Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery) (4 page)

He had met Angie in college, the woman who had forever changed his life. They became an official couple after both found being together was infinitely better than living as singles. Angie, like his mom, always told him he was more than a football player and he could amount to be more than some ex-jock always living on his past accomplishments. Lieutenant Smith had been there on their wedding day. “I saw in your eyes that day how much you loved and depended on her,” he told Storm at Angie’s funeral. When she was killed, Lieutenant Smith, along with Storm’s best friend Russell, had stepped up to support Storm through those empty, lost weeks and months.

Too bad it’s Flynn, not Bob, who’s on duty today, Storm thought, as he went and stood in the lieutenant’s door.

“What have you got?” Flynn asked quickly.

“Looks like a young girl was murdered out at the Dome last night. She was found by a cleaning man in a dumpster early this morning, nude, with her throat cut. I’m pretty sure the body had been dumped since there wasn’t enough blood evidence around the dumpster for the killing to have happened there.” Storm was trying to keep what he said to the point and not speculate or waste time.

“So what are you waiting for now?”

“For the M.E. reports on how she died and an ID.”

“Nothing at the scene to ID her?”

“Not that we found so far.”

“Who did you leave in charge to canvas the area?”

“Sergeant Hebert was there with some of his patrolmen. Hopefully they will find the clothes or some ID—a picture would be good—so we can put a name on her rather than another Jane Doe.”

“Speaking of Sergeant Hebert, I just got a call you chewed out some of his men for moving the dead girl’s body and that you threatened them to file charges for hampering a murder investigation.’ Is that right?”

“Yes, sir, they had rolled the body over just so they could look at the girl’s naked body. It pissed me off.”

“Did you tell Sergeant Hebert you would file charges on him and his men?”

“I told him if I had another scene where they had moved the body I just might.”

“You do know you could never make that stick, don’t you?”

“Probably.” Storm knew he was being dressed down, but politely.

“Where you going next?”

“Down to medical examiner’s office as soon as I know they have the body.”

“After you’ve seen the M.E. I want you back out there helping that search. You do know we don’t need a media circus out there. The mayor has already called me this morning to tell me the Livestock Show officials have offered to help with our investigation any way they can. The mayor doesn’t want this blown up in the papers and media. The Show has a lot of very influential people involved out there and it is an organization that doesn’t need any black eyes over a girl found murdered on the grounds. From what you’ve said, this could have happened anywhere in town, so let’s keep it low profile. And Storm, one other thing: Remember those officers are there to help. They’re not your enemy.” The look on the lieutenant’s face made it clear to Storm he had better understand his meaning.

With that, Storm was dismissed with another wave of the hand.

As he headed down the hall, he couldn’t help but reflect on his conversation with the boss. No wonder Lieutenant Flynn was in the office. The mayor had called him and put the pressure on.
I wonder who’s putting pressure on the mayor?
The thought flashed through his mind as quickly as the hunger pangs returned to his stomach.

Storm still had had nothing to eat and when he walked by the coffee room, and he checked for something to tide him over. Spying donuts and bagels, he walked in to grab something to “soothe the beast.”

Sergeant Julio Hernandez was in the room and saw Storm coming.

“Hey, Dave. I hear you caught the murder at the Dome last night.”

“Yea, I am Mr. Lucky, pard,” said Storm. “Anything left in here to eat? I’m starving.”

“There’s some donuts left and these bagels, but I don’t know why anyone would want to eat ’em, no frosting or anything,” Hernandez grinned.

“Hernandez, you wouldn’t like anything without sugar or salsa on it. You damn Messicans are all alike, no hot sauce or sugar on it and you don’t like it,” Storm said laughing.

“So, another dead girl out at the Dome?” Hernandez asked matter of factly.

“Huh, what do you mean ‘another dead girl’?” The sergeant’s question stopped Storm dead in his tracks.

“Oh hell, Detective, this one’s not the first. Where you been, Storm? There have been others.”

“What are you talking about? I hadn’t heard of any other girls being found out there.” Storm was still trying to clear his head.

Hernandez pulled himself up. Storm quickly analyzed the sergeant’s body language.
He realizes he misspoke.
This must
not be common knowledge, and maybe there’s a reason.

Hernandez guffawed, “Hell, Storm, you know me; I’m talking out of my ass again. I don’t know where I come up with this shit. Forget it.”

Hmm—does sound like he’s trying to cover his ass, Storm acknowledged to himself.

“Well, if anyone can find a killer, you da man, Storm,” Hernandez said, and left the room as fast as his one-and-a-half legs would carry him.

Storm watched Hernandez limp out of the room. He knew Sergeant Hernandez’s history—everyone did. Julio “Pancho” Hernandez, a decorated police veteran, had been wounded and his partner killed years earlier in a drug bust gone bad. Hernandez and his trainee, Jesus Ortiz, had come upon a parked car with a load of bad guys exchanging money for drugs near Texas and San Jacinto streets in downtown Houston. Officer Ortiz had only been out of the academy for two months and was riding with Sergeant Hernandez as his training officer when they came upon the car parked in a manufacturing section in South Houston. Suspicious of what a car was doing sitting idling at that time of morning and in that section of town, they went to investigate.

To give Ortiz some experience and not expecting any real trouble, Hernandez told Ortiz to exit the blue-and-white and approach the driver’s side of the suspicious vehicle, (normally, one officer stays behind to protect the other, but this was a teaching ride). They approached the car, one on each side, and told the two men in the car to put their hands out the windows of the car and slowly get out. The man on the driver’s side did as he was told, but the passenger got out a split second later, brandishing a sawed-off shot gun. He shot Ortiz in the face and Hernandez in the legs.

The perps escaped, leaving Ortiz and Hernandez lying in the street in a pool of their own blood. Ortiz had been struck dead but Officer Hernandez dragged himself to the blue-and-white and pushed the panic button on his radio, giving the dispatcher the “officer down” distress call and their exact location.

The perps’ car was found abandoned near the ship channel a few days later, but neither of the bad guys involved in their shooting were ever caught. Sgt Hernandez was given a medal of commendation and Ortiz was honored posthumously by the HPD as one of seven officers slain in the line of duty that year. HPD officer Ortiz’s name was added to a special memorial built beside Buffalo Bayou and his name was etched with the names of fallen HPD heroes.

After months of physical recuperation and fitted with a prosthetic leg, Officer Julio Hernandez had been assigned to a desk. Storm knew he was just marking time, occupying space ‘til he could retire with full benefits and medical leave. He had now been on the homicide desk for five years and like any good cop, he hated it.

Hernandez was a real cop, not a desk jockey, but he had a quick mind. Storm knew about Hernandez’s legendary memory for details. He remembered everything that came into the homicide department. Storm also knew Hernandez recognized the desk job was HPD’s way of taking care of their own, so nothing to do but wait out his remaining time.

Storm’s head again filled with questions. What had Hernandez meant by “another Dome murder?” Who were these others? How many murders had there really been involving young women at the Dome? Could he have been in such a fog that he somehow missed hearing about the other ones? Now Storm had even more questions and even fewer answers.

Storm tried to clear his mind as he headed for the M. E’s office. It was located out on Old Spanish Trail not far from where the girl had been found. For some unknown reason Houston City Government had relocated the morgue and the medical examiner’s office away from downtown. It would take him about twenty minutes to get back out there but the drive would give him some time to think about Hernandez’s slip and about multiple murders at the Dome.

No Longer Jane Doe

Detective Storm decided to stop off at the crime scene again before going to the M.E.’s office. This time he knew where to enter. Even though he was back for the second time that day, he again felt the pangs of melancholy about the changes to the complex.

Sergeant Hebert had remained onsite watching over his troops like the mother hen he was. Seeing Storm returning he yelled out, “Hey, Chief, we found her clothes.” Hebert often made jabs that played on Storm’s name and heritage.

“Are you sure they’re hers?”

“Yes I am sure, and we found a purse with some ID in it that is a, pardon my rudest, a dead ringer for the dead girl.” Hebert growled like someone had just kicked his dog.

“Where did you find her things?” Storm let the growl roll off his back. Who cared what this old fart called or thought of him?

“In that other dumpster, over there, at the bottom of stairs just when you leave the first floor of the stadium near the docks.” Hebert motioned toward where the body had been found.

“What did you do with the clothes and purse or has it gone to the M.E. already?”

“Bagged it for forensics and no, everything is in those evidence bags over there,” he answered, pointing to a box laying on top of a nearby patrol car.

”Can I see it?” requested Storm.

“Sure, just don’t go digging around in those bags; I am not having a homicide get kicked because some dumb assed detective fucked up the evidence. If you open it and corrupt it, it is all on you, Office Boy.” Hebert gave Storm a scornful look like the ones Storm remembered getting from his mother when he had done something wrong as a kid.

The clothes and other found articles would be shipped to the M.E. and forensics to find any trace evidence of anything that might be incriminating to a suspect, but the purse and ID would be another matter. Storm wanted to see them; he wanted to see the picture ID so the girl had a name.
This
girl deserves to have a name—we need to respect her that much.

When he looked at the evidence bags he saw the purse had been bagged separately, so he put on a pair of sterile gloves and took it out, making sure not to smear any fingerprints that might remain intact. He looked at the driver’s license and sure enough, the picture looked just like the dead girl. She was no longer a Jane Doe—she had a name, and her name was Leslie Phillips. He put the purse back into the evidence bag and motioned for Hebert to come over as he took off his gloves.

“When did you find this and did you find the murder scene?” Storm asked as the latex gloves made a popping sound coming off his hands

“About 8:00 this morning, right after you left to go downtown, and no, just the bloody clothes and purse.”

“Nothing else? No blood soaked ground, no bloody weapon. How the hell can a
girl bleed out and we can’t find where it happened?” Storm’s tone registered his
disgust with this turn of events, but the question was crucial: How can a young
woman bleed to death and you can’t find a blood pool or at least splatter left somewhere?

“Nope, just the clothes and purse they were found in another dumpster and after walking every inch of every entry and exit to this place, no bloody scene and no weapon.” Hebert seemed somewhat irritated he had to repeat himself.

If the girl had bled to death on site, there had to be a mess somewhere; lots of blood—the human body holds five quarts. Since none had been found, it created another question: Had the murderer been focused enough and ballsy enough to take the time to clean it up? If he had cleaned it up, had he been smart enough to eliminate all the evidence? Storm’s mind was whirling. Too little information and too many questions.

“Thanks Sergeant. When will this stuff get to the M.E.?” he asked.

“In the next twenty minutes,” said Sergeant Hebert, still sounding put off by the way the detective had spoken to him.

“OK, talk to you later. By the way, are you still in charge of the cops working the show?”

“Yep, all three hundred of them,” replied Sergeant Hebert.

“Thanks. See ya.”

As he prepared to leave the crime scene another question came to Storm’s mind. If Sergeant Hebert was in charge of the cops working the show, he would know about the other deaths, if there were other deaths. Even though the relationship between Storm and Hebert was tenuous at best, Storm needed to talk to him about them, but that would have to wait ‘til later.

He needed to go see the M.E. now.

* * * *

Storm pulled into the parking lot of the Sharps Building, home of the Houston medical examiner. The Sharps Building had been built in the 1970s and was run down and in need of repairs, but as long as there was a city office in it and the rent was paid, not many would care about its condition.

The city had built the Sharps Building and then sold it to a rental agency so the city could not be accused of rent fixing. The rental agency bought the building for a dime on the dollar and rented the space back to the city. This gave the bureaucrat in charge at the time a new building and a way to pad his income and not get caught by city oversight officials looking for internal graft.

In Houston it was well known that the real estate scam was the best scam someone could pull off; if a prominent official did get caught participating in such a scam it was easy to cover up unless that official was not part of the controlling political party. Hell, one ex-mayor of Houston had done a deal with the cable TV people when cable television was new to the city. He had gotten caught taking millions of dollars in kickbacks and his only punishment had been the loss of the job the next time he came up for election. The mayorette, who had uncovered the shady dealings, was the person who replaced him. Shortly after her election she herself was suspected in taking kickbacks from a company who was hired to do a study on an overhead light rail system for Houston. She took over $3 million in kickbacks from a contractor. A contractor who had the dubious honor of being indicted in every state in the union on RICO charges and bid fixing, and, as usual in politics, no wrongdoing was ever prosecuted. To top it off, she came back to Houston to attend a dinner thrown in her honor as a “great citizen of the city of Houston!”