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

“Do you know enough at this point to find Lisa’s killer?”
“No, we don’t.”
“Keep us updated, lieutenant.”
“Will do.”
Overstreet found himself back in the tunnel section of the IRS complex. A group of security guards briefed him on how their security system worked. Logs were kept of the coming and going of visitors to the center. A long line of new hires stood along the wall, waiting to sign paperwork and take pictures for their badges. A series of eyes belonging to sex-starved lonely women moved over to Overstreet. He kept his focus since the investigation of a mutilated woman hung in the balances.
Overstreet explored the more clever part of his detective’s mind. “Could you guys possibly get me a tape of the front of this IRS building, either the day before Lisa Wallace came up missing, or the day after she came up missing?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, lieutenant,” the guard spoke confidently.
“When can you get the tape to me?”
“A couple’a days, the longest.”
“Appreciate it much.”
“You’re welcome.”
Overstreet returned the badge and exited the huge IRS complex. A large part of solving the murder of Lisa Wallace depended on the shrew detective work of the KCPD.


CHAPTER—12

The sun might’ve glowed its brightest above clear Kansas City skies, but darkness lingered in the lives of Lisa Wallace’s family. KCPD homicide detective Carey “Corky” Schroeder paid a visit to the elite Whispering Meadows apartment complex in the Gladstone section of North Kansas City. After two knocks on the manager’s door, the strangest looking man peeked between the cracks.
“What can I do for you?” asked the man with comical looks.
Carey flashed his detective’s badge. “I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the KCPD.”
“Detective? What’s going on?”
“May I come in?”
“Sure, come on in.”
Carey was offered a seat on the other side of his desk.
He held in his laugh after studying the weird looking man. Standing barely five foot tall, he had a full head of fire red hair and a matching fire red beard without a trace of hair on his upper lip. A set of long pointed ears were pushed to the back of his head. Directors could’ve easily casted him as a leprechaun in a Hollywood movie.
“By the way, I’m David McNally,” he said to Carey. “I’m the manager here at Whispering Meadows.”
Carey grasped his hand followed by a cordial smile. “Pleased to meet you, David. I take it you’re Irish?”
“Can’t you tell?” David jarred. “I’m short, redheaded, got pointed ears, and my upper lip is like a baby’s bottom.”
Carey thought the exact same thing. David could’ve been shipped straight from Ireland in time for a lucky leprechaun festival.
“David, I’d like to ask you some questions about Lisa Wallace.”
“Everybody here at Whispering Meadows heard about what happened to Lisa. Sometimes, I just don’t know what this world’s coming to.”
“An end from what most of us suspect. What can you tell me about Lisa? What kind of tenant was she? Did you ever meet any of her friends?”
David leaned back in his office recliner. “Lisa lived here for about ten years. She always paid her rent on time and never caused any trouble. Everytime I saw her, she always had a smile on her face, always a kind word to speak. As far as her friends were concerned, I noticed she always had a lot of her females friends from work over.”
“Women from the IRS?”
How did Carey know that?
“You’re right, detective. In fact, there’d be times when she introduced me to some of these ladies from the IRS and what their job titles were.”
“Did you ever see any men come to her apartment?”
“Never in the ten years she lived here.”
“Are you sure?”
“More than positive.”
“So, you never saw any men come to her apartment? You never saw any men dropping her off or walking through the parking lot with her?”
“Let’s just put it this way, detective. Men might’ve come to her apartment, whether it was early in the morning or real late at night, but me personally, I’ve never seen a man come to or leave from her apartment. To be honest with you, I’ve never seen Lisa with a man, here on the apartment premises or anywhere away from the premises.”
“You’re not insinuating she was a lesbian are you?”
David gestured with a defensive hand signal. “No, no, I’m not insinuating that at all. Even if she was, that was her business. As the oldtimers used to say, I don’t have five cents in that quarter.”
“And there were never any complaints coming from her or from neighbors?”
“Never.”
“Was Lisa close to any of the other tenants here at Whispering Meadows?”
“She and the woman next to her often visited one another.”
“What’s this woman name?”
“Geena Bruce.”
“What apartment does Geena live in?”
“Four-fourteen.”
“Think she’s home now?”
“She should be. Whoever did what they did to Lisa, I hope they burn in hell forever. You know, I pick up the paper and it’s talking about a woman found in Brush Creek, all chopped up and thrown in trashbags. With all these psychos on the loose nowadays, you really can’t trust nobody anymore.”
“I agree,” Carey nodded. “The world’s not a safe place to live anymore. People are sicker than ever. There’s no more respect for human life, no more standards of morality.”
“We’re planning a prayer vigil for Lisa here at Whispering Meadows.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you guys.”
Carey exited David’s office. He walked up three flight of stairs before he found apartment 414. He knocked three times.
The raspy voice of a woman asked, “What do you want?”
Carey flashed his badge up to the peephole. “Mam, I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the KCPD.”
“What can I help you with?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about Lisa Wallace?”
“Lisa?”
“Yes, about Lisa. Could you open the door, please?”
She slid the chain off the latch and turned the deadbolt lock with caution.
“Are you Geena Bruce?” Carey inquired, his revolver sticking out.
“Yes, I’m Geena Bruce.”
“May I come in, Miss Bruce?”
“Sure, come inside. Can I offer you something?”
“What do you have?”
“Coffee, tea, soda, juice, or water.”
“A glass of water is fine.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Geena handed Carey a frosty glass of icewater. He took a couple of sips and dug deep into his thoughts. “How well did you know Lisa?”
“I knew her very well. She and I were neighbors for about five years.”
“How long have you lived here at Whispering Meadows?”
“July of this year made five years.”
“Let me ask the same question I asked the manager of this apartment complex. Did you ever see men come or go from Lisa’s apartment?”
“Not in the five years I lived here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.”
“Did you guys often visit one another?”
“Yes we did. We had keys to one another’s apartments.”
“So you trusted each other?”
“Practically with our lives.”
“Tell me about the women who came to visit her.”
“Most of them were women she worked with at the IRS. These women were respectful and they looked after Lisa like she was their sister. When she came up missing, they came by her place everyday, sometimes several times a day.”
“Did Lisa ever talk about men? Did she ever talk about going out with a guy?”
“Uhhhhh, I’m not sure, detective.”
“What does uhhhhh mean?”
“Well------.”
“Think, Geena, think. We want to find her killer and make him pay for what he did to her. We’re talking about a psychotic animal who might kill and mutilate other women.”
Geena snapped her fingers. “Lisa never talked about no certain guy in particular.”
A jolt of excitement ran through Carey. “Did she ever mention any names?”
“No. Sorry I can’t help you with more details.”
“Lisa could’ve been the naïve type.”
“Being too nice can be fatal.”
“Dam!” Carey grumbled. “Now there’s a lot of pieces to the puzzle we can’t find.”
“What clues do you guys have after you found her body?”
“The pollutants in the creek water washed away the DNA evidence.”
“Detective, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s not your fault.”
“If there’s anything else I can do to help, please let me know.”
“You’ve been a great big help.”
Carey felt like a castaway stranded on a deserted island. Reporting back to his superiors emptyhanded at the homicide unit was something he felt bad about. He left the apartment of Geena Bruce with more ideas crammed inside his head.


CHAPTER—13

A wicked drug like crack cocaine carved out a path of its own. The white rock devil made The Rosenburg Apartments no exception. A notorious crack addict who went by the street name of D-Money resided covertly among others at The Rosenburg.