The Slowest Death

Book 6: Jack Murphy Thriller

by Rick Reed

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

A serial killer targets the cops and judges of a small Midwestern city in this mystery thriller by the acclaimed author and former homicide detective.
 
Detective Jack Murphy can read a crime scene like a book. When the naked, brutalized corpse of a narcotics cop is found, it's not the body that tells him a sick killer is on the loose, but the monkey figurine—of the “see no evil” kind—shoved down the victim's throat. It's not a clue. It's a message.
 
When a high-profile judge is set on fire, another figurine left behind. Murphy has a guess what's next. But even he's in for a grim surprise. Because the torture-killer taking out the defenders of law and order across Evansville, Indiana, isn't the only one with secrets. The victims might have a few, too . . .

Release date: February 6, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 291

Sample

Chapter 1

Moonlight fell through the broken windowpanes of the abandoned house, casting squares of light like oversized picture frames across the trash-strewn floor. Detective Sergeant Franco “Sonny” Caparelli lay on his side, naked and freezing. Pain throbbed behind his eyes and skull from the blow to the back of his head.

He remembered sitting in his truck waiting for the go-between. He was going to buy a couple of bricks of heroin for $100K and keep both money and drugs. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye just as he heard a ratcheting sound and the ASP expandable baton shattered his window. Strong hands reached in, grabbed him and yanked him through the opening. He felt a bone-crunching blow land at the back of his neck followed by a loud, insistent ringing in his ears. He woke up bound hand and foot.

Something warm ran down the side of his face and felt sticky under his cheek. Footsteps approached and stopped. In the darkness, he could make out the shape of legs, a shadow, someone standing over him. The shadow moved, a knee pushed down on his bare back, gloved hands gripped the bindings on his wrists. He could hear and feel nylon flexi-cuffs tightening, cruelly cutting into his flesh.

“Hey, you don’t have to do this, man. If you want money, I got money. Thousands. It’s in my truck. Under the seat. Take it,” Sonny said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Hands gripped his feet and ratcheted down those flexi-cuffs until they ground his ankles painfully against each other.

“I’m not lying. Whoever’s paying you to do this, it ain’t enough. I’m a cop. I promise you this is a bad move. Take the money and go.”

Sonny felt something, a cable or a heavy cord, slip over his head and draw snug around his neck.

“Did you hear me, asshole? I’m a cop. You do this and there’s no going back. There’ll be no place to hide.”

His captor finally spoke. “I’m not hiding. On the contrary. It was you and your conspirators who went into hiding,” the man said.

Sonny felt his legs being pulled up, bending his knees, and some of the cable around his throat being slipped between the bonds at his ankles. The man wrapped the end of the cable around a short piece of wood, creating a makeshift handle. Sonny said, “This ain’t funny. Don’t do this, buddy.”

The cable tightened and Sonny’s neck jerked back toward his feet. The earlier pain in his head was replaced by choking, gagging, arching his spine to the breaking point. Pinpoints of light drifted across his vision. The cable eased. Sonny gagged until it brought on a series of coughing fits. He got it under control, squinted to clear his vision and spat on the floor. The man stood with his back to the windows, a shadow in deeper shadows. The general outline was that of a tall man, maybe six foot plus. The build and age were indiscernible. The most telling thing was the fact the man was making no attempt to hide his face.

Sonny clamped his eyes shut, not wanting to see a face. Knowing that would spell the end. When he did so, it caused a new explosion of pain behind his eyes. He held his breath, willing himself not to black out. He had to keep talking. The pain eased just enough for him to say, “I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know who you are.” Saying even this much brought on another coughing fit. He tried again. “I don’t want to know who you are. I don’t even want to know why you’re doing this. For all I know you grabbed the wrong guy. It’s not too late to stop. You can just walk away.”
“And you won’t come for me?” The voice sounded sincere. “You’ll forget this ever happened?”

For the first time since he awakened in this nightmare, he felt a flash of hope. He didn’t want to get caught in a lie and blow any chance he had at being released. “Well, you know it’s a serious thing to assault a cop, but if it was a mistake I’m willing to let it ride. You didn’t really hurt me too bad. What do you say? Let me go. You can still have the money.”

In answer, a boot came down on the side of Sonny’s face, the sole grinding his cheek into the floor like someone was putting out a cigarette. Sonny could feel his skin twisting and tearing on both sides of his face. He could taste the boot sole crushing down across his mouth.

The man stopped and said, “Be still. Shut your lying mouth.”

Sonny saw only the lower part of the legs. Sharply creased pants were bloused into the tops of tightly laced military-style boots. The only people Sonny knew that dressed militarily were a group of neo-Nazi survivalists he’d busted a couple years ago. He’d taken their money, their drugs, guns, manifesto. He’d kept some of the Nazi memorabilia, money and guns. The skinheads had all gone to prison, and the kids living in the compound were placed in foster homes. He hoped this asshole wasn’t one of the men he’d arrested. His best chance of getting out of this was to keep his mouth shut and listen for a clue. When he got out of here he was going to hunt down this piece of shit and flush him. His head felt like a balloon that was ready to burst. He licked at his lips but his mouth was dry and his tongue made a clicking sound.

“Tastes like dirty socks, doesn’t it? It should. I used your socks to gag you. If you so much as blink again…” The cable tightened until the blackness swam behind Sonny’s eyes again before loosening.

“If you do something I don’t like, that is what will happen. The Japanese call this Kinbaku. Can you say Kin-bah-ku? Well, it doesn’t matter if you can pronounce it or not. Literally translated it means ‘tight binding.’ During the Edo period, this form of bondage was used to show superiority.”

“You’re crazy,” Sonny said just before the headlights from a vehicle flashed through the broken windowpanes. The room was bathed in a temporary bright light. Sonny screamed for help but the words came out hoarse, weak, defeated. When the lights diminished and the vehicle had moved on Sonny stiffened, preparing for the punishment he knew would follow.

Instead of the promised punishment, the man said, “I’ll give you that one. We’re humans after all, and it’s human nature to want to live, isn’t it?”

Sonny asked, “Why me? I’ve never done anything to you. And even if I did I can fix whatever it is. Make it right. Just let me make it right. I’ll do anything.”

The man took something from his pocket, squatted and leaned close to Sonny’s face, holding the object in front of Sonny’s eyes. The object was a carved figure of a monkey; an inch tall, sitting Indian-style, hands over its eyes.

“Mizaru, this is Sonny. Sonny, meet Mizaru,” the man said.

“What?” Sonny asked.

“Who. Not what,” the man corrected. “From the proverb of The Mystic Apes? Nod if you’ve heard of them.”

Sonny just stared at the object.

“No? Well, I’ll enlighten you. There are four legendary Japanese monkeys known as The Mystic Apes. Mizaru sees no evil, Kikazaru hears no evil, and Iwazaru speaks no evil. The fourth monkey, Shizaru, does no evil. In the Koshin belief, The Mystic Apes teach a desired code of conduct.”

Sonny said nothing.

“I can see I’ll have to explain further,” the man said, as if talking to a child. “Sonny, the Koshin religion teaches that good behavior brings good health. Bad behavior brings bad health. The four monkeys label the behaviors you should avoid. If you engage in any of these unsavory behaviors, you will answer to Ten-Tei, what some believe is the fifth monkey, the most powerful of all Koshin deities. Ten-Tei has come to punish you for your crime in Boston.”

Sonny said, “What crime? I’ve never been to Boston, and I’ve never even heard of this crap you’re talking.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Five years, seven months and eleven days ago. I know you remember, because I will never forget what was done to her. The sheer hell she went through.” The man squatted. “Tell me something, Sonny. Did she beg? The autopsy report said she wasn’t dead when she was set on fire. Did you do that? Or was it your partner?”

“It wasn’t me,” Sonny said. “I didn’t do anything to anyone. I swear.”

“The time for swearing has come and gone, Sonny. Tell me the whole truth, and I’ll spare you some pain.”

“I told you the truth. It wasn’t me.”

“I know the names of everyone involved in her murder and rape. Tell me, did she struggle? Of course she did. Bits of nylon were melted into her wrists and ankles. Nylon. Like the flexi-cuffs I put on you. They’re so easy to use and hard to escape from. You can barely move. I can do anything I like with you. How does that feel? If I rape you, there is nothing you can do to stop me.” He flicked a folding knife open and drew the razor-sharp blade down the side of Sonny’s face. “Do you have empathy for her now? Do you want to confess your sins?”

Warm blood ran into Sonny’s mouth and eyes. The realization that he’d never leave here alive hit him like a fist and at the same time sucked the air from his lungs. His chest hitched in short spasms as tears ran down his face.

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me,” Sonny said pitifully.

“Are those tears of remorse? Self-pity? Relief? A real man would have trouble living with what you and your friends did. A compassionate man would have nightmares. I’m not afraid to admit that I’ve had quite a few nightmares over what I’ve had to do to even things. But I doubt you have even had bad dreams.”

The knife folded shut and he laid it down in front of Sonny’s face. He reached into a cargo pocket and pulled out a pair of thin black leather gloves, slipping them on over the latex ones. He took a black brass knuckles—but not exactly brass knuckles—from another pocket and slipped his fingers through the holes, making a fist, gripping them tightly, so tightly the gloves made a creaking noise in the quiet.

Sonny’s eyes widened in recognition of the combination brass knuckles and Taser. He’d used a pair similar to these a few times when he was dealing with some scum-bucket, making them talk. He hadn’t used anything like it since moving to Evansville. They were made of molded black polymer, with finger holes and four small metal spikes on the top. Now here they were, being held in his face. He could see the man’s thumb on the rocker switch. He watched the knucks/Taser come alive, electricity arcing and crackling along the top spikes.

“I found these on Amazon,” the man said conversationally and drove the spikes into the soft tissue of Sonny’s face, driving the tips deep into the flesh, delivering nine hundred fifty thousand volts of electricity into Sonny’s head.

“Did you really think you could hide from me?” The knucks slammed against the side of Sonny’s neck and fired again. Sonny’s muscles locked in a spasm and a stuttering sound escaped his throat. The fist came down again and again, ripping flesh, scraping bone, infusing each contact with burning electricity.

The man sat back on his heels breathing hard, plumes of breath rising. He placed the Taser/knucks on the floor beside the folding knife. “I don’t think you can take much more of this, do you? Bleed if the answer is no.”

Sonny lay there unmoving, bleeding.

“I know you didn’t land the job here with the feds because of your personality, Sonny. Big Bobby Touhey pulled in a favor for you. Do you know the saying, ‘Keep your friends close?’ Well, for Big Bobby to send you all the way here, you must be on his shit list.”

Sonny’s eyes traveled from the weapons to the man’s face. It was obvious he recognized the name of Big Bobby Touhey.

“Sam Knight doesn’t have that kind of pull. And your partner, Vincent Sullis—what a piece of work that guy is—resigned from Boston PD and went to law school after what happened. Graduated bottom of his class. Touhey got all of you these jobs, didn’t he?”

Sonny tried to squint the blood out of his eyes.

Strong fingers grabbed Sonny’s face and pulled it up, straining his neck to the breaking point. The man said, “I’m talking to you. You’re being impolite. And you’re still working for Touhey? That’s how you got this cushy job? That’s how you’re able to live so extravagantly in that fancy house by the river?”

Sonny still didn’t speak.

“Maybe your girlfriend will be more talkative?”

Sonny broke his silence. “They’re gonna kill you, asshole. You don’t mess with Big Bobby. No matter what you do to me, they’ll do worse to you. I’m not afraid of you. I spit on your grave.” Sonny tried to spit blood but was unable.

The man laughed. “You think so? Well, you may be right. They might get very lucky. But after you, I’ll be two for two and they still have no idea who I am.”

Sonny looked the man in the eyes. “It was you. You’re the one that…”

“Big Bobby’s kid was the hardest. Big Bobby—Little Bobby. I swear. Where do they get these names? I could have killed his bodyguards, too, but I knew Big Bobby would do it for me. And he did. You were at the funeral, but the bodyguards were absent. The funeral was beautiful. I saw you and your partner standing close to Big Bobby. That makes you a suck-up, by the way. Yeah. Big Catholic doings. I’m surprised the church would let a person like Little Bobby be buried in sacred ground, but money talks. Am I right? I was counting on every one of you assholes to show up to confirm what I already knew.”

Sonny stared at him. “Big Bobby will never rest until he finds you and guts you like you did to his kid.”

“I didn’t just gut the little bastard. I staked his nuts to the ground. Oh, and he got the first one of the carvings. Shizaru. Do No Evil. But don’t worry. I won’t give yours to someone else.” He set the carved figurine next to the knife and knucks.

Sonny said, “Big Bobby will never stop searching for you. He’s killing his own guys to find you. He’ll do worse to you than you did to his kid, asshole.”

“You’re repeating yourself. That’s the sign of a weak mind.”

“Screw you,” Sonny said.

“It’s embarrassing how easy it was to get you. Are you embarrassed? Well, you should be. I can’t believe you didn’t check me out when I asked for a meet. Greed will get you every time. Hey, you’re not alone in stupidity and greed. Little Bobby got careless. He had a thing for young Vietnamese girls. Did you know that? No? Well, he agreed to meet me alone. Just like you. And because of him I know everything. I know where Knight is and your partner. Sully’s here, by the way. At your house with your girlfriend. Mindy, right?”

Sonny said, “Keep Mindy out of this. She had nothing to do with Big Bobby. You…”

In one swift motion the man slid the knucks back on and slammed them down repeatedly into Sonny’s chest and face, burning and ripping flesh.

When the beating stopped, Sonny lay motionless until the man slapped his face and the top of his head until he drew in a sharp breath. The folding knife clicked open. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.” The tip of the blade dug into Sonny’s scalp and dragged downward, cutting soft tissue and cartilage and exiting through the bottom of the jaw. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.

“G-g-g-god!” Sonny said in a voice garbled by the blood clogging his throat. He made mewling sounds, too exhausted to shiver or cry out.

“God can’t help you, Sonny. I could end this, but I’ve waited a very long time.”

The noose was lifted from around Sonny’s neck and tossed aside. Sonny was lifted into a sitting position, dragged across the floor and propped against a wall. Heavy steel eyebolts were screwed into the wall studs. Lengths of thin steel cable were attached to each eyebolt at one end, and to a three-inch meat hook at the other.

Strong arms encircled Sonny’s chest and lifted him to his feet as if embracing a partner for a slow dance and then shoved him against the wall, impaling him on two of the hooks, his still-bound feet dangling just inches above the floor. The knife slashed through the restraints. His arms hung helplessly, fingers twitching. Sonny’s eyes rolled back in his head. He let out his breath and his head lolled forward, chin touching his chest.

“No, not yet,” the man said, and felt Sonny’s neck. “Good. You’re stronger than I thought. I don’t guess we’re friends anymore. Not after this. But I have one more thing to give you before we part company.”

He grabbed Sonny’s hair and yanked his face up. With the other hand, he pried Sonny’s jaws apart and shoved the carving deep into his throat. The only resistance Sonny offered was reflexive gagging, and his head fell forward again.

The man rummaged in a canvas bag that had been stored in the dark room. He brought out a rubber mallet. He brought out two nine-inch railroad spikes. “I hope you feel everything I’m going to do. It won’t bring her back, but it will give us some closure.”

Chapter 2

“I don’t like it here, Zack,” Dayton said. Dayton Bolin had turned fifteen last week. According to her mother, the official age to have a boyfriend was seventeen. If it were up to her dad she would be locked in a closet until she was old. Like twenty or something. If her parents knew she had dated Zack for over a year now, she would probably be sent to a nunnery. She didn’t know why her parents didn’t like Zack—whom they had met only once for five minutes—but they had taken a disliking to him immediately and forbade her to even mention his name.

Dayton stood on the edge of the frozen sidewalk, cold seeping through the soles of her stylish cowboy boots, icy fingers twining up her calves. She had to admit that Zack had his faults. And he was dirt-poor. In reality, he was poorer than dirt. But he loved her. And she loved him. He thought she was too thin, but he told her that she had a great body. He always said her skin was smooth as silk. He loved her thick red hair, even though her mother was always fussing at her to get it styled. He said she was gorgeous and called her Dy after Princess Diana of the royal family. Princess Diana’s hair was blond most of the time but, for a short while, Diana had worn it the same color of copper red and the same style as Dayton.

Of course, right now you wouldn’t see any of the things Zack saw in her because she had bundled up in multiple layers of clothing and jackets early this morning before sneaking out of the back door to meet Zack. Her face was entirely hidden behind a wool scarf and a knit hat pulled down over the copper-colored hair. A quilted jacket that belonged to her mother and came down almost to her ankles covered most of her body. The only thing that she had neglected was sensible shoes.

Zackariah Pugh was wearing a pair of scuffed combat boots he’d gotten at Army Surplus, with two pairs of wool socks. He had on two pairs of old jeans with the knees torn out of both, and she suspected they were the only jeans he owned. He had on several T-shirts covered by a flimsy jean jacket that was missing the metal buttons. It was the only coat she had ever seen him wear.

He was a year older than her, having been held back a year in grade school. He said it was because his parents had divorced and he moved around a lot with his dad. She thought his parents had just forgotten to register him for school. They were drunk or high most of the time according to Zack, and he had to hide from them for weeks at a time to avoid being made to steal cigarettes or food.

Zack faced her, his hands in his pockets, that disarming grin on his face, teeth chattering just like hers, but she knew he was trying to pretend they weren’t in a bad situation. He was being what he called “a man” and protecting her the only way he knew. She knew him well enough to see behind the smile and the bravado. She could see that he was feeling wretched. Their big plans had turned into this frozen nightmare. She told herself that she would suck it up, for him, because running away to be together was what they both wanted. Her mind and heart were telling her to go home, crawl back under the warm covers, wake up to a big breakfast, and go back to school after the Christmas break. But she wouldn’t. She would do whatever Zack decided. That’s what you do for the person you love.

He smiled at her and the sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of gold and red. Zack said theatrically, “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

She pulled her scarf down with a gloved hand. She wanted him to see her smile. They had taken drama class together. She was Juliet in a play. Somehow Zack had landed the part of Romeo. Not that he wasn’t a good actor, but she heard he’d punched out Todd Black and threatened anyone else who tried out for the part.

He smiled back at her and said, “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief…” as Zack said this, he made a theatrical bow and finished the line “…that thou, her maid, are far more fair than she.”

Tears ran down Dayton’s cheeks. “I love you, Zack.”

He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her tightly against him.

“I love you too, Lady Dy. You don’t have to go. I’ll take you home.” He said this knowing she would never let him go alone. It was all they’d talked about since her dad had forced her to quit the Drama Club because of Zack. She could change her mind, but he could never go home. Not after last night. Not after he’d taken all of his dad’s hidden money. It didn’t amount to even fifty dollars, but that was an alcoholic’s fortune to his old man.

Dayton lifted her face. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to do this, silly. I just said I didn’t like it here in this…neighborhood. This is a really bad part of town, baby.”

Zack turned away and she realized he wasn’t seeing what she saw. This neighborhood wasn’t any different from where he lived. Same run-down houses. Same dirty yards and streets, same smell of sewers and open dumpsters. She had never been inside his house. He’d made sure of that. She knew it was because he didn’t want her to see how he lived, and he’d told her that his dad would paw at her.

“We’ll take a rest and split a Coke,” Zack said. “Just a few minutes, though. We’ve got to get to the highway.”

He motioned toward her Western boots. “You should have worn the Army boots I picked up for you.”

She didn’t tell him that she had a good idea that Zack had “picked them up” but had failed to pay for them. She didn’t want to wear anything that was stolen. But right now, she’d steal them herself.

He pointed toward a house all by itself, windows busted out of the panes, front door standing wide open. “I see a place we can get out of the cold.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the house.

Chapter 3

Detective Jack Murphy stomped down the ice-crusted snow just inside the crime scene tape to keep it out of the tops of his dress loafers. He was a little under six feet tall, solidly built, with thick, dark hair worn short on the sides and back, pushed up a little in front. His hair showed some gray that his ex-wife Katie said made him distinguished. His eyes were a soft gray that could turn dark and threatening, like a storm you didn’t hear coming.

Those eyes didn’t miss much, and they were now assessing the neighborhood surrounding the house where the body was found. The streets and yards were empty during the daytime. The “night people”—a term used by local law enforcement—would gather in great numbers after sundown during the summer months. Mobs of one or two hundred or more would fill the streets and yards, playing loud music, shooting craps, drinking, fighting, snorting, more fighting, only temporarily interrupted by shootings and visits from police. When the sun came up, they would skitter off to wherever such people slept, patch up their wounds, restock their drug of choice, and do it all over again when the sun went down. But in this kind of cold they mostly stayed inside.

Seeing the streets empty gave Jack an eerie feeling. Police activity was like a magnet that woke up some innate need to watch “someone else” victimized. Maybe it was a way of affirming that all was right with their world. It was that deep-seated psychological need—that moral panic—that the news media preyed on. But the subzero temps had driven everyone inside—even the news crews—and only the hardcore and disenfranchised remained outside, taking shelter where they could find a warm hole, living inside Dumpsters using cardboard and plastic trash bags for blankets. Katie accused him of being too negative. She said he should be more positive. He was positive he was right to be negative.

At one time, this downtrodden community was six square blocks of homes with normal families raising kids, watering their lawns and washing cars while spraying giggling kids accidentally on purpose. Smack in the center of the blocks was a park filled with swings, tables, benches, flowering trees, and a painted, red-roofed gazebo that doubled for a bandstand in the summer.

The decision was made by the city to use the park grounds to build brightly painted row houses with small fenced yards barely big enough to plant small gardens or flowers. It was meant to benefit the elderly poor and down-on-their-luck poor who couldn’t afford a house. Within a year, the row houses had turned into a stain on the landscape. The grass—if there was any—was littered with broken glass, cigarette butts, trash, condoms, syringes, rocks, bricks, sticks and other detritus making a scab on an ugly wound. Not knowing what to do, the city built two-story brick apartment buildings around the row houses for the overflow of poor families. This necessitated demolishing several blocks of existing homes, and financial support in relocating those families, many of whom found homes and jobs in other cities or states. Happy Valley had turned into Crack Alley.

Jack’s father had walked this beat as a patrolman. Jack had walked patrol here when he was a rookie. The older folks tended to be honest, kind, polite, and worthy of respect. He’d sit with them on their steps, shooting the breeze, listening to their stories about the past, and listening to their complaints about the new generation.

Over the years, the old folks became afraid to sit outside, much less be seen talking to a policeman. Jack couldn’t blame them. The kids here, some as young as eight or ten, were carrying guns and mimicking violent gangsta’ rap songs. Last week, someone shot through a window and hit a sleeping seven-year-old girl in the head. A few months ago, a baby was hit with a stray bullet and no one saw or heard anything. The young people’s ambitions leaned toward becoming sports MVPs, or rappers, or drug dealers, and driving Cadillac Escalades and owning pit bulls. That was what passed for respect now. Middle-class values were being eaten up. This community had a cancer and no one cared.

The city’s solution to the violence and decay was to raze the abandoned homes surrounding the row houses and apartment buildings with the promise of building Habitat homes. When the federal funding stopped, so too did the construction. Now the snow-covered, frozen, uneven land seemed empty and tired. Two or three houses remained, standing out like broken teeth in an empty mouth. An even larger portion of the community was riddled with the decay of poverty, unemployment, drugs, gangs and crime. The community here was dying slowly from loss of hope and lack of f. . .