Brush Creek Charlie - D. B. Reynolds (best pdf reader for ebooks TXT) 📗

be unemployed since murder was a twenty-four hour business. People killed one another seven days a week and the cycle seemed to have never stopped.
Walking into the cluttered office of Overstreet was a tall, lean, handsome, and intelligent homicide detective named Carey “Corky” Schroeder. He got the name “Corky” from talking way too much as a child. People wished they could’ve stuck in a cork in his mouth to shut him up. Carey now worked in a profession where he could never talk too much. Communication between detectives were vital to solving the most complicated murder cases. Two other detectives followed Carey into the office.
“What’cha got for me, Schroeder?” Overstreet asked the detective who had far less experience than himself.
Carey opened a folder with vital statistical information on their victim. “Victim’s been identified as Lisa Wallace, a white female, fifty-one years of age, a twenty-eight year employee with the Internal Revenue Service.”
“How’d missing persons identify her?”
“Dental records came back from the lab earlier this morning.”
Carey handed over a set of photos of Lisa Wallace. “We also ran her SSN through the database and found out she was born and raised the first twenty-two years of her life in Saint Joseph, Missouri. Came to Kansas City to start her career with the IRS.”
“Was she ever married?”
“Never a husband.”
“Children?”
“No children.”
“Any siblings?”
“One sister who still lives in Saint Joseph.”
“Parents?”
“Both deceased.”
“The victim’s established address?”
“North of the river, believed to be in the Gladstone area.”
“Find out the exact address of the vic. Once you find out her established residence, talk to some of her neighbors and associates in that neighborhood.”
“Will do, Jerry.”
“Her car was found abandoned about a mile east of where the jogger found her body.”
“The killer probably dumped the body and then drove her car to a location he felt comfortable with.”
“Any word from the impound lot?”
“No word about any evidence yet.”
“Doc McKinnis believes this Lisa Wallace was murdered between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m., then dumped somewhere in Brush Creek. She possibly visited the perp in the early evening hours the day she was murdered. Only her and the perp would know these things.”
“It’s unfortunate we don’t have neither one of them here at headquarters.”
“Check with the landlord of her apartment complex and see what you can find out. See if you can pinch any possible names out of him or her.”
“You’ve got it.”
“In the meantime, I’m gonna pay the IRS a visit to see what I can find out.”
“After twenty-eight years there, I’m sure she made a whole lot of friends.”
“Hopefully, friends who can tell me what I need to get leads on this case.”
Overstreet grabbed his suitjacket and snatched up a folder off his desk. He walked out of his office with Carey and the other two detectives behind him.


CHAPTER—11

Detective Overstreet showed up at the main section for security guards inside the massive Internal Revenue Service building just south of downtown Kansas City. A group of six guards stood on the other side of a sophisticated area of confidentiality. Monitors covering most areas inside and outside the complex were built into the west wall. Three phones rested on tables lined against the east wall.
“Yes sir, can I help you?” asked a short and skinny African American guard. Firmly, he gripped the handle of his gun.
Overstreet reached into the pocket of his suitjacket and flashed his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the Homicide Division of the KCPD.”
“Yes, we’ve been expecting you detective,” the guard responded with a cordial smile.
“I was supposed to meet with a lady named Cindy Montgomery.”
He flipped through a log with several numbers.
“Yes, Cindy left a note with us that she was supposed to meet with someone from the KCPD.”
“She told me she’d leave a note.”
“I’ll just give her a call.”
The guard dialed the number and waited for a response. “Cindy, this is Calvin Yearby down at the guard’s desk. There’s a Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD down here to see you.”
Cindy’s loud voice was heard over the phone. “Oh yes, I’ve been expecting Lieutenant Overstreet.”
“Well, he’s here to see you.”
“Could you please send him up?”
“Certainly will do, Cindy.”
The guard hung up and took out a visitor’s pass form. “Lieutenant, could I have you to fill out this form?”
“Sure can,” Overstreet said with delight.
“I’ll have another one of the guards escort you up to the data conversion branch.”
“You’re much too kind, young man.”
“Just doing my job.”
Overstreet filled out the form. The guard handed him a visitor’s badge and the journey through the huge IRS complex began. The twosome first went through a set of revolving glass doors. After that, they stepped onto an escalator which resembled a two block treadmill. Once they reached the lower level, they got onto an elevator which took them up to the second floor. This is where Overstreet’s sightseeing got real interesting. People from different walks of life traveled to and from their offices and designated areas.
Their badges were used to pop open doors from one end of the building to the other. Overstreet noticed women of every shape, size, and color. The fat, the skinny, the medium-sized, the short, the tall, and the mid-height ones were noticed. The black, white, hispanic, and oriental ones were also noticed. The elegantly-dressed to the trashy-dressed ones drew fine lines between themselves. According to Overstreet’s taste, the pickings were still quite slim.
“The women around here aren’t too bad,” Overstreet told the security guard as they walked down the long busy hallway.
“Depends on what your flavor is,” the guard replied. “Personally, I like blondes, about five-nine, big round tits, nice natural tan, and long toned legs.”
“Guess you haven’t found anyone around here like that.”
“Not even close.”
“So, you won’t find a woman of drop dead, knockout caliber around here?”
“Again, not even close.”
Overstreet continued observing as they walked towards the data conversion branch of the building. His assessment of the people were fair to partly cloudy. The whites looked upon the blacks to be some of the worst their race had to offer. The blacks looked upon the whites to be some of the worst their race had to offer. The blacks were labeled as “no good niggers” and “dirty thieving coons”. The whites were readily labeled as “toxic trailerpark waste” and “redneck lowlife trash”.
“About how many employees do you have here at the IRS?” Overstreet asked.
The guard gave a quick calculation. “During peak season, which is usually between March and May, we have about three thousand employees on the dayshift, and about twenty-five hundred employees on the nightshift.”
“You guys have your work cut out for you.”
“What an understatement.”
“Do you guys have enough manpower to deal with the employee population?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t the employees here at the IRS have to be free of any felony convictions?”
“Absolutely,” the guard validated. “Some slip through the cracks with minor misdemeanor charges. Criminal Investigation here at the IRS does a great job of checking into everyone’s background.”
“Excuse me for being so direct, but some of these people around here look like they’re fresh out of jail. I’ve seen some hardened criminals look more legit than a lot of these people walking around here.”
“Some might agree with you.”
Translation, some of the blacks looked like crips and bloods, while some of the whites looked like klan members and dirty bikers.”
“A lot of the women aren’t far behind.”
“I’d have to agree with that, too.”
“Isn’t there a dress code for these IRS employees?”
“Besides not letting their pants drop past their waist, or not letting their skirt or dresses raise up past their waistline, there’s no certain dress code around here.”
“Working for the government has its privileges.”
“Sometimes, I wish they’d get stricter on hygiene and cleanliness.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You don’t know the worst of it.”
“Appearances don’t lie.”
“Before you leave this building, you’ll hear some of the horror stories.”
“What horror stories?”
“Ahhhhh, that’s the surprise.”
Overstreet and the guard moved to the busiest section of the IRS complex known as Main Street. The cafeteria had many hungry souls waiting to be served. The problem of extreme obesity flashed before the eyes of Overstreet. Double bellies and triple chins and excess ass flopped from every direction. The overweight men and women rushed from the food line to pay for their meals, only to disappear and gobble it down like human trash compactors.
“Bringing a weight loss program into the IRS wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Overstreet whispered to the guard. He watched the masses of people travel to and from the cafeteria and eating areas.
“Got that right, lieutenant,” the guard agreed, getting Overstreet closer to the data conversion branch.
“The people here eat as though it’s their hobby and job.”
“That I can tell.”
“Weight loss programs would have a field day up in here. In every department here at the IRS, these people make up excuses to have dinners. Someone gets promoted, they’ll have a dinner. Someone gets married, they’ll have a