The Last Straw: Harry Starke Genesis, #5

By Blair Howard

Cassie Morgan was just 17 years old when she died at the hands of a sadistic killer.

Homicide Detective Harry Starke caught the case and he knew right from the beginning that it was going to be a bad one, and he was right. Too many clues, too many suspects, too many bodies and a police chief more interested in his career than justice for the victims.

 

For Harry, it was the last straw, and it had been a long time coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Howard
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9798215658888

Blair Howard

Blair C. Howard is a Royal Air Force veteran, a retired journalist, and the best-selling author of more than 50 novels and 23 travel books. Blair lives in East Tennessee with his wife Jo, and Jack Russell Terrier, Sally.

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1

Thursday October 15, 2020

I’d had a particularly busy day at the office… No, nothing you’d be interested in, just the usual everyday grind of running a successful business: paperwork, scheduling, talking to clients and so on and so on.

It was almost seven in the evening—early for me—and I was at home. Amanda had taken Jade to see my parents, so I was alone, out on the patio enjoying the view of the city below. The sun was almost set, but even though it was still light, here and there the lights of the city were beginning to show and the Tennessee River was a dark gray ribbon… beautiful. Anyway, there I was, relaxing, a large measure of Laphroaig in hand, alone with my thoughts. And, as they usually do in such times, my thoughts wandered back over my career.

As you know, I started my professional life as a cop, right after I graduated Fairleigh Dickenson in June, ninety-seven. I made detective two years later and spent the next seven years in homicide… And then I quit, which brings me to the point of my story. As I was sitting there, enjoying the peace and quiet and the view, it occurred to me that you might be wondering why I left the force. Well, let me tell you. It all began…

Monday, July 28, 2008

8:30am

It all started on a Monday morning. As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew something wasn’t right. I don’t normally wake up in a bad mood, but that morning was different.

I heard the shower running, which meant that Kate was already up. She’d stayed the night, so I should have woken up in a great mood.

Sergeant Kate Gazzara wasn’t… isn’t just a great cop and fantastic partner; she’s also an expert at keeping me in a good mood. Especially when she stays over.

It wasn’t until I checked my phone that I realized what my brain had been trying to tell me all along. I’d overslept.

I cursed myself and sat up in bed. My head was pounding!

I glared angrily at my iPhone. Now, I’m no Luddite. I don’t have a problem with modern technology, like smartphones, but I prefer to do things old school… well, most of the time. I guess I still wasn’t used to using my phone’s alarm because, somehow, I’d failed to turn it on; my bad.

I went to the bathroom and poked my head inside.

Why didn’t you wake me up? I asked, sounding more annoyed than I meant to—the headache was making me cranky. I overslept.

Kate peeked around the frosted glass of the shower door, smiling, suds in her hair. Yeah, that’s right, she kept her own shampoo and whatnot in my bathroom. After nearly seven years together, she was entitled to. She also kept several changes of clothing in the spare bedroom.

You looked so tired, she said. I wanted you to get as much sleep as you could.

I tried to pay attention to what she was saying, really I did. But seeing her standing there, all soaped up, in her birthday suit, through that frosted glass was a distraction and a half. Kate is a tall, lean woman, but she has curves in all the places that count.

How about I join you? I asked, grinning, my headache all but forgotten.

She smiled at me seductively. I’d love that, big boy, but we don’t have time. You overslept, remember?

I frowned, nodded, reluctantly backed out, closed the door and headed to the kitchen to make coffee.

I’ve always hated oversleeping. And I hate having to rush to get ready for work even more.

Anyway, I’d just gotten the coffee started when my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Assistant Police Chief Henry Finkle. Great, just what I need when I already have a headache.

I accepted the call, putting it on speaker. Hello, I said dully.

Starke, we have a body out at Walker Cemetery, and you and Gazzara are up. I’ll message you the details.

Geez, I haven’t even had my coffee yet.

I don’t want to hear it, Starke. I’ll call Gazzara and tell her—

Uh, that won’t be necessary, I said, interrupting him. I’ll let her know.

There was a pause on the other side, a long pause. It was no secret that Henry Tiny Finkle had been trying to get into bed with Kate for years. I imagined the look on his face and smiled.

Headache or no headache, ruining Tiny’s morning always put me in a better mood.

I wouldn’t say I’m a rebel, but I’m passionate about my job, and sometimes that puts me at odds with my superiors. It may have something to do with my willingness to, shall we say, bend the rules from time to time.

Fine, Finkle said finally. Just get to the scene ASAP. You know the Chief’s looking to improve the department’s closing rate.

I rolled my eyes. We’ll get over there as soon as we can. I terminated the call.

Kate and I had been together for about seven years at this point. We were partners both in life and on the job, and I wasn’t going to start apologizing for it.

The coffee finished. I poured us each a cup and called for Kate.

She rounded the corner wearing nothing but a towel. I swear, if it weren’t for the fact that we had to get out of there, I’d have taken her in my arms and… well, you get the idea.

I heard your phone, she said, parking herself on one of the kitchen stools and grabbing the nearest cup of coffee. Let me guess, she said. There’s a body and we’re up for it.

Yes and yes, I said, grabbing my cup and heading to the bathroom to take a quick shower. I guess breakfast is off the table, I called. Maybe we can stop at Hardee’s.

About ten minutes later, maybe a little longer, we were both dressed and in our unmarked cruiser heading out to Walker Cemetery.

Contrary to what the name might indicate, Walker Cemetery sits along an unfenced stretch of road rather than being a traditional boxed-in final resting place. It’s lonely, isolated, especially before nine in the morning.

The road was narrow with overhanging trees on both sides. Even the sign on the side of the road was small and easy to miss.

It felt like we were in the middle of nowhere. The perfect place for a murder.

I pointed at the sign from the passenger seat. "Someone should tell the Chief that finding a dead body out here isn’t a big deal. It is a cemetery, after all."

Kate scowled at me. Oh, Harry, don’t be crass.

I know. I know. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I guess. We didn’t even get to enjoy our coffee. I wish to hell I’d set my damn alarm.

Kate slowed the cruiser as we approached a conglomeration of vehicles up ahead on the narrow road. Well, toughen up, soldier boy, she said. I need you on your A-game, okay?

The place was a mess with police cruisers, an ambulance, and several civilian vehicles. Two vans were parked next to each other, one CSI and one from the Hamilton County Medical Examiner’s Office.

We parked with the other cars and followed the yellow tape to the location of the body.

To the right side of the road, a thin strip of woodland sloped gently down to the banks of Chickamauga Creek, a snaking river of murky water a section of which in North Georgia had been the scene of one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War. The crime scene itself was easy to spot. It had already been taped off and the body lay at the dead center—no pun intended.

As we approached and could see better, my heart sank. A young woman lay sprawled out on the riverbank. And when I say young, I mean really young. Not yet old enough to drink young.

She had pale, white skin and blonde hair so light it bordered on platinum. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips a garish red against the pale skin. She was thin but not in a malnourished sort of way.

I guess it was something about the way she was dressed, but I instantly figured her for a prostitute. And yet, she looked so young, too young to be of consenting age. Her youth and the way she was dressed seemed off, at least to me. What had this kid gotten herself into?

She was wearing a blue spandex dress that barely reached her thighs, stiletto heels, and enough makeup to make Bobo the Clown jealous.

Two CSI techs were standing just inside the tapes. Two more were working the outer perimeter, another was taking photographs, still another was wandering around shooting video, and Lt. Mike Willis, the CSI supervisor, was overseeing the action.

Damn, I thought, Johnston really is wanting to close this case quickly. Willis is here in person with all kinds of backup. The scene looked… almost over-worked.

Willis was looking through what I assumed to be the victim’s purse.

Harry, Kate, he said, looking up and nodding once. Her name’s Cassie Morgan. Willis held up a driver’s license. And, unless my math is wrong, she just turned seventeen years old.

Son of a bitch, I muttered, more to myself than to Willis. That’s kind of young to be a prostitute. It was and it wasn’t. Demand among the johns for youngsters was high, and the supply though not plentiful was increasing steadily.

Kate shot me a look. And how are you so sure she’s a prostitute?

I don’t know. Not for sure, but I look at her and get a feeling in my gut that she is.

Kate and Mike exchanged glances and they both shrugged.

Willis has been handling most of the CSI operations at the PD since before I joined the force back in ’97. He was a strange little wizard of a man even then, and he hadn’t changed much over the ten years I’d known him, except that he’d grown a little more eccentric. He’s short, a little overweight, a little scruffy—clean, but untidy—head shaved and shiny, eyebrows thick and bushy. His hands are… huge… and even today he always seems to be in a hurry. Having said that, he’s also a patient man, meticulous in his work and always takes the time to make sure we fully understood exactly what he was telling us. He would go through a report word by word until he was sure we had it… and he was a talker.

Well, Kate said, I know better than to go against your gut. But you usually don’t just start spouting details about victims as soon as you see them, Sherlock Holmes style.

I grinned. I guess that makes you my Dr. Watson.

Kate winked. In your dreams, Sergeant.

I squatted down next to the body to get a better look.

She was indeed young! There was a single gunshot wound in the center of her chest, and even though I couldn’t put my finger on it just then, there was something about the wound that bothered me.

A pair of white bootied feet suddenly appeared beside me. I looked up to see that they belonged to Dr. Richard Doc Sheddon, the Hamilton County Chief Medical Examiner. Along with the Tyvek booties, he was wearing a white lab coat and white vinyl gloves.

Kate. Mike, he said, then, How’s it hanging, Harry? Who has coffee, anyone?

No one had, and the greeting was standard stuff for the strange and dark creature I’d come to love over the years. A small man in his early fifties, he stood no more than five-eight. He was overweight, almost totally bald, with a round face that usually sported half-glasses and a jovial expression. His penchant for gallows humor was, and still is, the stuff of legend.

Hey Doc, I guess I don’t have to ask about the cause of death, do I? I asked, pointing a finger at the gunshot wound.

Sheddon cocked an eyebrow. Well, nothing’s conclusive; not until I get her on my table, but I’d say you’re probably right.

Kate stepped to my side, and I stood up and took a step sideways that put me closer to her than to Doc.

Any idea about the time of death? Kate asked.

Sheddon frowned, and his face started to turn red. Kate and I exchanged glances and smiled.

You did that on purpose, I whispered in her ear. You know how he hates it when people ask him that.

Good Lord, Sergeant, Doc replied. You know better than… He paused, sighed, then looked at her, shook his head and said, I took her liver temperature when I arrived ten minutes ago, so between eight and ten hours ago, definitely not more than ten.

So she was killed last night between eleven and one and dumped here sometime early this morning? I wasn’t really asking the question. I was just thinking out loud.

I took a small notebook out of my pocket and started scribbling the details. Like I said, I don’t have a problem with technology, but anytime I can, I prefer to use pen and paper. It just feels so much more dependable.

Kate turned, looked back at Willis and said, Your boys find anything yet, Mike?

Willis scrunched up his eyebrows. They looked like a couple of wooly caterpillars with their backs arched. Not so far. We pretty much combed the area. No shell casings. In fact, we haven’t found much of anything.

I continued scribbling in my notebook. So I’m right then? This is probably the dumpsite and not the location of the actual murder.

Yeah, Willis said, could be that, or else the killer used a revolver. That would explain the lack of casings but not the lack of everything else.

I nodded and scribbled Dumpsite? in my notebook.

Sheddon was leaning over the body, poking and prodding her with his gloved hands. There are no apparent defensive wounds, he mumbled, at least none that I can see. But I can tell you one thing.

What’s that? Kate asked.

This girl wasn’t shot inside a car, at least it isn’t likely. Not based on the shape of this gunshot wound. It seems she was shot from directly in front of her.

Well, that was interesting. There was a guy some years back picking up prostitutes, shooting them in his car, and dumping them behind out-of-the-way convenience stores. It had been all over the news. This seemed like a completely different story.

I straightened up and motioned for Mike Willis to hand me the ID he’d found in the girl’s wallet. Cassie Morgan was indeed only seventeen years old, and the license had a Chattanooga address. So I knew where we were going next.

One of the other CSI technicians stepped up to Willis and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Willis turned back to me, grinning.

Detectives, it turns out we do have something after all.

I looked at him. Well, spit it out, Mike.

We have several partial footprints in the mud, just a few yards over that way. Looks like a sports shoe, maybe size ten or eleven. One of the guys is taking molds as we speak.

I arched an eyebrow. That’s good news. We’ll need to get samples from all of the cemetery employees so that we can eliminate them, or not: groundskeepers, gravediggers… and such. At least we have something.

I looked around. The ground was soft everywhere. There had been a light rain the day before, a couple of those sporadic, late-afternoon showers.

Huh, I said. I’m surprised there aren’t more prints in the mud, like everywhere.

Mike looked around, as well. Yeah, whoever did this was very careful. They knew not to leave tracks. Which makes me wonder if they do belong to the killer. He shrugged, then said, Maybe yes; maybe no.

I was still standing there, my hands in my pockets, looking down at the body and thinking about what a waste of a young life it was when Kate said, So, what now, Harry?

I flipped my notebook closed and frowned. That headache was about to return with a vengeance.

First, I need coffee and something to eat. Then, we’ll go take a look at the victim’s address.

2

Cassie Morgan’s address was an apartment building across town on Clark Street off Central Avenue.

They were low-income apartments, forty-four of them on two floors; a little run-down but not as bad as I’d imagined. The place was quiet, too, something I appreciated because, even after a second cup of coffee, I still had one hell of a headache.

I guess this is the place, Kate said as she pulled into a parking spot.

I know a lot of macho guys that would hate to have their girlfriend drive them around. And, I was the senior officer, so had I really wanted to drive I could’ve pulled rank. I was also older than her by nearly six years, so I could have pulled age. But, to be honest, Kate’s a great driver. Always has been.

I pointed to one of the ground-floor doors. There it is. Just like in the song, apartment number nine.

We both looked around cautiously as we approached the apartment door. As Kate knocked, I stood to one side and instinctively put a hand on my department-issue Glock 17. There was no outward indication that there would be trouble, but statistics tell us that most of the time a murderer lives in close proximity to the victim, and who was I to argue that? So, as always, we had to be ready for anything.

Kate knocked on the door again: nothing. She knocked again… and then again, still nothing. I was about ready to give it up and take a walk around the place, but just as I was turning away, the door opened just a crack, and a pair of the most beautiful emerald green eyes peeked out over the security chain.

Yes? Who is it?

The voice belonged to a young woman I figured to be in her early twenties, not much older than a teenager, in fact. The voice also sounded a little shaky, as if she was scared.

Kate put on her sweetest smile. Hello, my name is Kate Gazzara. This is Harry Starke. We’re with the Chattanooga Police Department and would like to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?

The young woman behind the crack in the door paused, and she seemed to be thinking. When she finally answered, her voice was even shakier. What the hell is she so scared of?

I don’t think I should be answering questions without my… my landlord being here. Let me call him real quick.

Kate shot me a confused glance. I knew what she was thinking: who asks their landlord for permission to answer questions. But Kate had already forgotten my gut feeling… that our victim was a prostitute. That being so, I’d have bet good money that the landlord was also the pimp.

Look, I said. We don’t want to cause trouble for you. We’re not with Vice.

Kate shot me a dirty look. She didn’t like it when I went with my gut and made assumptions. And I got that.

I was taking quite a chance assuming that both our victim, Cassie Morgan, and whoever she shared the apartment with were prostitutes. But I had to stick with my gut feeling. It’s part of who I am, and it never lets me down.

We’d like to talk to you about Cassie, Kate said, maintaining that sweet voice she uses to put witnesses at ease. She lives here, right? With you?

The door slammed in our faces. Kate and I looked at each other. For a moment, I thought about running around the building to make sure someone wasn’t making a run for it.

Then, a second later, the security chain clicked inside, and the door opened all the way.

I could tell by the look on her face that the young woman was obviously very worried. Those emerald eyes were as wide as saucers.

Is Cassie okay? Do you know where she is?

I only had to take one look at her and I knew. She wasn’t but maybe a couple of years older. Her skin was just as pale, her hair was the same shade of almost platinum… We were looking at Cassie’s sister.

Are you related to her? I asked.

The girl nodded. I’m her sister.

What’s your name, honey? Kate asked.

Becky. Becky Morgan. Her eyes were tearing up. Why haven’t you told me about Cassie? What’s wrong?

Kate got real serious, real quick. Becky, let’s go inside. I think you may want to sit down.

It’s never easy telling a relative that their loved one is dead. It’s not like we’re doctors and the family