Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery)

by Jon Bridgewater

  Storm’s phone had been playing “Stormy Weather” all night but he had turned it off. Early the next morning his home phone began another incessant chorus of rings. Why am I not surprised he’s calling already? Storm thought, as he saw “Lt. Flynn” flash on the caller ID. Flynn started right in with the accusations.” I hear you’ve been asking about six other murders, not just the Phillips homicide. You’re trying to establish a relationship between those other ones and the show.”

  Storm was sitting at his kitchen table studying the crime scene photos from Peggy Wise’s murder. Peggy was lying face down in a pool of blood with her hands outstretched. Her skirt was up around her waist and her feet were bare. The killer hadn’t had time to move Ms. Wise’s body or hide the crime scene. Alisha appeared to be right that this was not planned out as well as the others, but Storm felt in his gut it was same perp; call it “cop’s intuition” or whatever you want, he told himself, but he knew.

  It appeared she was trying to write something, but what? Her hand was drenched in blood and the letters, if they were letters at all, were smeared and messed beyond his ability to read them. Was she trying to tell someone who her killer was, or was she asking for help? Could the killer have been taunting the police with some bogus clue? He had to get back into Peggy’s place and take a more careful second look around.

  “Come to my office as soon as you get in,” Flynn ordered. When he arrived, he glanced at Sergeant Hernandez with a question in his eye. Hernandez nodded affirmatively—signaling the files were all back in their place and had not been missed, but he did have copies. They had put that plan together the day before when Storm had made the announcement to his team that he would be putting the word out at the Show that he knew about the other girls. All records were to be replaced—Hernandez would only keep copies, so if someone went looking to see if files were missing they would find everything in order.

  Storm knocked on the lieutenant’s door and was waved immediately in. Through the glass windows of the office he had seen that Flynn was not alone, and now he saw a familiar welcome face among those waiting for him, a surprise one but a welcome one. But he wondered why Lieutenant Smith was there.

  “Who do you think you are?” Vern Nagel attacked first, launching into a voice that was so loud everyone in the precinct turned to see what was going on. “What do you mean going into the Show asking about six old cases about a bunch of girls you are not authorized to be looking into?”

  Flynn slammed the door behind Storm as quickly as he could. He was trying to keep this as quiet as possible and Nagel’s yelling was not helping that situation. Rumors circulated quickly around police departments and the lieutenant didn’t have any idea of what was truth and what was rumor at this point.

  “Hold on, Mr. Nagel, this is my office and my meeting and you will keep your voice down. I understand the mayor is upset and you’re feeling some pressure but I would ask that you hold your tongue until we clarify some things and we’ll get through this. Storm, did you go to the Show yesterday and ask for records on six people unrelated to the specific case you’re supposed to be working on?” asked Flynn.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I did,” Storm said quietly. He had found that speaking softly in confrontational situations usually made the other person even angrier and often exposed their vulnerability and real purpose. It was a trick he had learned when he had argued infrequently with his mom and even less frequently with Angie. The softer his voice got, the louder and madder they got. Having Nagel react this way pleased Storm to no end.

  “Those are old cases that have nothing to do with the murder of that poor girl last Saturday,” yelled Nagel.

  “Mr. Nagel, please. Keep your mouth shut,” Flynn said, scowling at Nagel. He then turned to Storm and said, “Storm, why do you want that information?”

  “Lieutenant, I believe these murders are all related,” said Storm.

  “Why would you think that, do you have any evidence of that?” yelled Nagel.

  “Nagel, I have asked you to be quiet and I will not ask you again.” Turning back to Storm he said, “Now why do you think these old cases are related?”

  “This weekend’s victim’s throat was cut in a professional way so she couldn’t scream. There were no defensive wounds, so she didn’t fight, which means she knew or trusted her killer. She was in her early twenties, brunette, cute, single, no family to speak of, and last seen in the company of Show big wheels in the VIP room of the stadium. We have video of her going into the stadium, but none coming out. The man she went in with admitted having sex with her in the stadium rest room, but claims that was the last time he saw her,” said Storm.

  “Then you have your killer,” announced Nagel.

  “No, Mr. Nagel, I don’t believe we do,” Storm said.

  “Again, I ask what does this have to do with the six old cases?” The lieutenant was not asking anymore—his tone made it clear he was demanding an answer.

  “I believe the other six women were killed by the same person who killed Leslie Phillips.” Storm knew he had put himself on the line now. “The circumstances of each girl’s death is the same, the cause of death was the same, they were all similar in appearance, and they were all found dead either near or on the grounds of the Dome.” Storm wasn’t going to divulge anything more about what he knew, at least not in front of Nagel.

  “Who is this man of interest?” asked the lieutenant.

  “As I said earlier, he is Joe Dresden. He was seen on the video going into the stadium with the girl the night she was killed, and right now I wouldn’t call him a suspect,” replied Storm.

  “So, you don’t have a suspect?” Nagle’s voice was rising again.

  “Nagel, I am warning you for the last time, I will ask you to leave if you can’t control yourself. You are not furthering anything with your tone and your interruptions,” the lieutenant, obviously pissed. He directed his questions back to Storm.

  “Why don’t you think this man is your killer?” asked the lieutenant.

  “When I confronted him about what he knew about this girl it scared the shit out of him, especially after I showed him the picture of her lying in the morgue. Also, in the video when he leaves the stadium, he doesn’t look the worse for wear. He’s in the same clothes, but they’re not wrinkled or bloody. He admits to being with the girl, but claims when he left her she was fine and having drinks with other people in the club. We can reasonably believe she had consensual sex before the killing; there was spermicide found in her vagina and no evidence of rape. The damage and bruising to her anus was postmortem.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Flynn demanded.

  “That is the opinion of the medical examiner,” said Storm.

  “So, you interviewed this Dresden character and you scared him?” Flynn asked.

  “Yes, sir. But he’s no killer. He’s a playboy and philanderer, but he’s also a wimp with no background in the military or police that would fit the M.O. of our killer.”

  * * * *

  Nagel had suddenly gone quiet, listening to every word Storm was saying. He had to report back to the mayor and Dakota as soon as he left the meeting and he wanted to make sure he got it all, although he knew he still needed to get this guy away from the idea that these murders were related. He knew the decision had been made that if it got that far and someone had to be the scapegoat, Joe Dresden made a good candidate. But this asshole, who was supposed to be a ne’er-do-well drunk, was headed in another entirely different direction and unless he could be convinced Joe was responsible, the police were going to starting looking for someone else. If they did, Nagel knew he would be looking for a new job, especially if what Storm uncovered turned out to cast any shadows on the Show.

  “What came out of the interview? Did he have an alibi?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Yes, sir, he left the VIP club with his friends to go to a place called Fuad’s for more drinks closer to home and the video shows him leaving without the girl. Not only
that, but there was no change in his clothing from when he entered. That would be pretty hard to accomplish given the way she was killed and the blood loss that had to have occurred,” Storm responded quietly.

  “Did you confirm he was at this ‘Fuad’s’?” What is it, a restaurant, a bar, or what?”

  “Yes, it’s a regular watering hole near the Galleria for big wheels from the Show. The wait staff remembered all of them, including Joe, coming in about midnight. Joe left his car there and was driven home by one of his buddies, Rob Turnsdale. He didn’t go back for it until the next day and since the M.E. puts the time of death at between midnight and 2:00 AM, I’d say his alibi is airtight,” Storm said.

  “Back to the other girls. How did you know about them and why do you think they are linked to this?” the lieutenant asked.

  “First, from the get-go I overheard other folks refer to this case as if it was “another one” of many over the past few years,” Storm replied.

  “Who was talking about it?” The lieutenant demanded, and the answer to this question interested Nagel, too. Whoever had been talking needed to be silenced.

  “Some of the cops who work the stadium. I overheard them talking about other girls killed the same way.”

  * * * *

  Storm was lying through his teeth, but he wasn’t going to reveal his true source of information, not in front of Nagel. And God knows, I’m not going to implicate Hernandez. Not now.

  “How did you get their names?” asked the lieutenant.

  “I had the M.E. look through their files for the past ten years to see if there were any DOAs where the victims were young girls murdered in the same manner and in the area of the Dome. As it turns out, there have been six other girls that fit the bill almost to a tee.”

  “Why do you want information from the Show about them?”

  “I think these girls were hunted by the killer at the Show.” Now came the part where he knew the bottom would drop out for everyone in the room. “I think we have a serial murderer and I think they operate at the Show and choose their victims there.”

  There was no going back now. Storm had opened Pandora’s Box, and everyone in the room caught their breath. Not the least affected was Nagel, who looked downright apoplectic. Storm knew he had just shortened his time to prove his theory, or he would lose what little confidence anyone on the force had left in him. Within hours, more likely minutes, the Show, the mayor’s office and the police chief would be circling their wagons to deflect any responsibility or knowledge of any conspiracy to cover up the fact that there was and had been a serial murderer operating in their city or at their charity and for this long.

  “Jesus Christ, Storm, that is one hell of a conclusion. Are you nuts? If this leaks out and you can’t prove it, you are done. You will be gone and nobody will be able to save you,” warned the lieutenant.

  * * * *

  Lieutenant Flynn knew he needed to get with the chief and lay this out for him as soon as possible. He also had to keep Storm close. He had to be kept in Storm’s loop so he knew what Storm knew, but his bigger concern was who else knew. Who did Storm trust, and who would he have confided in? That last thought stopped him dead in his tracks. Damn, who else knew what Storm had deduced? Who else besides his source at the M.E.’s office was helping him? Shit, shit, shit!

  * * * *

  Nagel almost ran out of Reisner Street. He had to get to the mayor and Dakota Taylor. He needed to be the one to give them the news of this latest bomb. Maybe he could temper it somehow and make himself look good in the process. He didn’t know how but he had six blocks to come up with an idea...

  * * * *

  As Storm left the lieutenant’s office, Lieutenant Smith came up behind him and put his arm around Storm’s shoulders. Smith had remained silent throughout the entire meeting, and Storm still wondered why his old mentor had been in on the meeting, to which he had added nothing to the discussion.

  As they left together, Lieutenant Smith asked, “You believe everything you said in there, kid?”

  “Yes, Bob, I do.”

  “That’s all the answer I need. Then solve it, boy, solve it.” As he walked away, he turned once more and continued, “Glad to see you back, boy.” He smiled at his old protégé before leaving, and Storm knew his old teacher had his back.

  Storm had to get back out on the streets before the shock of his revelation to Flynn and the others wore off. He had to get back to Peggy Wise’s place and see if he could find what he hoped the perp had not found, and figure out how she was involved in this. None of the “persons of interest” they had identified before were all that interesting now.

  He went over the details once again as he picked up his keys and badge. Joe Dresden had admitted to being with the girl the night she died, but he had an alibi. Alisha had found female DNA in the skin under Peggy’s nails, which added more credence to Joe’s being innocent. Ellen Dresden had called Russell to see what he knew about Storm and why he had come to see Joe, and since they now knew or were pretty sure the killer was a woman, it could have been her. But she had been out of town and that, too, could be verified. Still, damn it, thought Storm, I’m not any closer to the killer and time is running out. He only had about twenty-four hours before things got out of hand and too many people would know what he knew. Flynn would be calling the M.E. to find out what Storm had learned and who had given him the information. He had to hope Alisha had covered her tracks. He had to keep Hernandez under the radar and although he didn’t know how, he wanted to keep Russell and Grady out of it, as well.

  There had to be a link, something overlooked at Peggy’s house that could help him. He had to know what she had known, because he was certain it had gotten her dead. He had to warn Alisha to get out or be unavailable to her boss for the rest of the afternoon.

  As he walked out of Reisner Street, he nodded to Hernandez and put his little finger and thumb to his ear and mouth, letting him know he would be calling him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Backseat Treasure

  Storm rushed to get back to Peggy Wise’s house, repeating his prayer that he would solve the murders. Considering what he knew, he had to get Leslie some kind of justice. He kept thinking of how his old boss, Lieutenant Smith, had taught him to organize and work his way through a problem to find the ultimate answer.

  The police tape was still up on Peggy’s door and lab guys would have already combed through the house looking for evidence left by the killer, but Storm felt there had to be something else; there was something Peggy knew that got her killed. The house and the murder scene were the same as when he had seen them last, except that the body had been removed and the blood cleaned up once the photographs had been taken to preserve the scene.

  There was no trace left of any kind of writing or message Peggy may have left in her dying moments pointing to the killer, no dying scrawl that appeared to be the word COP written in her own blood, but there had to be something. He leafed through books and sifted through papers scattered about the floor and tables. He saw fingerprint dust on every surface—doors, windows, tables, and chairs; even the commode had been printed. He also knew this killer was smart and there would be no fingerprints that would lead to whoever it was.

  He had to keep digging until he did find something, though it didn’t seem like much, a picture of Peggy and a girl he recognized from another picture. It was the first murder victim, Elaine Gage, standing next to Peggy outside the Tejas Petroleum building, and the two women were smiling, with their arms around each other. He knew it! Peggy had been friends with at least one of the girls killed.

  The house had been picked clean and he found no other leads. As he was about to throw in the towel, it occurred to him that Peggy’s car might have been overlooked. He found her purse lying on the bed with the contents dumped beside it including what appeared to be the keys to her car, which he hoped was in the garage. It was ironic how many times the victims’ automobiles were overlooked, especially wh
en most people use their backseat as a mobile closet/safe and some even carry tool boxes in their trunks. Many times those items never make it into the house.

  Opening the doors, he saw it was apparent that the car had not been searched, and in it, he discovered a surprising find on the back seat. It was a blue three-ring notebook like ones kids use in school. Except this was no ordinary book of class notes. It took him only a few minutes to realize what he had discovered.

  I’ve gotta call another meeting—now. It had to be done quick. He immediately called Russell, Alisha and Hernandez. “I know the time isn’t the best, but trust me, this is important,” he told each of them. Grady was with Russell, so he would make sure he got there.

  Russell got home before Storm arrived, so the door was open and Grady and Russell were standing just inside when Storm arrived.

  “What ya got, Baretta?” asked Russell.

  “I think we got the killer; actually, I think Peggy Wise, the girl who was murdered yesterday, got the killer, and I think Alisha was right, it’s a woman. But let’s wait for Hernandez and Alisha to get here so we can go over this together.”

  The anticipation in the room was thick enough to be carved with a knife, but they waited. Alisha was the last to show up only ten minutes after Storm.

  Seated around Russell’s dining room table, Storm laid out the blue notebook and began his description of what he had found.

  “I think we’ve all been pretty much in agreement that we probably have a serial killer on our hands and that after Peggy Wise’s murder yesterday we all felt the killer was the same person who had killed the other girls; even though the venue was different, the method was the same and the anal rape fit the same pattern.”