Color of Murder

by John Foxjohn

  As he talked to her, the first one knocked on the door. This time Morgan arrived first, followed by the others.

  While they got comfortable, David stood looking out the window. When he turned, five pairs of eyes watched him. After sitting down, he rubbed his hands together. “I wanted to tell the group something before we get started on this mess. A couple of times I’ve heard a few of you say something to the effect that you thought I would want you to do something. I want you to know that we’re a team. It just so happens that I’m in charge of it. That means,” David winked at Melissa so the others could see it, “I get the credit when things go well. The five of you take the blame when they don’t.”

  They chuckled and relaxed at David’s attempt at humor. “You’re all FBI agents.” He locked his eyes on Melvin. “If something needs doing, do it. Don’t worry about if I would want you to or not.”

  He leaned forward and met each agent’s eye. “I did mean that, but want you to understand something.” He pointed an index finger at them. “I have one little rule you had better not forget. You screw up, you tell me the truth. Period. Do not lie. I will fade the heat if you mess up. If you violate that, you’re gone.”

  John held up a pack of cigarettes, and when David nodded, he lit up. Morgan, waving the smoke away, moved to the other end of the sofa.

  “Now that’s taken care of, I want Andy and John to find out all there is to find out about that dead bank employee.”

  Morgan, in a borderline sarcastic voice, asked, “You don’t think she has anything to do with this, do you?”

  David, pinching his chin with thumb and index finger, stared into Morgan’s eyes for a long minute. “Why do you think they chose a bank in Nacogdoches?”

  A half grin formed on Morgan’s face. “That’s simple. So no one would recognize them.”

  “Uh-huh,” David said. “We have an unidentified male that goes into a bank, opens up an account with over a hundred thousand dollars in Justin’s name, and gets away with it.”

  Morgan nodded. “That’s the way I see it.”

  David’s eyebrow rose. “Hmm. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “If that scenario is correct, why did they kill the woman?”

  John smiled. “H—e has a point—Morgan.”

  As if he hadn’t heard this last exchange, David continued. “Tomorrow I’m going to Nacogdoches and talk to the sheriff. I’m also going to see if I can talk to the Angelina County commissioners, or at least some of them. I also want to talk to Lufkin’s police chief.”

  David took a drink of his coke. “I want the rest of you to go to the phone company. Get the Milam’s phone records for the last six months. When you get them, start finding out who received a call from the Milams, and who has called them. I want the time those calls came in, or went out along with the date.” When they nodded, he continued. “I also want the calls matched against the times Justin worked. One last thing. We haven’t received a list of Justin’s personal effects. I want this ASAP.”

  “Do you think this is important?” Melissa asked.

  “Probably not. Just irritated that we don’t have it, yet.”

  * * * *

  Whistlam stopped at an Okay food store on Lufkin’s east loop. After purchasing a pack of cigarettes and a coke, he strutted to the pay phone and dialed a number.

  When the other end answered, he said in a nonchalant tone, “That little problem we talked about is taken care of.”

  He expected to hear some congratulations, waited for it. It didn’t come. “You stupid fucking idiot.” The voice on the other end shot through him like daggers. He frowned, shaking his head. What was wrong? He did what they’d told him. He stuttered, not knowing what to say. At last, he regained his composure. “What’re you calling me an idiot for? You told me to do it.”

  The voice on the other end broke into an ice block. “I damn sure didn’t tell you to do it in front of a witness. I thought you had better sense than that.”

  His jaw almost hit the pavement. “A witness! That’s impossible.”

  “Yes, Einstein. A witness.”

  Whistlam couldn’t say anything. His throat had a giant ape choking him. Sweat beaded his forehead. His blue eyes boiled with rage. “That’s a fucking lie. Someone’s filling you full of bullshit. No one saw me. I know what I’m doing.”

  A dry chuckle emitted from the other end. “Death row is full of people that know what they’re doing. From what I hear, the witness is a ten-year-old boy who was fishing. Not only did he see your face and can identify you, he followed you to the road and gave them a description of your truck.”

  His hand tightened on the phone, squeezing, as he stomped on the pavement. Fuck a duck. The conversation stalled, while the killer thought about screaming, pulverizing something.

  Dripping with sarcasm, the voice on the other end asked, “Well—what’re you going to do about this witness?”

  A smile creased the killer’s face. “You’re saying the little brat followed me. His parents should’ve taught him to mind his own fucking business. I’ll take care of him.”

  “How?”

  “I know that area well. The road has two houses. One’s about four hundred yards from that river and the other is about six miles. The nosy little brat has to live close.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Glancing at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time, David demanded to no one in particular, “Where the hell is Melvin?”

  Morgan and Andy shrugged their shoulders and John looked at the floor. Melissa rose. “I’ll call his room.”

  David wasn’t in a good mood and hadn’t slept well. For some reason his stomach kept him running to the bathroom most of the night. Not a person who had trouble sleeping or stomach problems, he didn’t handle it well when he did. He was also a time person. Never late, he always knew within a couple of minutes of the exact time, and didn’t tolerate people who were late too often. A minute or two, OK, but Melvin was over thirty minutes late. He marched to the window and looked out as Melissa reached for the phone.

  David swirled when someone knocked in the door, glancing at his watch. “That better be Melvin.”

  When the agent slogged in, David almost stepped on his lower lip. Melvin looked like a herd of cattle had run over him. His chocolate brown polyester pants were one big wrinkle, his white shirt had stains on it, his hair stuck up in the back and sides, and he had two five o’clock shadows to go with his bloodshot eyes.

  Melvin adjusted his black-framed glasses with his index finger and mumbled, “Sorry I’m late.”

  When he trudged into the room, Melissa shifted well out of his way, as if afraid to get close to him.

  Morgan was the first one able to speak. “Damn, Melvin. Did you get mugged?”

  In a weak voice, looking at the floor, the computer specialist muttered, “No. I stayed up all night working on something. I came up with a couple of interesting pieces.”

  David sat down and crossed his legs. “You’re thirty minutes late to my meeting. You look like someone who has been spit at, missed, shit at, and hit. It damn well better be something important.”

  Melissa glanced at David. Her expression said, “Take it easy.” He closed his eyes a moment, and then nodded at her. “Okay—Melvin, Whatcha got?”

  Melvin mumbled, “I need to show you in my room.”

  John looked up from the floor, his eyes sweeping Melvin’s appearance. “Y—ou want us to go t—o yo—ur room?”

  The other agents cracked up. David smiled, despite the cramps in his stomach. Melvin didn’t get the joke, nodded a couple of times, and resumed inspecting the carpet.

  As he trudged toward the door, David said, “Lead the way, Melvin.” The others followed. None of them had gone to Melvin’s room before. As they slipped into the room, everyone stopped where they were, except for John, who peeked around the door. His room was neat with a made bed, but electronic equipment lined all the walls and floor.
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  Scratching his head, Andy asked, “How’d you get all this in those suitcases?”

  “I’ve made a few purchases since I arrived here.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy everyone, and since it didn’t appear anything in the room would bite them, they inched in and shut the door. When everyone had a seat, David indicated for Melvin to begin.

  Hesitant at first, Melvin started talking. “I found an interesting conversation on one of the tapes we have. I dubbed only the interesting part onto another tape for you to hear.” Now in his element, Melvin stood straighter and his voice became stronger. He reached into a dresser drawer, brought out a tape player, and inserted a tape. “Before I play this, let me give you a little bit of info. The call is from Deputy James to Sheriff Peterson. First voice you’ll hear is James. Then Peterson.”

  When David nodded, Melvin hit the play button.

  “Get a grip on yourself, you drunk idiot.”

  “But that fucking Mason knows.”

  “James—what the hell are you talking about?”

  “William Holtz told me…”

  “James, shut the hell up and get off this phone. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes in front of your house. Your ass better be sober, too.”

  The conversation stopped with a slammed down phone. Melvin pushed the stop button on the tape. “Next call is from the Sheriff to Lloyd Spivey. It happened fourteen seconds after James’ call to the sheriff. First voice you’ll hear is Spivey’s.”

  “Spivey.”

  “I’m picking you up in front of your house in ten minutes.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Never mind. I’ll tell you in ten minutes.”

  Again, the phone slamming down ended the conversation.

  The agents in deep thought didn’t say anything for a long moment. Melissa broke the silence. “When did that call go through?”

  Melvin smiled for the first time since he slogged though David’s door. “The night before someone killed James.”

  David’s eyebrows rose. “You’re right. That is interesting.”

  Melvin seemed to stand straighter. Now, with a cocky voice, he said, “If you think that’s interesting, wait till the next piece of info.”

  “You have something better than that?” Andy asked, imitating someone, but no one could figure out whom.

  Melvin’s smile grew larger as he let the silence in the room linger. “I have a real picture of the man who killed Deputy Milam.”

  “You have what?” David blurted out.

  Melvin smiled. “I have a real picture of one of the men that killed Deputy Milam. Minus the black paint and wig.”

  Silence ensued in the room for several moments before Melissa broke it. “Are you going to show us? Or keep standing there smiling like a Cheshire cat?”

  “When me and Dennis went to the bank,” Melvin shot a sharp glance at Morgan, “I took my equipment. He laughed at me, by the way. Anyway, the security tape we found with the unidentified male opening an account had a good facial picture. With my equipment, I took a picture of his face. Last night, I scanned the picture into my computer.”

  “Y—you’re able to—do th—that?”

  Melvin, as if lecturing an ignorant child, nodded with a boastful smirk. “That’s easy. Anyway, when I scanned the photo in, something about the facial structure hit me. I took the picture and put it into a program that I’ve made.”

  The agents all exchanged glances while Melvin set up his computer. David stood and placed his hands on the back of the chair, intent on what Melvin did. It was obvious the computer specialist thought he had something important.

  Melvin’s computer powered up, and he moved his chair a little so everyone could see. Two pictures appeared on the screen. The one on the left was that of a young white male, and the one on the right was one all the agents in the room recognized. A picture of the black male who had drove the car and fired the shot into Deputy Milam’s back.

  “What I did, I took the picture of the black male and put it in my program.” Another frame popped up with only the killer on it. A few more key strokes and the hair lifted from the picture, and then the killer turned white.

  The agents all sat forward in their seats, staring at the computer screen.

  It wasn’t long before short brown hair appeared on the head of the ex-black killer.

  “Now watch this,” Melvin said. He hit a key stroke and the picture of the white male sat beside the one he’d worked on. Now they were the same.

  “How did you do that?” Andy asked after a long silence.

  “I changed the suspect’s skin color and put the hair from the white male at the bank on the suspect. As you can see, the black male that killed the deputy is the same man that opened the banking account.”

  David nodded and rubbed his chin. While the other agents chatted with Melvin about his discovery, David stood, tapping the index finger on his mouth. After taking a deep breath, he interrupted the others. “Can you make eight by ten pictures of the man in the bank?”

  Melvin smiled, reached into his briefcase, and brought out a handful of them. “I thought you’d want these.”

  David took the pictures and looked Melvin in the eye. “Melvin—you’re a fucking genius. As long as you can acquire stuff like this, you can be as late as you want.”

  Melissa laughed. “What about his clothes?”

  David’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “That’s a different story.”

  * * * *

  Two hours before daylight, Whistlam drove his truck down the dirt road without lights. The truck crept past the bridge over the river where he’d killed Deputy James. He smirked, thinking back to James. He hated cops, but hated sniveling cowards even more, and James was both. Killing someone didn’t bother him one bit. It was survival of the strongest, and he eliminated the weak. If he didn’t do it, someone else would. Besides, James had to die.

  With lights out and window down, tires crunched on gravel, but the bright moon lit the road enough to see. Traveling less than five miles an hour, the killer didn’t want to stir up any of the red dirt. He didn’t believe anyone could or would see it, but he wasn’t taking any more chances. No more witnesses.

  Four hundred yards past the river, as he topped a steep hill, a house outline appeared a ways back from the road with a driveway leading to it.

  Without hitting his brakes, he allowed the vehicle to roll to a stop close to a group of trees and past the entrance to the house. He eased the truck into park, and then killed the engine.

  No lights showed at his intended target. He knew everyone still slept. He’d reconned before dark the night before and watched the house for a while. He knew where the kitchen, and living room were, and where the kid slept. He wasn’t able to find out where the parents slept, but that didn’t matter.

  He also knew they didn’t have dogs.

  Because he’d removed his overhead light, nothing showed when he eased the door open. With care, he removed a large canvas bag off the front seat before he exited the vehicle.

  Shivering from the cold, he set the bag on the ground and closed his coat. He put on gloves. He couldn’t afford to have cold fingers.

  Nervous, he took a deep breath of the cold air, and his burning lungs revived him. He eased his way toward the house, stopped, and glanced at the sky. He had time.

  As he tiptoed his way, he made sure to stay off the gravel driveway. Instead, he crept through the knee-high grass. His lower legs became wet and cold from moisture, but he didn’t care. He knew it would cut down on sound.

  With his destination about a hundred yards away, it took him ten minutes to travel half the distance. He squatted in the wet grass, his eyes scanning the darkness—looking for any movement. His ears perked for sound.

  After a few minutes with nothing to keep him company but a low, rustling wind, he stood half bent over. He needed to be more careful now.

  Thirty minutes later, with his chest thumping, he stood with his back to the w
all of the house, next to the boy’s window.

  He sipped in air through his nose before he knelt in the grass. His hands trembled. His heart seemed to go in reverse. A strange feeling of power took over his being—the power he got when he had control of another person’s life.

  He opened the bag. Inside, he’d placed three glass, gallon jugs filled with a mixture of gas and motor oil. The gas would devastate anything it touched. Jails did have some educational benefits. He’d learned, if you were after humans mix in oil. The combination would make fire stick to whatever it touched. Rolling on the floor would not smother the fire.

  He’d teach that nosy little bastard to follow him.

  All three jugs had a thick cloth a foot long sticking out of the mouth. He’d melted bees wax around the cloth and the opening to ensure the cloth stayed in place, and then scored the jugs with a glasscutter. This made it easier for the thick jugs to explode.

  Now, one at a time, he flipped the jugs over to let the liquid soak into the cloth.

  He smiled. Throw two of the jugs into the kid’s bedroom and the other in the living room when he ran by on the way to the truck.

  He looked around, gaze scanning the darkness, and rose after a deep breath. Jumping to the other side of the window, leaving one of the jugs on the ground, he breathed deeply.

  With his back to the wall, his left arm was ready to swing his bomb through the window.

  He knelt. Light both wicks. Throw the left one. Run past the window. Throw the right one. Bend and pick up the third. Run to the living room, light, throw, and haul ass to the truck.

  Taking his time, he ran his actions through his mind over and over. Can’t be no mistakes.

  After several minutes of mental rehearsing, he reached into his jacket pocket for his Zippo lighter.

  His breath caught at the noise the top made when he flipped it open. Damn. Didn’t think about that.