Brush Creek Charlie by D. B. Reynolds (best free e book reader .TXT) 📕

“Even under an honorable discharge, the spin codes can hurt a veteran’s chance of being hired by a prospective employer. His discharge papers explain that he suffers from emotional and mental and schizoid problems. I’ve never done military service, but have relatives who’ve served in wars, and they come back home not correct in the mind and in the body.”
“Sorry if we missed those codes that restricts him from being a part of the workforce.”
“No need to be sorry, Sal. Let me repeat what my colleagues on the police force said. Anyone in the city could be his next victim. Did you ever hear him mention anything about his troubles of being in Vietnam?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“You sure?”
Sal made a familiar sound at Carey. “I’ll tell you what I did find strange about something he ranted to himself inside the bathroom one busy afternoon. He fizzled off something about a couple’a women laughing at him.”
The mentioning of a couple of women laughing at Charlie registered right away with Carey.
The letter found in his closet explained it all. Charlie hated all women. The two Vietnamese hookers were the tiny sparks which grew into roaring blazes.
“Did he fizzle off about anything else?”
“Not exactly, but the raving about the women laughing at him occurred more than once.”
“How’d Charlie get along with your other employees?”
“Quite well, to be exact. As you can see, almost all of my employees are young Mexican men. You can’t get this kinda hard work and dedication out of Americans.”
Carey shook his head in agreement. He’d dealt with his share of lazy Americans. “Has he called in within the last month?”
“Haven’t seen or heard from him within that time.”
“Is he due a payroll check?”
“About a week’s worth.”
“Think he’ll come by to pick it up?”
“Can’t say, detective. Maybe if he knows that you’re looking for him, then he probably won’t be seen around here no more.”
“We found out that he receives a check every month from the government.”
Sal reached into his memory bank. “There’s something strange about Charlie that I think you’d like to know.”
“Which is?”
“One time Charlie came to work with some nasty scars across his arms and neck. Myself and his co-workers were concerned and made our own inquiries. These looked like scars from doing battle with someone. The blood looked like it hadn’t dried all the way, and looked like they’d get infected over time.”
“Charlie is a very dangerous man, no doubt about that. Either we take him off the streets, or more bodies are going to turn up dead, particularly down in Brush Creek.”
“Why Brush Creek?”
“All four of his victims were found dismembered in trashbags down in Brush Creek.”
“Dam!” Sal retorted. “It’s creepy to know that one of my employees is a psychopathic killer. Nowadays, you can’t tell one person from the next.”
“That’s where the masterful, pretentious side of people come out.”
“Know something else, detective.”
“I’m listening.”
“Charlie casually told me that he’d been nicknamed ‘Charlie The Machete’ during his service in Vietnam.”
“We later found out just how proficient he was with a machete. It might’ve been his weapon of choice to mutilate those four women. You’re not dealing with no ordinary man here. He’s cunning and deceptive, not to mention evil and egotistical.”
“None of the real signs registered with me.”
Carey reached into suitjacket pocket and fished out one of his cards. “Listen, if you either see or hear from Charlie, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. I don’t care what time of day it is. Call me at home or at the headquarters.”
“You’ll know something when I know something.”
“Thanks, Sal.”
“You’re quite welcome, detective.”
Carey left Gomez Foods in search for more clues to find the whereabouts of Charlie.


CHAPTER—51

Overstreet stepped inside the world-renowned Union Station with the sole intention of hopefully catching Charlie on videotape. Built in 1914, Union Station encompassed 850,000 square feet, originally featuring nine-hundred rooms. In its prime as a working train station, the station accommodated tens of thousands of passengers every year. At its peak during World War II, an estimated one million travelers passed through the station. Closed in the 1980s, Union Station sat empty and neglected, escaping demolition on several occasions.
As he went through the main corridor, Overstreet marveled at the Grand Hall’s ninety-five foot ceiling, the three 3,500 pound chandeliers, and the six-foot wide clock hanging in the Station’s central arch. Like Charlie having a fanatical eye for Brush Creek, Overstreet had his own private admiration for an engineering marvel like Union Station. To know that a group of gangsters shot it out with a group of federal agents, fascinated him to no end. The Kansas City native knew how the city he was born and raised in was a one-time mecca for gangsters.
Overstreet approached the information desk with his personal brown leather binder. “Excuse me, but who can I speak to who’s in charge here at Union Station?”
A frail elderly woman with fluffy white hair answered Overstreet in a screechy voice. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
“Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD,” Overstreet replied with due respect, flashing his badge for identification purposes.
“Well, Susan Braxton is our director of community relations. Gordon Cascone is our chief executive officer. Henry Martinez is our director of technical and building operations.”
“Henry is probably the person I need to speak with.”
“May I ask what this is in regards to?”
“It’s in regards to an investigation.”
The receptionist phoned the technical and building operator. Within minutes, all of the one-hundred and seventy pounds, five-foot-nine inch frame of Henry Martinez came strutting across the glossy floor. His pair of Giorgio Armani shoes clapped hard into the floor.
“I’m building operator Henry Martinez. What can I help you with?”
“I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD’s homicide division. I just needed to ask you a few questions. Can we go somewhere and talk privately?”
“Sure, we can go to my office.”
Overstreet followed Henry past a crowd of high school students on their way to Science City in the lower section of Union Station. Henry offered Overstreet a seat and a cup of coffee once they got into his office. Sophisticated video monitors surrounded nearly every inch of wall space. Computer surveillance equipment sat on three adjoining desks.
“Now, what can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“I’m investigating a string of murders which involves one of the victims who worked across the street at the IRS.”
“How can I help you?”
“First, let me explain this to you. The video surveillance equipment over at the IRS that was shown to me by their security personnel, only covers so many square feet of perimeter around their building. It frustrated me to end that their security force couldn’t clue in on our possible suspect. One of their employees might’ve been on video the day her killer came upon her. How much area does your video equipment cover?”
“Going from east to west, our cameras can pick up areas from Grand to Broadway. From north to south, the cameras can pick up from Twenty-Third to Twenty-Seventh Streets.”
“How many cameras do you have on these premises?”
“Eight total, Lieutenant. Four in the front of the building, four in the back of the building.”
Overstreet looked around the office with amazement. “You’ve got some pretty hi-tech stuff here.”
“The best money can buy. All courtesy, of course, at the taxpayer’s expense.”
“Explain to me what you’re working with.”
Henry pointed to the toys he played with on a daily basis. “This DVR8/8-PR is an eight camera professional grade surveillance unit that includes a PC, two 4 Channel DVR Capture cards and EZ Watch Pro software. This system uses the new high quality industry standard H.264 compression technology for video storage, and supports a full thirty frames per second live viewing and recording on all cameras connected to the DVR card.”
“You’re speaking a language quite foreign to me. How clear of a picture does your equipment have?”
“At a resolution of 704 by 480, there is excellent detail from our high resolution security cameras.”
“How well does it pick up sound images?”
“Our system records eight channels of high quality audio by the connection of an optional microphone to each of the audio inputs.”
“How far back does your video equipment store image information?”
“How far back do you need me to go?”
Overstreet flipped open his binder. He glided his finger down to the date closest to when Lisa Wallace was murdered. “Can you go back as far as the first two or three weeks of September?”
“Should be able to.”
Henry went to work on the video toys he adored. It helped having a one-thousand gig storage built into the equipment. A few taps on the keyboard and the advanced date and time search popped up on the twenty inch LCD monitor. He started with the first day of September and scrolled from one screen to another. Overstreet was particularly interested in video footage of Pershing Road since Lisa Wallace could’ve been seen with her killer on that designated street.
“Anything look familiar, Lieutenant?”
“Nothing so far.”
“Am I going too fast?”
“No, not at all.”
One day of September rolled after another. The 29th of September struck Overstreet like a sharp pain in the side. The time and date were written in the upper right corner.
“Stop right there!” Overstreet requested, pointing his inkpen at the screen.
“Found what