Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery) (8 page)

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.

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 something 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.”

“What did he think you could do? Check your datebook for girls the right age?” Grady smiled, obviously tickled at his question, as he waited for Russell to tell him why he was really here.

“No, smart ass, he heard something that puzzled him and he asked me to look into it. You remember Hernandez, the cop that lost his leg a few years ago when his partner was killed in that drug bust gone bad?”

“Yeah, that was a shame. The kid that died was young, just out of the academy, wasn’t he?”

“Yep, the same guy, and yes, the kid was young only like twenty-three, I think. Anyway, he‘s working the homicide desk downtown and said something to Storm about his having caught ‘another murder’ at the Dome.” Russell looked over at Grady. “Do you know anything about any other murders that have taken place around the Dome area during this time of year?”

“Yeah, seems like I did hear something about something like that, but I don’t remember it having anything to do with the Show, just some unknown girl found dead near the Dome. I don’t think the case was ever solved, in fact, I think the coverage died out fairly fast, almost as soon as it happened.”

“So you don’t remember anything about the Show being tied to it?”

“Not that I remember, but I could be wrong,” admitted Grady, watching Russell’s face as if trying to find what his friend could be looking for.

“You think there’s anything in the archives about it?’ asked Russell. “Or you got any idea where we would start to look?” Grady’s interest was piqued now, and like anyone who works in the news media, his curiosity would get the better of him. Unanswered questions irritated newsies.

“Let’s go look,” said Grady, as he rose from his seat. “We should start about a year ago; I think there was one about then. Let’s see what we find.” Russell accompanied him as they found their way to the climate-controlled storage area that held many of the news reports and investigations from the past ten years.

During the last couple of years most of the archives had been moved to a computer data base, making it easier to retrieve and do a search. However, since Houston had a significant number of murders every year, it would take awhile to wade through them all to find similar cases. After about an hour of looking through the archives and researching old press releases, they found a case that appeared to be very similar. The naked body of a young girl named Stephanie Gilmore had been found by a cabby in a vacant lot just across Old Spanish Trail from the Dome complex. Her throat had been cut and her clothing tossed aside with her purse and identification. She was from Huntsville, Texas (only about fifty miles from Houston) and had worked for a law firm downtown. They found nothing more about her or her murder, but both Grady and Russell thought they had found something that might lead Storm to more killings.

Russell looked at Grady. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to anyone about what we are doing and hide our research. Right now I need to report what we’ve found to Storm. I will be back as quick as I can and we’ll see if we can find more.” With that, Russell left and Grady printed the material, put it in an envelope in his backpack, and deleted their searches. If there was a story here, it would be his and Russell’s; breaking a story like
this would be a great way for an old guy to go out.

Russell called Storm’s cell phone to tell him what they had found. He got Storm’s voice mail so he left a message and went back to Grady.

Just the Facts

The M.E.’s office always had that combination of cleaning solutions and chemicals in the examining theaters that created an aroma that permeated even the cement walls and stainless steel examination tables of the rooms. Storm would often don a surgical mask, not that he worried about germs, but to stifle the smell. But today he put aside his normal aversion for the place and found Alisha still examining the body of Leslie Phillips.