by James Green
Burke noticed that both women were drinking martinis and it was clear from the empty appetizer plates they had been there for a while. He felt a small twinge of regret; like he was intruding on their private lives, but it quickly passed. He had too much to get done to worry about such niceties.
“Do you mind if we step outside to talk?” Burke shouted in her ear. “It’s kind of hard to hear in here.”
“Yeah, sure,” Bethany replied as she grabbed her purse off the bar and her coat which was draped on the back of her chair. “Kate, give me a few minutes, ok?”
Burke let her lead the way. Bethany sliced through the crowd effortlessly, her small frame working to her advantage. Burke had to work to keep up, but was able to do so and as the front door closed behind them, the noise dampened to a small hum. The cold spring air felt good.
“Ms. Edwards, I am sure you know why I am here,” Burke began. “I am investigating the murder of John Vithous. It turns out the last email he sent was to you, right before he was murdered.” The look of kindness in Bethany’s eye faded some; Burke could tell she was trying to process the information. She was pursing her lips together, and took a deep breath before responding.
“I assume you read the email,” she asked. Burke nodded. He was content to wait for her to say more.
“I am sorry that he died, but he was a nasty individual,” she stated. “He was rude to me since I first starting covering City Hall eight months ago. As soon as I started asking questions he didn’t like, he got defensive, or would obfuscate and always go on the attack.”
“What development was he was talking about?” Burke asked as he leaned up against the façade of the building. He suddenly realized he was very tired. The stress of the case and the thought of having to call Julie were weighing on him.
“He was angry I was asking about the new development on the riverfront called Viceroy.”
“What was the problem with it?”
“There wasn’t a problem per se, it was more the fact that Peter Knaak, the Mayor’s personal attorney and advisor, owns the land and is the major investor of the project. I got a tip that unlike previous developments proposed at the site, Viceroy was going to sail through the approval process.”
As she talked, Burke noticed Edwards moved her hands constantly to add emphasis. Her fingers were bony and her hands small. The sight of them reminded Burke of his fourth grade teacher, Ms. Kastl, back at St. Elizabeth’s. Burke had been mesmerized the entire year, watching Ms. Kastl gesticulate while in front of the class. Tom had earned a front row seat to the show, due to his inability to sit still or be quiet. Bethany’s movements so mimicked Ms. Kastl’s Burke briefly wondered if they were related somehow.
“How much do you know about development law, Sergeant Burke?” Bethany inquired, her hands stopping briefly as her arms folded in front of her.
“Not much,” Burke responded, “they didn’t cover it in the academy.”
Bethany spent the next twenty minutes giving Burke a crash course on the subject. Burke wrote copious notes as she talked, but he knew he was not going to be able to retain all of it. Edwards explained that almost all development in Kansas City utilized some sort of economic development package to get built. Developers and their attorneys had become extremely adept at working the process and making it as profitable as possible. They utilized tax incentives, such as tax abatements and state tax credits to make their developments more lucrative. Edwards stated that the developers would layer these incentives on top of each other – historic tax credits, low income housing credits, twenty five year property tax abatements and even the selling of bonds to help by the property and the equipment within.
“None of this is illegal,” Bethany went on, her hands flying around her body as she spoke, “but the system is purposely abstruse in order to remain secretive and be only available to a chosen few.”
“What was the deal with Viceroy? What piqued your interest?” Burke asked, while wondering how cold his order was, and if Bethany’s friend had given up on her and gone home or was still drinking alone at the bar.
“The land had sat empty forever. Years ago, it actually had been a dumping ground for industrial waste by companies down in the river bottoms. Knaak had bought it about three years ago for virtually nothing. First he gets a brownfields designation from the State of Missouri that allows him to tap into state money to pay for the cleanup of the area. A process that usually takes years is sewn up in a few months. Then he gets the Port Authority to designate the development within a Port Improvement District which gives Knaak the ability to issue revenue bonds to pay for the cleanup and the improvements.”
“He sounds like he just games the system, what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except the fact he’s Mayor Hughes’ private attorney and she is responsible for all the Port Authority board appointments and has strong contacts in Jefferson City from when she was in the legislature,” Edwards replied, her hands momentarily coming to rest.
“So, you start doing some digging, asking some questions, and the wrath of John Vithous comes down on your head?”
Edwards nodded.
“I didn’t have anything concrete, I just wanted to shake the trees some, see if anything fell out. It seemed too much of a coincidence to have just “happened.” She made the quote signs with her bony fingers to add emphasis.
“Vithous was a total ….” She was hesitant to say
“Asshole?” Burke offered.
She nodded.
“He didn’t just send that email; he already had called my editor, he called my sources, he called everyone. He told them I was ignorant, didn’t understand the economic development process and was just stirring up trouble to sell papers.”
“Was he right?” Burke asked and immediately regretted asking the question. It sounded accusatorial and he didn’t mean to be.
“Of course he wasn’t right, Sergeant,” Bethany hissed, her fingers pointed at his chest again. “He was a bully and a brute and a political heavyweight who just wanted to intimidate me and make me go away. But it didn’t work; it just confirmed my suspicions that something wasn’t on the up and up.”
“What now?” Burke asked, wishing he hadn’t asked another question. He was cold, tired and very hungry. At the moment, he didn’t care about anything but some food and rest. The smell of the peanut oil and curry from the restaurant was driving him crazy.
“I plan to keep digging -- although it might be a bit harder with the Mayor’s right hand man in the morgue. My editor says we need to sit on the story for now. What now for you?”
“I don’t know,” stated Tom Burke wearily, “I honestly don’t know.”
Sunday, March 12, 8:33 a.m.
My jet fuel, overflowing. Now on the Launchpad, headed for the sky!
Burke ran with the beat. He found 1980s and 1990s hard rock to be the best running companion. The banging drums, the guitar power chords, and the thumping bass lines kept his pace steady even when he was tired or uninspired. At the moment, he was both.
Ride my rocket, all night. Jet propelled, make you feel right!!
What didn’t inspire him were the hackneyed lyrics. He usually didn’t listen to the lyrics, but for some reason he did at that moment, and once they caught his attention he couldn’t help but chortle at how stupid they were. That caused him to lose his stride and his focus. Fortunately, he had run far enough for now. After five miles, he had reached his destination. From Berkeley Riverfront Park he could see the muddy field that was to become Viceroy. At the moment, it didn’t look like much.
He turned off his iPod, removed his headphones and walked up to take a closer look. A sign in front had a rendering of what the development would be once it opened. It boasted of luxury townhouses, mixed use development including retail and office space, great views, and a “vibrant urban lifestyle.” In the picture, very happy people (too happy, Burke thought) were walking in front of the buildings, reaching almost an orgasmic state due to the
ir decision to purchase property in Viceroy.
Although it was Sunday morning, he could tell that work had been done recently. Mud from the development had been tracked out onto the street, and it wasn’t completely dried yet. The contractor had a large crane on site, and hoisted up on it was a portable generator. From his days in uniform, Burke knew this meant the contractor was trying to avoid having the generator stolen over the weekend. Over the years, he had been called on numerous job sites where equipment, pipes, wood, tile, you name it, had been stolen off the job site. As he looked closer, he could see foundations had been poured and the rough outline of where the buildings were going was evident. The sign proclaimed a fall 2012 opening. With the first real warm day of spring, Burke had no doubt they would make that goal.
In the distance, about a half mile behind Viceroy, was the brand new Missouri River bridge that had just opened. Tom had heard that project had cost around $250 million. It was obvious that wasn’t the only infrastructure improvements made. All new streets, curbs and sidewalks were put in. Burke could make out that the original road had hugged the river edge. The new road jogged north away from the river for a considerable length before it returned to the original road’s path next to the river. At the middle of this new road stood the entrance to Viceroy.
At that moment, Burke got what Bethany Edwards was trying so hard to convey the night before. All of this – the land, the development, the new roads, the new bridge took money. A lot of money. And most of that money came from taxpayers. Even more important, all of this took even more coordination. The new roads, curbs, and sidewalks from the city, the new bridge from the state and feds, and Viceroy was tapping into all of it -- local incentives, state incentives, port authority bonds and federal environmental incentives.
A prime riverfront property sits empty for decades, Burke thought. Full of trash, hazardous waste, God knows what else. Then a new multi-million dollar bridge gets announced. Next thing you know, Peter Knaak, personal attorney to Mayor Hughes, buys up some land close by for next to nothing. He gets environmental remediation paid for, port authority bonds and new city roads that apparently move magically to his development’s front gate. All of this happens in record time. In a city that is usually known for moving at glacial speed.
Burke could see why this got Vithous’ attention. It looked bad. It probably wasn’t illegal, but it certainly wasn’t going to look ethical. If the story gets published, it will make waves. The TV vultures will then be on it, and from there, who knows? His cousin’s words rang in his ears “In politics, perception is reality.” And this perception was not good.
Burke felt his sweat cooling in his hair. His body had cooled, and even though it felt like spring for the first time, it was still far from balmy. He needed to get home, get showered, changed and back into the office. Gaming the system to enrich yourself was interesting, but first he had a murder to solve. He knew that the Chief wanted results now.
Sweet candy, between your legs! Drives me crazy, hurts my head!
My God, he thought as he began to run home, are all these lyrics this bad? He shrugged. The beat was good, the sun was out, and he needed something to keep him moving for the long run home.
The rest of Sunday Burke felt he had only been chasing his tail. The day had started promising enough, but soon had spiraled downward.
He had arrived at Police Headquarters by eleven o’clock, in time to answer his office phone which was ringing upon his arrival. On the line was the coroner with the official cause of death. “Multiple blunt trauma wounds to the back of the skull, Tommy,” the coroner said, for once sounding actually interested in the case. “Some sort of blunt object, like a rock, or maybe a bat. Blood splatter shows whoever did it was really angry. Five, maybe six blows to the back of Vithous’ skull. We found blood remnants on the ceiling, and in the cubicle next to Vithous’, some of it came to rest a full 15 feet from the victim.”
“Jesus,” Tom found himself saying.
“Yeah, like I said, whoever killed him was very angry at him. Does that help you?”
“Unfortunately,” Tom Burke sighed, “a lot of people fit that description.”
Burke spent a large amount of time comparing notes with Jack Thurber. Thurber had spent his Saturday interviewing all those who had a close connection to John Vithous. Co-workers, the live-in girlfriend and Vithous’ ex-wife.
“What’s she like?” Burke inquired.
“I sensed a lot of hostility from the former Mrs. Vithous,” Thurber snorted and a broad smile covered his face. Reminds me of a couple Mrs. Thurbers I used to know. Apparently he ran around on her one time too many. She lives out in Leawood in a townhome. Said she hadn’t seen him in over two years.”
“Any kids?”
“Nope,” Thurber went on, “I also talked to his girlfriend. She was a wreck. Sobbing all over the place. Could hardly get her to make any sense at all. Hate to break it to you Tom, but don’t think the ex-wife, the girlfriend, or for that matter anyone I talked to yesterday killed our buddy.”
Next, Captain Michaels showed up and spent most of the afternoon grilling them.
“The Chief is ruining my weekend, gentleman,” Michaels snarled, “which means I’m going to ruin your weekend.” Michaels signaled that they enter his dank, cramped office. He spent the next three hours having them go over, point by point, the case. Eventually, he became totally exasperated.
“Tell me what we know,” Michaels said, “not what we fucking guess, or suppose, or think, but we actually fucking know to be true.”
“We know that John Vithous got his skull bashed in on Friday night right after he emailed a Star reporter named Bethany Edwards,” Burke replied. “He got his brains beat in with some sort of blunt instrument…”
“That we haven’t recovered,” Thurber interrupted.
“That we haven’t recovered,” Burke agreed. “We’ve got a city full of people who have or had an axe to grind with Mr. Vithous, but we don’t have any of them at scene.”
“In fact, and Tom this is going to be news to you, too,” Thurber interjected, “the City Hall logs show no one checked in after hours, and even better -- their closed circuit monitoring system has been broken for weeks, so there is no tape showing anyone leaving the building right after the murder.”
“Which means you don’t have shit,” Michaels said.
“Which means we don’t have shit,” Burke concurred.
“Well, the head of security did say they had a rash of stolen property from City Hall last fall,” stated Thurber while opening his notes, “they caught a cleaning guy doing it. Name of Thomas Miller Douglas. Might be a start.”
Captain Michael responded with a shrug, which Burke knew meant he didn’t think much of that lead..
“His first name definitely sounds sinister,” Thurber offered, hoping some levity might help Michaels’ mood. It did not.
“Well, gentlemen,” Michaels said while standing up and opening his office door, a long familiar cue for his men to leave, “I am going to enjoy the rest of my weekend. I suggest you spend the rest of your weekend here figuring out who the fuck did kill Mr. Vithous while we all still have jobs.”With that, Burke and Thurber slinked out of his office and back to their desks.
The rest of the day didn’t go any better. Burke was buried in paperwork, and Thurber wasn’t having any success with finding any new witnesses. They were, at the moment, hopelessly stuck.
“Jack, when you said the City Hall log didn’t have any entries after hours, does that mean that they only keep a log once the business day is through?”
“Yeah,” Thurber replied, “the rest of the day they’ve got security with metal detectors. If you are a city staffer, you show your badge and they let you in, but if you are a visitor, you have to go through the metal detectors.”
“But what if our killer got there before five and hid?” Burke asked, “Or even better, what if he actually works in the building?”
“So you are thinking som
e worker smuggles in something like a baseball bat, sits around in their cubicle waits for all his coworkers to leave, then goes up and uses Vithous’ head as a piñata?” asked Thurber.
“Maybe. Or maybe he already has something in his office heavy enough to bash in his brains, like a door stop,” Burke replied. He could see that it had gotten dark outside; another day had turned into night and they didn’t have any solid leads.
“I guess a good place to start would be to check to see if the elevators are automated and they can give us a log of all six elevators and when any went up to the 29th floor,” offered Thurber.
“If they took the elevator and if there is log, we might be able to narrow it down to one floor,” Burke replied, “it’s a long shot, but at least it is a start.”
“There ain’t going to be anybody over there tonight,” Thurber said. “Let’s go home.”
“You go ahead,” Burke said, “I’ve got some more paperwork to do.”
Thurber grabbed his sports coat, which was two sizes two small but he was too cheap to buy a new one, squeezed his enormous girth into it, and headed out into the night.
Burke had stayed for another hour and a half. He spent most of the time organizing his notes, establishing a timeline and thinking about possible suspects. Councilman Murray seemed like a logical interview. And, he thought he should at least talk to the former chief of staff. Losing your job might be a motive.
He had picked up the phone more than a few times and started to call Julie, but thought better of it and hung up. He wasn’t ready for that just yet.
Eventually, he realized he wasn’t being productive, he was just stalling. He called a favorite Indian restaurant close to his apartment for takeout. He headed out into the night for home. Thoughts about the case so occupied his brain that he drove right past the Indian restaurant and he had to drive around the block and circle around. The restaurant was fairly dead; he realized it was Sunday night. The days and nights now all bled into each other. Friday night seemed like two weeks ago.