McKenna

By Glenn Starkey

A woman's headless, limbless torso is discovered floating in a Texas bayou. When Abe Davis, a Sheriff's Department Investigator, is assigned to the case, he never realized the trail would lead to a sex and drug trafficking ring, international war criminals, political corruption, and the rescue of his fourteen-year-old daughter from the ring's captivity.

The woman was an undercover DEA agent, compromised and given to a sex trafficking ring. Being ordered off the case did not set well with Abe. No one commits such a brutal crime in his county and walks away. Gathering information, Abe has a thousand-piece puzzle with no pictures until McKenna, a man with a secretive past in the SAS/MI6, offers to help. But Abe must lay the investigation aside when Sarah, his daughter from his first marriage, runs away and is caught up in the dark world of sex trafficking. He has no choice but to find her at all cost before she is placed into a pipeline and shipped away.

With the assistance of two friends and McKenna's expertise, Abe chooses a path of retribution and becomes judge, jury, and executioner in the desire to win his daughter's freedom.

"McKenna," is another hard hitting, intriguing novel by award-winning author Glenn Starkey, that delves into vile, harsh realities and questions our souls about true justice. It's a story destined to not release its hold on you until the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667814735

Glenn Starkey

Glenn Starkey is a former U.S. Marine Corps Sergeant and Vietnam veteran. He worked for U.S. State Department Security, law enforcement in Texas, and retired from a global oil corporation. For the last six years, he has volunteered to help elementary students improve their reading skills. He lives with his family south of Houston, Texas.

Book preview

Chapter One

Farm to Market Road 2004 in Brazoria County is a long, desolate highway. Pastures of salt-grass, thorn bushes, rattlesnakes, and swarms of mosquitoes thick enough to drive cattle mad border both sides of 2004 for miles. At night, coyotes yip and howl as they chase their prey over the land, often darting across the roadway to the dismay of speeding drivers. Chocolate Bayou cuts the road as it flows eastward to Chocolate Bay, but its steep bridge allows the barges of the intracoastal waterway to pass beneath on their way to IChem, a dying chemical plant set off 2004. On Chocolate’s southern bank, below its towering bridge, is a concrete public boat ramp and wide, gravel-packed clearing for the boaters’ vehicles. There, in the dawn hours of a drizzly spring day, two fishermen found crabs feasting on a headless, limbless torso floating in the murky bayou.

***

Wednesday, 7:45 a.m.

April 18, 2018

Abraham Davis let his gaze drift across the throng of campaign backers spread throughout the main banquet room of the Lake Jackson Convention Center. Checkbooks in hand, waving them about as they talked, the donors wanted all to know their generosity would soon fall into the antique wooden bucket near the head table. The two-hundred dollar a plate steak and egg breakfast was publicized as an informal gathering to support Sheriff R. R. Stearn’s re-election, yet it appeared more formal than a lobster dinner evening gala. To Davis, it was a gathering of ‘Who’s Who’ community leaders from across Brazoria County, each with a private agenda for Stearn to remain in office.

A young, uniformed deputy glumly shook his head, sighed, and glanced at Davis. Do you realize that just one of those campaign donations in the bucket is more than you and I make in a month? There’s no justice in this world.

Across the room a heavyset, bearded man stood nonchalantly trying to read the donors’ checks in the bucket. He looked about to see if he was being watched, then returned to his reading.

The plain-clothes investigator wryly grinned, adjusted the fit of his gray Stetson, and raked a hand down his tie to straighten it. No one ever said life was fair, Davis replied. He eased his sport coat closed and nodded toward the far side of the room. Keep an eye on that bucket. We don’t want it to grow feet and walk off. The sheriff doesn’t have half a dozen deputies at this dog and pony show for a free meal and our good looks.

The uniformed deputy saw the overly curious man at the bucket and started toward him.

Davis watched the stranger walk away before the deputy drew near. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

Silas, I want you to meet my top investigator, Abraham Davis. Abe, this is Silas Glade, one of our finest citizens and a solid supporter of law enforcement. Sheriff Stearn’s face beamed as he motioned to the tall, slender man in a gray, pin-striped Anderson & Sheppard suit beside him.

There was little need for an introduction. Everyone in the county had heard of the private, camera-shy, multi-millionaire Silas Glade, and more so of his philanthropy and cache of prized exotic animals at his mansion. Yet few people knew him by sight. Clean-shaven; sharply dressed; a thick mane of brown hair brushed his collar, while dark brown eyes kept watch on everyone about him. He focused on Davis as if mentally assessing him.

Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about your charitable work. It’s quite admirable. Davis shook hands with the man who stood almost eye-to-eye with him. The handshake was firm and confident. Five foot ten. Maybe fifty or so. At least twenty years older than me. Looks fit. The investigator glanced over Glade’s shoulder at the solemn-faced, tanned man standing within arm’s reach of the philanthropist. Bodyguard or personal assistant? I’d put my money on bodyguard, Davis thought. Maybe both.

I do what I can to help others, Mister Davis. The sheriff speaks highly of you. Glade’s voice was calm and low.

Davis leaned forward to better hear. The din of talk in the cavernous room had grown. He thought he detected a slight accent but was not sure. His cellular phone vibrated, and he looked at its text message: North end of county. Body at 2004 bridge boat ramp by IChem. Hope you had a good breakfast. Dispatch.

Sheriff, I’m sorry, but I’ve been called out. Davis glanced at the sheriff, then turned to the philanthropist. Pleasure meeting you, sir.

Sheriff Stearn and Silas Glade nodded and watched the investigator make his way through the crowded banquet room. At the door, Davis glanced back. The sheriff was already escorting the multi-millionaire toward a group of high-roller donors. Lightly shaking his head, Davis gazed at the throng of power brokers.

You can pull a lot of political strings if you have a large enough checkbook.

***

The occasional clack of vehicles traveling overhead echoed through the parking area beneath the lofty bridge. The drizzling rain had stopped, yet menacing clouds threatened a heavier downpour. Tossing his sport coat across the front seat of his car, the investigator adjusted the .45 ACP, 1911A1 semiautomatic on his right hip, out of habit, touched the badge on his shirt to ensure it was there, then eased a long yellow raincoat on. He settled a gray Stetson on his head and let his dark blue eyes scan the gravel lot. A forensic lab van, a marked patrol vehicle, and the meat wagon, a county contracted ambulance, sat parked off to one side. He breathed easier. No Houston news reporters had arrived yet.

Abe, I’m glad they sent you instead of Birchfield. He couldn’t find his ass with both hands, much less this place, an athletically built patrol deputy said, walking toward him from the bayou.

Frank Janus was twenty-six, single, and not long out of the Marines with a tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. When his enlistment ended, he said he had enough combat, and fortunately for the sheriff’s department, chose a different battlefield—law enforcement. He was common-sense smart, had an eye for details, and in uniform always appeared to have stepped out of a Marine Corps recruiting poster. With his short-cut, sandy-brown hair, and honey-colored eyes, it all made him a lady-killer. But Davis liked the fact that Janus was not afraid to wade through the mud, the blood, and the beer if the need arose. They got along well, though the investigator had never been in the military; a bothersome fact to him at times. Yet to Davis, following his father into police work had seemed more important twelve years ago.

Grinning, Davis closed the door to his blue sedan and started toward the boat ramp.

Be nice. Birchfield’s retiring in another month. The sheriff is letting him ride a desk until then. You’re stuck with me for now.

Someone was serious about killing this one, Janus remarked as they walked side by side. He did not offer any further information.

They stopped four feet from two forensic techs taking photographs, water samples, and the water and air temperature at the bayou’s edge of the ramp. The female lab tech finished, then stepped back. Davis got his first view of the headless, limbless corpse still partially in the water.

"I was expecting a whole body, he mumbled, leaning forward and canting his head for a better look. He could only see the back of the torso. Turn it over, please."

The male tech eased the nude trunk onto its back and pulled it out of the murky brown bayou, further onto the cement ramp.

It’s a woman, Davis said slowly, speaking his thoughts aloud at the sudden sight of breasts and a partially shaved vagina.

Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me, Abe. The baldheaded male tech drolly grinned and moved to allow the investigator to step closer to the torso.

Screw you, Jerry. Abe smiled and knelt, leaning left and right as he examined the corpse. Odd gashes and shredded flesh appeared across the pale torso. The left nipple was missing, possibly the work of crabs. But it was the serrated ends of the severed limbs and neck that Abe studied most. After ten minutes, he rose and glanced at Janus. Who found her?

A father and his fifteen-year-old son. They were here on the ramp, casting out into the bayou. The boy thought he had a bite, reeled his line in, and the torso surfaced and floated toward them. When they realized it was a human, or what’s left of one, it scared the hell out of them. They called dispatch and waited until I arrived. I have their names, address, and everything else for a follow-up interview. The kid was shaking and ready to puke. The father was in the same condition, so I let them gather their gear and leave. Dispatch called for the judge, but he said with the body like this, he’d contact the coroner’s office later.

Abe Davis glanced about the boat ramp. Any evidence?

None in this immediate area, sir. I’ll make a wider sweep before I leave. The body may have been thrown into the water further up the bayou and floated down with the current, but that’s only a guess. Later today I’ll check for anything strange at the bridges where Chocolate Bayou crosses Highway 35 and over at FM 1462 as well.

The investigator nodded in approval and turned to the forensic lab techs. In layman’s terms, what can you tell me?

Jerry gazed at the torso, then glanced at his fellow tech. Her brown eyebrows lowered as she studied her notes. Sue? Jerry spoke softly to draw her attention.

She looked up at him before turning to the investigator. Sorry. I was trying to figure out what to tell you. There’s not much until a post-mortem is performed. Female. Caucasian. From the length of the torso, we estimate she was maybe five foot eight or nine. The body is bloated now, but she was probably of a medium build. There are no incision marks under the breasts to indicate implants, so those are real. Sue motioned to the well-developed mounds. We estimate she was at least in her twenties. No signs of birth stretch marks that we can find. Some of her gashes may be from boat propellers, and the crabs definitely had a picnic with her. The way her head and limbs were removed, we believe a combination of two things may have done so—a tree saw and possibly an alligator with its snapping and tearing power. There’re no clean-cut marks like you would find from a meat cleaver or large, sharp butcher’s knife.

Jerry glanced at Abe. And before you ask, she could’ve been in the water more than a day or two. Saltwater decomposes a body faster than fresh water, but this bayou has a mixture because of the intracoastal. He motioned toward the east. In less than a mile you’ll be in Chocolate Bay, then West Bay and on to Galveston. We’ve taken samples from the body and everything we can find for any type of evidence. The hair growing back about her vagina appears dark so she’s naturally brown haired, although, she may have changed her hair color through the years. Post-mortem will tell us about drugs, physical and sexual abuse, and whatever else this poor soul endured.

Rubbing his face in frustration, Abe glanced about the landing and lightly shook his head. "I want to get her DNA into the database as fast as we can. Maybe we’ll get a hit from some agency’s Missing Persons cases. He drew a deep breath and exhaled hard. Okay, let the guys load her up and head to the coroner’s office. Frank and I will look around the area. He raised his face to the blackish-blue clouds roiling overhead. Better hurry before the bottom falls out."

The forensic techs waved to the ambulance attendants and waited while the torso was wrapped and removed. More photographs of the ramp area were taken, then the techs returned to their van and left behind the ambulance. The investigator and the patrol deputy ambled about the gravel lot searching for anything related to the case.

Condoms, syringes, and old beer bottles. Janus frowned and raised his gaze from the ground. There’s a couple of blood spots where fishermen cleaned their catch, but animals have pretty much cleared the guts and bones away.

A sprinkling rain began to fall, but soon the raindrops grew and struck the ground with hard plops. The wind gradually grew stronger.

Let’s go before we get stuck on the road out of here, Abe yelled, moving toward his car. Where do you want to get some coffee and talk about this?

"Alvin is the nearest town. Meet you at the 1820 Coffeehouse two blocks from city hall," the former Marine shouted as he ran. He barely had entered his patrol car when a crack of lightning flashed across the bayou and a thundering boom followed. Next came the torrential rain.

Their wipers seemed useless against the fierce, wind-driven rain that blurred the windshields. The county cars fishtailed on the road, throwing rooster-tails of mud from their tires, but they made their way along the rutted track back up onto the highway. From trailing Abe, Frank’s white patrol car was splattered brown with mud across the front, over the hood, and smeared over the windshield. He watched the investigator enter the highway and drive away.

Parking on the side of the road, the deputy waited while the raging storm washed his car’s windshield clean. He knew it wouldn’t take long.

***

Wednesday, 10:40 a.m.

April 18th

Two women in their late forties, comfortably dressed for daily errands, relaxed at one of the circular tables in the center of the coffeehouse. Through the wide, plate glass storefront, they watched the torrential downpour and were in no hurry to leave. Slowly stirring their specialty fruit drinks with a straw, they mischievously smiled like schoolgirls sharing secrets each time they stole glances at the handsome, older man sitting alone at a table off in a corner. Back to the wall, he held an open book, yet his wolfish gray eyes saw all that passed the large front windows and door.

Short salt and pepper hair, clean shaven and ruggedly built, his blue pullover shirt was taut at the shoulders and biceps though he did not have a bodybuilder’s look. He sat peacefully reading, waiting for one of the attractive baristas to bring his order, at times raising his gaze to catch the two women watching him. He politely nodded, then grinned as they spun to whisper to one another.

"Here you are, sir. Enjoy your cuppa. Angela, the senior barista, barely into her twenties, kindly smiled as she set a steaming cup before him with a teabag string hanging over its rim. She laid three packets of sugar and a small container of milk on the table. Be careful. That water is really hot."

Thank you, love. That’s how I like it, the gentleman replied. Handing her a folded ten-dollar bill, he winked. Drop this in the kitty, please.

Brushing strands of brunette hair from her smooth, oval face, she thanked him and returned to her duties. The two women nearby, curiosity aroused, watched him steep the teabag, add milk and sugar, then slowly stir it with a spoon, all in precise movements. Waiting a minute, he raised the cup, nodded to the ladies, and took a sip. Their faces flushed. He returned to his book, browsed its pages while enjoying his tea, pausing at times to watch the falling rain.

A plain, dark blue Ford sedan turned off the street and parked in front of the coffeehouse. The driver appeared to be gathering papers and the courage to step out into the storm. When ready, the driver hurriedly left the car to reach the protection of the coffeehouse’s overhang. Water dripped from his gray Stetson hat and bright yellow raincoat. Black lettering across its back displayed ‘Sheriff.’ He stomped water from his boots and waited. Soon a white sheriff’s department patrol car drove into the lot and parked next to the sedan.

Inside the coffeehouse, the gray-eyed man gently closed his book and watched the plain-clothes officer and uniformed deputy walk to the door.

Seeing the deputy, the three young women behind the counter smiled, touched their hair, and gave a swift check of their clothes. The officers entered and hung their raincoats on hooks by the door, hesitating as every experienced cop does to look about the interior for potential trouble.

The stranger’s gaze drifted from the detective’s gold star on his shirt pocket to the .45 ACP holstered on his right hip. Its grip was dark with an imbedded round badge designed like the original Texas Rangers’ badges made of silver Mexican Cinco Pesos. Wiping his lips with an open paper napkin, the stranger partially blocked his face from sight. His eyes briefly locked with the tall plain-clothes officer before the lawmen started toward the cash register.

Finishing his tea, he waited until the officers were placing their orders, backs to him, then quietly rose. His two admirers at the nearby round table watched with expressions of disappointment as he readied to leave. He warmly smiled, and they faintly waved, but their attention was already shifting to the lawmen, especially the handsome uniformed deputy.

The plain-clothes officer glanced back and observed the stranger near the door. Again, their gazes locked, but the man calmly continued out into the rain. The investigator gave him no more thought and returned his attention to the baristas behind the counter.

***

Abe Davis carried his coffee and notebook to the table next to where the stranger had been sitting. Easing a chair out, he positioned himself with his back to the wall and a good view of the front door and parking lot. He pushed the light gray Stetson back on his head a bit and was staring at the teabag string hanging over the cup’s rim when Janus approached.

Anything wrong?

No. The investigator leaned over to see the cover of the book laying on the stranger’s table. England’s Country Cottages. He chuckled and straightened in his chair.

Janus’s eyebrows lowered. What?

Davis raised his Stetson, scratched his head and set the cowboy hat back on. The man that left as we were coming in. He didn’t look like someone who would be reading about cottages.

Janus shrugged and glanced at the empty teacup and container of milk. Drinking tea with milk?

A puzzling thought crossed Davis’s mind, but he chalked it up to typical cop curiosity. He opened his notebook. As Angela began to clear and clean the table next to them, he paused. Do you know the man that was sitting there? The investigator’s brow rose. What was he drinking?

The brunette took the book from the table and set it back with others on a nearby shelf. He’s one of our regulars. Quiet, very polite, stays to himself. British, I think. He always gives us a large tip. Honestly, I can’t recall ever hearing him say his name. She glanced at the teacup and smiled. "A cuppa, he calls it. Twinings English Breakfast Tea. Teabag is always to be in the cup. Pour boiling water in, but never directly onto the teabag. Three packets of sugar and milk on the side. Do it that way every time he comes in and he’s happy as a little boy with a new puppy. When he leaves, his napkin is always folded, and his spoon and any trash are neatly positioned by the cup."

"A cuppa?"

Angela nodded to the investigator. She warmly smiled and walked away with Janus’s gaze following the sway of her tight-fitting jeans.

Davis glanced from Angela to the young women behind the counter that watched the patrol deputy as if he were their prey. Now I know why you like to come in here.

The art. It’s excellent, Janus said, swinging a hand toward the realistic pastel artworks of people, cars and horses lining the coffeehouse walls. They’re from a local artist who displays them here like an art gallery. Every couple of months the art is changed out as she sells them or takes them on tour. She always has something great to look at.

A blonde barista, no more than nineteen years old, strolled from table to table, wiping them clean with a towel. Her blue eyes sparkled as she glanced at Janus and impishly smiled.

Davis’s gaze drifted to the individual pieces of art displayed about the room, then to the woman leaning over a table, vigorously wiping it. He saw her cut a quick look at the uniformed deputy.

The artwork, huh? Davis asked, eyebrows rising.

A sip of coffee and Janus sheepishly grinned. Motioning to the table where the stranger had been, he looked at Abe. Know him? he asked, anxious to change the subject.

"No, just my distrustful nature. Short hair, in good shape. Shirt tucked in. Drinks tea with milk and leaves his trash organized. Something about his bearing said military. The investigator paused, gazing at his coffee cup as he rubbed its side with a fingertip. You know how it is. Everyone’s a suspect, guilty of something. Shaking his head, he lightly exhaled. That’s what happens when you’re a cop with no home life. Nothing better to do than watch everyone and analyze them without reason."

Janus shrugged. "In Afghanistan, we watched everyone for a reason. They might kill you."

It’s getting to be like that across this nation. The last president did his best to put a target on every cop’s back. The investigator stared out the windows. Rain still fell in torrents.

"What about the dead woman? The Jane Doe? the deputy asked. He drew his notepad from a shirt pocket and glanced over his scribbles. Any ideas about her killer?"

Most victims are shot or stabbed, but this one... It wasn’t enough to kill her and dump the body. The bastard chopped her up. We’ve got a psycho running loose. If he enjoyed it once, he may want to do it again.

Janus grimaced. Hell of a way to go. Have you ever come across this before?

"Not like this morning. Last