her hand, held it firmly, giving her a kiss. He pulled back a bit, gazed into the pools of blue, small but infinite. Hard not to love this woman. “So, where’s this guy at?”
She tilted her head in the room’s direction. “He’s in room 415.”
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing, he talked to a priest last night, and this morning he wants to talk to the police,” she responded, giving him half a shrug, and a full smile.
“I’ll take it from here ma’am,” he said with a boxy grin and a wink. He released her hand carefully as if it were a precious gem.
He walked to the room
“Knock, knock?” Neutral colors covered the walls. Henry thought they needed to add some color, cheer the place up some. There were monitors, wires, and blinking LED’s beside what appeared to be a mummy in bed. Gauze covered much of the man lying in the bed, and his left leg was in a cast.
Henry walked over and stared at what he thought was the man’s face. His eyes were exposed through the gauze. He wondered how many bones were broken. He had broken his leg at fourteen, and was bedridden for several weeks during that summer. He had tried to impress a girl, on a family vacation, by jumping from a second story balcony. Landing inside the pool was the goal, but he misjudged the distance, and landed on concrete, two feet away from the pool.
“Hello! You there?”
“Oh, sorry, just remembering when I broke my leg when I was a kid. I’m Police Officer Creed. I’m an investigator with the Houston Police Department. You had the nurse call me, says you wanted to confess something.”
“Well, as you can see I had an accident.”
He nodded.
Henry had his notepad and pen ready to take notes. “So, what’s on your mind, Art?”
“The doc tells me I only have a few weeks to live. I have a tumor, it’s cancer.”
He wrinkled his brow, exhaling through his nose. “Sorry to hear that Art.”
“I talked to a priest yesterday and he said it wasn’t too late for me, I can still be saved,” he said with a religious glow.
He decided not to be hard on this man. If he wanted to confess something, Henry would take his time and let Art tell him. “So, you’re Catholic?” he questioned, a Baptist wouldn’t ask for a priest.
“I don’t know, probably.”
He said, “I’m Catholic. I’m not sure what the priest said to you, but I believe that it’s never too late to confess. Repent, and be saved.”
“Before I leave this world though, I want to leave with a clear conscience. Do something good, you know?”
“Go ahead Art, what’s on your mind?”
“I work for a guy who does things that aren’t on the up and up, if you get my drift. So, this guy, my boss calls me the other night and tells me that a client has a problem, and I must go help him out. And—”
“So, Art what did you do? Kill somebody?”
“No, but I did dump a body.”
The words hung in the air like a bad smell.
“Really?”
Art didn’t reply verbally, answered with his eyes.
Both eyebrows slowly moved up. “Okay, where?”
Art gave him a description of the dump spot, and told him her body had been rolled up in an area rug.
“And she’s dead? You sure about that?”
“Yeah, a young girl, I don’t know, about ten years old. Hispanic, I think, but I didn’t kill her.”
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The machines seemed as if they were alive and he should acknowledge them with a look. “How’d she die?”
“Hey man, I don’t kill. I can’t tell you much more than what I’m telling you. The guy I work for has been good to me. I’ve been able to make a decent living, you know, and feed me and mine, and I’m not gonna say anything that you can use against him.”
“Art, you just admitted to dumping a dead girl’s body, I need more information about how she died.”
Blinking, Art didn’t respond.
Henry sighed. “Who do you work for?”
“This is about getting that girl out of there so her parents can bury her, give her a proper burial.”
He stared at Art’s face, gazed into his eyes, which were deep and empty. “If I go out looking for her will she be there? Will I find any evidence indicating that you killed the girl?” Henry blurted, stepping closer to Art.
“You’ll find her there. And no, you won’t find any of my DNA on her. I’m not a pervert, I like grown women, like my nurse, the one with big tits. She’s a looker,” he answered. “Maybe she’ll give me a piece, you know like a sympathetic gesture before I die.”
His wife was good looking and her male patients, he was sure, made passes at her. She had told him that she
literally smacked a few guys for getting too handsy. “That nurse is my wi…”
Each man turned his attention to the door as it opened.
Chapter Seven
Homicide
He hated hospitals, especially this early in the morning.
Found the room and pushed the door open.
Carter entered, his smile turned into an O when he saw the man standing at the end of the bed. “What’s this?”
The man at the end of the bed pulled out a wallet and opened it, holding it up.
A golden metallic object with a design and numbers was etched in it, and shined. His eyes narrowed, recognizing the fact he might have to pull out his pistol and use it.
“Sir, HPD, I am Police Officer Creed, Homicide Investigator.”
An eyebrow went up. “Homicide?” He looked at Art, and chuckled. “Who murdered who?”
The investigator stared at him.
“What?”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, who are you? What’s your name?”
Sending out a million-dollar smile of a salesman, he answered. “My name’s Carter, I’m Art’s cousin.”
The cop smiled. “Come on in, I have some questions for you.”
Chapter Eight
Destroy The Evidence
Norman White was on the third mile of his jog when his phone rang.
He stepped off the treadmill, and pulled out his cell phone. “Yes, how’s Art?”
“Sir, I have bad news.”
Norman grabbed a small towel from the treadmill’s left handrail, and wiped his face. “Oh, that’s not good, I had such high hopes for today. What is it? Is he dead?”
“Well, the doctors told Art that he has an inoperable tumor,” Carter said.
He placed the towel back on the handrail. “Oh my.”
“The doctor gave him only a few weeks to live.”
Not good. They would need to find another driver. “That’s unfortunate. We need to find a replacement as soon as possible.”
“Sir, Art was feeling down and wanted to do something good before he died,” Carter said hesitantly.
Norman heard the stress in Carter’s voice. “Okay.”
The line crackled.
“He called a cop.”
A cop?
Really? Staring at death gave him the balls he never had. Norman had a zero tolerance when it came to cops.
“Art wanted to tell the cop where to find the body so it could have a proper burial.”
They could be in serious trouble. He quickly ran through all the options.
“Sir?”
Norman shook his head. “Yes, I’m here.”
“That cop just left to go look for the package. I can’t make it to the body faster than him because he kicked me out of the room before Art could tell me the location. If that copper finds the package, he’ll start poking into places where you and I don’t…” he said before Norman interrupted.
“I understand.”
Do we run?
They could kill Art, but they know too much now. They took a statement from him and will probably find the body. “There aren’t many solutions to the problem. We have to assume the worst-case scenario.”
“Okay.”
Norman gripped the phone tighter. “We need to act fast. Listen to me carefully.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norman cleared his throat. “Let’s assume this will become a full-blown murder investigation.”
“Alright.”
“What is the next logical step for us?”
Carter sniffed. “I’m not sure, sir, if the cops control everything, how can we do anything?”
Norman looked out the window onto the street below. Two fat women were walking along the sidewalk, each holding onto a dog leash. A pug on one end and a poodle on the other. He never understood the concept of owning pets. In some parts of the world, those dogs would end up on someone’s dinner plate. “We need to derail HPD’s investigation.”
“How do we do that?”
There were days when he truly felt sorry for his young colleague for being such a dullard, but today he didn’t.
“We need to destroy the evidence.”
“Destroy the evidence?”
“Yes, I have some contacts inside HPD but no one close enough to get at the evidence.”
“What if we can buy the cops off?”
He sighed. “I doubt it, this is America. Cops tend to be honest, especially here in Texas.”
Carter scoffed.
Another idea quickly entered Norman’s mind. “Can we take care of Art? You’re there. Why not take care of him now?”
“Sir, a uniformed police officer is guarding his room. I can’t get to him,” he said. “And I bet once they find the package, there will be more cops there.”
“You’re right. We need to act fast.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?”
“I have an idea. Come back here. We need to start making some calls.”
Chapter Nine
At The Dumpsite
A wretched troll lived in Mitch Mason’s head.
With every breath and slightest movement, the troll made its presence known. He knew he should have called it a night at eleven last night, but then she, what’s-her-name, said she would go back to his place. It was ten minutes until three in the morning when she left his home.
Since his divorce he felt as if nothing grounded him anymore. He found solace in being in a drunken oblivion four to six nights a week.
The ex-ended up with the house. He ended up with a crappy condo over on the East side of town. Ever since his divorce had been finalized, he had been busy swatting down every bar fly in sight with his dick.
His daughter told him his ex-wife had been dating someone, and it was serious. Already?
Mitch was not ready to hear his baby call another man dad. He took four Ibuprofen, and drank enough water until his stomach told him to stop. A coffee with two shots of espresso was welcomed.
“Want to get some breakfast tacos?” Creed offered.
Mitch would have grinned if it didn’t hurt to do so. His partner, being half Hispanic, was genetically susceptible to tacos. Being part Irish, mad Mitch was genetically susceptible to booze and cheap women.
“I’m not hungry, how about later?”
He nodded. Creed took a sip of his coffee. “Did you get any sleep?” His partner knew about Mitch’s off duty extracurricular activities, and during the hours they happened.
He didn’t want to be in this moving car, especially with a someone who drove like a member of NASCAR. “Yeah, think I got a couple of hours.”
“Partner, you ain’t getting any younger, you gotta get your sleep man.”
Mitch closed his eyes. “Don’t be undude.”
Undude. His word, ever since college. Lieutenant Lehanny, their boss, had a shirt made last year for Mitch’s fifteen-year anniversary with HPD. Black with white letters: “Don’t be undude.”
“How’s the new apartment?”
“It’s cheap, but decent, and I’m good, just need more coffee and maybe a little nap.”
Creed was almost a decade younger than Mitch but acted like his older brother at times. “You can’t take a nap.”
“And why not?” He blinked several times, the troll used sandpaper on his eyeballs. He needed eyedrops.
“Because we’re here,” Creed said, parking next to the curb.
“Okay, I’m going behind that dumpster over there to piss out the beer I rented last night.”
Creed nodded.
Mitch exited the car, and walked over behind a dumpster. Caught a whiff of stink, his head started clearing a bit.
He thought something might be dead. A fence, the kind that had narrow slats of wood interwoven in the links, surrounded the dumpster. He could see inside the gate but couldn’t see anything that would cause the stink.
He pissed a gallon of yellow onto the ground, and then zipped up. As Mitch ambled closer, Creed
got out of the unmarked car.
“What, too cold outside for you ma’am?” Mitch joked.
Creed smiled, but didn’t say anything.
They walked down the sidewalk, Creed looking at the red and blue buildings that Art mentioned to him. The buildings stood only a few blocks south of Minute Maid Park on Congress Street.
A fence stretched along the gap between the buildings, five feet wide. Mitch estimated the fence to be seven or eight feet high. “Did he say he put her in there?”
“Yes,” he mumbled, no human presence around here, especially lately, with all the freezing weather. During the summer, homeless people would roam the area due to a homeless shelter a few blocks away.
“Well, shit. I guess we need to check it out,” he declared, grabbing the fence, raising his leg to find a spot for the toe of his shoe.
An eyebrow shot up. “You’re going to climb that fence?” Creed inquired.
“Yep.” He managed to climb over the fence without breaking anything.
Dry leaves crumpled noisily under his shoes. He moved some corrugated metal around, moved some trash with his foot and found a rug, rolled up.
“You think that might be her?” Creed whispered.
Mitch glanced, and stared at his partner. “I really hope not.” He pulled out his phone and took several pictures. Creed did the same.
Satisfied with the number of pictures he had, Creed ran to the car. He grabbed a small blanket and a bundle of rope. He went back to Mitch, threw him the rope. Creed climbed up on an old dock, and placed the blanket on top of the fence, to cover the overgrown foliage and the unseen barbs.
Mitch wrapped the rope around the rug, and tied it off. He threw the other end of the rope to Creed.
He lifted the rug over his head and leaned it against the fence. Creed pulled the rope, and raised the carpet to the top of the barrier. He handed it to his partner. Hugging the rug with one arm, Creed dropped down to the dock.
If Art was seeking attention before he died, Mitch would make that son of a bitch pay.
He pushed the rug. It rolled, producing a little girl’s corpse. Art wasn’t a loon.
Ungoverned: A Thriller and Suspense Novel (Ungoverned Series Book 1) Page 2