Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery)

by Jon Bridgewater

  “Well, office boy, I see you are back again. Did the boss send you back to see how real cops do their jobs?” Hebert asked with his usual coonass smirk. Storm was annoyed by Hebert’s attitude toward him but he checked his emotions and let the stones of verbal abuse roll off his back. Hebert would never get used to the fact that a cop didn’t have to wear a uniform to be a good cop. He was an old-school street cop and nobody was ever better then a street cop, not that Storm had ever insinuated he was.

  Hebert pushed on. “I got some copies of the picture from the dead girl’s driver’s license and gave them to my officers so they can canvas the grounds and ask if anyone knew her or saw her last night. Did you know the kid was only twenty-five years old?”

  This was a piece of the puzzle that had escaped Storm till Hebert said it. What had someone so young been mixed up in that would get her killed? Who the hell was she mixed up with?

  “Didn’t know that, He-ee-bert,” he answered. “If any of the guys come up with something you let me know. I’m gonna talk to the cleaning crew supervisor. Maybe he can shed some light on what went down here.”

  Storm found Ernie’s boss still there, timing out the men who had to stay late to clean up after the M.E. and forensics teams had finally left the scene. Henry Dillon had started out working for Manpower as a part-time worker himself not so many years ago. After proving himself a steady hand, he had been hired full-time as a work crew supervisor. He, too, had been a drunk with one or two felonies against him, but he had turned his life around and was now considered a responsible and respected man who could supervise others like himself. Dillon saw Storm coming and turned to meet him. He seemed to know who Storm was before Storm introduced himself.

  “Hello, I am Detective David Storm. I’m in charge of investigating the murder of the girl who was found here this morning.”

  “Yes, I know, Ernie told me who you were.”

  “Good, then I would like to ask you some questions about last night. What time did your crew come on last night?”

  “Actually, we had people here at 10:00 pm last night, but I didn’t come out until midnight. I was running another job across town and the men out here know what is to be done and what is expected of them. This group is pretty good at self supervision.”

  “What were your people doing last night?”

  “This time of year, during the rodeo, we make sure the stadium is cleaned up before the events of the next day begin. Sometimes that’s easy, sometimes it’s hard, depends on the function and circumstances.”

  “What was it like last night?”

  “Last night should have been easy. The only people allowed in the stadium during barbecue are the big wheels from the rodeo and security persons. The VIP club is open and they can go in to drink and party. But we also handle cleaning up the dumpsters from the barbecue. So, I have to spread my guys a little thinner and all over the tented area.”

  “When you say the “big wheels” are allowed in the stadium, who would that consist of?”

  “The people with the badges that say things like, ‘Vice President,’ ‘Director,’ etc. The cops working the gates keep an eye on who gets in or not.”

  “Do they bring in husbands, wives, dates, or whatever with them?”

  “Yeah, sure. Sometimes they bring both. There are always lots of girls that come in with them. You see it more often when the rodeo actually starts.”

  “Did you see this girl last night?” Storm held out a copy of Leslie’s picture from her driver’s license that Hebert had given him.

  Dillon looked at the copy of the picture and said, “No, never saw her ‘til this morning when Ernie came running up and said he found a body. Scared the beJesus out of him.”

  “When you saw her this morning did you think you had seen her before?”

  “No.” Dillon shook his head in the negative.

  “The dumpster she was found in, could it have been one from the barbecue?”

  “No, those dumpsters are only used for trash we take from the stadium. The dumpsters for the barbecue are mixed around the area inside the fences that cordon off the midway, the carnival and barbecue tents.”

  Storm put the picture away and said “OK, thanks. If you think of anything else after I have gone, here is my card. Call me.”

  With that Storm left and headed back to his car to go to the M.E.’s office to see if Alisha knew anything more about the exact cause of death.

  * * * *

  During his trip to the murder scene another meeting was taking place in the Show offices. Dakota Taylor had wasted no time in calling together the persons who needed to jump in to control the public spin. Seated around the ornate conference room besides Dakota were Vern Nagel; Leon Powers, the president and CEO of the Show; and the eleven-member executive committee. The late arriving HPD Sergeant Hebert appeared at the meeting as soon as he was free to leave the site of discovery of the dead girl.

  Leon Powers started it off looking at Dakota, “OK, Dakota, what do we know?”

  Inwardly checking her heart rate and composure and making sure to appear in control in front of the others, Dakota responded, “We know a young woman was found dead early this morning in a dumpster outside of the stadium. We know the manner in which she died from information supplied by Sergeant Hebert. Her throat was cut, severing her windpipe, and she bled to death. Further than that we only know she was found by one of the Manpower workers cleaning the stadium. I have already met with the HPD detective in charge of the case; his name is David Storm.”

  She saw Leon was taking notes. “When we met with him earlier today he didn’t seem to know much, only that a young girl, Leslie Phillips was her name, was found murdered on the grounds.”

  Powers asked, “Who else met with him besides you?”

  Dakota quickly pointed to Vern sitting in the middle of table opposite herself. “Vern Nagel from the mayor’s office and I met with him, and of course, offered any help we can in the investigation. In the meeting with the detective, Vern and I both suggested that she could have been possibly dumped here because of the number of dumpsters we have on the property.”

  Powers smiled at Dakota. He knows what I mean, she thought. The Show would not impede the investigation, but on the other hand, would also do nothing that would put the Show in a bad light.

  Then Powell grunted, “What do we know about this Storm? What type of man is he?”

  Sergeant Hebert took that question. “He’s a twice decorated officer, been on the force about twenty-five years. About five years ago his wife was murdered. Nobody was ever caught and he went off the deep end. He is a drunk and of late his friends in the department have covered for him, trying to keep him out of trouble until it’s time for him to retire. Given the last five years, he’s perfect for our needs. He will spin his wheels, file reports, and this will most likely become another of those unsolved cases that disappear after a few months.”

  “Will he buy the proposition that the girl could have been dumped here?” asked Powers.

  “In the old days, no, but now I think he is just counting days and doesn’t want to rock the boat,” answered Hebert.

  Nagel then spoke up. “The mayor’s office and the chief of police are aware of the situation and are in agreement that the public’s attention should not be focused on this tragic event, as this is nothing more than a random incident.”

  Powers questioned, “What about the press, have we heard from them yet?”

  Dakota replied, “No news vans have shown up and nothing has been released at this time, as I was waiting for your permission to give out a statement of regret for this unfortunate young woman’s death and how the Show wishes her family our deepest sympathies for their loss. The good news is it’s Sunday, so when it is picked up, it will make only the evening news and Sundays are the least watched.”

  Powers looked again at Dakota. “Do you have a meeting set up with the Show committee chairs, to make sure their committee members understand they don’t
talk to anyone, press, cops, anyone, and they redirect any inquiry they may get to the Show management offices?”

  “I’ll do it later this morning, sir. It will be like the cow charging through the kids’ incident sir a few years ago, it will be reinforced to them that if asked what happened they should be like Schultz on Hogan’s Heroes and say, ‘I know nothing.’” Dakota smiled as she mimicked the inept POW camp sergeant from the old television show.

  Powers then focused on Sergeant Hebert. “How about your cops?”

  “Leadership is on board, Leon,” Sergeant Hebert said. “Her picture is being passed around to all the officers who worked last night. They won’t withhold information, but they work for me or at least most of them do, so like me, they don’t really have much regard for office boys.” His well-known dislike of the police in suits was obvious in his tone.

  Powers turned to look at Dakota and Nagel. “Does Detective Storm know anything about the others?”

  Dakota didn’t reply, except to shake her head no.

  “OK. Keep me informed of anything that comes up that could tarnish the Show.”

  As if an afterthought, he asked, “Do any of you know this Leslie Phillips or have you ever seen her before?” He threw the copy of the picture Hebert had brought onto the middle of the table. None of the eleven executive committee members answered. They sat silently, merely looking at the dead girl’s picture.

  * * * *

  Powers looked quietly at the face of each of them, one by one, trying to read body language. He knew someone at this table had seen the girl and possibly knew her, but none would answer now, not in front of so many of their cohorts. One of them might even know who the killer was, but would never admit it. It was time to circle the wagons. He suspected they all wondered if this murder could be tied to the other killings of young women found in or around the vicinity of the Show over the last seven years. He had to depend on their discretion. This was a closed group, a society within a society; too much was at stake for this to become anything more than the tragic death of a young woman with no ties to the Show.

  Chapter Seven

  Russell Finds an Ally

  Channel 5 News had been Russell’s home since returning to Houston from college. He had started as a rookie reporter making less money a month then a city street sweeper, but it wasn’t the money that pushed him. It was news: the finding a story and pursuing it ‘til the facts came out. In the twenty-five years he had spent at Channel 5 he had risen up the ladder of success, becoming the nightly anchor for the 6:00 and 10:00 pm wrap-ups at the age of thirty.

  After five years on the anchor desk he found he was bored. He looked at the jobs afforded him and he discovered being the weatherman better fit his work ethic, which had reverted back to his apathetic, unconcerned approach to life. He found he was good at doing the weather; it didn’t take much preparation and it afforded him the same notoriety as being an anchor.

  As he pushed open the station entry doors that Sunday after his conversation with Storm, he glanced at the foyer and reflected that not much had changed in the almost twenty-five years he had been there, with the exception of the arrival from time to time of fresh new energetic faces. These new people were mostly young and always looking to make their mark and to step up to a bigger market stations or the chance to get to go to the “Show,” which is how they referred to a chance to go to the network. Many of them secretly and some not so secretly harbored the idea they were the next great investigative reporter or the next anchor for the network morning news, but just as in all professions, many aspire but few are chosen.

  Russell had never had those kinds of aspirations. Although in his first years the thrill of a good story had inspired him, rarely if at all did he fantasize about leaving Houston. This was his comfort zone and here he planned to stay. Doing the weather required little real work on his part unless there was an anomaly like a hurricane. In those instances he was required to perform a 24/7 operation until the threat passed, but those situations were rare and far between.

  He usually arrived at work no later than 2:00 PM and went home or to the bar by no later than 11:00 PM He had grown up in Houston and was well-known but at the same time thought of by many to be somewhat infamous, so he was also the perfect guy to send out for “meet and greets.” This homegrown personality was perceived by his viewers as their neighbor, just one of them.

  Russell enjoyed the exposure and attention. He played golf in local charity tournaments and often acted as the M.C. for them, but what he truly liked about this part of his job was the chance to stay in front of the local beauties. As he looked at all the fresh faced beautiful girls around the station he knew why he was here—he loved women.

  But today was different. First, he didn’t work Sundays, and second, he was on a mission. He had purpose again, and it brought back the memories of past glory. He had to find someone who could answer the riddles Storm had given him.

  Like any typical local television station, there were a few cameramen, producers, and stage managers who had been around since “Shep was a pup” and these were the guys he needed to talk to. They were cameramen or sound guys or producers who were still around putting in their time before mandatory retirement and being relegated to an existence of daily golf or fishing. For active people such as they were, these days usually meant long hours of excruciating boredom.

  Russell understood and appreciated them, although reluctantly Russell accepted the fact that in a few years he would be one of them. These old guys knew where all the bodies were buried, but that knowledge they wouldn’t share with just anyone. A newbie, for instance, would never get anything out of them; respect was earned, not given lightly. Russell, on the other hand, was one of them. He knew that if any of them could solve a mystery about girls being found dead at the Dome, they would share it with him and probably even help him narrow his search for the information.

  That was when he spied Grady Anderson, sitting alone at a coffee room table seemingly lost in his Sunday paper. Grady was just one such guy. Grady had been a cameraman at the station for over thirty-five years and only had a few more months to go to reach age sixty-five and retirement. Grady had long since stopped doing location work. Now he shot the 6:00 PM and 10:00 PM evening news and stayed inside where the air conditioning worked. He was in early most days because the station was home to him; he lived alone and the people here were his family. Grady had been divorced for years. His wife had since remarried and his kids were long grown and now had families of their own, all living in cities around the USA. Grady was a fixture at the station and had been instrumental in teaching Russell about camera presence and telling a good story.

  “Damn, a big storm must be coming for you to be here on a Sunday! And little early in the day for you, isn’t it?” Grady remarked, peering over his paper as he saw Russell approaching.

  “Why do you say that, Grady—and by the way, screw you, you old fart!” Russell just grinned—he could give as well as receive.

  “Why else would you be here on a Sunday and at an hour a little too early in the day for you?”

  Russell got himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Yep, you’re right, it’s way too early for me, but sometimes a guy has to make an exception.” Carrying the coffee pot, Russell refilled Grady’s cup as he continued. “You remember that pard of mine, Dave Storm?”

  “Yep, sure do. Indian kid who was one helluva football player back in the day. He’s the cop whose wife was murdered a few years ago ain’t he?”

  “That’s him.”

  “What did he do that got you up and made you come to the station this early on a Sunday? He a medicine man now or something and have a premonition about a hurricane and ask you to come check?” Grady laughed at his own joke. Grady and Russell had shared a lot over the past twenty-five years—drinks, stories, good natured ribbing, but most importantly, respect. Not many still existed in their world with the history they had.

  “Nope. He had a question about so
mething I couldn’t answer and he asked if I would do some research for him.”

  “Something to do with the station?” Grady knew Storm was a homicide detective, and Russell could tell the implication bothered him.

  “No, just a question about history.”

  “Maybe I can help.” Grady had probably forgotten more than most people remembered, Russell figured.

  “What I was hoping for when I saw you. Did you know a girl was found dead at the Dome this morning?”

  “Yeah, it just broke. Why?” Russell could see the questions begin to flicker in the older man’s eyes.

  “Storm caught the case. He will be the detective in charge of the investigation”

  “Really?! You gonna tell Sweet Britches about it?” “Sweet Britches” was what they dubbed any new self-important female reporter who thought she was going to be the next Connie Chung. At the station now that person was Christine Chu, a beautiful Vietnamese girl just out of the University of Texas who was already charging headlong into the fray to move up the ladder as fast as her gorgeous legs would carry her.

  “No, let her find out on her own,” Russell scoffed. “But have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing much, just that they found a body. Chu jumped on it and ran out with her infatuated camera boy to find out what she could. They haven’t broadcast anything back yet. I am sure the Show will release their normal bullshit statement like ‘it is unfortunate and our deepest sympathies go out the victim’s family, but as yet we have no further information. When we get an update from local law enforcement we will be of any help we can be to the investigation.’ Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Storm know anything about it yet?” Grady asked, now looking to Russell for clues.

  “Storm said they found her name off a picture identification in her purse, and they found some clothing thrown somewhere nearby. He told me someone had slit her throat, but she was moved to a dumpster after she bled out. Early this morning they had found her body in a dumpster outside the new stadium but still hadn’t found a bloody crime scene.”