by John Foxjohn
He sat, glancing through a Sports Illustrated magazine.
Ten minutes later, the phone on the assistant’s desk buzzed and she sent David on back. After apologizing for the interruption, the chief asked David if he wanted some coffee.
When the coffee arrived, Spears sat behind his desk and with a grin on his face and asked, “Well, did Director Beeker give me a good report?”
Spears chuckled at David’s expression. “I would’ve called if I was in your place. To me that’s a sign of a good agent.”
David sipped his coffee. “Chief. I’m here investigating Justin Milam’s death.”
Spears nodded. “Good. Our sheriff’s department is a joke. If someone doesn’t take charge, those bastards are going to get away with executing a damn good deputy sheriff.”
David tapped his index finger on his mouth. “How in the world did Peterson get elected sheriff?”
Spears shook his head. “Elected officials—and this includes sheriffs—do not need to be qualified for the job. It’s a popularity contest. Last sheriff did the job well, too well. He got crossways with people and it cost him the election.”
After a deep breath, David asked, “What do you know about Deputy Willis James?”
Spears crossed his arms, nodding. “I wondered when someone would be sharp enough to ask about him.” Spears took a deep breath and hesitated.
“Sir—what you say will stay between us.”
Spears peered at David for several long moments. With the room quiet, a clock ticked louder than normal. David drank from his cold coffee, waiting for the chief to decide if he could trust him.
At last, Spears nodded. “Mind you, what I’m about to say is pure speculation. James worked for me for four years. I wasn’t unhappy to see him join the sheriff’s department. He did an adequate job here. No more. He had a few minor complaints from citizens that all officers have.”
David nodded, understanding the chief’s statement. Captain Patterson in Houston said several times, if someone wasn’t complaining on an officer occasionally, that officer wasn’t doing his job. “I have a feeling there’s more than a few minor citizen complaints,” David said.
“He had more complaints from his supervisors than he did from citizens. I counseled him several times for the same thing. One more time and I would’ve suspended him.”
David frowned. “What was the problem?”
“For some reason he wouldn’t stay in his patrol sector.”
David’s eyes widened. “Why not?”
Spears shrugged. “At nights, especially on the weekends, we patrol twelve sectors in the city. Timberland Drive divides Lufkin in half from east to west.”
David nodded. He’d figured they would use the main thoroughfare to section off the city.
“We have six sectors east and six west,” Spears continued. “Supervisors would assign James the northwest sector, and later, for no reason, they’d find him in the southeast.”
David sat in the chair, his mouth twisting from side to side, fingers tapping, while the chief spoke. He’d been on patrol four years before going to homicide, and never heard of a patrol officer not staying in his sector unless called out, or on lunch break. He scratched his head. “What’s your gut feeling about him?” David asked after several quiet moments.
“Mind you, it’s my opinion, but for some reason he wanted to be on the east loop at night. When we assigned him these sectors, he didn’t wander away. When we caught him out of his assigned areas it was when he patrolled the west areas.”
David frowned. This was confusing as hell. Why would he want to stay on the east side? Did he live on that side, or have a girlfriend there?
* * * *
Melissa slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right shoulder. Not paying attention to the old Ford truck in front of her, she almost rear-ended it when the driver hit his brakes.
She swerved back into traffic in front of another car to a blaring horn, attempting to keep the vehicle she followed in sight. She shook her head. She’d messed that one up. She hoped James hadn’t paid any attention to the blaring horn behind him and spotted her. She couldn’t muddle up this first assignment.
When James parked in front of the sheriff’s department, she parked on Frank Street across from the entrance on First Street. With a yellow highlighter, she marked the location of the sheriff’s department and 2214 Moss, Willis James’ home address on her map.
Forty-five minutes later, James came out and drove south on First Street. Melissa followed a way back, keeping him two cars in front of hers. When the deputy turned right on Sunset, she knew he headed home. When he continued on Sunset, she turned left on Cimarron and a right on Vine, and stopped at the stop sign at Vine and Moss, giving her a good view of James’ driveway. Now, she was glad she’d taken the time to drive through James’ neighborhood before she followed him.
After he parked and lumbered inside, she passed by and found a place on Moss she had spotted before that gave her a view of his front door and driveway.
She leaned back in the seat to wait. Time passed like a turtle race. She read the Lufkin Daily News from front to back, finished the crossword puzzle, and at noon, broke out a coke and a bag of chips to munch on.
Years later, a Lufkin police patrol car drove by. She glanced at her watch. It was 3:30. When he did a U-turn in the street and pulled behind her, she removed her badge and ID.
He approached her driver’s side, and she rolled her window down, showing her badge. They chatted for a few minutes, but Melissa wanted him to leave. If James appeared, he’d spot the patrol car and her. She sighed when the patrolman left.
James lived in a nice neighborhood with pine trees and some bare hardwoods lining the street. Homes in this area were older but well maintained with clean, neat yards.
At four-fifteen, bored out of her gourd, she strummed on the steering wheel when James dashed out and backed his car out of his drive. Melissa scrunched in her seat with her eyes peeking over the dash. She sighed when he drove away from her.
She let him get a few blocks away before she followed. She didn’t believe he knew about the tail and she wanted to keep it that way, but couldn’t lose him.
When he parked in a parking lot, she pulled in and parked after he rushed inside, and debated about going in. Would David want her to take that chance? She could call him, but he always said, he liked people who could think on their feet—take initiative. She wouldn’t find out anything by watching the parked car.
CHAPTER 9
Cigarette smoke blasted Melissa in the face when she eased in. Putrid stale beer odors and sweat caused her stomach to rumble. Blinded at first, she stood in the entrance until her vision returned to normal.
In the middle of the room, a horseshoe bar dominated the space with pool tables and shuffleboard on the left, and tables and a dance floor on the right.
She eased her way to the left, sitting on a bar stool with her back to the pool tables, giving her an unobstructed view of the patrons sitting by the dance floor. James, with his back to her, sat with four other males she didn’t recognize. With no music playing, a steady hum of conversation drifted through the joint from the few customers mixed with the solid clack of balls hitting other balls.
When the bartender stopped by, she ordered a whiskey sour. A male resembling a toothpick wearing a hat sat beside her. He kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Melissa turned away on the stool to avoid his eyes. Vultures swooped in when someone made eye contact with them.
“May I buy you a drink?”
Facing away from him, she rolled her eyes. Her gambit hadn’t worked. She half-turned toward him and forced a smile. “No thank you.”
After she ignored him for several minutes, he took the hint and moved on, replaced by another, then another. Everyone wanted to buy her a drink.
She attempted to watch the group with James without appearing to, but she had a problem. She needed to know who they were. She couldn’t go back, tell Dav
id about the meeting, and not know the people he met with. If she asked, the question might give her away, and then one of them moved and she glimpsed his gun butt. An idea formed, and when the bartender came, she ordered another. When he returned, she nodded toward where James sat. In her best frightened voice, she whispered, “One of those men has a gun.”
The bartender leaned toward her. In a confidential tone, he told her, “That’s the sheriff and his deputies. They come in all the time. Always sit at that table.”
Melissa faked a relieved sigh and continued her vigil. Although she couldn’t hear the discussion, their gestures, animated at times, gave a clear impression they weren’t happy. What she’d give to be a fly on the wall. One in the group kept pointing his finger at James’ face.
Thirty minutes later, the group dissolved, slipping out one at a time, leaving Melissa to consider whether to continue following James or go back and tell David what she’d found out. After several moments, she figured he’d sent her to follow James for this reason and he’d want to know about their little meetings. What she didn’t understand was what James had done to make David suspicious of him.
* * * *
David pulled into the Brazos Cattle Company parking lot, close to the entrance. He put the car in park and rolled his window down, tapping on the steering wheel. After several minutes, he put it in drive and pulled onto the road, turning right on the loop. He pulled to the shoulder where he thought Justin had parked his patrol car.
When he exited his vehicle, he stood in the place he thought Justin had. Hairs stood on his neck. Prickling sensations made his pulse race. Although all blood and odors had long since vanished, coppery odor, and voided bowels caused his stomach to heave. When his mind conjured up Justin’s dead eyes, he shook his head. The time wasn’t the same as when Justin died, but it was the same place. He knew these odors didn’t exist here now, but had seen so many murder crime scenes his mind fabricated the odors.
Across the loop loomed the Lufkin Mall. Several small businesses were on his side of the loop, but like the mall, closed when Justin died.
He tried to put himself in Justin’s place from the time he pulled out from the restaurant parking lot until the suspect shot him in the back. He attempted to play it in his mind, word for word, every action. He’d done this with every homicide crime scene he’d ever investigated, but for the first time, he couldn’t bring up a mental image.
He stood for a long time with cars whipping by, fine water mists spraying him from tires on the wet road. With trees lining the roadway, birds fluttered, hunting food. He trudged to his car, got in and closed the door, but left the window rolled down. Why couldn’t he picture this crime scene? Why couldn’t he put himself in Justin’s place? He could only think of one reason—something was wrong with the facts they thought they knew. He didn’t have the right information. His heart beat faster. They had everything on tape. Justin followed that car. He stopped it, called it in, ran a check, approached the driver, and died. They found his body lying here. Those were indisputable facts.
He was looking, but something wasn’t right.
* * * *
That night, as the agents filtered into David’s room, he was deep in concentration, watching the murder tape. After stopping the tape, he asked them what they’d found.
Melvin opened his leather case. “Here’re the pictures you wanted.”
David nodded and set them on the desk. “We’ll look at them in a few minutes.”
Andy, with a fake slur, spread his hands wide, “Lis—ten to m—e.”
Melissa rolled her eyes, and David dropped his head, a tight knot in his stomach. Andy reminded him of Henry, his old partner with the Houston Police Department.
David raised his eyes. “Come on, Andy. What’d you get?”
“Not much. Officer Freyman traveled on the loop going in the opposite direction when the call came in. He arrived, called it in, checked for a pulse, and protected the scene. Didn’t see anything or anyone.”
David pursed his mouth and nodded. “Afraid of that.” He paused for several moments, and then rubbed his hands together. “Run it down how the call went out about Justin.”
Andy glanced at his notes before answering. “Milam checked out with the vehicle. Then asked for a check on the car and driver. The dispatcher came on and told him that the computer was down. Several minutes passed and she called to check on him. Got no answer, waited a couple more minutes, and checked again. She called the sheriff’s supervisor and he advised her to contact the PD because they didn’t have a sheriff’s car in the area. Freyman got the call and found the body.”
Morgan took out his comb, raked it through his immaculate hair, and extracted a spiral notebook from his suit coat. “The driver’s license that Deputy Milam held belonged to a Wilbur Sears of 312 West Main in Houston, Texas. Twenty-four year old black male. Five-ten, hundred seventy pounds. When do you want me to contact him?”
David tapped his mouth. “Don’t. It’s a fake, and a good one, too.”
Morgan stared at David for a long moment. “Why do you say that?”
“Think about it. Three males kill a police officer. Driver hands him a driver’s license and doesn’t bother to get it back before they leave. You saw the tape. They didn’t rush off. They left at a normal pace.”
Morgan nodded. “The license plate was—”
“Reported stolen,” David finished for him.
“Yep.”
David rubbed his hands together. “One thing I want all of you to keep in mind. Most homicides fall under the SMR pattern. That stands for sex, money, or revenge. In fact, family or friends commit about ninety-nine percent of all homicides. Random homicides don’t occur often. Sometimes when a law enforcement officer dies on a traffic stop, he stopped the wrong person at the wrong time. This looks like that. This case looks like Justin stopped a drug runner and they killed him because he was about to catch them. The killers meant it to appear like that. It isn’t. This was a planned execution. Question we need to find answers to is why? Revenge, or something else.”
With a frown, Melissa asked, “Why do you think this was a planned execution?”
“Simple. They didn’t need to kill him. First shot disabled him. He couldn’t’ve stopped them. No reason we know of for the second suspect to put Justin’s gun on his forehead and pull the trigger. If this was random, they would’ve fled the area like their tail was on fire.”
Melvin took out a handkerchief blew his nose. “Maybe they didn’t want him to identify them.”
Melissa’s nose crinkled when he returned the soiled rag to his pocket.
With a disgusted look, Morgan snorted. “You don’t have anything to go on but a theory. These three could be in Mexico or Canada by now.”
The room became quiet and the agents all found a reason to look anywhere but at David or Morgan. David’s pulse throbbed in his temples. His eyes narrowed like a laser beam. After a few deep breaths, he opened his mouth to speak, but Andy jumped in before he could.
“David’s right. Fake driver’s license and stolen plates, he couldn’t identify them.”
Silence hung in the air like a fog. David, with his mouth suppressed in a thin line, met Morgan’s eyes. “Yeah. That’s my theory. When you get to know me better, you’ll find out I don’t throw my theories around without something to base it on. Think about this. Someone called and left an anonymous tip about the suspect the sheriff arrested. Why would anyone do that? People make these calls to get rewards. Whoever called couldn’t get a reward because the guy they reported had nothing to do with it.”
Melissa stood and stretched. “They called hoping to shift the blame and investigation to someone else?”
David rubbed his mouth. “If they fled the area they wouldn’t need to do that.” David pushed rewind on the tape. “Want to show y’all something.” He pushed the play on the tape, fast-forwarded it, and rewound until he found what he wanted. “Watch this traffic stop. It happened right before
Justin stopped the last vehicle.”
The tape played, showing the Firebird’s traffic stop. When the tape flickered black for a moment, David paused it. “Did you see it?”
All the agents frowned. “See what?” Morgan asked. David rewound the tape and started it again, pausing it in the middle. “Now look.”
Melissa’s head snapped up. “Hey, that car passing by.” She pointed at the screen. “That’s the car the killers drove.”
David nodded and hit play. When Justin finished the search of the Firebird, David paused the tape again.
“There it is again,” Melvin said.
David stopped the tape. “Yep, the vehicle carrying the three males who killed him, passed by twice while he had the other vehicle stopped.”
John’s eyes widened. “They were trying to get him to stop them.”
“Exactly. I’ll also tell you this. Those three who killed him were not drug runners.”
Morgan fingered his hair. “How do you figure?”
“Couple of reasons. First, drug dealers don’t send mules out in threes, and they never have black drug mules.”
With a big grin, Andy said, “So, drug dealers aren’t equal opportunity employers. That’s against federal law.”
Morgan, ignoring the resident comedian, asked, “Why?”
“They want to keep the costs down is the reason they send them by themselves.”
“I think I know the second part,” Melissa said. “They don’t send blacks because there are many places where blacks get pulled over because of BIP.”
“O—kay. I’ll—bite. What’s—BIP?”
David stood. “Black in public.” He paced as the agents talked about the case, not registering their words. He had no doubts that someone had planned Justin’s execution—planned it well, too. What bothered him, in order to plan the murder the way they did, they had to know Justin’s routine, how he operated. They had to know this to get him to stop them. Many people probably knew how he did it, but those people were in law enforcement, not three drug runners that Justin didn’t know.