Brush Creek Charlie by D. B. Reynolds (which ebook reader .txt) 📖

/> Detectives Overstreet and Schroeder flipped down their shirt collars and rolled up their sleeves. They prepared for more disgusting interrogations inside a small room on the fifth floor of the downtown KCPD headquarters. Some young street punk in his early thirties had been apprehended by other detectives when they learned he could’ve been a major suspect in the Gillham Park killings.
Overstreet and Carey were informed their suspect was named Roderick Ford. He was a tall and skinny black man with thick rows of braids lining his head. Tattoos representing the thug life were painted across his arms and back. “Kool-Aid” was the street name he went by. Prior convictions for peddling dope and assaulting women were stamped on his unimpressive criminal resume. As usual, Overstreet nursed a warm cup of his favorite coffee.
He flipped open a folder outlining most of Roderick’s life history. “Tell me, Roderick, why do they call you Kool-Aid?”
Roderick cracked a smile. “Because I’m sweet, and I go down smooth.”
“Sweet enough to murder innocent black women in Gillham Park?” Overstreet hawked to the suspect.
“Sir, I haven’t murdered nobody.”
“Since I believe you’re a cold-blooded, calculated murderer, I’d prefer you to respectfully call me Lieutenant Overstreet.”
“Alright, Lieutenant Overstreet, I’ve never killed nobody in my life.”
Overstreet injected life into the interrogation session. “You terrorized black women before you killed them, and then you dumped them around Gillham Park.”
“Look, Lieutenant Overstreet, my mother’s a black woman. I have two sisters who are black, a buncha aunts who’re black, and my girlfriend happens to be black.”
“Which doesn’t say much to me.”
“C’mon, I can’t believe that I’m a suspect.”
“Well, start believing it.”
“How can you try and pin those Gillham Park murders on me?”
“Easy, Roderick, very easy.”
Overstreet flashed autopsy photos before the estranged eyes of Roderick. “Does she look familiar to you, Kool-Aid?”
“That’s Kenyatta, she used to work Troost and Prospect,” Roderick recognized at first sight.
“So, you did know her?”
“Yeah, from the streets.”
“You also knew that she was tied to drugs and prostitution?”
“Everybody in the neighborhood knew that she was hooking and doped out.”
“Kenyatta Moore was found suffocated with mud and debris forced down her throat.”
“I read the paper and watch the news, Lieutenant Overstreet.”
“Kool-Aid, my partner and I know all about your prior drug and assault convictions.”
“So.”
“We also know that the women you sold dope to were the same women who you assaulted when they didn’t comply with your demands.”
“What demands?”
“Turning tricks so you can line your pockets with more money.”
“Not true, Lieutenant.”
“What, you think we’re stupid?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“We know that you had frequent contact with Kenyatta.”
“Me and a lot of other dope slangers out there.”
“So, you’re admitting that you did sell dope to her?”
“All the time.”
“I’ll bet you’re real proud of yourself.”
“If she didn’t buy it from me, she would’ve bought it from some other slanger out there.”
“Guess you don’t care about the many of lives that you destroy.”
“What is this, guilt by association? Just because I’m a black man, I have to be the one who goes around killing black women? My mother’s black and------.”
“And Ted Bundy’s mother was a white woman!” Overstreet contested, slicing Roderick off in mid-speech. “Look at how many white women he killed before he got fried down in Florida.”
“Whenever you get finished, I didn’t kill Kenyatta.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Can’t remember.”
“When was the last time you sold dope to her?”
“Can’t remember that, either.”
“What in the hell can you remember?”
“Only my name and that I’m a black man being accused of something that I didn’t do.”
“You give all men a bad name.”
Carey emerged from the shadows of the small dim room. Overstreet gave him the opportunity to pepper the asshole who proudly called himself “Kool-Aid”. “How far did you get in school, Kool-Aid?”
“Eighth grade.”
“Never sought to try and get your G.E.D.?”
“Never had any reason to.”
“Is that why you decided to slang dope?”
“For me, it’s the only way to survive.”
“And kill off other people in the process?”
Carey got quite clever with his questioning. He knew street games just as good as the ones who played them. He reached into the folder and presented yet another autopsy photo of a brutalized victim found in Gillham Park. “Recognize this young lady?”
Roderick twitched his eyes as he stared at the photo. “Yes, that’s Cheryl Heron.”
“Another one of your dope customers?”
“She was. What happened to her?”
“Her nude body was found stabbed to death. We thought you might’ve been able to tell us what happened to her.”
“I can’t tell you nothing.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know a damn thing about Cheryl ending up dead.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Must’ve been a week before they found her dead in the park.”
“Like Kenyatta, was it the last time you sold her some dope?”
“Sold her a dime rock.”
Carey read over the fine print relating to one of his prior assault convictions. “According to police records, you were arrested for assaulting Cheryl at one of the bus stops near 39th and Troost.”
“She tried to steal some of my weight. She’s lucky that I didn’t skulldrag her ass up and down Troost.”
“She should’ve stole all of your dope and flushed it down the toilet!” Carey blasted out of raw frustration.
“And she would’ve turned up dead much sooner than when she did.”
“Kool-Aid, did you kill Kenyatta and Cheryl?”
“No, I didn’t kill neither one of them.”
“We think you’re lying.”
“Think what you want.”
Overstreet felt a serious serial killer was in their presence. Once again, he popped out yet another photo of a Gillham Park murder victim. “Does she look at all familiar to you?”
Roderick nodded his head with a swagger. “Yeah, that’s Tracey Logan. She made her rounds from here and there.”
“Were you also involved with her murder?”
“I wasn’t involved with her murder and nobody else’s murder.”
“Like the others, did you sell dope to her?”
“Of course I did,” Roderick snickered, showing not a kernel of remorse.
Overstreet had had enough of his idiotic, senseless bullshit. Both of his hands gripped the back of the chair where Roderick sat. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, Kool-Aid?”
“Does what bother me?”
“Peddling dope around to your own people?”
“Hey, like I said, if I don’t sell it, somebody’s gonna sell it.”
“Don’t you have any remorse preying on weak and vulnerable people?”
“Black people aren’t the only ones buying dope. Look at all the white people coming in from the suburbs to buy dope. A lot of my customers were those rich white kids from the wealthy suburbs.”
“The ones living in million dollar homes and driving sixty-thousand dollar cars?”
“Exactly.”
“We’re detectives, and we know all about the ‘white flight’ of suburban whites who come down into the inner-city to buy drugs.”
“Which should tell you that black people aren’t the only ones involved.”
“Let’s just stick with the issue-at-hand. Eleven black women have been found in Gillham Park in nearly two years. We know for a fact that you, Kool-Aid, had frequent contact with these women through your sale of dope. We know for a fact that you were convicted for assaulting at least five of these women. Your motive for their murders was simply drugs and power.”
“Not true.”
“Who’s the next victim you had in mind?”
“Nobody.”
“Were you ever afraid of getting a nine-to-five?”
“Working just ain’t in my blood.”
“And distributing poisonous substances in the community is?”
“If that’s how you look at it.”
Overstreet circled the room in the most incomprehensible fashion. He dispelled the myth about white law enforcement not caring one bit about the plight of inner-city blacks. Young black women with a wealth of potential, those who’d gotten off on the wrong track with drugs and prostitution, became a major part of his detective work.
“We’re not only investigating the Gillham Park murders, but we’re also investigating both Brush Creek murders. Our plates are running over here at the police headquarters. Kool-Aid, we’re going to need your full cooperation, especially if we’re ever going to solve any of these murders. If you’re not the one who’ve killed any of these women, then tell us who might be responsible.”
“Lieutenant Overstreet, I’ve never had any reason to kill any of those women. Sure, they pissed me off by trying to steal some of my dope. I might’ve slapped them around a few times, but as far as killing any of them, I’d never do such a thing.”
“Then, who could’ve been responsible?”
“I’d be looking at