The trip from Storm’s house to the Dome took no time at all. He used service roads and the back streets, arriving only forty minutes after he had received the phone call from the dispatcher. The Dome complex had changed immensely in the past two years with the addition of a new stadium and the demolition of the old convention hall. There were even rumors that the Dome itself would be torn down, but Storm had never heard anything confirming that those innuendos were anything more than gossip. He felt they came from people with too much time on their hands who tried to guess the future, however he also knew you could never totally discount rumors, as many times, fiction did become fact.
The main entrance to the Dome complex hadn’t changed, at least not yet, and he turned in between the banners advertising the Lone Star Livestock Show and Rodeo. Why didn’t I remember it’s that time of year? He asked himself.
Lone Star time was when Houstonians dusted off their hats and shined their boots in hopes of recapturing the days of cowboys and the cattle herds that had once thrived on the land that surrounded the city of Houston. That storied past, with its free grazing land where cowboys slept under the stars was long gone, replaced with oil company offices and new housing developments. But once a year the city donned its Western garb and cowboy attitudes of the old days in the guise of raising scholarship money. Houston was proud of its Lone Star Livestock Show and Rodeo and the contributions it had made to youth of the city and surrounding rural South Texas, but Storm was also always amused at the trappings of the event. Women wore leather outfits adorned with feathers and fur and the men wore their cowboy hats and expensive exotic skinned boots, talking of horses and cattle, when again, Storm was sure the closest most of them had been to a horse was the local racetrack on the north side of Houston.
Storm was waved through the north Kirby gate by one of parking lot attendants working the early shift. He noted how the new stadium’s sign, its big bright red letters announcing its new name and sponsor, reflected the change from the old Dome days. The stadium, only a year old, sat directly on Kirby Street; the rest of the complex‘s sixty-five acres was bounded by Fannin, Old Spanish Trail, and Interstate 610. The new stadium was grand—actually, so big it almost blocked out the view of the old Dome from the street. Like many native Houstonians, Storm was resistant to change. The thought that the “Eighth Wonder of World”, as it was once called, had been diminished to a supporting player gnawed at him like the loss of an old friend.
The huge new convention center surrounded the Dome on its north side, and the sheer size and scope of the place was overwhelming, so Storm had not yet been able to locate the flashing lights or police presence of the murder scene.
“Where they at?” he asked the guard, showing him his badge.
“The cops? Boss, you will need to go ahead on and turn around and pull in at the south Kirby gate,” the guard directed him. “That’s where I seen the other police cars go in.” Storm backtracked and turned left so that he could enter at the south side of the stadium.
So far, this morning had not been one of Storm’s best: he had lost sleep, wrestled with memories of Angie, been faced with changes he wanted to ignore to a place he had known and enjoyed most of his life, and as yet, had not even had his first cup of coffee. What else did this morning have in store for him? Only the murder scene would to tell him that.
After entering the southern gate he saw the cars and crime scene tape around the site of the discovery of the body. He parked, got out, and immediately saw Sergeant Ralph Hebert holding court as the officer in charge of the scene. Sergeant Hebert saw him too and motioned him over to where he was regaling his troops with stories of the old days...
“Well, Detective, nice to see you could join us this morning.” His snide tone registered his disapproval.
Sergeant Hebert was a thirty-year veteran cop and had been around the department most of his adult life. He made it clear to anyone who would listen that anyone but a street cop was an overpaid, pampered pencil pusher. Born and raised in southeast Texas, Hebert was more Cajun than Texan and was obviously proud of it. He was known to be hard headed and contrary, but in all their dealings Storm had always felt that, although cantankerous, he was always fair.
“Nice to see you too, ‘Hee-bert.’” Storm knew that to pronounce Hebert’s name with an “e” sound rather the “a” sound (most Cajuns used the “a” sound) would piss him off. One good verbal jab deserved another. “What have we got?”
Hebert, glowering at him, spat out, “Dead girl found at around 5:00 AM this morning, nude. She fell out of a trash dumpster over there.” He pointed to a row of dumpsters placed in the parking lot for use during the three-day Livestock Show Barbecue Cook-off, which was a precursor to the three-week long show that would begin tomorrow.
“Who found her?” Asked Storm.
Hebert just pointed to a man wearing what looked like a cleaning crew uniform standing with a group of other police officers and dismissed Storm by saying, “You’re the big detective, you figure it out.”
The medical examiner had not yet arrived so the body was still lying where it had been discovered. Storm could tell even from a distance that the girl was young, brunette, and had ash-colored skin due to blood loss. As he got closer he saw that her features looked almost serene. She had been a pretty girl and way too young to have come to this awful end in this cold place. She was naked and no one had covered her up, probably waiting for the M.E. and the crime scene people to arrive to officially pronounce her dead. Although the M. E. would establish an official cause of death later, Storm could see her throat had been cut, slit from ear to ear, he also noticed there didn’t seem to be much blood around. If this young girl had died here and bled out, there would have much more blood, but there was no sign of any. The poor girl was lying there exposed to the prurient interest of the onlookers.
The policemen standing around the girl’s body were talking to the man in the cleaning crew uniform when Storm walked over.
“I’m Detective Storm of HPD. Your name, sir?”
“Ernie—Earnest—Underwood.”
Storm noted the name on his notepad. “Occupation?”
“I works for Manpower doin’ cleanup for the livestock show.”
Storm knew Manpower provided temporary help to the Livestock Show. They contracted for cleanup of the facility in the early hours of the morning before the crowds arrived. Manpower’s employees were mostly men on hard times who needed work and would do so for minimum wage. The livestock show had always been about helping the community in one way or another since its inception in the late 1930s and hiring these men qualified as one way to help.
“OK, Ernie, how did you find her? What made you look in here?” Asked Storm.
Ernie said eagerly, “Well, Boss, I comes out here to throw out the garbage bags from the stadium. We carry them bags down to the loading docks of the stadium and when the dumpsters there are full we start to bringing dem out here. This is loose,” Ernie motioned to the hinges that held the doors to the dumpster open, “and when I pulled on it, the door fell open like it is now. Kinda like it’s broke or something, so I hadta be careful not to tump everything inside out, ya know? Well, I was making sure it didn’t tump all over on ground when this arm fell out. Boss, it scaid the hell outta me, so I jumped back and that’s when that white girl came a-tumblin’ outta that thing. I ran back inside and got the boss and he was the one who called the police. I been out chere ever since talking to all the policemen.”
Ernie hesitated a little looking at Storm with frightened eyes. “Boss, that girl is a white girl.”
“Yes, I see that,” Storm replied dryly.
“Well, Boss, I just found her, nothing else. I been workin’ inside ‘til I found her. You can ask everyone they will tell ya, I was inside till I found her.”
Ernie sounded scared. Storm didn’t blame him. Like a lot of big cities, the HPD’s record with minorities wasn’t sterling. In the midst of jotting his notes, Storm stopped and look
ed at Ernie. “Don’t worry; I am sure you did the right thing. We will just double-check with your boss before we leave. Now what time was it when you found her?”
“Well, we got to work about midnight and by the time we were done with the stadium it was about four in the morning. I was down on the docks for awhile, then started to carry things out here where I filled up that one first,” pointing to the dumpster next to one where the young girl lay. So I guess it was about 4:30 when I found her.”
“Have you touched or moved her since you found her?” asked Storm.
“No, Boss, I don’t. I told you it scaid me and when I came back down here I brought the boss. I didn’t want to be alone with her ‘til you police showed up.” After a momentary pause and a sideways glance, he continued, “But, Boss, them policemen did pick her up and move her some, not much, but some.” Ernie quickly darted his eyes toward a group of police still standing near the girl’s naked body, ogling her.
“What do you mean they ‘picked her up?’” Storm asked.
“Well, Boss, when she came out of that thing she fell out face down, and well, they rolled her over to look at her,” Ernie said nervously.
Beat cops ignoring procedure was nothing new to Storm. In his experience with HPD, what cops did or didn’t do didn’t surprise him anymore. More than once he had seen policemen on the scene move or roll a body, especially if it was a young woman, so they could see her exposed breasts or some other exposed part of her body. Storm never ceased to be amazed by the perverted behavior of the human race, but most especially, the police. When he asked the policemen who had moved the body no one took credit.
“Who moved this girl?” Stormed directed his questions to the cops standing closest to girl still looking at her.
Sheepishly the men turned their heads as if they didn’t hear his questions. “I said, ‘who turned this girl over?’ Did you?” Storm stood in the face of a big black officer standing next to the dumpster.
“No, didn’t touch that white girl, none of us did.” The patrolman was visibly angered at being spoken to this way, but Storm wasn’t backing down.
“Then who did? How long you been here?” Storm’s voice was getting louder and his face showed his distaste for the men.
“Me?” asked the officer.
“Yes, you dumb ass, were you first on scene?” asked Storm.
“No, I just got here a few minutes ago,” answered the patrolman.
“But you felt you needed to come over and look at a naked dead girl?” Storm was barely able to control his anger. The black patrolman and other officers slowly turned, lowered their heads and began to walk away. Storm was pretty sure he had made his point.
Hebert had heard the conversation and started to voice his objections to Storm talking that way to his men, but before he could Storm got in his face. “If I ever come to another crime scene where your officers have gotten their jollies off looking at a dead girl and I find out they have moved the body I am going to arrest them for interfering with an investigation and since you are in charge of them I might just file charges against you, too.”
All Hebert could do was sputter; he knew his men had turned the girl over; he knew they had been looking at her, but that was what cops did. “OK, Detective, OK. My people were wrong, but you yelling at them ain’t gonna do any good. We are at your direction now.”
From the lack of blood in the area it was obvious to Storm the girl had bled out somewhere else. It didn’t really hinder the investigation that her body had been moved, but the fact they had stood there ogling her pissed Storm off. This girl was a human being and she deserved some final respect and dignity in death. Storm removed his jacket and covered the girl’s naked torso until the forensics team could arrive.
After calming down Storm turned and asked Hebert “You found any clothing, shoes, panties, anything else?”
“Nope. We’ve looked through the dumpster. Nothing, zip.”
The morbid interest of the loitering police officers was over but they still had to wait for the M.E. to declare a preliminary cause of death and move the young woman’s body from its resting place. Storm would retrieve his jacket then.
Chapter Two
A Slip of the Tongue
By the time the crime lab folks and M.E. showed up, it was almost 8:00 AM. This morning was already dragging by and Storm had still not had coffee. Hunger was setting in, causing his stomach to rumble, it crossed his mind. I could eat the north end of a south-going skunk. Storm shook off the hunger pangs and the growing desire for coffee, finding it, as he always did, amazing he could still think of food after seeing a young pretty girl lying dead in a heap of garbage with her throat cut, but he did.
The M.E. and crime lab crew didn’t take long to pronounce the girl dead and report they had found no clothing or ID in the dumpster where her body had been discovered.
“All right, we’ll have to look for her personal effects.” At that point Storm summoned the same cops he had chewed out. “Now, listen up,” Storm directed the policemen waiting for instruction. “Search the grounds around all entries and exits and all other dumpsters in the area. Be looking for girl’s clothing or a purse or wallet with some type of identification so we can give this unfortunate girl a name. Keep your eyes peeled for a possible bloody crime scene where the attack might have actually taken place. Bag anything you find and keep the evidence pristine. Got it?”
Storm left the killing field to drive downtown to police headquarters and check in with whatever superior was working the shift today. Sundays were normally days off for many of the force, but those responsible for overseeing the workings of a police division took turns rotating once a month to handle the weekend shift. Even if not physically onsite, they were on call twenty-four hours a day over that time period.
I also need to pay a visit to the M.E.’s office, Storm decided. I’ll go after I’m sure she’s received the body. Maybe the staff will be able to shed more light on the events leading up to the girl’s death.
On the way downtown there was going to have to be the obligatory stop at a new Starbucks in the West University area for his much required and overdue cup of coffee. Although it was still early when he made the stop, the coffee bar was already full with a long waiting line that stretched to the front door. Storm despised lines and couldn’t imagine why so many people would get up so early to get a cup of very expensive coffee with steamed cream in it. However there he was, too, begrudging the wait to get his “Grande” and head on to his office.
The extra large cup of specialized coffee did satisfy a small portion of his void but his stomach wanted more—hopefully he’d find a few of the much maligned donuts in the coffee room at Homicide Headquarters. If he really got lucky he might find someone had brought in kolaches, baked rolls of dough filled with meat or fruit, a local breakfast treat that probably originated in Slovakia and his personal favorite. The consumption of coffee and thoughts of kolaches at least momentarily diverted his mind from the image in his mind of the dead girl lying there with her throat cut.
He parked and headed for the entry of “59 Reisner Street,” Houston police headquarters and office for his division of the homicide department. Ever since 9/11, procedures for entering a city, county, state, or federal building had changed. All entries and exits were now miniature mazes that would allow the guards at the door the ability to handle one person at a time. Non-law enforcement personnel entered the maze waiting their turn to unload any objects that might set off the metal detectors and to open for the guard’s scrutiny any briefcases or file boxes they might be carrying. Law enforcement personnel entered through another opening where they had to display credentials indicating they were allowed to carry weapons on their bodies without unloading personal side arms and ammunition magazines. They, too, would be scrutinized and often requested to open any container they might be carrying.
Storm pulled his ID and badge and slid them across the table at the guard. The guard nodded his head. “OK, sir, pr
oceed,” he said, handing the credentials back. Storm crossed the lobby to the elevators and rode up to the third floor of headquarters to check in.
His immediate boss, the man who would have normally not been in on a Sunday , was sitting in his office waiting for Storm and motioned him in with a wave of his hand. Call it respect or old-fashioned manners, but Storm always stood in the boss’s office and never sat unless invited to. The boss might have been younger than Storm but protocol prevailed. Storm was one of those who believed that in the presence of a superior you didn’t sit or relax slumping in a chair.
His boss, Lt. Ralph Flynn, was a young black police lieutenant who had made grade faster than most. He was almost ten years younger than Storm and rumor suggested him to be very attached to the mayor’s office. Lieutenant Flynn, well educated in Eastern schools, had worked on Richard Lemay’s staff in New York City when he was chief of police there and had followed Lemay to Houston when Lemay had returned and become mayor.
Flynn had only been lieutenant for a year now, but he had made it clear to Storm he was aware of the detective’s reputation. He had made it no secret to Storm about what would happen if he screwed up again. Storm merely shrugged it off—he knew he had made his own bed and there was nothing to do now but lie in it. His only other option was to retire, but he was too young and he wasn’t ready for that yet. Besides, the lieutenant was only calling it like he saw it. Flynn seemed fair so far, so Storm had no problem working mundane cases and doing follow-up work.
When Storm’s wife Angie had been killed and the sparse leads had gone nowhere, Storm had gone off the deep end. Angie had been coming home from one of her numerous trips out of town, this time to Latin America. She had been negotiating a deal for oil tools manufactured by her company with Latin American offshore drillers. Her plane had arrived back to Bush International Airport around 5:00 PM but by the time she had retrieved her bags and cleared Customs it was closer to 6:00 PM and already dark in the Bayou City. As a company executive Angie knew she had the clearance to use a limousine service to pick her up and take her to the airport. Similarly, on her return she could call the service, and by the time she cleared Customs, a driver would be waiting to carry her home.
Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery) Page 2