A Deadly Development

by James Green

  “Nope. We do have a lot of new roads and bridges though. See that? Message received. Loud and clear.” Murray looked out his window. “What a waste.”

  Burke followed his gaze outside. It was getting warmer out there. Burke could tell even from the twenty-second floor because there were several individuals outside the Jackson County Courthouse sitting out in the sun. Had it been cold, only the smokers would have been there.

  “You lost all that because you voiced your opinions? Because you had the nerve to vote against her? That seems awfully harsh.”

  “You don’t understand, Sergeant. They don’t operate like the rest of us do. There is no give and take, only give. The Mayor puts on a great show -- she smiles, she waves, she only talks in a positive fashion,” Murray mimed the Mayor’s movements as he spoke. Burke had to admit, it was a pretty good impression.

  “But behind closed doors it is very different. She threatens, she pouts, she demands obedience.” Murray stopped for moment; collecting his thoughts before continuing.

  “She hates bad publicity. Vithous too. They wanted 13-0 votes on everything, from the banal to major deals. She couldn’t stand it if someone voted against something if she was for it.”

  “And you were the one to their “twelve most times?” Burke asked.

  Murray nodded. “Yep, doing it once was too much. After awhile, I found myself voting no just to vote no on some things. What else could they do to me?”

  “Well, they could spread dirt on you, especially if you had aspirations for higher office,” Burke offered.

  The smile on Murray’s face evaporated. It was replaced with a stern gaze and a look of contempt.

  “You obviously are hinting at something, Burke.”

  “Look,” Burke stated. “I don’t care if it’s true. I’m a homicide detective, not a marriage counselor. Whether you are faithful to your wife or screwed around on her, I don’t care. Not my business. However, I am interested if my victim does in fact blackmail people in order to get his boss ahead politically.”

  “How is that relevant?” The look of contempt on Murray’s face had evolved into some anger.

  “It’s relevant because it lets me know what John Vithous was capable of. And if he is in fact capable of such things means he had lots of enemies. And enemies, in this case at least, leads to his head being pounded in like it was a nail.”

  Burke paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. He wanted to learn more from Murray; antagonizing him wouldn’t help his cause.

  “Like I said, I don’t care about your personal life, I do care if John Vithous blackmailed you.”

  “Fine. Yes, he blackmailed me. And you want to know the worst part, Detective?” Murray asked. “It’s not that I was derailed from running for a job I had wanted for years. Or the fact that I think I could be a much more effective and equitable mayor for the city. No, the worst part is that I had to go home and have a discussion with my wife telling her that she might hear things about me, but she had to believe me they weren’t true. I had to try to explain to her that because one night I had given a female employee, who happens to be attractive, a ride home. And because of that generosity, John Vithous was telling people I was having an affair because I had the nerve to think about running against his sainted boss.” His voice had amplified enough that Murray had finally noticed that he was almost shouting. He stopped and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

  “Hell, I probably should have screwed her, considering the fallout. At least then I would have gotten something out of it. Most of the people who work in this building think I actually banged her, anyway. They look at me differently. They whisper about me in the elevators. They think less of me. All of that for some political gain for our wonderful Mayor Hughes.”

  Burke had stopped writing again. He was watching Murray’s face, seeing if it was betraying him. He had become adept at knowing when people were lying to him, bad liars, anyway. Years of talking to suspects had honed his skills. As far as he could tell, Don Murray wasn’t lying. Or if he was, he was extremely good at it. That seemed unlikely, seeing how he was in the Mayor’s dog house with his career permanently aground. A better liar would have a leadership position. But not Don Murray. He was just biding time, collecting a paycheck until term limits forced him to get a real job.

  “I have to ask, where were you Friday night from about 5 pm until 9pm?” Burke inquired.

  Murray smiled.

  “For once in my life, being around Jane Hughes works in my favor. I was at Bartle Hall, at the same event she was. Now, I wasn’t sitting at the table up front with her, no, I was relegated to the table behind hers. Right next to her security detail,” Murray smiled. He was obvious he was very proud to announce the fact.

  “Just usual procedure,” Burke replied. “I’ll be asking all your colleagues the same thing.” He had started to close his notebook, but thought better of it.

  “One more thing, Councilman, if you don’t mind?”

  “OK,” Murray relented, “but I have a meeting in 5 minutes, so it will have to be quick.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Burke assured him. “I was just curious, what does it take to get a city street rerouted so it abuts some private property?”

  “Ok, Sergeant, I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that type of question,” Murray looked confused. “Say again?”

  “If I was a property owner who had some potentially prime real estate but did not have access to a city street, what would it take to get the road moved?”

  “It would take a hell of a lot,” Murray responded. “It depends on the particulars, but off the top of my head it would take a bunch of survey work, condemnation of property if the land where you were moving the road wasn’t publicly owned. It would take public hearings, stakeholder input, that type of thing.”

  Burke could tell that his question got Councilman Murray’s juices flowing.

  “If you clear all those hurdles, then you got to get your public improvement funded. That means you got to go through my old committee, T and I...”

  “T and I?” Burke asked.

  “Transportation and Infrastructure – T and I,” Murray explained. “As I was saying, any capital improvement that size needs to have City Council approval. Plus, you have to encumber the funds.”

  “Encumber?” Burke was writing frantically, but still failing to keep up.

  “It means get the money out of the general fund and set it aside until the project is built,” Murray went on, “You see, the city has a five year capital plan. Projects are prioritized and laid out five years in advance so there is coordination around the city and money is split pretty much evenly for each Council district. Just curious, how big is your road and how far would you be moving it?”

  “The road would be four lane, divided with an island,” Burke was picturing what he saw just the morning before. “As for the distance, somewhere around 150, to 200 yards.”

  “Then you are talking major dollars, Sergeant, probably close to a million dollars.”

  “A million dollars?” Burke was incredulous. “For a road?”

  “Yes, you are forgetting that any project would have to have environmental impact studies, traffic studies, and you would have to pay any property owner for the land you had condemned. Plus you have to pay prevailing wage to all the workers who build it. It adds up.”

  What Murray was telling him was just reinforcing what he had seen and what Bethany Edwards had told him. Viceroy wasn’t a lucky break. It was a well-oiled machine that had been pushed along at breathtaking speed with great care.

  “And the Mayor, I assume she would have to be involved?” Burke was thinking out loud.

  “Absolutely,” Don Murray stated, “capital improvement projects are approved by citizen oversight committee, she names the chair.” He was holding up fingers as he was counting the steps.

  “Then the Mayor has to assign the ordinance needed for approval to a committee. Like I told you, she knows which committ
ee offers the path of least resistance.”

  A third finger now popped up from his fist.

  “Then if you are utilizing state and federal dollars to help pay for it, you need to coordinate with the city’s state and federal lobbyists. Those firms are hired by the Mayor’s office and coordinate with her staff. So yeah, I would say the Mayor would be involved.”

  Burke had one more question.

  “What do you know about Viceroy?”

  “Sergeant Burke, I’m going to be late to my meeting.”

  Monday March 13, afternoon

  “Explain to me again how a housing development has anything to do with our murder?” Jack Thurber asked while cramming several French fries into his mouth. Thurber still chewed with his mouth open and was fifty years old, Burke thought: Who the hell does still does that?

  “Mixed-use development,” Burke corrected him. And he did solely to piss Thurber off.

  “Fuck me, Tom, mixed-use, no use, what do I care? I’m trying to solve a murder. You apparently are trying to play Monopoly.”

  It was almost 3:30. They had spent over seven hours at City Hall, talking to anyone and everyone that had a connection to John Vithous. Burke got to meet all twelve members of the City Council, including his own representative, who apparently had a younger sister who went through the entire Catholic school system with Burke. He had pretended to remember the woman, which was a lie, but he thought better of hurting the Councilman’s feelings. Who knew? Maybe he would come in handy someday.

  “I don’t know if ties directly to our murder, but it was the last thing our victim ever emailed about and does appear to look more than a tad bit shady,” Burke responded. But Thurber was right, Burke realized. At the moment, it really didn’t have anything to do with a murder. Maybe graft, but he couldn’t for the life of him make it anything more than that.

  “What do you think our next move should be?” Burke replied, eating some of his salad.

  “I don’t know how you eat that rabbit food shit, Tom, I really don’t.” Thurber had a look of disgust on his face as he piled in another fistful of barbecue sandwich in his face. Burke decided to avert his eyes before he became nauseated.

  “Michaels wants us to do something,” Thurber stated while pulling out his notes again and turning the pages until he found what he was looking for. “How about we go talk to this Douglas character that got busted boosting laptops and purses.”

  “You really think that clown graduated from petty crimes to capital murder? Now who’s reaching?” Tom smirked as he said it. He enjoyed busting Jack’s chops as much as Jack did his.

  “If nothing else, it gets us out of here for a bit and out from Michaels’ stink eye until he goes home,” Thurber offered. “Beautiful out there too, got to be at least 60.”

  Burke sighed and then shrugged.

  “What the hell, let’s get out of here.”

  It was only a five minute drive to Douglas’ apartment near downtown. It took fifteen because Jack needed smokes and insisted they stop at a convenience store on the way. Once there, they ran into a couple uniforms that were on break, and Jack decided it was a good time to start bull shitting. Burke was too tired for the social scene, so he retired back to the car to drink his Gatorade.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you,” Thurber asked as he threw in a carton of cigarettes in the back of the car. “Too good for the men in blue?”

  “Just tired. Long day.”

  “And to think, some people think Tom Burke is a prima donna!” Thurber responded, his voice full of sarcasm.

  It was apparent from the moment they drove up to the property that Mr. Douglas had failed in his career of petty theft, because he lived in a dump. The type of dump you would go to shoot up some dope or hide a prostitute. Burke had visited more of these places than he cared to remember. They all were pretty much alike. The entry smelled of dried urine and stale cigarettes.

  The brick apartment had to be almost 100 years old. At some point, it might have been a nice place to live. It was three stories, with screened front porches and even some Greek columns. But time and neglect had set in. Even more damning, Interstate 70 had been plopped down less than fifty yards from the front door. The constant roar of traffic was almost deafening.

  Thurber had lucked out. The apartment was on the first floor, so his impending coronary was less likely to strike this day. Burke could tell he was relieved. Still, Jack was sweating, in only sixty degree weather. The man could sweat in a snowstorm, Burke thought.

  A couple pounds on the door and an authoritative “Open up. KCPD!” had led to nothing. They were about to give up when Thomas Douglas came walking around the corner with two plastic bags from Kwik Trip in his hands. However, the second he saw Burke and Thurber, he dropped the bags and ran.

  “Shit!” Burke said as he took off after him. He knew Thurber would be worthless in a foot chase.

  For a scrawny white guy with crappy leather shoes, the boy could move. Burke was gaining on him, but it was taking more time than he would have liked. Running in a suit and jacket were not ideal and the kid started with a 20 yard lead. Burke inched closer, until he saw the Interstate. “Would Douglas be that crazy?” Burke thought, but before he could answer his own question Douglas used one hand to jump over the guard rail and into the fray.

  A cacophony of screeching tires and horns erupted. Douglas made it two lanes until his luck ran out. The semi-truck driver didn’t even hit his brakes. He hit him going at least sixty miles an hour. Burke watched as Douglas was launched a good 15 feet in the air, before hitting the top of the semi, tumbling backwards like a ragdoll, hitting the pavement and then being promptly run over by a SUV behind the truck. It was gruesome.

  “Fuck!” Tom screamed, to no one in particular. He was thinking of the paperwork nightmare, and how the rest of his day, and most likely his evening, were ruined.

  “Stupid fuck!”

  “Did he just do what I think he did?” Thurber yelled, still thirty yards behind Burke. Thurber was gassed, his hands on his hips.

  “Yep,” Burke responded. “Call it in.”

  The rest of Monday had been ruined. Over an hour and a half at the scene. Then an additional two hours answering Michaels’ pointed questions and filling out paperwork.

  Burke’s favorite part was how people kept honking at them as they waited for the ambulance and the coroner to arrive. The Missouri Highway patrol had closed down two of the three westbound lanes, and traffic had slowed to a crawl. It was clear from the body bag and the blood stains that someone had died. One businesswoman, in a white gleaming SUV about the size of a cruise ship was unrelenting. She sat on her horn, and would not let up. Burke finally had enough.

  “Lay off the goddamn horn!” he shouted. She promptly flipped him off.

  “I’m trying to get to my daycare before it closes and I get fined, asshole!” she screamed out the window.

  Burke pulled out his badge and walked towards her.

  “Hit that horn one more fucking time and you’ll be getting more than a fine from the daycare,” he shouted.

  It worked. The woman sheepishly rolled up her window and failed to make eye contact for the entire time she was stuck in traffic.

  They had gotten back to headquarters around seven, and Burke had headed for the gym before going home. Every time he got tired or wanted to put down the weights, he thought of the woman flipping him off. Then he would do a few more reps.

  He got home exhausted and drained. He saw that his mother had called once again, but he didn’t have the energy for that. He also needed to call Bethany Edwards back, but that would have to wait until the morning. He showered and wanted to go to sleep, but there was one call he couldn’t put off.

  Hi, it’s Julie, leave a message and I will call you back as soon as I can

  Burke hung up. He knew he needed to lobby Julie hard to get her to agree to sell the house. Leaving a message wouldn’t suffice. He may be forced to see her face to face. The thought of
that made him emit a heavy sigh and grab a beer out of the fridge. It would have to wait; he would have to build up the patience before he crossed that bridge.

  Tuesday, March 14 7:25 a.m.

  Dick Houlihan held court every weekday morning at a popular breakfast restaurant on the Country Club Plaza. It was the place where Kansas City power brokers went to see and be seen. Granted, the food was good and the service was excellent, but that’s not why he came. Houlihan liked it because there was only one large room for the entire restaurant. The dining floor was one large rectangle - bar and hostess table at the front, a phalanx of tables in the middle; and at the back, the restrooms and the kitchen. No one could get in or out without Houlihan noticing.

  He always sat at the same table with his back to the southern wall. From this vantage point, he could not only see every individual who was in the restaurant but could also gaze through the floor to ceiling windows on the north side of the restaurant to see who was walking along 47th Street.

  Like every morning, he wore a blue Italian suit, white silk shirt, and a scarlet red tie and matching suspenders. His thick salt and pepper hair was brushed straight back into a tall pompadour. He had bushy eyebrows that desperately needed to be trimmed, but he never did, no matter how much his wife nagged him about it. Around his neck hung his reading glasses, attached by an eighteen carat gold chain. Dick Houlihan bought new suits every two years, without fail. Partly to stay up with the latest styles; mostly because his waistline, despite his best efforts, continued to grow at an alarming rate. Dutifully, he wore his father’s gold watch and cufflinks.

  Technically, he was retired. He had sold all of his businesses-- a car wash, dry cleaner and a billboard sign company. But, he still got up by six every morning, dressed and left before his wife of forty-seven years even stirred. Keeping the routine made him still feel relevant and important. He had no hobbies. His children were grown and gone. They were really strangers to him, anyway. He was an absentee father, who missed most of their ballgames, recitals and even a few of their birthdays. He left raising them to his wife.