Rajani Chronicles I

by Brian S. Converse

  Rajani Chronicles I

  Stone Soldiers

  Copyright 2017 Brian S. Converse

  Published by Brian S. Converse at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgements

  Cover Art by

  Lawrence Mann

  www.lawrencemann.co/uk

  For LAZDE

  Always

  Thank you to all who contributed in some way to the publication of this book, including

  Kris, AHab, Jeremy, Gabe, Jim (KEP!)

  Katie and Melissa.

  I’m eternally grateful.

  Prologue

  The day was gray as the rain fell softly in downtown Detroit. It was a spring rain, meant to wash away the snow, blackened from passing cars, which still clogged the gutters and sidewalks; yet it only succeeded in giving the day a feeling of melancholy for all those who bore witness to the tragic scene laid out before them.

  Police cars swarmed the front of a large hotel, their lights flashing, reflecting off the slick sides of other vehicles and the occasional rain jacket. Yellow police tape cordoned off an area of pavement and waved gently in the slight southern breeze.

  The buildings were bleak, their architecture practical but brooding in the rain as they loomed over the proceedings below. The weather had darkened the day around the city, and the passing cars had their lights on, though it was midday. Some in the somber crowd held umbrellas, but most stood, the rain plastering hair to their skulls, while they watched events unfurl within the shiny yellow tape. They were used to the warm spring rains in Michigan. They hardly paid it any mind now, as the spectacle captivated them, its realness incapable of being captured by TV news cameras or movies of the week. For them, this was reality TV.

  Workers from the coroner’s office were placing the body of a young woman into a shiny black body bag; her hands were covered in small plastic bags to protect any evidence that could still be trapped under her nails. A crowd of reporters and onlookers were gathered outside the yellow barrier. Inside, a small group of uniformed officers watched the proceedings with quiet solemnity. Both crowds milled around restlessly, aimlessly. There was nothing anyone could have done for the girl; she had fallen too far.

  Police Lieutenant James Dempsey arrived on the scene with his partner, Detective Steve Montgomery. Montgomery was slight and Caucasian, a man who would have looked more at home teaching history to high school kids or selling shoes at the local mall. His most distinctive feature was a thin mustache that sat atop his narrow lips like a lazy caterpillar. Dempsey was his polar opposite, large and dark, with an imposing presence that was more than an act. Their peers liked to tease them about being the odd couple of the police force, but they got along well.

  James and Steve had worked together for eight years, long enough to know each other’s preferences and talents. It was a comfortable partnership and had lasted through the end of Steve’s first marriage and seen his second begin. James had not, however, been best man at Steve’s second wedding; theirs was a working relationship only. James was sociable enough when it was needed, but in his heart, he was still a man content to be alone. Or rather, a man who had been left alone, and had learned to appreciate it, if not embrace it.

  Steve had been driving with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his left hand, and he winced as he took a sip of the lukewarm liquid. They sat in their unmarked police car and watched the water beading on the windshield after the wipers ceased their futile struggle against the relentless rain. Each of them was the epitome of the large-town cop. They wore their badges in more than their wallets. It was in their cheap suits, their set, shaved jaws, and their hard, cynical eyes.

  They’d seen worse than this fallen girl.

  “Another one,” Steve said softly, wincing again as he took another sip of the near-cold coffee. He was five years younger than James, though his brown hair had already started to recede in front, leaving a lonely patch of hair above his forehead.

  “Uh-huh,” James replied. If it turned out like they thought it would, this would make seven women. Girls, really, considering their ages. He wished the rain would stop, though it didn’t look like it would any time soon.

  “Lotta people,” Steve said finally, shutting down the motor of the car.

  “Find out if it was one of ours who leaked this,” James told his partner. “If it was, I want to see them back at the office. We don’t need this shit.”

  Steve called in on the car’s radio. “Twelve Adam One, on scene.” They heard dispatch acknowledge before they got out of the car. Steve placed his cup on the roof of the car as he adjusted the shoulder holster under his drab brown suit jacket, redistributing the weight of his Glock 22.

  They slowly made their way to the crowd of uniforms, stepping under the yellow tape. Steve went to find the pathologist, Cramer. He knew James and the antagonistic doctor didn’t get along well. James tried to avoid talking to the man as much as possible, which was a problem, since he was the head of the Homicide Division, and it was a significant aspect of his job.

  James grabbed the elbow of one of the uniformed policemen and pulled him aside. “Sergeant Kelly, are you the OIC here?”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

  “What’s the story?” James asked.

  “Same MO, sir,” the uniformed officer told him, pulling out a small notebook from his chest pocket. “Our guy picks a girl at random and throws her off a building. No witnesses. Just another dead body on the sidewalk,” he said disgustedly.

  “We won’t know it’s actually him until we get the pathology report,” James told the man. “Don’t go spreading around rumors until we know for sure.” He knew this was probably falling on deaf ears, but he had to say it anyway. He motioned toward the body, and could see the coroner’s people zipping her into the bag. “The victim?” He looked up toward the top of the hotel, not really wanting to know personal details about the girl. This was someone’s daughter. And he would have to tell her parents she was never coming home.

  “Miss Jennifer Durand,” Kelly answered. “College student at Michigan.”

  James stopped the attendant who was rolling the gurney by so he could take a look at the girl. “Hold on,” he said as he pulled on his latex gloves. He unzipped the bag enough to see her face. The girl was young, white, and pretty. There was blood on her cheek, the only visible sign that she had fallen from such a great height. Her eyes were open, and James slowly reached over and closed them gently. They would turn dark soon. With her eyes closed, she almost looked like she was sleeping peacefully.

  “Here with some friends to see a Tiger’s game,” Kelly continued as another uniformed officer walked to where they stood. “Last anyone saw of her was an hour before it happened. She and her friends were staying at the hotel here. They say she planned to go for a swim to cool off.”

  “Looks like she dove a little farther than expected,” the other officer said, smirking.

  James stood next to the gurney, still looking down at the girl. “Keep your comments to yourself, Higgins. I don’t want to hear them.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Higgins replied, remembering too late that he wasn’t talking to one of his peers this time, but to someone who could make his life very difficult for doing or saying something stupid, e
specially if the press heard it.

  James sighed before turning to look at Kelly. “Okay. I want forensics on every building in the vicinity, not only the hotel. I don’t care if they have to get on their bellies and crawl. I want some evidence.” James looked back at the girl. “This has gone on long enough.”

  The girl’s face still looked peaceful, though her eyes had opened once again.

  #

  Dusk engulfed the city, and found James in his apartment making a hamburger and listening to the television while going over his notes from the crime scene. He would have to attend the autopsy in the morning, something he dreaded for a number of reasons, many of them dealing with his relationship with the coroner’s office in general.

  He also didn’t want to see the young white girl sliced open so they could say for certain she had died from a coup or contrecoup contusion to her brain, or before her fall by strangulation or some other form of foul play. As he’d told the officer in charge at the scene, this investigation had gone on long enough, and he was tired of the parade of dead white girls who had recently rolled through the morgue.

  James was dressed in jeans and a number nineteen Red Wings jersey over his white T-shirt. He had never been interested in other sports the way he was hockey, which was shocking to most people he told, even members of his family. He’d also never been one to fit into a particular stereotype. His dad, and later his brother, Darryl, had been All-Americans in college basketball, but James couldn’t make a jump shot to save his life. Maybe it was because he was built more like an NFL linebacker than a basketball player. Yet football had never interested him, and he had no time for baseball games.

  Once a year, James would attend a Tiger’s game with his dad and brother. It was a tradition by now; a way to reconnect to memories from his youth. Watching Sparky step over the first base line on his way to the mound. Seeing Sweet Lou Whitaker to Alan Trammel for a double play to first. The joy on his father’s face when the last out came in ’84 and the players all rushed onto the field, swarming Willie Hernandez and jumping for the sheer joy of being the best.

  He knew from now on, though, he’d also think of a pretty young white girl who never made it to her own game; would never watch baseball again; never sit in the sun on a weekend and drink a beer and eat a hotdog with her friends. He was too tired to feel anything, even though hatred for this killer of young women should have been boiling up inside of him. He was tired of it all.

  His cramped one-bedroom apartment was the usual bachelor pad, though neater than most. It had the basics: a bed, a bathroom, and a kitchen. He also had a computer and a book collection in one corner of the bedroom. Most of the books on his cheap fiberboard bookcase were poetry that he read from time to time when he needed to get over an unusually brutal investigation, such as the one he was involved in at the moment; but some were from various classes he’d taken to help him with his job.

  These books were about managing people, public speaking, and others of the same type, although it had been a while since he’d taken a class. They wouldn’t help to advance his career at this point, anyway. He was not the type of political creature who would try to climb to the upper ranks of the department with guile and charisma. He’d never make captain, and that was fine with him.

  There was a large weight bench in one corner of the small living room, along with a recliner and TV. He still kept himself in great shape, and prided himself on posting better numbers on the annual physical exam given by the department than many of the younger officers. But he could tell he was slowing down as he aged. It wouldn’t be long before he fell behind for good.

  On the end tables near his old, battered chair was a framed picture of him and his wife in better times. She had died two years after they’d been married. It had been almost twenty years now, and he had never remarried; had never even come close. James looked at the picture, at the face still seen in dreams and memories; the smile, the line that she had hated that formed between her eyes, the dimple in her left cheek that only showed when she was happy, as she was when she had posed for the picture; a new bride with her entire life ahead of her.

  There was still a hard kernel of pain whenever he thought of her. He doubted it would ever go away. He didn’t think he wanted it to. He could live with it, only probing it once or twice a year. The pain hadn’t lessened. It was part of who he was now. He couldn’t remember her without also remembering his loss.

  James turned off the stovetop and placed his overdone burger on a bun, hoping it wasn’t as burned as it looked. He had a lot on his mind, and distractions didn’t help his minor cooking skills.

  On the TV, a well-dressed and polished-looking anchor with a fake look of concern on his face was speaking. “...the seventh murder by the so-called ‘Infinity Killer.’ Police still have no leads. Commissioner Johnson is said to be considering pulling the chief investigator, Lieutenant James Dempsey, off the case due to a lack of progress in bringing the killer to justice—”

  James clicked the TV off and stood there a moment with the remote in his hand. It took most of his self-control not to throw it through the now-dark screen. He took a drink from his rapidly warming beer and thought again about retiring. He’d just turned forty-three. Not old, but certainly not a great age to begin a new career. Maybe he could find work in some technical field. He had always been good with computers, and he could type, unlike many of the older members of the force.

  Who am I kidding? he thought, setting his beer and the TV remote down on the counter between the kitchen and the small dining area and walking over to the open window of his apartment. He knew he’d probably be a cop until he either died or got too old to perform the job. After he graduated from high school, he’d served in the Marines, and after that had gone straight into the police force. He’d been there ever since.

  James stepped out onto the fire escape outside his window. He enjoyed sitting out there at night. It helped to clear his head and calm him down. He would read poetry or listen to the sound of traffic and people passing by and watch the sunset—at least when the weather cooperated. The rain had stopped only recently. He could hear the quiet dripping as water worked its way from the roof to the concrete below. It was a peaceful sound, and one that he needed to hear at the moment, as his emotions swirled. He smelled the damp, fresh scent left over after a spring rain in Michigan, mixed with the smells of oil and exhaust from the motorists below, and the various aromas of food from other apartments in his complex. They smelled a lot better than his overdone burger.

  He stood on the fire escape, trying not to think about the word that had been circling in his mind for a few months, but knowing it would finally have to be addressed: burnout. He wasn’t getting anywhere with his investigation of the serial killer who had begun, within the last year, to throw young women from the tops of buildings in Detroit. There were no prints, no witnesses, nothing he could go on, except that all of the girls (with one lone exception) were white, and all of them were in their early to mid-twenties. Since most serial killers went after their own race, James knew that the killer was more than likely a white male in his twenties to early thirties.

  There was no connection between the victims, and none of them had been sexually assaulted or had been able to scrape any DNA from the killer with their fingernails. Either the man was incredibly strong, or he was charming enough to lure the women to the top floor and take them by surprise, sending them over the edge to their deaths before they had a chance to fight back. James sat down on the guardrail of the fire escape, hoping that maybe the girl from that morning would pan out and they would find something beneath her nails. But he doubted it—this killer was too clever for that. He was beginning to feel like it didn’t matter; they would never catch this killer unless the man wanted to be caught.

  Police work could be terribly boring at times. There were the same people committing different crimes, or the same crimes being committed by different people. He became as tired of seeing the same faces pass
through the precinct doors as he was of seeing the same crimes on the arrest logs. Yes, there were the exceptions; cases that caught his attention because of the interesting angle to the crime or the brutality of a murder, but usually, it was the same motives and the same outcomes. Someone thought they would get away with killing someone else, and most of the time, they thought wrong. Occasionally, someone would get away without being caught, and sometimes they were caught but got off on some legal technicality; an improper search, a mishandling of evidence or the evidence chain, a mistake on a search warrant.

  Then there were the cases that were simply maddening, such as the Infinity Killer murders. True serial killers were rare, much rarer than most people believed. Many cops dreamed of making a name for themselves with a case like that, yet what they didn’t foresee was what could happen if the killer was never caught. James had read all of the famous case studies of unsolved serial killings: the Zodiac Killer, the Alphabet Murders, and even the Jack the Ripper case. He hadn’t been prepared for the magnitude of pressure that had come along with the case he found himself embroiled in at the moment.

  The FBI should have been called in already, but someone high up in Detroit politics—whether it was the mayor, police commissioner, or the governor himself, James didn’t know—had decided that the Detroit Police Department could crack the case without the help or interference of the federal government. Seeing as no congressional statutes could be enforced, all the FBI could do was sit back and observe silently, waiting for an invitation to the publicity party. It was all politics, and James hated it. He wanted to be a cop, not a politician. As head of the Homicide Division, though, he knew he had to play the game or he’d be sitting on the bench. Lately, however, he was beginning to think it might not be a bad thing to sit out a few innings.

  He’d promised himself he would try to sleep more than the four hours per night he’d been getting lately; that he wouldn’t stay up late poring over the case files, looking for something he might have missed. But he knew he would go to bed late that evening once again, too tired to think about it anymore. It was the only way he could fall asleep with the events of the days causing him to lie awake, watching helplessly while the red numbers of his digital clock slowly changed.