Blind Trust

By Doug McCall

Harris County, Texas Homicide Detective Pete Scallion has obsessed for over two decades over what he knows to be a brutal murder on a supposed duck hunting trip to the marshy wetlands east of Galveston Bay. Unable to convince his superiors at the time it was anything other than a tragic accident, Scallion tries to move on with his life and career. That is made harder by the fact the man he knows is a cold-blooded killer, also a member of a wealthy, powerful Houston family, is now moving up the Texas political ladder.
It is now twenty years later, and Scallion has moved from rural Chambers County to Harris County, where crime seems to be a fact of daily life. He is alarmed when it becomes evident it is only a matter of time until his sworn enemy advances to the Governor's office. There is nothing he can do to sound the alarm about the man's murderous, ambitious ascent, since no one wants to dredge up a mostly forgotten twenty-year old death judged to be an accident. Plus, no one wants to ruffle the feathers of one of Houston's most influential families, least of all Otto Howorth, the Harris County Sheriff, who is also Pete's boss.
A narrow window of opportunity for Scallion arises when a former athlete-turned gigolo and hustler, a love starved banker he stalks, the Houston underworld and a case of mistaken identity conspire to begin the downfall of the corrupt politician, with deadly results. The harrowing climax spreads from the Capitol Building in Austin to Houston, ending on the muddy banks of Buffalo Bayou, a meandering canal in the heart of downtown Houston.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9780988531369

Book preview

SIXTY-TWO

ONE

November, 1978

Icy gasps of smoke escaped intermittently between the lips of the solitary man leaning uncomfortably against the rear of the large utility vehicle; the freakish weather sending another shiver through his body. Cold, damp air felt like pin-pricks against his exposed face, a rare sensation in his part of Texas. Tucking his hands beneath his armpits for warmth, he moved to the side of the vehicle. Removing one hand, he tapped on the window to get the attention of the black lab inside. The retriever raised his head and wagged his tail, ready to spring into action. Then, recognizing a tease, the dog turned in a tight circle, resuming his position on the rear seat.

    Good boy, Coal. Won’t be long now. At least, that was the man’s less than enthusiastic hope. He wanted to get the day started — put it behind him. Squinting toward the entrance of the building nearby, he wished the man inside would simply disappear, or lose interest in the hunt and agree to head back to the city. Neither was likely to happen.

There are days from April through September when the sweltering steam bath surrounding the Houston area seems to liquefy everything standing. Outside activity for most humans can be virtually impossible, to the point of becoming medically dangerous for those unprepared. Air conditioners run non-stop, jacking up electric bills along with the temperature, attempting to

fight the sticky, super-heated humidity floating in from the nearby gulf. During the hell of summer in southeast Texas that never seems to end, a person would normally beg for a day like the one that lay ahead. But the cold, steel-grey morning taking shape with dawn beginning to recede had the effect of increasing the unsettled mood of the man. Rubbing his hands together briskly for warmth, he questioned  once again his decision to give in to his persuasive relative.

Today was Saturday. The call had come Thursday, too late to invent a solid excuse.

      Come on, Sid, his younger cousin had said, there won’t be many days like  we’re expecting this weekend that’ll be decent to hunt. You know how the weather is around here. Might be eighty this time next week. Could be our only chance this winter.

    I’m not sure, Rusty. Who else is going?

    I’m pretty sure Gary is coming. And one of the new guys in my firm. Don’t think you’ve met him yet, but he loves duck huntin’ too. He’s from down around Lake Jackson.

Sid had spoken to Gary, another cousin, on Wednesday, and he hadn’t mentioned the hunt. But it might have been before Rusty had talked to Gary. Or he could’ve simply forgotten. In any event, it sounded like at least one other person would be along to serve as a buffer. Rusty could be hard to take sometimes one-on-one, or any other way. He was nobody’s favorite relative.

    I was planning to get a lot of work done this weekend, Sid had argued. This is the beginning of my busy season, you know. Busy season didn’t actually begin until after the first of the year, but it was worth one more feeble attempt.

    Tell you what. I’ll come pick you up and chauffeur you there and back. I’ll have you home by one o’clock Saturday. You can’t beat that.

It went back and forth like that for a while, until Rusty prevailed. He normally did.

Growing antsy, Sid moved around to the front of Rusty’s boxy 1976 Chevy Suburban,

drawing from the heat of the still ticking engine. He could’ve waited inside the vehicle, but Coal’s dampened odor was hard to take with the windows up. He was decked out in a camouflage jumpsuit, top half hanging loose around his waist, exposing an insulated undershirt. As he had dreaded, and halfway expected, only the two of them had made the trip. Rusty had mumbled excuses for the other two. Most likely they had backed out, not relishing  a day sequestered in the blind with the jerk any more than he did.

Removing his horn-rimmed glasses, he wiped the moisture left by a  fine, cold  mist settling on the lenses. He was a short, balding man in his early forties, possessing  a body showing little evidence of physical activity. His hunting outfit swallowed him, leaving what he imagined was a comical appearance. Truth was, he actually enjoyed duck hunting, and being out in the relative wilds of southeast Texas, more than most other outdoor sports. But not under these circumstances. Meaning, not with his hard-nosed cousin.

The white Suburban was parked at a combination bait shop- convenience store, just off the off-ramp from I-10, the exit which led south into the small town of Anahuac. The tiny community, some forty miles east of Houston, butting up on Galveston Bay, was positioned a few miles south of the interstate. Barely an inch of elevation exists in the entirety of Chambers County, filled with marsh land and rice fields. There wasn’t much to draw anyone to Anahuac, unless they were into fishing, crawfishing, or duck hunting. But it had its own charm, and the natives were friendly.

Rusty was inside the store, searching for coffee for the two of them and a pack of Marlboro’s for himself. Sid began to hope for an excuse to turn the vehicle around and head for home, but it was an unlikely chance. If the rain grew stronger, he would try to use it as an excuse. More than anything, he hoped the subject Rusty had introduced a few weeks earlier wouldn’t crop up during the hunt. It was pointless to debate it, but that never stopped his younger cousin. In any event, the ordeal would all be over by early afternoon, and whatever transpired between now and then

would hopefully be nothing more than an uncomfortable memory.

The door creaked open, and Rusty finally emerged from the store. Contrary to the hopes of the man waiting, the  mist was subsiding, and the chilly, dank day began to brighten slightly over the towering pines lining the interstate. Rusty was also covered up with cold-weather hunting gear.

    Looks like the weather is going to be perfect, he said, handing Sid a lidded cup. Here you go. Black and hot, just the way you wanted.

Sid took the cup, thanking the other man. He decided against trying to cancel the hunt, hoping to make the best of the situation, possibly even enjoying it.

    Come on. We’re letting the morning get away from us, Rusty said, throwing the driver-side door open, and climbing behind the wheel. He was roughly ten years younger than Sid, around six feet two, only slightly overweight. A shaggy crop of reddish-brown hair fell out from under a camouflage cap covering a ruddy face. Intense blue-grey eyes and a strong chin gave an appearance that could be intimidating at times. The vehicle shook into action, and the black lab showed life again as Sid slid into the passenger seat.

The drive south to Anahuac,  then through the small business section, exiting on a county road paralleling the edge of the bay, took all of fifteen minutes. A few more miles and the pavement would give way to roads filled by uneven gravel and crushed shells, flanked by swampy inlets snaking in from the bay. Their first destination was a fishing boat tied to a small pier shared by various family members. It was obvious that locals helped themselves to this and other boats moored at the pier marked private. But that was fine with the family the two hunters shared bloodlines with, as long as the crafts were returned undamaged and gassed-up. Coal bounded from the rear of the vehicle as it finally came to a stop. He made a dash for the boat,  proudly taking his usual stance on one of the seats, tongue panting, looking back to hurry the men up. While they unloaded their shotguns and other gear from the rear of the Suburban, 

Sid’s mood grew brighter as he pulled on his waders. Benign subjects such as the economy and sports had been the topics of conversation on the drive down—maybe things were looking up. The boat finally loaded, Sid pushed the boat away from the pier.  Rusty took control of the muted  trolling motor. The next and final target was a new duck blind, recently installed by a local guide at the request of the family. In fact, Sid had never seen the new blind. But Rusty said he had, and he was confident he could zero-in on it again.

    No more than twenty minutes, he assured, squinting through the remains of the mist while tossing a cigarette butt into the bay. They were actually in Trinity Bay, an offshoot of the much larger Galveston Bay.

Enjoying the quiet, slow movement through the clusters of marshy reeds, Sid’s mind drifted to other vessels the well-heeled family he and Rusty belonged to had at their disposal. A seventy-five foot yacht, deep-sea fishing boats, several ski-boats and catamarans, scattered from Galveston Island to Corpus Christi were always available for the asking. Sid wasn’t much of a mixer, which fit his duties as a C P A well.  He felt at peace in the least of the clan’s boats. Hanging an arm over the side, he allowed  his fingers to surf through the icy water, willing himself to relax for the first time all morning.

When fifteen minutes had elapsed, he started looking for hints of netting, or other features of

the blind, knowing they had to be drawing near.

The tranquility, along with his hopes, was erased a moment later by Rusty clearing his throat. Say, Sid. Have you given any consideration to what I asked you about a couple weeks ago?

Sid’s heart sank. From the measured tone, he knew exactly what was coming. Honestly, I haven’t thought much about it, he replied, hoping to shorten the discussion.

Rusty paused before responding. I see. A second pause. "Well, I wish I could say something to change the way you look at it. There are a lot more positives than negatives, from my

viewpoint."

    "I’m not allowed to change my opinion, Rusty. You know that. Too many people would be

affected. My job is to look out for everybody’s interests, including yours. Sid wanted to say not

just yours", but thought better of it. He chanced a quick look down the length of the boat at the younger man, gauging his countenance. So far, all appeared to be calm.

    "I understand that, Sid. But I’m having a hard time seeing how this could do anything except

help all of us. Hell, you don’t think I would even ask if that weren’t the case."

A sudden breeze rocked the boat slightly sideways.  Sid realized they were hardly moving forward any longer. Rusty had turned the motor off, and the boat was drifting, heading in no particular direction.

    Just think about it from this angle, Rusty, Sid said hastily. Suppose things didn’t turn out the way you think they will. I’ll be held accountable. I could be sued, or even face criminal charges.

Rusty gave no reply.

    But aside from that, Sid continued, it’s just too risky. He turned to look in the direction they had been heading, hoping to see the new blind. "Come on, Rusty, lets find the blind and get

settled in."

    It’s not far. We’re almost there, Rusty finally said, his voice flat.  He cranked the motor again. The boat started moving again.  He looked back in the direction they had come from, appearing to be looking for something, or someone.

    You know, cuz, he said in a measured voice, I’m beginning to think you’re more concerned about protecting your ass than what’s right or wrong. That’s what I’m hearing.

Sid felt uneasiness snaking like a slinky down his spine. He had witnessed Rusty’s foul moods before, but none with a tone quite like this, laced with venom.  His mouth was dry as he spoke. By protecting myself, I’m protecting everyone. You can’t separate the two. He found himself

glancing at the two shotguns, both at the end of the boat where Rusty sat, laying next to two oars, well out of reach. The younger man had his legs draped over them, seeming to guard them.

    You could be replaced, you know, Rusty said, spitting out the words as if there were a bad taste in his mouth. It’s been done before.

The words generated a new layer of concern.You could try, but it would be messy. And expensive. I won’t make it easy for you. Sid’s words were more combative than he had intended, but hoped they would end the subject. He turned to look into the marsh, wondering if there

actually was a blind somewhere in the reeds ahead. A chill he felt now had nothing to do with the elements. The cold air now seemed filled with electric tension, as if waving a hand through it would produce static shock. Thin hairs on the nape of his neck stood at attention.

    So, you’re set on your position?

    Afraid so, Rusty, Sid answered without looking back at the other men. Don’t think I have any choice.

Suddenly the small craft started rocking violently from side to side. Sid grasped both sides trying to steady himself. Looking back to determine the cause, he was horrified to see Rusty standing over him. An oar was raised above his head, a crazed, twisted look across his face. Using the oar as a club, the younger man swung a mighty blow downward, glancing off of a defensive arm, and into the side of the other’s skull. A crimson crease instantly forming, the dazed Sid fell back across the bow, leaning half in and half out of the boat. He raised a hand to his head, trying to locate his wound. Looking up with fear and confusion in his eyes, he tried to scream Rusty’s name, but no sounds would come. His glasses were hanging from one ear; his bad vision made worse by the sudden trauma.  Before he could force his body to react, Rusty was hovering again. He started to swing the oar again, but for some reason, decided not to. Instead, he then quickly moved forward, and with a heave, shoved his stunned cousin into the water. The retriever was 

instantly on his feet, perched on the middle seat, barking non-stop, excited by whatever was happening, wanting to participate.

Shocked by the cold water, Sid began thrashing for dear life, grabbing at the side of the boat, trying to pull himself back in. Fully committed to his actions, Rusty kept pushing him away with the oar, hoping the weight of the hunting gear would soon hold him down for good. The man was

resolute, he refused to surrender, choking on blood and  murky water each time he raised his head for air. His eyes were glazed with fear, his lips chattering from the cold shock.

Frustrated by the man’s resistance, Rusty knew what he had to do. Realizing he had to go over the edge at some point, he decided to bring things to an end. Knowing the retriever had to go in too, he gave a command the dog would understand. Grabbing a life vest, he followed the black lab over the side, easing his large body into the icy water, clutching the vest with one hand,  holding the other man’s struggling body down with the other. He did his best to ignore his victims flailing grabs for his own body. This is your own fault, Sid, he muttered through chattering, clinched teeth. I’m right about this. You should’ve listened.

Confused about his duties, Coal swam dutifully around the two men, looking frantically for something to retrieve.

Within minutes, the thrashing ceased, and the deed was done. His lips turning blue, the shivering Rusty spent what energy he had left climbing back into the boat. It wasn’t easy, with his own water-logged jumpsuit, and the effort expended in taking another man’s life. Gasping for breath, he finally managed to pull himself up, then sprawled across a seat, shaking violently while trying to regain his breath.  Peering over the side, he looked for the dog, preparing to pull him back aboard. The faithful retriever was busy paddling furiously, heading for the nearest solid ground. The dog didn’t matter, so he ignored his efforts. Putting everything else out of his mind, Rusty wrapped his body into a tight ball, allowing

himself time to collect his thoughts. His heart felt like it would spring from his throat  any second.  Ten minutes passed before he regained control of his breathing patterns. He needed to think clearly–there was no margin for error, no room for flaws in his story. He shuddered, knowing he would have to climb back into the freezing water at some point. But first, while his brain was functioning, it was important to go over in his head his recounting of what had happened until it was down pat, anticipating every possible question. A lot was riding on the performance he would give.

TWO

May, 2000

Two gas-powered golf carts bounced hurriedly along the asphalt path, reeking of exhaust fumes, only to screech to a stop beside the eighteenth tee box. The group in front was just leaving the tee, so there would be a wait. An extra few minutes allowed to stay in the carts, hiding under the shade provided by the fibre-glass covers, was welcome relief to the three men. It was a blistering spring day, typical for the area in and around Houston, with temperatures approaching one-hundred.  Humidity measurements seemed to be near that, producing one of those ridiculous heat-index readings well above the century mark. Hot is hot, but local weather reporters insist on making things worse by harping on that nebulous number.

The two middle-aged men in one cart wiped their necks with damp towels. Removing their caps, they ran the towels over puffy red faces. One man reached in the cooler in the basket behind the seat, pulling out the last of a six-pack of Coors. The ice had long since melted, leaving a luke-cool slush that hardly chilled the beer. Ignoring the fact that alcohol had a dehydrating effect in the afternoon heat, he took a mighty swig. His riding partner had reached his limit. He contented himself by dipping his towel into the slush, using it to take another swipe at his face.

The man riding solo in the other cart was somewhat younger, and in much better physical shape

than his opponents. The sweat band of a visor en-circled his bushy blond hair, its bill casting a

faint shadow over a tanned face, contrasting dramatically with a royal blue Polo golf shirt. Khaki

shorts showed off toned, athletic-looking legs. In fact, Blair Christopher was an athlete, or at least, a former athlete, having been a stud on the University of Houston baseball team in the early eighties. Six- foot two, hovering around one-ninety, he was one of the fortunate who stayed in condition with a minimum of effort. Which was fortunate, since he made little effort. Drafted by The St Louis Cardinals in the late rounds after his junior year, his minor league career had flamed out after two lack-luster seasons. There was never any questions about his playing ability, but many about dedication and work ethic.

Settling back in the Bayou City, he had since sought to live off his looks and now rapidly fading name recognition. His first move had been to convince the daughter of a successful car dealer to marry him. The dealer thought he had struck gold when he added his shiny new son-in-law to his sales force. This particular career lasted as long as the marriage—all of nine months, when it became apparent to the dealer Christopher was spending more time with the billing clerk than his bride, or more importantly, his customers. From there he moved on to a series of jobs, including assistant high school coach, restaurant manager, construction superintendent, and finally insurance sales. Surprisingly, there were enough Houston alums willing to trust a former hero with their business to keep him afloat—but just barely.

    Hey, Christopher, one of the men from the other cart yelled. How about one more press?

Christopher unscrewed the lid from a bottle of water before answering. The match was even at this point, as far as money was concerned. He had bets with the one who spoke, a stockbroker from nearby Humble. The other man was not in their league. He knew the broker had brought the extra man along mainly to keep an eye on his opponent, given his hustler’s reputation. Blair had won the first sixteen holes, and had been up a thousand. Allowing the man to press on the seventeenth, he

had lost the hole to a miraculous birdie, leaving things all square. If he accepted the press, and won the last hole, he would walk with a thousand. If he lost the hole, it might create a situation as sticky as the weather; he didn’t have a thousand dollars.

They were playing TOUR 18, a unique course just east of Humble, an early oil boom town on    the northeast edge of Houston. The layout was designed with each hole replicating famous holes of courses around the country. Augusta National, The Doral, TPC at Sawgrass, Disney, and others were represented. Legal squabbles had erupted when the facility had opened, the other courses claiming foul. Changes had been made to appease, but most of the similarities remained.

Christopher took a sip of water, then approached the other cart. I don’t know, Woodrow. I just let you get even. You sure you wanna chance losing it again?

Woodrow leveled a sour look, sweat dripping from the tip of his bulbous nose. "You didn’t let me win a damn thing. You’d still be putting if I hadn’t given you that par putt. He swallowed the rest of the beer, crinkling the empty, then tossed it at a trash can, missing by three feet. It’s too fuckin’ hot out here to go home with nothing settled. So, whatta ya say?"

    It’s not that hot, Woodrow. Kinda keeps your muscles and joints loose, Christopher said with a wry grin, flexing his arms across his torso.  As he spoke, he realized his boxer-shorts were indeed saturated, clinging to his behind and other parts.  The cloth strap of his visor was also sweat-soaked, but the moisture felt cool to his skin.

    Go to hell, Woodrow replied. Looking down the fairway, he saw the foursome ahead

moving out of range. We’re up. Tell you what. I’m willing to make it double or nothing. How ‘bout it?

The younger man smiled, appearing to debate it with himself, while hoping his confidence didn’t show. Double or nothing? Sure. Why not? Not having two thousand couldn’t be any worse than not having a thousand. Tacked on to the other gambling debts he had amassed lately, it

seemed like nothing. Besides, the stockbroker was wasted by the beer and the heat. He should be able to take him with little effort.

The eighteenth was modeled after one of the most notoriously famous  finishing holes in golf; the long Blue Monster at Doral.  Southeast Texas was no match for the beauty of Doral Inn and

Country Club in south Florida, but the features of the hole were intact. It was a sweeping, gradual

dog-leg left par four, approaching five hundred yards in length, with marshy low-lands standing

in for the scenic lakes of the real thing to the left of the fairway. It definitely called for a little imagination to compare the copy to the original. The hole would be a challenge even for pro golfers, and was indeed a monster for amateurs.

Winning the last hole, Woodrow had the honors. He hit a mediocre tee shot, some two-

hundred  yards out, just to the right of center. After his partner hit a shorter, meaningless shot,

Blair stepped to the tee. He connected with a high, arcing hook, coming to rest dead center, about two-hundred sixty yards out. The sweaty aroma of victory was in his nostrils. Whistling his way to his cart, he walked with a bounce in his step, intended to show the heat was no problem at all.

    Nice shot, Woodrow said dejectedly. He took command of his cart, gunning the accelerator, leaving the cocky insurance salesman behind. Woodrow’s riding partner’s head snapped back at the burst of speed.

Blair had to suppress a grin when the stockbroker’s second shot wormed its way some seventy-five yards down the left side, never more than four feet off the ground. The elements and beer had sapped the man’s energy. He was left with an approach shot of more than two-hundred yards to the green for his third shot. It was an effort making his way back to the cart, walking slowly, dragging his club behind.

Christopher then addressed his second shot, already counting his money. He crushed a three wood; it felt solid coming off the club-face, but his over-confidence caused him to relax his

concentration, pulling off the shot just enough for the ball to tail off short and  right of the green. Should be okay, he thought to himself, but he needed to check out the lie. He rushed his cart down

the right side of the fairway, well away from the other cart.

Nearing his ball, he was shaken to see it centered behind a bushy clump of pampas grass, planted  precisely where a corresponding bush existed on the real Blue Monster. He had no shot to the green; a foot either way would have been fine. He took a quick look back at his opponent.

Woodrow was about to strike his third shot. Before addressing his ball, he pointed in his opponent’s direction, saying something to his partner. The man jumped into the cart, heading toward Christopher. Woodrow then unleashed a shot that was remarkable, given his wilted condition. His ball bounced twice on the hard pan, then rolled onto the front fringe of the green.

    Crap! Christopher muttered. The man could possibly snake in a par putt from there. Bogey for sure. There wasn’t much time. Knowing the third man was being sent to keep him honest, he

quickly eased his cart ahead a few more yards, using it as a shield  between the approaching man and his ball. Standing over his ball, he used the only method available to assure at least a halve, the method he had used often—cheating. Pretending to look at the flagstick, he gave a twist of an ankle, the motion imperceptible from the knees up. The kick was enough to move the ball to the left of the vegetation, only a foot or so, but just enough to leave a decent angle.

The spy came up behind him, just when he was reaching into his bag for a club. A doubtful look was thrown in his direction.

    Guess I got lucky, Christopher said nonchalantly. Another foot or two, I would’ve been dead.

The man shot him another questioning look without responding, then headed back across the fairway to pick up Woodrow, who stood staring intently in Christopher’s direction.

With only forty yards remaining, Christopher pulled  his pitching wedge. The shot was a thing

of beauty, barely grazing a pointed frond of the pampas grass, then floating high and straight. The ball came to rest a foot from the pin. And that was all it took. His opponent, shaken by the turn of

events, three-putted for a double bogey.

Thirty minutes later, Christopher wasted no time finding the nearest branch of his bank, finally spotting one in Humble. The way Woodrow had glared at him when handing over the check meant there was a chance he