Code of Deceit: A Mystery/Detective novel (David Mason series)

by John Foxjohn

  “Yes, sir.”

  “William’s going to be Okay. He’s tougher than he looks.”

  David frowned at the familiarity. “How long have you known the inspector?”

  Pointer chuckled. “Let me tell you a story.”

  He rolled his eyes. Oh crap, here he goes again with a long- winded story. But it might have a point if he listened and could stay awake at the end to hear it.

  “I may not look it, but I’m seventy-nine years old. I joined the Houston Police Department when I was nineteen.”

  “I thought someone had to be twenty-one to join,” David said.

  Pointer nodded. “I lied about my age. They found out a year later and fired my butt. When I turned twenty-one I hired on with the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.”

  How long was this story going to go on before he got to the point?

  “I worked for them for three years, and became a Texas Ranger. While I was with the rangers, my sister died. She left a no good husband and a boy. I helped raise this boy. He grew into a fine man. I got my nephew on the Houston Police Department and I’ve never been disappointed in him.”

  David’s head jerked up. “Wait a minute—are you saying Inspector Patterson’s your nephew?”

  “Yep, and I’m as proud of him as I can be.”

  David was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. It all came together. “You talked to the inspector about the picture before you came and talked to me, didn’t you?” David asked.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s how he knew McMillian and Brophy didn’t have anything to do with it. Why didn’t he tell me?”

  Pointer chuckled. “Son, it’s always best to let someone come to their own conclusions than tell them everything.”

  David was confused. “Why didn’t you give the picture to the inspector instead of bringing it to me?”

  “William has talked about you for five years. I wanted to see what he saw in you. We have lunch all the time and Carl and I have to hear ‘Mason did this. Mason did that.’ I wanted a close look at you.”

  David tilted his head. “Carl?”

  Pointer chuckled again. “Carl Pores.”

  “You know the chief, too. Is he also a nephew?” David asked with a crooked smile.

  “No, Carl and I are old friends. Son, I’ve been in this business for sixty years. I know all the old timers. Why did you try to get me this morning?”

  David was embarrassed. “Sir—I—uh…”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Just tell me.”

  “I wanted fresh eyes to look at what I have. Someone who isn’t close to the evidence, and could give me an idea where I should go.”

  “You’re as smart as William said you were. Not many young detectives ask for help from an old man.”

  David smiled. Pointer might be an old man, but he’d hate to tangle with him. He bet this old goat was tougher than boot leather. “I do need some fresh ideas.”

  “You never thought this Carlin kid did it, did you?”

  “No sir. He has reason and I know he’ll never forgive me for shooting his father.”

  “Of course he won’t. He knows you’re not responsible, but you couldn’t expect him to forgive you. Son, that was a good shooting, but let’s forget it. Why didn’t you suspect him?”

  “I’m not sure. It didn’t seem right. We don’t have much, but what we do points to him too much and in the wrong way.”

  Pointer nodded. “You do have the instincts.”

  Although pleased with the old sheriff’s compliment, David wished he’d concentrate on the case. He’d seen about everything in the state that happened over the last century. Not only seen it, he’d participated in it—if David could get him to stay in this decade. “Okay, what am I doing wrong on these investigations?”

  “It’s not what you are doing wrong. You aren’t doing anything wrong. It’s what you aren’t doing right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You believe all these shootings are connected, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” David said.

  “And you’re right. You asked me a few minutes ago what you did wrong on these investigations. That’s your problem.”

  David frowned and rubbed his hand through his hair. “Sir, I’m confused.”

  “David, you’re doing what most young investigators would do. You’re chasing the cases. You have three different cases, and three different crime scenes. You believe there’s one shooter. You’re chasing the cases and not the shooter.”

  David didn’t have a clue to what this old man was talking about, but didn’t want to say so. Taking a drink, he asked, “What do you suggest?”

  Pointer smiled and nodded as if he’d read David’s thoughts. “Forget the last two for the time being. Concentrate on the first one. If you find out who shot you, you have who shot the other two.”

  “There’s not much there, sir.”

  “Son, there’s no such thing as perfect crimes, just imperfect investigations.”

  David smiled. “So that’s where the inspector got that saying.”

  “Yep.” He grinned. “Tell me about the first one.”

  David told him what happened, what evidence they had, and his feelings.

  “This police cordon around the scene—was it any good?” Pointer asked.

  “Sir, it was good. It would’ve been impossible for the shooter to get through it.”

  “Okay, I’m going to give you two pieces of advice, and I’m going back up to William. First, if something seems impossible, it probably is. Second, you need to take yourself out of the detective mode. Put yourself in the shooter’s mind. If you were the shooter, what would you do?”

  David drove back to the station with his advice rolling over and over in his mind: If something seems impossible, it probably is. Put yourself in the shooter’s mind.

  David and Henry spent the day interviewing Ronny’s relatives and friends, going over the inspector’s phone logs. At four, sheer exhaustion set in from a sleepless night and no food. He sent Henry home, called Beth, asking if she wanted to get something to eat. He was going to run by and see Marge Patterson first. He stopped at the chief’s office and gave an oral report, which didn’t take long.

  Meek and classy, Marge Patterson possessed an inner strength few people had. It wasn’t obvious on the outside, but anyone who talked to this woman and got to know her, could see it.

  She didn’t know anything, and Inspector Patterson didn’t tell her what was bothering him. She figured he’d tell her when he was ready. He’d come home about six, ate supper, played with the kids and helped them with their homework, and sat in the den by himself for about an hour. He’d told her he had to go to the office for a while. He didn’t tell her why, which was unusual. He almost never went back to the office once he came home. The times he’d returned to the office were when someone called him back.

  David asked if he’d received any calls, and she told him he hadn’t, and as far as she knew, he hadn’t made any, either.

  He returned to the station and called The Lucky Lady on Southwood. He could hear loud music in the background when Big Mac’s grumpy voice answered. “I’m making good on my promise,” David said. “I’m calling.”

  “Yeah, I figured I’d hear from you soon.”

  “You heard about the shooting?”

  “Yep, all over the news and street.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Hold on a minute, Okay?”

  Seconds later, Big Mac came back on the line, and the background music was gone.

  “Mason, I can’t find anything. Nobody knows anything about all this.”

  “McPherson. You’d better not be lying to me.”

  “I’m not. I’ve tried. I’ll keep trying, but nobody knows anything. This is strange.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” David hung up. He’s right about one thing. This was strange as it gets. He left the station to meet Beth, not knowing anything. He kept a close loo
k in his rear view mirror. He thought at first someone followed him, but the white Chevy turned off.

  He met her at Auntie’s Kitchen, a quiet little restaurant on Dogwood. Without a big appetite, despite not eating in a while, David picked at his food while they talked.

  Beth finished and put her napkin on the table. “Where’re you on the investigation?”

  He set his fork down and put his napkin on his plate. “I don’t know. The pieces are there, but I can’t get them to fit into the puzzle. This isn’t a normal investigation.”

  “Where do you usually start in a homicide investigation?”

  “If we know who the victim is, we start by backtracking them.”

  “What do you mean by backtracking?”

  “We follow them backwards from the time the homicide occurred and attempt to find where the victim was, who talked to them last, things like that.”

  “What do you do if you don’t know who the victim is?”

  “In that case, we need to identify them. It’s impossible to backtrack if we don’t know who they are.”

  As they talked, his eyes became heavy, and he had trouble staying awake. Beth shooed him home to sleep. David reached his apartment about six-thirty, flopped down on his bed for a minute, and slept like a brick.

  ***

  When David awoke, a headache was pounding at his temples. Rested, he rubbed his burning, gritty eyes, and popped two aspirin.

  His answering machine was full. Most from officers demanding to know what he’d come up with, but a couple were from radio, TV, and newspapers. They’d somehow gotten his home phone number, and he suspected officers gave it to them. He decided to get up and sit by the pool. Before long, he was cold and hurried inside and decided to write down the things bothering him.

  He wrote, “How did the shooter get out of the police barricade?” He thought about this for several minutes. He shook his head. It would’ve been impossible. What had Pointer said, “If something seems impossible, it probably is.

  He wrote: “Why did he leave evidence pointing at Carlin?” David leaned back, wondering how someone knew about Carlin.

  Who would Ronny be meeting at that time?

  Why was Jerome McPherson unable to find any information?

  How did someone get his picture?

  Why did someone want revenge on Ronny and me, and Inspector Patterson?

  He plodded to the kitchen and put on coffee. When it was ready, he poured a cup and went back to his list. It dawned on him what Pointer meant by chasing cases and not suspects. He was attempting to work all at the same time and not concentrating on one. He looked at the first question on his list. This had bothered him the most. He put himself in the shooter’s position. What would he have done if he’d fired the shot?

  He would have flashed his badge and walked…Oh, crap. He rubbed his face, reaching for his cigarettes. Why he hadn’t thought about that. It had been in the back of his consciousness, the reason he’d never suspected Carlin.

  Back to the list, he wrote cop beside police cordon. How would someone know about Carlin? Cops knew about it, and Ronny would meet a cop there. That’s why the shooter knew about him not going to unlit parking lots.

  Why would someone shoot Inspector Patterson? He thought about this one for a long time, and decided to come back to it.

  Why was Jerome McPherson unable to find any information? He had contacts everyplace in this city—except the police department.

  How did someone get his picture? He dropped his head, rubbing his eyes, believing it had to come from the police department. The shooter couldn’t approach anyone from the media, and a civilian couldn’t walk around inside the police department without drawing attention.

  He paced on his balcony and shivered as a cold gust washed over him. He lit a cigarette, took a few drags, threw it over the balcony, and without thinking, lit another. Why would someone shoot Inspector Patterson? If it was revenge for the old shooting, Patterson wasn’t involved. Revenge was out.

  He sat, massaging his temples. It had to be about revenge. Homicides follow the SMR pattern. This wasn’t about sex or money. Ronny and the inspector sure weren’t in a love triangle with David. He didn’t know how much money Inspector Patterson had, but no one wanted to kill him and Ronny for money.

  What did the three have in common? It hit him like a stampede.

  Chapter 31

  Third precinct. All three officers had worked together there. He stood and stretched, lighting another cigarette. What happened in the third precinct to make a cop want to kill them? Inspector Patterson figured it out. That’s one reason the sniper shot him, but he didn’t believe it was the only reason. That’s why Inspector Patterson got the service files.

  Ronny also figured it out, but how?

  David showered, change of clothes,, and drove to the station. Halfway there, it hit him. Phillip Belford from the third would want all three dead. Belford knew about the old shooting.

  In his chair, he laid his forehead on his desk. He was like that when Henry came in, stopped, and looked at David with a concerned expression. “What’s up?”

  David raised up. “Going over what we have in my mind.”

  “You have a strange look on your face,” Henry said.

  “Henry—I want to throw something at you.”

  “Throw away.”

  “Let’s say, hypothetically, you were the shooter in the window across from the restaurant. You, my partner, had decided to shoot and kill me.”

  Henry frowned. “This is hypothetical, right? You’re not thinking it was me?”

  “Of course not. Never crossed my mind.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “You fire the shot and take the time to clean up, leave nothing. By the time you get down, police have responded in force. They’ve blocked the entire area off. There’s no way to get through the barricade around the scene. How would you do it?”

  Henry thought for several minutes with his chin resting on his right hand and tapping his cheek with his index finger. “David, if it was me, I wouldn’t try to get out. I’d flash my badge and help them out. But I’m a cop. I could get away with it. The shooter wouldn’t have—oh dang.”

  Silence took control of Henry. Finally, he asked, “You think the shooter’s a cop, don’t you?”

  “I’m convinced of it.” He reached into his pocket and brought out his list. “A veteran investigator told me, if something seems impossible, it’s probably is. Getting out seemed impossible, and it was. He didn’t get out. He never left.”

  “What old investigator?”

  David hesitated. If he told him who, that would lead to other questions and he wasn’t sure Patterson and Pointer wanted their relationship known. They both had the chance to tell before and hadn’t. David would leave it that way. “Someone I met. Let’s leave it there. It’s not important anyway.”

  David went over all the points on his list indicating the shooter was a cop. Henry listened in silence and when David finished, asked the question David had been dreading. “What cop would have reason to kill all three?”

  David took in a deep breath. “There’s one person I can think of who might want to kill us.”

  “Who?”

  “Let me tell you this first,” David said. “I was thinking this morning, wondering what we had in common. I came up with the third precinct.”

  Henry snapped his fingers. “Service files Patterson looked at. He figured this out.”

  “Yep.”

  “Who do you suspect?”

  David hesitated for a long time. How was the best way to explain this?

  “Who?” Henry asked again.

  “Phillip Belford.”

  “Is he still with the third?”

  “No. He’s not on the department anymore.”

  Henry stood, hands on hips. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  David pursed his lips. “Might be difficult.”

  Henry frowned and sat. “Why?”

  Davi
d rubbed his face. “He’s dead.”

  Henry’s mouth fell open like a broken rattrap. “Dead?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. He killed himself four years ago.”

  Minutes passed and no one said anything. Henry, looking at David, shook his head. “Well, Bub—where I’m from, that’ll just about eliminate him as a suspect. But heck, I’ve never arrested a dead man before.”

  Peggy stuck her head in the door. “David, you’ve got to do something about all these phone calls.”

  “What phone calls?”

  “From the press. I’m getting too many to answer. You need to get on the phone and call them and tell them what’s going on. Have another one of your press conferences or something. I’ve too much work to do to handle all the phone calls.”

  He took in a deep breath. He didn’t want to deal with this.

  “Easy partner,” Henry said.

  “Peggy,” David scratched his head. “I’ve been ordered by the chief not to answer any questions. If anyone wants information, direct them to public information office or the chief’s office. I can’t help them.”

  “I’ve done that and it doesn’t do any good. They call them and when they don’t get anything they call me back.”

  He shrugged. “Only thing I can tell you is to stop answering the phone.”

  She turned and stormed out, mumbling, “Little good you are.”

  David looked at Henry, who shrugged.

  “What’re we going to do about this?” Henry asked.

  “I want everything you can find on Belford. Everything. I want to know where he’s buried, and Henry, I want to know what it’ll take to get him dug up.”

  Henry looked at David bugged-eyed. “Dug up? Do you mean exhumed?”

  “Exactly what I mean. I didn’t see them bury him.”

  David was looking at the paper work on his desk when a fleeting image popped into his head, something that had been there but wouldn’t come out. He had worried and worried with it. Someone said something at or about Ronny’s death and it wasn’t right. It was said at the crime scene or after.

  “David.”

  “David.”

  He glanced up to see Henry looking at him funny with his head cocked. “Are you Okay?”