Texas Charm, chapter 7 (Patreon)

Art guided the car through particularly nasty morning traffic on his drive over to the Minton house. “Did you find any suspects other than a patrol officer with an itchy ticket finger?” Art asked. 

“There’s a list of people who attended Minton's trial,” Zach said. “Apparently Dallas had a lottery going for seats in the courthouse, so they had records. Someone is going to fax them over. The man at the records desk bent over backward to help, but given his curiosity about why I wanted the info, I wouldn’t bet on him keeping a secret any longer than it took him to hang up.”

Art sighed. “Great.”

“Yeah. People. They suck,” Zach joked. Art gave a weak laugh at their old joke.

When they had first partnered up, Zach had asked if Art had disliked him or people in general, and Art had said, more out of sarcasm and annoyance than any real malice, that he thought the human race in general sucked. In reality, he’d hated that the last captain had stuck Art with a series of rookie partners who couldn’t investigate their asses with both hands. But ever since then, Zach had turned it into a running joke. “This case… you know?” Art offered the words as an apology of sorts.

“Yeah, I get it,” Zach said. “And I suppose the shaman stuff isn’t improving anything.”

“Ya think?” 

There was a long silence. Art wished he could take back the flippant answer, but he couldn’t apologize when he felt that dismissive of all the shamanic drama. Art missed his turnoff. He changed lanes dangerously close to a minivan with enough body damage to make Art think the driver didn’t mind a little demolition derby on the public streets. Luckily he managed to get the sedan into the exit lane without accident. 

“What do you think are the odds that one of the victim or a family member did this?” Zach asked in a carefully neutral tone.

“I don’t mean to make it sound like I don’t care.” Art stopped, not sure what more to say when there was a huge part of him that didn’t care about shamans. If they were unhappy with the council, they could challenge or move, but most of people showed up only after Zach and Salma had smoothed the way for them. How the hell had those people confronted death to claim a guide at all? Sometimes Art felt like he didn’t understand the world.

“You’ve never been shy about your difficult relationship with your own guide and shamanism as a whole. I get it,” Zach said easily, and that made Art feel worse. Zach didn’t get it because Art had never shared much. Some topics were painful enough that Art would rather ignore them. “So, a vigilante. What do you think of that theory?”

“I had the same thought. We may have to ask around and see if anyone was particularly angry during the trial. And that includes victims and their families.”

“The captain will love that,” Zach said with a grimace.

“If we're caught even looking at the victims, the press is going to crucify us before the captain can get the firewood together for the ritual burning.”

“No joke.”

They drove the rest of the way in a silence. Art counted on Zach to start conversations, so he wasn’t sure how to broach the silence. Art needed to talk to his partner—really explain more of the shaman shit. But they had a job to do first. Worse, Art didn’t know where to start. Art pulled up in front of the Minton house, and Zach practically bolted from the car. Art followed.

Zach rang the doorbell, and a minute later, an older man in a t-shirt advertising Minnesota fishing opened the door. He had gray hair and was several pounds heavier than his son, but Art could see the resemblance immediately.

“Mr. Daniel Minton?” Zach asked, his voice low and kind.

Mr. Minton closed his eyes for a second, and his hand tightened on the edge of the door. “Oh God. What happened?”

Zach kept his voice steady. “Can we come in?”

“Yes, of course.” Mr. Minton held the door for them. Art followed Zach into a tastefully decorated home. This wasn’t the most expensive in the area by far, but Minton had money. They headed into a dark living room with Native art on the fireplace mantle. Maybe it was Art’s imagination, but the place had an air of a funeral about it already. Heavy curtains held out the morning light and a thin veil of dust covered everything. Mr. Minton gestured toward the sofa. “Come in. What did Jon do?”

Zach exchanged a quick look with Art before answering. “I’m sorry to tell you, but we found him dead.”

For a second, Mr. Minton froze. Then, like a marionette with the strings cut, he collapsed onto an oversized wing chair. Mr. Minton had lost most of his color and Art got his phone out so he could call if the man started having difficulty breathing.  Words finally came out, slowly at first and then tumbling one after another. “Oh God. Oh God.” Mr. Minton repeated over and over.

“I’m so sorry,” Zach offered. 

Minton looked up. “I… You know who he was, right? You know what my son did?” His voice broke near the end.

“Yes, sir. We know his background.”

When Minton spoke, bitterness colored his words. “Then don’t pretend you’re sorry.”

Art stepped forward. “Sir, we‘ll work as hard on this case as we do on any homicide. Your son didn’t deserve to die.” He probably deserved more time in prison, but Art left that out. Besides, of all the murders Art had worked, he hadn’t yet found a truly innocent victim.

Minton gave a strangled cry. “Try telling that to the rest of the world. They all wanted him dead.”

“Has anyone specific threatened him?” Art asked.

Minton bolted out of his seat so fast that Art took a startled step backward, but Minton hurried past with a quick, “Wait here.”

Before either of them could comment on the vanishing act, Minton returned with a large plastic bin, the sort that Zach kept Christmas decorations in. He put it in the middle of the coffee table. “Here. Look at these.” He flipped the top open and grabbed a handful of ragged papers and ripped envelopes before thrusting them at Zach. 

Zach held the pile of paper at arm’s length. “Are these all threats?”

“Go on. Read them,” Minton demanded.

“People wrote you hate mail about your son?” Art asked, redirecting the father's attention to himself. The calm seemed to take some of the starch out of Minton. 

His shoulders sagged. “I stopped opening them after a while. Every once in a while, some parent shows sympathy or some doctor wants to study Jon, but the majority of this is pure hate. I wanted to throw it away.” He touched the bin with one finger. Art figured this guy needed serious psychotherapy because his masochism was reaching dangerous levels.

“Why didn’t you?” Zach put the letters back into the bin.

Minton stared down at the carpet for a long time before saying softly, “Jon said he deserved the hate. Said he wanted to read every one.”

That didn't sound like most rapists. Art had worked far more rape cases than murder ones, and he had heard every excuse under the sun, but no rapist ever claimed that he deserved hate.

“May we take these back to the office with us?” Zach asked.

Minton nodded. “Take them. I don’t want them.” All the energy seemed to have drained out.

Art moved to Minton. “Is there someone we could call for you?”

“The rape trail cost me most of my friends.” Minton sounded more resigned than bitter.

“Jon’s mother?” Art asked. The lack of tears worried Art even more than the empty house. Mr. Minton hadn’t yet voiced his emotions, so Art didn’t want to leave him alone only to get called back on a suicide if the man couldn’t handle his feelings once the dam broke.

Mr. Minton slowly shook his head. “She had a small mental breakdown. When she got out of the recovery center, she went back to her family.”

If it wasn't for bad luck, this poor schmuck wouldn't have any luck at all.

“The department has counselors. I could pass your name on to one,” Zach offered.

Minton gave a dark laugh. “Don’t bother. The last thing I want is another psychiatrist poking around in my head. But tell me. Was it quick?” He looked at them with such raw hope that it hurt.

Zach answered. “He died immediately.”

Minton stared at him, something broken and raw in his gaze. He asked in a soft voice, “What kind of a father am I that I can’t cry over my own son?”

“Everyone grieves in their own way.” Zach rested his hand on Minton’s arm.

“My son was a good man. That tumor ruined his life, but he had a good heart. He was the sort of man who thought every person who wrote a letter deserved to be heard.” Mr. Minton stared at the pile of hate he saved in that plastic bin.

“I'm sure he was,” Art said. He picked up the box of hate mail while Zach offered a few more condolences. They were empty words, but Zach ended by giving Mr. Minton the number for a grief counseling service. Art hoped Minton used it because it didn't take any Talent to realize the man was near an emotional ledge.

Art loaded the box of letters into the trunk while Zach trailed behind. Art got in the passenger side, and a minute later, Zach climbed in and sat with hands resting on the wheel. It was as if Minton senior had transferred some of his weariness. “He’s a mess,” Zach said.

“Hell, yes.”

Zach started the car. “Are you saying that because you checked him out with your Talent?”

Art glared at his partner. “Does it take Talent to see that man's is falling apart?”

“No, not really,” Zach admitted. “I wish my guide would offer me a little help with reading people, though. I'm afraid Minton might kill himself.”

Art had gotten that same feeling, but he wasn’t about to talk about shamanism where someone might eavesdrop. If the local community found out Zach had a guide as powerful as Pochi, the political shit would hit several fans. “Let’s save the Talent talk for home and focus on the case.”

Zach pressed his lips together in an angry frown. The man did not like being told what to do, but Zach could chew him out in private. Art pulled his phone out and checked for emails. Leah Butler had sent an itemized list of evidence found—cigarette butts, five 9mm shells, assorted pieces of paper including several receipts from local fast food places, a half dozen aluminum cans, a buckle with a leather wrapped decorative edge, a few glass bottles, and a variety of other pieces of trash. None of it seemed important—aside from the shells, of course—but if they had a solid suspect, they might be able to get the lieutenant to authorize DNA tests. But first they had to figure out which brands of beer and cigarettes their potential subjects preferred so they knew which evidence to run. 

They traded a few more theories of the crime as they headed back to the station. Unfortunately, none of the evidence so far could help them eliminate any possible scenario. 

Zach reached for his ID as he approached the precinct’s security gate. “This place sure looks different when we’re not in my spirit plane,” Zach said as he pulled into the crowded lot.

“Zach!” Art snapped. “Enough!” Zach pulled into a parking space and slammed on the brake so hard that Art slapped his hands on the dash to avoid going nose-first into it.

Before Art could complain, Zach exploded. “Why do you treat all this shamanism stuff like it’s a state secret? Technically I’m a shaman now, so don’t I get the secret decoder ring?”

“I never kept secrets because you were mundane!” If anything, Art had shared more with Zach than with anyone else in his life. God knows his sister had begged Art to talk about his magic, and Art had shut her down. As an adult looking back, he had to say he’d been fairly cruel about it.

“Really? Because it sure feels that way. I know how you can prove me wrong. Try explaining what your issue is today, and use more than ten words.” 

“Fuck you,” Art said before getting out of the car.

Zach followed, slamming his car door. “Challenge failed,” he yelled after Art. “Try taking your own advice, detective.” With that, Zach yanked the station door open so hard that it bounced off the door stop and Zach nearly got nailed on the rebound as he stomped into the building.

Art stood dumbfounded by the unexpected burst of temper. He hadn’t recovered when Carson came outside.

Art tried to bury his aggravation. “Hey,” he said.

Carson sucked air through his front teeth before saying. “I saw your partner stomp into the precinct without you, so I suspected I’d find you out here.” Art had worked with Carson long enough to recognize the censure in his voice.

“It’s nothing,” Art said.

“Uh huh.” Carson crossed his arms. “Since nothing happened, I thought I might give you a heads up that the captain has a fed in his office. The captain said you should check in with him as soon as you came back. So if that nothing has you on edge, you might want to take a minute to calm down.”

“The Minton case?” Art asked. He couldn’t come up with one reason why the feds would be involved.

Carson shrugged. “Don’t know. I do know my little rookie sometimes needs time to cool off, and I thought you might want to do that out here.”

“I’m not your rookie anymore,” Art said. That had been a lot of years and a lot of cases ago. “And I don’t have the same temper.”

“Sure you don’t,” Carson said while making it clear he meant the exact opposite.

“Fuck off,” Art suggested. He headed for the precinct doors, but the second he got inside, Carson pushed him toward the hallway that led to the locker room. 

Most of the guys kept spare clothes for when searches turned nasty or cases required them to work overnight. It was quiet now. Carson stopped in the short hall between the door and the public drinking fountain. “You’ve been snapping at half the guys in the precinct and personally I think Johnson is showing a hell of a lot of patience. I would have shot you in the ass two days ago if you were still my partner.”

“What?” Art took a step back. “What are you smoking?”

“You’ve been acting like a short-tempered polecat for days now, so whatever has your tail in a knot, figure it out.”

Art blinked at Carson. Sure, the man had taken Art to task a few times when they’d been partners, but that was ten years ago.

“And now I’m going to go give that partner of yours a stern lecture about not letting you pull this shit in the office. He should have separated your head from your ass two days ago.” With that, Carson walked away, leaving Art shaken down to the core of his being. 

Art’s heart pounded, and he replayed every interaction he’d had over the last couple of days. Salma featured prominently in the last few days, and Art knew he had been short with her, but he couldn’t remember losing his cool with anyone in the station. And that made Art feel off-balance and even more irritated. Fuck Carson for ambushing him, and now Art had to deal with the captain and a fed. Art turned his face to the tiled wall and took several deep breaths. He hated the feeling of being trapped inside his own head with all his mistakes, especially when he couldn’t even remember them.

Art’s cat guide made a rare daytime appearance at the precinct.

“Fuck you too,” Art muttered quietly. Then he headed up to see why the captain needed him in a meeting with the feds.

Chapter 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-6-19034447 

Chapter 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-2-19050307 

Chapter 3: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-3-19066252 

Chapter 4: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-4-19087127 

Chapter 5: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-5-19132901 

Chapter 6: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-six-19159661 

Chapter 7: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-7-19179823 

Chapter 8: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-8-19190078 

Chapter 9: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-9-19201497 

Chapter 10: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-10-19220764 

Chapter 11, 12: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-11-19228890 

Chapter 13, 14: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-13-19244456 

Chapter 15: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-15-19264338 

Chapter 16, 17: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-16-19276375 

Chapter 18, 19: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-18-19290091 

Chapter 20: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-20-19301548