Free Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery) by Jon Bridgewater Page A

they referred to a chance to go to the network. Many of them secretly and some not so secretly harbored the idea they were the next great investigative reporter or the next anchor for the network morning news, but just as in all professions, many aspire but few are chosen.
    Russell had never had those kinds of aspirations. Although in his first years the thrill of a good story had inspired him, rarely if at all did he fantasize about leaving Houston. This was his comfort zone and here he planned to stay. Doing the weather required little real work on his part unless there was an anomaly like a hurricane. In those instances he was required to perform a 24/7 operation until the threat passed, but those situations were rare and far between.
    He usually arrived at work no later than 2:00 PM and went home or to the bar by no later than 11:00 PM He had grown up in Houston and was well-known but at the same time thought of by many to be somewhat infamous, so he was also the perfect guy to send out for “meet and greets.” This homegrown personality was perceived by his viewers as their neighbor, just one of them.
    Russell enjoyed the exposure and attention. He played golf in local charity tournaments and often acted as the M.C. for them, but what he truly liked about this part of his job was the chance to stay in front of the local beauties. As he looked at all the fresh faced beautiful girls around the station he knew why he was here—he loved women.
    But today was different. First, he didn’t work Sundays, and second, he was on a mission. He had purpose again, and it brought back the memories of past glory. He had to find someone who could answer the riddles Storm had given him.
    Like any typical local television station, there were a few cameramen, producers, and stage managers who had been around since “Shep was a pup” and these were the guys he needed to talk to. They were cameramen or sound guys or producers who were still around putting in their time before mandatory retirement and being relegated to an existence of daily golf or fishing. For active people such as they were, these days usually meant long hours of excruciating boredom.
    Russell understood and appreciated them, although reluctantly Russell accepted the fact that in a few years he would be one of them. These old guys knew where all the bodies were buried, but that knowledge they wouldn’t share with just anyone. A newbie, for instance, would never get anything out of them; respect was earned, not given lightly. Russell, on the other hand, was one of them. He knew that if any of them could solve a mystery about girls being found dead at the Dome, they would share it with him and probably even help him narrow his search for the information.
    That was when he spied Grady Anderson, sitting alone at a coffee room table seemingly lost in his Sunday paper. Grady was just one such guy. Grady had been a cameraman at the station for over thirty-five years and only had a few more months to go to reach age sixty-five and retirement. Grady had long since stopped doing location work. Now he shot the 6:00 PM and 10:00 PM evening news and stayed inside where the air conditioning worked. He was in early most days because the station was home to him; he lived alone and the people here were his family. Grady had been divorced for years. His wife had since remarried and his kids were long grown and now had families of their own, all living in cities around the USA. Grady was a fixture at the station and had been instrumental in teaching Russell about camera presence and telling a good story.
    “Damn, a big storm must be coming for you to be here on a Sunday! And little early in the day for you, isn’t it?” Grady remarked, peering over his paper as he saw Russell approaching.
    “Why do you say that, Grady—and by the way, screw you, you old fart!” Russell just grinned—he could give as well as receive.
    “Why else would you be here on a Sunday and at an hour a