scattered west of the huge city. The Harris County Sheriff’s office had already begun taking apart her small apartment for clues, and talking to her co-workers. The two men could only listen helplessly, as the detectives handling the case went over what little evidence they had, before beginning to interrogate the confused Juarez family members about anything she might have mentioned to them.
Following three weeks of no progress in the investigation, and with their funds running low, Arturo and his father returned to Panama, with promises from the authorities they would be updated on any developments. No calls came. The Juarez family began to accept what they knew to be true; Freda was gone, and would not return. The never-ending grief parents feel when losing a child, let alone not knowing what their fate had been, began to fester.
Later in the year, when Arturo returned to Houston with a more permanent immigrant visa, assisted by a relative who had previously been granted citizenship, he made it a point to check in with the detectives handling the case from time to time. It became clear the case had reached a dead end, and interest in his sister’s disappearance was flagging. He had no choice but to move on with his life, hoping to create alone what he and Freda had dreamed about.
Scallion knew this history, having read the section of the file on Freda Juarez several times. The visit he was about to make to Arturo Juarez’s restaurant would be the first time he had talked to the man himself. The drive south down I- 45 in the direction of Galveston brought back memories and images of the earlier series of murders, some too gruesome to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to ignore the fact some had occurred not too far from where he and Marti now lived—a little too close to home.
He timed his arrival for mid-afternoon, usually a slow time for restaurants. The name on the facade above the cantina’s front door read Freda’s , paying homage to his presumed dead sibling. It was a moderate-sized establishment in a strip mall facing the frontage road running alongside the expressway. The sign went on to say Central American cuisine was featured, not limited to Panama. Entering, his senses were immediately alert to tantalizing aromas, the afterglow of lunch hour.
A series of reactions came from Arturo Juarez when Scallion showed his badge and introduced himself. First was suspicion, a natural response to a police officer visiting a place of business, especially one owned by a minority. Next came a hopeful expression when told the officer was working on his sister’s case.
“Is there something new on her disappearance?” Arturo asked quickly.
Scallion hated deflating the man’s optimism, bringing on the final reaction of resignation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Juarez. I’m assigned to the Cold Case unit of the Sheriff’s office. We’re re-visiting Freda’s case, hoping to uncover anything that might help.” He scanned the restaurant, noticing mostly cleanup work under way. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
The deflated Juarez motioned with a nod of his head, “Follow me.”
He led Scallion to a small office in the rear of the restaurant, with the detective observing the man’s appearance and demeanor, a habit he couldn’t break, nor did he want to. He liked the man instantly. He was roughly five-ten, a trim build, most likely staying in shape due to the rigors of running the place. Dark hair had a few specks of pre-mature grey, belying his age of no more than thirty. He seemed open and cordial, and spoke excellent English, which didn’t hurt.
“Please, have a seat,” Juarez waved toward a chair across from his modest desk before taking his own seat. “I’ll tell what I know, but I assure you, it has all been said before, and it is not much.”
Scallion had heard similar comments before. He had also uncovered many leads in his career that the sources didn’t know they knew—or had
Following three weeks of no progress in the investigation, and with their funds running low, Arturo and his father returned to Panama, with promises from the authorities they would be updated on any developments. No calls came. The Juarez family began to accept what they knew to be true; Freda was gone, and would not return. The never-ending grief parents feel when losing a child, let alone not knowing what their fate had been, began to fester.
Later in the year, when Arturo returned to Houston with a more permanent immigrant visa, assisted by a relative who had previously been granted citizenship, he made it a point to check in with the detectives handling the case from time to time. It became clear the case had reached a dead end, and interest in his sister’s disappearance was flagging. He had no choice but to move on with his life, hoping to create alone what he and Freda had dreamed about.
Scallion knew this history, having read the section of the file on Freda Juarez several times. The visit he was about to make to Arturo Juarez’s restaurant would be the first time he had talked to the man himself. The drive south down I- 45 in the direction of Galveston brought back memories and images of the earlier series of murders, some too gruesome to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to ignore the fact some had occurred not too far from where he and Marti now lived—a little too close to home.
He timed his arrival for mid-afternoon, usually a slow time for restaurants. The name on the facade above the cantina’s front door read Freda’s , paying homage to his presumed dead sibling. It was a moderate-sized establishment in a strip mall facing the frontage road running alongside the expressway. The sign went on to say Central American cuisine was featured, not limited to Panama. Entering, his senses were immediately alert to tantalizing aromas, the afterglow of lunch hour.
A series of reactions came from Arturo Juarez when Scallion showed his badge and introduced himself. First was suspicion, a natural response to a police officer visiting a place of business, especially one owned by a minority. Next came a hopeful expression when told the officer was working on his sister’s case.
“Is there something new on her disappearance?” Arturo asked quickly.
Scallion hated deflating the man’s optimism, bringing on the final reaction of resignation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Juarez. I’m assigned to the Cold Case unit of the Sheriff’s office. We’re re-visiting Freda’s case, hoping to uncover anything that might help.” He scanned the restaurant, noticing mostly cleanup work under way. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
The deflated Juarez motioned with a nod of his head, “Follow me.”
He led Scallion to a small office in the rear of the restaurant, with the detective observing the man’s appearance and demeanor, a habit he couldn’t break, nor did he want to. He liked the man instantly. He was roughly five-ten, a trim build, most likely staying in shape due to the rigors of running the place. Dark hair had a few specks of pre-mature grey, belying his age of no more than thirty. He seemed open and cordial, and spoke excellent English, which didn’t hurt.
“Please, have a seat,” Juarez waved toward a chair across from his modest desk before taking his own seat. “I’ll tell what I know, but I assure you, it has all been said before, and it is not much.”
Scallion had heard similar comments before. He had also uncovered many leads in his career that the sources didn’t know they knew—or had
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