Color of Murder

by John Foxjohn

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, her pulse thundering in her head, she lay on the carpet. Despite the room’s warmth, she shivered in spasms.

  A warm wetness spread across her pants front, and her face flushed with embarrassment.

  * * * *

  David kicked the trashcan across the room. “What do you mean he’s not here?”

  Morgan shrank from the anger in David’s eyes. “We searched everything in here, and outside. Woman’s here by herself.”

  When Melissa strode up, David spun to her. “I want that woman in an interrogation room in ten minutes.”

  She nodded and turned away. David turned back to Morgan. “Get everyone in here.”

  David, like a cornered tiger, paced the room until the agents shuffled in. His face filled with rage, he spun toward them. “I’m taking Melissa and Andy with me to the police station.” He pointed his finger at Morgan. “I want you to stay here. I want this place torn apart. Every inch of it searched.”

  When Morgan started to say something, David put his hands on his hips. “Do you have a fucking problem with that?”

  Morgan dropped his eyes to the floor. “Uh—no.”

  David turned to Melvin and John. “This is what I need you to do. Get a hold of Sheriff Lambert of Nacogdoches county. I want that kid who witnessed the homicide at the river to view Whistlam’s picture in a line-up. I want to know the results of the line up ASAP. Do you understand?”

  John nodded and dropped his eyes to the carpet. Melvin looked David in the eye. “We’ll do exactly what you want, but…”

  “But what?”

  Melissa, standing beside David, reached and laid her hand on his arm. Her expression told him to calm down, take it easy.

  He took a deep breath. With his eyes closed, he nodded. After a minute of long silence, he said, “What’s the problem—Melvin?”

  The computer specialist, who had joined John in inspecting the carpet, glanced up. “I don’t know about John, but I don’t know much about line-ups.”

  David turned and looked out the window, but couldn’t see anything through the steamed up panes. Dammit. He needed to get control of himself. This was not their fault. It was his. He chose inexperienced people so he could train them right. Now, instead of snapping at them, he needed to train them.

  When he turned back to his agents, he half smiled. “I’m sorry for acting that way.” His glance found Melvin. “That was a good question. You were right to ask it. We can’t afford mistakes on this. When you get to the sheriff’s department, tell Joe you need pictures for the line-up. He should have some.” David turned to Melissa, his gratitude evident on his face.

  He adjusted his FBI jacket. “Here are the important things about this line up. Make sure there are at least six pictures. All of them white males, about the same age and hair color. No distinguishing features on any of them. You’ll only want face shots. Make sure Whistlam isn’t first in the line-up.”

  David thought a moment to see if he’d covered everything. “One last thing. Under no circumstances, do you give the boy any help in the identification. Don’t lead him. He has to choose or not by himself. Also, I want the line-up video taped.”

  David looked from one to the other. “If you have any questions, ask them.”

  When they didn’t say anything, he nodded. “I’m a phone call away. If anything comes up, call me.”

  * * * *

  David, Melissa, and Andy watched the woman through the one-way glass. He’d had her brought to the Lufkin Police Department. She sat in a wooden chair behind an old metal table, facing the window. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her hands shook. Her lips trembled.

  Andy asked, “You sweating her?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  Andy chuckled. “How do you plan on handling it? She’s already peed on herself.”

  David thought a moment. He prided himself on reading people and believed that was the key to a successful interrogation. Some you tried to rattle. Others you were matter of fact, and a few, the interrogator attempted the nice technique. Make the suspect believe that they were on her side.

  “Kid gloves,” David said at last.

  Andy thought before he spoke. “Makes sense. Can’t wait to see you in action. ”

  David smiled to himself. Andy was aware enough to abstain from his normal jokes and impersonations, which David appreciated. For the most part, David didn’t mind his humor. It had a way of relieving stress and tension from the group. But now wasn’t the time, and David believed the agent knew it. It was another way Andy reminded him of Henry. His ex-partner had known when to turn it on and off.

  “You taking Melissa in with you?” the interrogation specialist asked.

  “No. I want Melissa to stay here. I want you to go in with me.”

  David didn’t explain his decisions often, but figured he’d better this time. “We’re in East Texas. In many ways, this area is still backwater. In larger towns back east, a woman interrogating another woman wouldn’t seem unusual. Here, they may clam up.”

  David caught Melissa’s nod. “When we go in, you read her the Miranda Warning. I’m taking the lead on this one. But I want you to stand behind her.”

  “When are we going in?”

  David turned to Melissa. “Now. Turn on the cameras.”

  When the door opened, the woman jumped and crossed her arms across her chest. David smiled at her and sat across from her. Before he spoke, he put his writing tablet on the table. Taking his time, he reached into his pocket, took out a pen, and laid it on the paper.

  He reached into the inside coat pocket and extracted his badge and ID, and set the open bi-fold wallet on the table so she could see the badge and read the ID at the same time. “Ma’am. I’m David Mason, an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m the head of the Bureau’s Behavioral Science unit.”

  David left the badge on the table to remind her who he was while the interrogation proceeded. He’d given his entire title to impress her.

  He pointed behind her. “This is Agent Andy Hastings, also of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “Ma’am,” Andy said in greeting.

  She jumped at the sound of his voice behind her. “By law, I’m required to read you your Miranda rights.”

  Her eyes flickered from David to the table while Andy read the warning to her. “Do you understand these rights as I’ve read to you?”

  She glanced up, but dropped her chin. “I—I guess.”

  David leaned forward. In a calm, soothing voice asked her, “Is your legal name Patsy Franklin Milstead?”

  When she nodded, David asked her if he could call her Patsy.

  She nodded again.

  “Patsy—we need to know if you do understand the rights the agent read to you.” David put his hands on the table. “You do not have to answer any of our questions. You can have an attorney present when we talk to you. I would not want to do this, but if you say anything in this room that incriminates you, I am obligated by law to use it against you in a court of law.”

  Her swollen, tear-filled eyes glanced up at him. Her lips still trembled. Extending her hands palms up, she spoke in a halting, low voice. “I ain’t done anything.”

  David dropped his chin and nodded a couple of times. In his most sympathetic voice he said, “I think that’s probably true. I think you’re an innocent bystander in all this. I don’t believe you had a thing to do with the murder of two law enforcement officers.”

  His words brought the reaction from her that he had intended. He wanted to hit her right between the eyes with the severity of the matter and appear to be on her side. In truth, he did feel sorry for her. He did believe she was a pawn who Whistlam used, but he had a job to do. He’d learned years ago to drive forward, despite what he felt.

  She jerked up. Her eyes grew as large as a Texas chicken fried steak. When she held her hands out, palms facing David, she started shaking her head. “I don’t
know anything about any of this. What am I doing here?”

  With a concerned frown on his face, David nodded. “I think I believe you. Like I said before, you’re an innocent bystander in all of this.”

  David leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the table. “However, we have indisputable evidence that Tanton Whistlam killed them.”

  “Tanton?”

  David, now tapping on his lips with his left index finger, widened his eyes and nodded several times.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her expression made David feel like as ass. He had to stop this bastard before someone else died.

  “Patsy—this guy is a killer. If he will shoot two helpless law enforcement agents down like dogs with rabies, he’ll do it to you without blinking an eye. I—have—to—stop—him.”

  David saw a look of acknowledgement in her eyes. He knew she’d cooperate.

  An hour later, they had a full statement from her, including Whistlam’s friends and relatives, where they lived, but most important, where she thought he’d run to. Also, he had no banking account or credit cards.

  In the hallway, Melissa waited for them.

  Andy crossed his arms and tilted his head. “I thought I was good. Damn David—that was one great session.”

  Melissa smiled. “I told you. The next time you’ll—”

  “Mason. I want to talk to you,” a loud, angry voice sounded behind them.

  David half-turned. Sheriff Willie Peterson marched toward them.

  David, exasperated, waved and turned to leave.

  “Damn you. I’m talking to you. I hear you have someone in custody. I want their ass in my jail with my people talking to them.”

  Without turning, David said, “Peterson. Shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which one fills up the fastest.”

  David took a step to leave and the sheriff yelled his name. David spun. “You really don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

  Hands on his hips, the sheriff flushed burnt orange. “I’ll tell you this. From this time on, I’m taking over this investigation and you are out of it.”

  David chuckled and tilted his head. “Melissa—arrest him for obstruction of justice.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “No skinny little bitch will put me in jail,” Peterson shouted.

  He never saw Melissa move. One moment she stood almost next to him, and then her left leg whipped around, catching him behind both legs. He struck the tile floor on his knees. With her foot, she shoved him to the floor and dropped onto his back, wrenching his left arm behind his back.

  As Melissa slapped the cuff on his left wrist, he let out a squeal. She yanked his right behind his back, and metal bit into his wrist when she whacked it closed.

  The trussed sheriff lay face first on the cold tile. David sauntered forward and bent down. “She’s small and delicate looking, mousy if you will.” He smiled. “But that mouse roars.”

  * * * *

  “Dammit David.” Police Chief Harlan Spears flushed. He stood behind his desk, leaning on his fists. He pointed his finger at David’s face. “The next time you decide to pull some shit like this…” a smile broke out on his face. “You damn well better call me first so I can see it.”

  David snorted. “It was funny. Melissa took him down like a rag doll.”

  Spears sat and started laughing. “A mouse that roars. Now, that was a good one. This female agent of yours must be a pistol.”

  David smiled. “She is. She’s going to be a damn good agent.”

  The smile left the chief. “What do you plan on charging Peterson with?”

  David smoothed his hair. “Ugly in public. Public nuisance. I don’t know.”

  “What I figured.”

  “When we leave, would you have him released? Tell this dipshit, the next time he gets in my way, he will not be released.”

  After their talk, David found Melissa and Andy waiting for him. Melissa, proud of herself, smiled. “Melvin called. They have a positive from the boy. He identified Whistlam right off.”

  “What do we do now?” Andy asked.

  David motioned them to follow him. Although early afternoon, the sky had darkened with heavy clouds rolling in from the north, and a wolf-wind penetrated to the bone. The three agents, huddled in their clothes, sped to David’s car.

  While the heater cranked up, Andy kidded Melissa about the sheriff.

  After rubbing his cold hands together, David said, “What we need to do first is find Whistlam, but also the other two. We have two major questions we need answered.”

  Melissa frowned. “What’s that?”

  “We need to know why a two-bit scum bag thief all of a sudden graduates from assaults and penny ante thefts, to killing deputy sheriffs. I damn sure want to know how the hell he knew we were coming.”

  As he sat in the back seat, Andy extended his hands toward the heater. “Do you think someone tipped him?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Who?”

  “Think about this,” David said. “He came home and told Patsy he wasn’t going back out. He sits and starts drinking beer. Even takes his shoes off. He gets a phone call and dashes out of the house like a runaway horse. Five minutes later, we hit the place.”

  Melissa, tracing a circle around her lips with a finger said, “Had to be a tip off. But who?”

  Andy asked, “Who knew we were hitting them?”

  David took a deep breath. “The only ones who knew were Chief Spears, some of his people, and the six of us. I kept the sheriff’s department out of it for that reason. No other law enforcement agency knew about it.”

  Now concerned, Melissa asked, “What about the patrolmen who raided with us?”

  “Didn’t know where we were going until we left here. None of them knew who we were after or why we were going there. “

  A puzzled expression crinkled Andy’s forehead. “Do you trust the police chief?”

  David closed his eyes. Unfortunately, he did. Harlan Spears didn’t tip anyone off.

  * * * *

  Tanton Whistlam knew he was up shit creek without a paddle. Even after the phone call and he ran, he didn’t believe the FBI knew about him. He’d driven around the block and parked in an out of sight place he knew. He crept back to his house through the brush and hid across the street. He didn’t wait long. Damn FBI hit his place like a swarm of locusts.

  He shivered thinking about how close that was. How did they get on to him? He did everything perfect. How did the boss know they intended to come, too? He needed to ask about that. Too much shit going on he didn’t know about.

  When they hauled Patsy out handcuffed, he shivered, and not from the cold. He eased back to his truck and left. That bitch would tell them everything.

  A mile away, he pulled into a parking lot, trying to figure where to go, what to do. He couldn’t head to his friends. If the feds knew about him, they would find the other one.

  He needed to get rid of his truck. Every cop in this state would look for it. Hell. Every damn cop in this country would be on the lookout for it. The cops in this area would recognize him. They’d harassed him enough.

  Mexico. That’s where he’d go. They couldn’t get him there, but how would he get there? He had about twenty dollars on him. Got to get some money, but where?

  As he drove down Timberland, he passed a Chevrolet car lot. Nodding to himself, he half-smiled. He turned left on the loop and a mile later, turned into another auto dealership.

  When he parked by the new cars, a tall man in a suit and smile strode toward him. “Shelton Mayes,” the salesman extended his hand.

  Tanton smiled and shook. “David Mason.”

  Mayes pointed at the new Firebird Whistlam stood next to. “That’s a nice car there.” The salesman, sure from the expression on the customer’s face, was ready for the kill. He explained all the car’s good features and asked if that’s what he was interested in.

  “Yeah. Tired of this truck. Been looking at the Firebirds awh
ile. Pop the hood.”

  After displaying the engine, the salesman opened the driver’s door. “Sit in it. Do you have a missus?”

  Whistlam nodded and settled behind the wheel, his gaze drifted all around the car’s interior.

  “This is a great little car for women. Would you like to test drive it?”

  “Yeah. I’d like to have a friend of mine check it out. He’s a mechanic.”

  With his hand held high, a wide smile on his face, the salesman dangled the key. “Take it for a romp. Have it checked out. I warn you though, after you drive it, you’ll want it.”

  Whistlam nodded. “Is it okay to leave my truck here?”

  “You betcha. I’ll take good care of it until you get back. Take your time.”

  He backed up and exited the lot. The smile reappeared. He planned to take his time, asshole.

  Whistlam figured he had three or four hours before the asshole called the law. When he did, they would run his truck plates. He had to have another vehicle by then. He also knew where to get it. He headed north on 59 to Nacogdoches.

  He pulled into a small car lot that financed used cars, and drove to the rear where a small trailer sat. Wilbur Lester peeked out the window.

  When Whistlam opened the door, the face disappeared. This bastard wasn’t going to be happy to see him. He found Lester sitting behind a battered desk, papers strewn all over. Rail thin, Lester had a bushy gray moustache and a cue-ball head. Lester had a huge chaw in his mouth. He spat the whole wad in the trashcan when Whistlam entered. “What the fuck do you want?”

  Whistlam leaned on the battered desk. “I want a damn good vehicle that’s clean. What I don’t want is any shit from you. You fuck with me, you’re dead.” He reached out, grabbed the skinny man’s shirt, and jerked him close. “You know I’ll do it.”

  Lester’s eyes bugged. His false act of toughness left like a flash. He nodded several times. “Got what you need. Good mileage. Runs well.”

  “Is it clean?”