The Catch

By Mike Farris

The lawyer jokes were flying when Detective Ed Hathcox finished law school, hoping to join the FBI. But the humor dried up when a serial killer began targeting attorneys. Paired with veteran Detective Hal Barnes, they visit crime scenes where the main attractions are dead lawyers with missing tongues and the killer’s trademark — paper scraps adorned with Bible verses. What’s the connection? The victims were lawyers ... but something else tied the murders together ... the lawyers’ specialties, political connections, or something worse?
“A spellbinding thriller that takes on lawyer bashing and, on a larger scale, the poisonous impact of hate speech of all kinds. This is a riveting book with captivating, complex characters. I predict you will be turning pages late into the night. Highly recommended." — William Bernhardt, bestselling author of "The Last Chance Lawyer"
"Sharp, witty, and more than a little bloody ... The Catch by Mike Farris is one helluva read. Detectives Hal Barnes and Ed Hathcox have an easygoing rapport that propels the duo, and the reader, through this tightly plotted Texas novel. Part mystery, part legal thriller, the latest by Farris is all-around great. Catch it." — J. Todd Scott, author of "The Far Empty", "High White Sun", "This Side of Night", "Lost River" (2020)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463530054

Book preview

Praise for The Catch

A spellbinding thriller that takes on lawyer bashing and, on a larger scale, the poisonous impact of hate speech of all kinds. This is a riveting book with captivating, complex characters. I predict you will be turning pages late into the night. Highly recommended.

William Bernhardt, best-selling author of The Last Chance Lawyer

Mike Farris brings all his impressive legal expertise to his newest book THE CATCH; a gripping and fast-paced novel about a relentless serial killer murdering some of Big D’s best lawyers, and the two detectives obsessed with stopping him.

Kathleen Kent, author of The Dime

Farris puts his many years of experience as an attorney to good use in THE CATCH. It’s a witty, intricately-plotted thriller that kept me reading late into the night. Farris has created two likable protagonists and balances gruesome murders with plenty of gallows humor. Don’t miss this great thriller.

David Putnam, author of The Reckless

Sharp, witty, and more than a little bloody … THE CATCH by Mike Farris is one helluva read. Detectives Hal Barnes and Ed Hathcox have an easygoing rapport that propels the duo, and the reader, through this tightly plotted Texas novel. Part mystery, part legal thriller, the latest by Farris is all-around great. Catch it.

J. Todd Scott, author of The Far Empty, High White Sun,

This Side of Night, Lost River (coming in 2020)

Who doesn’t love a good lawyer joke, especially when there’s a page-turning thriller attached? Do yourself a favor and read Mike Farris’s latest. This is the real deal, great characters and a compelling plot.

Harry Hunsicker, author of Texas Sicario,

former Executive Vice-President of the Mystery Writers of America

The Catch

Mike Farris

Bold Venture Press

Copyright Info

The Catch © 2019 Mike Farris. All Rights Reserved.

Bold Venture Press edition October 2019

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

Electronic Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

1

The big Rottweiler rested his head on crossed paws and slept. All was quiet in his domain, a thirty-foot-by-thirty-foot square of sparse grass, worn dirt paths, and clumps of dog turds. Clouds had gathered earlier that evening and a spring rain drove him inside his battered wooden doghouse, the name Buster painted on the front. His slumber wasn’t sound, though; it never was. After all, he had humans in the house to guard. In this high-crime west Dallas neighborhood where gunshots and sirens played as nightly lullabies, he had to stay vigilant. And so, he slept uneasily, his shallow breathing drowned out by the pelting of raindrops.

At five past two in the morning, Buster’s ears pricked up. He cocked his head and peered through the falling rain. A dark shadow moved in the alley, directly ahead of him. Huge muscles stretched as he rose to his feet and stuck his head out the door. He sniffed the air — unfamiliar smells wafted his way on the dampness. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

He stepped outside his house, paws padding lightly in the muck. For a big dog, he moved quietly as he approached the fence. The shadow continued to move, either oblivious to his presence or not caring.

Buster cocked his head and sniffed the air again. This time, a familiar scent reached him. Reflexively, his mouth watered. He sat down, sinking his haunches into a shallow puddle, and waited.

*****

Henry and Molly Jimmerson slumbered just as uneasily inside their tiny frame house as did Buster in his doghouse in the backyard. No one slept well in this neighborhood. Henry and Molly had lived there for all their fifty-two years of married life. What was once a castle to young newlyweds just starting out had become a prison to an elderly couple barely scraping by on Social Security. If the drive-bys or crack-heads didn’t kill them, the bars on the windows might well seal their fates if ever their house caught fire.

At just past two a.m., Buster launched into a cacophony of barking, rousing them from their restless slumber. They huddled underneath a thin quilt, the house cool in the early spring. The steady clicking of raindrops on the tin roof was no match for Buster’s staccato bursts of sound.

Henry put his arms around Molly and pulled her frail body close. He felt a quiver as she trembled — the same familiar quiver he felt every time Buster’s alarms or nearby explosions of gunfire disturbed the night. He squeezed tightly, and she burrowed herself into his arms. A lifetime of manual labor had once hardened his muscles, but now old age and arthritis had eaten away at his formerly robust frame. Yet his strength provided Molly comfort as they waited for the barking to subside, hoping that another threat would pass them by unharmed.

A shriek of pain erupted from Buster, followed by a second, more mournful yelp. But then the shrieks turned to growls and snarls, an urgency to their tone. It sounded like Buster was fighting with something or someone. A death struggle. Fear transformed into panic. Had their luck run out? Molly grasped Henry’s pajama shirt with both hands, as if a tight grip, alone, would offer protection. Henry pulled her even closer.

The sounds from Buster grew steadily louder, occasionally punctuated by high-pitched yelps, giving rise to an inescapable conclusion: Something or someone was inside the fence, scant steps away. Buster sounded as if he was engaged in a life-or-death match to protect their home. Henry tossed the possibilities around in his mind then made his decision. He let go of Molly, pushed the quilt aside, and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands shook as he reached for his cane on the floor and stood. Molly grabbed his arm, but he pulled it away.

Henry, no, she said.

Hush, now. I got to see about this.

Leaning on the cane, Henry shuffled across the floor to the closet. Though he wore long johns and a flannel pajama shirt, his entire body swam in perspiration, causing them to cling wetly to his body, outlining every arthritic joint. He slid the closet door open and reached inside with his free hand.

Henry, please, Molly said. Call the police.

Turning around, Henry gripped a shotgun so tightly his gnarled knuckles stood out white against his ebony hand, even in the darkness of the night. He shuffled, trembling, out the door. Molly grabbed the telephone and slowly punched 9-1-1.

When Henry reached the door to the backyard, he still trembled; his resolve wavered. He opened the door and peeked out. In the far corner of the yard, barely visible through the downpour and the darkness, the huge Rottweiler crouched over a shadowy lump. It looked to Henry like a rolled-up carpet, but somehow different. Whatever it was, Buster gave it his full attention. The dog tore at it like a shark in a feeding frenzy, tossing his head and ripping with his teeth, each movement accompanied by a banshee-like snarl. With each shake of his head, his growls accelerated in a terrifying crescendo.

Henry saw lights come on in other houses across the alley. He knew that his terrified neighbors must be huddled behind drawn curtains or under bedcovers, wondering if this would be the night they died.

Henry turned on the porchlight and stepped outside. Raindrops slammed into his face, mixing with drops of perspiration that bathed his brow. The night air was cold, but it seemed to Henry as if he had stepped into a heat wave. He leaned on his cane and braced himself as he raised the shotgun with his other hand, the butt snug against his ribs.

Buster! He tried to sound commanding, but the sound nearly died in his throat and came out as a hoarse whisper.

Buster stopped his attack and looked at his master. His head cocked quizzically. In the faint glow of the porchlight, Henry saw that the fur around Buster’s mouth was matted with something dark.

Something wet.

Something that glistened.

Mud? Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe it was something else, something Henry had seen way too much of in this neighborhood.

Buster watched Henry expectantly. He had stopped barking, but a growl still rumbled in his throat. Henry began shuffling toward him, oblivious of the rain. As his master neared, Buster sat down next to the lump. He cocked his head again, waiting, and bared his teeth in a ghoulish grin.

Henry moved awkwardly as he tried to balance the shotgun in one hand and maneuver his cane with the other. He plucked the cane from the mud, placed it twelve inches in front of his feet, then slid his houseshoes along the slick muck, repeating the process until he was only ten feet away. Buster waited patiently, growling softly now.

At last Henry could see what Buster had been tearing at: The bloody body of a white man in an expensive-looking suit. Henry dropped the shotgun and sat down on the ground, hard.

2

The shrill ring of a telephone split the air. Hal Barnes awoke with a start. He shook the cobwebs away then looked around wildly to regain his bearings. The phone rang again. He looked at the clock — almost two-thirty in the morning.

He snatched up the phone on the third ring.

Barnes.

He listened for a minute then scribbled an address on a scrap of paper.

You call Edgar J. yet?

Another pause, then, I’m there in fifteen, and he hung up.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a brief second. He ran his hand through graying and, sadly, thinning hair. At fifty-one years of age, he battled daily with the enemies of aging men, including the deadliest of all, furniture disease: chest-in-the-drawers. He stood and stretched, trying to expand beyond his six feet for an extra couple of inches, then grabbed a pair of wrinkled pants piled on a chair and pulled them on.

*****

At the same time Hal Barnes tugged on wrinkled pants and a wadded-up shirt, thirty-two-year-old Ed Hathcox came out of his bathroom wiping remnants of shaving cream from his face. His long black hair had already been slicked back and moussed. Wearing khaki slacks, he crossed the beautifully-appointed room — the pine bedroom suit had been an anniversary gift from Annie’s parents — to the closet and took out a freshly-starched, pinpoint oxford button-down that had been tailored to hug the torso of his six-foot two inch athletic frame, testament to his college baseball-playing days at Texas A&M and his continued dedication to staying in shape. Next came a silk necktie, red with navy polka dots, which he took care to tie with the ends coming out perfectly even, just covering his belt buckle.

Annie Hathcox came into the bedroom carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a small paper sack. Beautiful even in her bedclothes, and despite having been once again rudely awakened in the middle of the night, her blonde hair swept across her forehead in a rumpled chic kind of way. As she set the mug and sack on the dresser, her eyes fell on a small desk in the corner covered with Ed’s open law books and legal pads. A desk lamp illuminated the pages of one of the texts. Going to law school at night while working a more-than-full-time job as a homicide detective was hell on her husband.

Did you sleep at all? she asked.

I think I may have snoozed a bit around midnight. Either that or I’m having blackouts.

Everybody needs a hobby.

He laughed as he watched her glide across the floor, moving gracefully like the fashion model she had once been, and get back in the bed. She sank deep beneath a maroon duvet — Texas A&M maroon; not her alma mater, but her husband’s — and pulled it close to her chin.

I hate it when you’re on call, she said.

Won’t be much longer.

Ed clipped his detective’s shield to the left front of his belt then clipped his gun and holster to the right side. He pulled on a custom-tailored blue sport coat, leaned over the bed, and kissed Annie on the forehead.

Go back to sleep, he said.

He grabbed the coffee mug and took a sip, then opened the sack and looked inside.

That’s for Hal, she said. He doesn’t take care of himself.

Thanks, Babe. He grabbed the sack and turned off the desk lamp. I’ll call you later.

She snuggled into the covers and closed her eyes. Her husband’s footsteps echoed down the darkened hallway and faded to silence.

*****

Detective Hal Barnes missed his fifteen-minute estimate by five minutes, not bad for the drive from his Lakewood home in east Dallas, across the Trinity River to Molly and Henry Jimmerson’s scarred neighborhood in west Dallas. Behind him, glass and steel skyscrapers of downtown, outlined in lights, loomed over this deteriorating neighborhood of frame houses and barred windows — a striking juxtaposition of wealth and poverty.

By the time he reached the Jimmersons’ backyard, the first watch team of the Department’s Crime Scene Response Section, on duty from 10:30 p.m. until 6:30 a.m., had already set up shop. Though the night was still dark, the rain had stopped, and the place resembled a movie set with artificial lights that created an eerie mix of shadows. Nosy neighbors — not a white face among them — clad in raincoats and pajamas gathered in the alley and gawked as technicians processed the backyard. Two uniformed cops talked to the onlookers, taking notes. Buster the Rottweiler, blood still matting his face, had been tied to a tree on the far side of the yard and didn’t like it. His barking provided background music as the cops worked.

Fred Doc Whitson, a balding veteran of the Medical Examiner’s Office, which, along with the Crime Investigation Lab, made up Dallas County’s Institute of Forensic Sciences, knelt next to the savaged body as Hal approached, umbrella in hand. Although Doc ran the ME’s office, and was not required to be at middle-of-the-night crime scenes, he periodically liked to get out into the field rather than merely send his subordinates. Apparently, this was one of those nights.

Hal had seen a lot of bodies in his twenty years in homicide, but nothing like this. The dog had made a good start at obliterating this one’s face, which looked like raw hamburger meat. Mud and blood spattered a tailored, pinstriped suit. Not that Hal had ever owned such a suit, but it sure looked like a mix of cashmere and silk. He’d seen them on pompous stuffed shirts at the courthouse — the civil courthouse, where plaintiff’s lawyers won multi-million-dollar verdicts, not the criminal courthouse where, with some exceptions, low-paid prosecutors and lower-paid public defenders slugged it out. The victim’s hands had been bound with electrical tape, as had his feet. He wore one Italian loafer — again, Hal had seen them online, among other places — its tassel caked in mud. The other shoe lay half-submerged in a puddle next to the fence.

Hal held the umbrella aloft and stood behind Doc, who never looked up at his arrival. His ability to focus always amazed Hal.

Lordy, Doc! You gonna find all the pieces?

Believe it or not, he’s still in one piece. Just shredded a little.

Ever see a dog do something like this before?

Nope. Doc gestured to the bound hands and feet. Dogs can’t tie ropes. They don’t got opposable thumbs.

So, we can assume that someone else did that.

You oughta be a detective, Doc said.

And remind me never to piss off a Rottweiler.

They do defend their territory. I think this one was provoked pretty good. Animal Services is on the way, and they’ll have to confirm, but I saw some places on his side where the hair looks singed, like maybe someone used a cattle prod on him.

What have we got? Detective Ed Hathcox’s voice came from behind them.

Hal turned to greet his partner, who approached, red, blue, and green golf umbrella in one hand, paper sack in the other. Ed tiptoed through the muck, trying unsuccessfully not to muddy his own tasseled loafers, one of the other places Hal had seen them. With a handkerchief arranged neatly in the pocket of his blue blazer, he looked like he might have just walked off the pages of GQ.

Got us a PAM, Edgar J., Doc said, using cop shorthand for pure ass mystery.

Ed handed the sack to Hal. Annie sends her love.

Hal looked inside then took out a blueberry bagel. Well, bless her sweet little ol’ heart.

She says you don’t take care of yourself.

Hal took an oversized bite. Whatever she says.

So, what have we got? Ed asked.

Hal and Doc had blocked his view of the body thus far. Hal stepped aside and gave Ed his first look at the victim’s ground-up face. Without a gag or heave as warning, Ed barely had time to turn his head before throwing up. He dropped his umbrella as he leaned over and puked. Then he took a few steps away, rested his hands on his knees, and repeated the process.

Hal watched, calmly eating his bagel, amused at his partner’s plight. He had spent years looking at dead bodies, though admittedly none as gruesomely dead as this. Still, he had seen decapitations, decompositions, facial features obscured by shotgun blasts, and he knew what chainsaws could do to the human body, all of which had numbed him to gore. But Ed had been in homicide for only a couple of years, having worked property crimes for five years before that, in which time he had seen only the garden-variety shootings and stabbings. Hal knew this was a new experience for him.

At last Ed straightened and tried to regain his composure. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and glared at Hal.

Shut up, Ed said.

I didn’t say anything.

You’re thinking too loud.

And you might want to wipe that crap off your lapel before the press gets here, Hal said. Wouldn’t look good in the pictures.

Ed wet the end of his handkerchief with his tongue and scrubbed at the scattered flecks of vomit on his blazer. Hal turned back, still chewing on the bagel.

What’s that smell, Doc? Ed asked.

You mean besides your breakfast over there? Doc leaned in closer to the body. Gimme more light.

Hal pulled a penlight from his pocket and gave it to Doc. Doc directed the beam on the victim’s bloody throat and what few patches of skin were still unscathed on the face. He clenched the penlight in his teeth and rubbed his gloved finger along the side of the neck then held it to his nose.

I’ll be goddamned!

What is it? Hal asked.

Smells like dog food.

You serious? Ed asked.

Yes, sir, Doc said. Looks like somebody greased this ol’ boy’s face and neck up with canned dog food. He pried the victim’s mouth open. And the hell of it is — He grabbed the penlight and held it close to the opened mouth. Looky here.

Hal squatted, still holding his umbrella in one hand and the bagel in the other. He had suddenly become keenly interested in this case. Ed declined, prudence and a queasy stomach dictating that he maintain his distance.

Hal pulled reading glasses from his inside coat pocket and put them on. He squinted and stared where Doc shone the light. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

Now I’ll be goddamned, Hal said.

Won’t we all? Doc said.

What is it? Ed asked.

You got to see this for yourself, Doc said. Words fail me.

Just tell me.

Oh, come on, Edgar J. Be a sport.

Quit calling me that. And just tell me what you see.

Geeze, Doc said. What crawled up your ass this morning?

He’s sensitive about his aspirations, Hal said. He gestured around at the dreary crime scene. Someday he’s gonna have his law degree and then leave all this behind and join the Effa-Bee-Aye-a.

Yeah, Doc said. Gonna be another Edgar J. Hoover.

J. Edgar Hoover, Ed said. And are you gonna tell me what you found or not?

You really ought to see this for yourself, Hal said. The tongue’s gone.

Ed suddenly found his curiosity overtaking both his gag reflex and his annoyance. He leaned over close, not willing to muddy his khakis by getting on his knees, and looked into the corpse’s mouth. Sure enough, the tongue was missing.

Dog tear it out? Ed asked.

It was cut out, Doc said. He shined the light along the sides of the mouth. See there, the edges are all smooth. I don’t think Rover did that.

No opposable thumbs, Hal said.

What? Ed asked.

Doc knows all about it. Hal stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth then wiggled his thumbs. It’s what separates us from the lesser species, he said, his words almost muffled by the wad of dough in his mouth. We got opposable thumbs; dogs don’t. We can work sharp instruments, tie ropes; dogs can’t.

But the dog could have eaten it, Ed said.

Well, that stands to reason, Hal said. I’m just saying he couldn’t have cut it out.

Probably didn’t eat it, either, Doc said. As pissed off as this mutt was, most dogs won’t eat human flesh unless they’re starving. My point is, the tongue probably was cut out somewhere else and then the body was dumped here. The blood would have excited the dog almost as much as the dog food, but he still probably wouldn’t have eaten any part of the body.

Was he already dead before the dog got to him? Ed asked.

Won’t know for sure ‘til the autopsy, but my guess is no. Too much blood here. That tells me his heart was still pumping while ol’ Rover had his snack.

Buster, Hal said, glancing at the name on the doghouse.

Whatever, Doc said.

So, what we may have here is murder-by-dog, Hal said.

Unless the killer just wanted the dog to mess him up, so he couldn’t be identified, Ed said. He may not even have known the guy was still alive when he dumped him, if he was unconscious at the time.

A uniformed cop approached holding a wallet. Detectives? He handed the wallet to Hal. We found this on the other side of the fence.

Hal opened the wallet and searched its contents. He took out the driver’s license and looked at the picture of a distinguished-looking man with brown hair and a mustache. Michael Sandford. Then he looked at the chewed face on the ground. Doesn’t look like his picture.

Ed snatched the wallet away. Show some respect.

Yes, dear.

Besides, it might not be the victim’s wallet. Ed pulled a business card out of the money section and looked at it. But if it is the same guy, then he’s a lawyer. Michael Sandford.

I knew it, Hal said. Name sounds familiar. I’m betting he’s a plaintiff’s lawyer.

"Was a plaintiff’s lawyer," Doc said.

Ed cut him a look.

Hey, hey, Doc said. He sat back on his haunches. What’s black and brown and looks good on a lawyer? He paused. A Rottweiler.

I thought it was a Doberman, Hal said.

Huh?

What’s black and brown and looks good on a lawyer? The answer is ‘a Doberman Pinscher,’ Hal said.

Rottweilers are black and brown, Doc said.

I’m not saying they aren’t, Hal said. I’m just saying —

Look at Rover over there, Doc said, pointing at the still-barking dog tied to a tree. He’s black and brown.

I know Rottweilers are black and brown, Hal said. I’m just saying that the punchline to the joke is Doberman.

Hal watched Ed take in the conversation with obvious disgust rising on his face. He knew that Ed thought it inappropriate to argue about jokes while standing over a murder victim. A few more years in homicide, though, and a few more mutilated corpses would cure that.

Anybody know the difference between a lady lawyer and a Doberman? the cop who found the wallet asked.

Hal and Doc looked at him, smiles already in place, anticipating the punchline. I give up, Hal said.

Lipstick.

Hal and Doc laughed out loud. That’s a good one, Doc said. I like that.

Anybody ask you to stay around? Ed snapped at the cop.

No, sir.

Then get back over there and find that tongue.

Tongue?

Just go do your job.

Yes, sir, the duly chastened cop said before retreating.

I wouldn’t go spreading it around about the tongue, Hal said. And you gotta lighten up. I keep telling you that.

This man is dead, Hal. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?

It means the world’s a better place. There’s one less lawyer, Doc said.

That’s not funny.

Doc went back to examining the body, while Hal eyed his partner. He knew it was a macabre scene, standing around and joking over a dead body, but it reflected one of a homicide cop’s defense mechanisms. Otherwise they’d be overwhelmed by the grimness of their jobs. It didn’t set well with the politically correct Ed, but Hal also knew that gallows humor at a murder scene was a guardrail that kept some homicide cops from going over the edge. They faced so much death, so much sorrow, so much human misery, that they counted on their senses of humor to maintain some type of balance. It wasn’t much, and it damn sure wasn’t politically correct, but when you were in the trenches you did what you had to do to survive.

Know the difference between a lawyer and a bucket of shit? Doc asked, as if determined to piss Ed off. Then his attention zeroed in on the victim’s shirt. He extracted a folded piece of paper from a torn, bloody pocket. Got something.

What? Ed asked.

The bucket.

Huh?

The difference between a lawyer and a bucket of shit. The bucket.

No, damn it, Ed said. I mean what did you find?

Doc held the paper up to Hal, who handed his umbrella to Ed then pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and