Hollywood Blood: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  We found Trevon Jackson, the rapper’s real name, in the sprawling master suite in his bed. He was naked and it looked like his clothes had been cut off. His arms and legs were tied to the bed posts with leather straps. There was blood everywhere.

  I examined the body, seeing there were numerous cuts on the victim’s arms, legs, and pubic region, including one that had severed his penis. The detached organ had been either tossed or fallen onto the floor. Several stab wounds had punctured the victim’s chest and stomach, the most prominent being a wound in his lower chest where a large carving knife remained embedded.

  I took a moment and counted six separate entry wounds, but knew there were probably more. I then focused on the blood spray covering the wall and ceiling behind the victim. There was writing on the wall. Something, probably an artist’s paintbrush, had been used to write the words in the victim’s blood.

  “My soul is burning,” I said, reading the words out loud.

  Charlie pointed out the tarot card on the floor below the blood and writing. “Same as the one you found in the street outside your mom’s house. No writing on the card, just the wall.”

  Charlie and I met up with Pearl back in the living room as the SID technicians arrived and set up. I waved at Bob Woodley and saw that he was again with his youthful assistant who wore her standard black outfit.

  “Maybe one of us should notify Karma before the press gets on this,” Pearl suggested. “We’re going to need her alibi and statement, anyway.”

  “If Skully allows it,” I said.

  As if on cue, the police captain came rushing through the door. He didn’t acknowledge any of us, but headed straight upstairs to the crime scene. Ten minutes later, he joined us in the living room.

  “So, this looks like it’s somehow tied to the Nordquist killing,” Skully said.

  “You oughta be a detective or a psychic, instead of an idiot.” Okay, I just thought it, didn’t say it.

  “Anyone have any ideas about the messages the killer is leaving?” Skully asked, looking from Pearl to Charlie, and then finally, probably reluctantly, to me.

  “It could be lyrics,” I suggested, remembering what I’d contemplated as I drove to the crime scene.

  “What?”

  “Lines from a song. Maybe something Love Dawg or Karma wrote.”

  “Could we be more professional about this, Detective?” Skully asked. “Call the victim by his given name, Trevon Jackson.”

  “Sure and I’ll call you, Elmer.” I’d said the word sure, but bit my tongue before going on.

  “Anybody ask Karma about this lyric angle yesterday, based on what was written on the other card?” Skully asked.

  “Nordquist was seen as the intended victim, yesterday,” I said. “We had a different focus.” Thanks to you, asshole.

  “Then you fucked up,” he said. His steely eyes then swung over to Charlie and Pearl. “You all fucked up. You should have contacted Jackson yesterday and interviewed him. If we’d done some basic police work, maybe none of this would have happened.”

  “Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” I said. “Yesterday it took a lot of convincing for you to let the uniforms come by the estate and try to talk to him.”

  A skinny, yellow-nailed finger came up and wagged at me. “Watch what you’re saying. We already have a leak to the press. I don’t think you want to add insubordination to your indiscretions.”

  I felt my blood pressure rising; no, boiling. “Are you saying that I had something to do with talking to the press?”

  Skully pursed his thin lips together, opened them. “Time will tell, won’t it?” He turned to Charlie and Pearl. “You two can do the notifications and talk to the girlfriend.” His gray eyes swiveled back in my direction. He gave me a yellow smile. “You have exactly two hours before Detective Sexton makes a statement to the press.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  Skully motioned to the window. I saw there were several cars on the street now, including some press vans. “The commander of media relations is on vacation. I’ve been authorized to talk to the press, but I’m delegating that duty to you since somebody’s already tipped the press off…somebody who likes to talk…somebody who can’t keep secrets. Since you like to talk, I’m going to let you make a statement to the press, but…”

  “I won’t…”

  “You will,” he said, cutting me off. “And that’s a direct order. However, you will not give any details about this case, that includes telling the press about tarot cards, song lyrics, writing in blood, masked assailants, and the fact that someone cut off the vic’s dick.”

  At that point, I stomped into the kitchen, opened a drawer, got out a carving knife, and chased Skully around the room until he screamed and ended up with the anatomy of a girl.

  Okay, so my fantasy life was starting to get the best of me. It was either that or me saying something that would get me suspended like, “You’re out of your mind, motherfucker.”

  While I waited for Charlie and Pearl to make their notifications, I tried to stay away from Skully. I spent the time with Bob Woodley and his assistant.

  While on my way up the staircase, I used my iPhone to Google the words the killer had left at both crime scenes, but came up with nothing worthwhile. It crossed my mind that maybe the lines were from a poem or maybe something out of a novel.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything in the way of prints.” I said to Woodley when I got back into the bedroom.

  “The scene is pretty clean, but we’re still dusting. They no doubt had gloves, but there are some footprints in the blood and, of course, we’ll look for any trace and DNA evidence. There could also be hair samples.”

  “They cut it off after he was dead,” Chandra Martin said. She stood over the body, shooting pictures.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “His dick.” She stopped shooting for a moment and met my eyes. “As we all know, that area is very vascular.” She chuckled. “Based on the lack of blood in that region, it looks like they castrated him postmortem. I’m sure the coroner will confirm it when he gets here.” She went back to work, shooting pictures. “First thing I wondered about.”

  “Thanks for that,” I said turning to Woodley, my brows knitting together.

  Woodley finally spoke up. “Chandra, please stick to the processing. I’ll go over any issues with the detective.”

  “Sorry,” she managed.

  Woodley left the room for a minute. I noticed that Chandra Martin had on a short sleeved black blouse. Tattoos covered both her arms. I walked over, studying them for a moment. Several of the designs appeared to be symbols of death; the grim reaper, crosses, and something that looked like a memorial.

  “My brother died,” she said, looking up from her camera, apparently noticing my interest. “Most of them are for him.”

  I met her dark eyes. “How did he die?”

  “He was in a gang in Boston. Hyde Park Locals. Crossed the wrong guy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all water.”

  I didn’t understand what she meant. “I’m sorry?”

  “Under the bridge. It’s all water. Life goes on.”

  Woodley returned to the room with the coroner, Chuck Samuels, who’d just arrived. As Samuels set up, Woodley used a Luma Light to examine an area where several small markers had been placed in the blood spray.

  I walked over, but kept my distance as he worked. I turned back to Chandra, thinking she’d said something. Then I realized she was humming a tune. It was something about burning or yearning.

  I stopped and moved back toward the young woman. I listened for a moment. “My soul is burning,” I heard her say. I realized that Chandra Martin was singing the words that the killer had left at the crime scene.

  “Chandra, that song you’re humming,” I said, “where did you hear it?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, like you don’t know.”

  “Chandra, this is important. I don�
�t know. Tell me about the song.”

  She put down her camera and walked over to me. “Love Me or Kill Me.”

  “What?”

  “Never leave me, always believe in me.” She must have realized then. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  She motioned to the words, written in blood. “It’s the second line in the song from Fleshded, on their latest album. It was just released.”

  I finally understood. “A band? Are they singing to someone about death?”

  Her murky eyes came back to me. She smiled. “Of course. Billie Bathgate’s the singer. She’s singing to her lover—the prince of darkness. She’s singing to Satan.”

  Chapter Ten

  Myra watches the park from the street, scanning the faces. Like a bird of prey, she’s on the hunt. In her mind, she soars through the sky, her arms and legs extending, flexing, surging with the power that flows through her body. Her luminescent eyes take in everything. She is the predator, hungry, dangerous, and determined.

  There will be no rest until Chloe is found and murdered. She had trusted the young woman, taken her under her wing, and mentored her. That trust has been shattered. The ultimate price must now be paid.

  Rose and Henna are at her side, waiting for instructions. She turns to the young women and delivers the death sentence. “Fan out and move along the edges of the park. If you see her, report back to me. Remember, she knows about the portal, Azazel, and the others. She must die.”

  The park is one of Myra’s favorite places. She and her sisters have spent hours together here panhandling and scoring drugs. They’ve made connections, gone to parties, sometimes spending the night with those who offer to share their homes.

  Of course, nothing is free. Sex is often exchanged for these favors. Sex for food. Sex for drink. Sex for drugs. Sex for shelter. It’s the currency of staying alive. Myra also knows that sex is the currency of power and control.

  The portal is on her mind, the entrance to the Forbidden World. It’s their secret domain, the place where she meets with her beloved, Azazel. Chloe knows about the portal. It must be closed down before she can tell anyone about it.

  Even as Myra knows this she feels her mind drifting away, finding the solitude and love of the one who waits for her. The past again comes out of the shadows of the present, surfacing and bringing with it the long ago memories.

  ***

  She sees the girl again, the one named, Lenore. It was many years ago when she began to find her power again, but before that there were the long, empty days in the hospital with the psychiatrist and the drugs.

  Lenore is in the shrink’s office, watching his angry, solemn face staring down at her in disapproval. Her mind is there, but something has changed. It’s her body. It is somehow detached from her. The drugs have made it so that she can barely move. She can’t even feel her body. It is as though she is looking down from somewhere above, seeing her body, but it’s separate from her.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Dr. Thurston says. “I will call you Myra, but first you must tell me about your crime. Tell me about your mother.”

  Myra starts to speak, but her tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth. She has trouble swallowing.

  The doctor slides a glass of water across the table. Myra’s hand moves forward, takes hold of the glass, and brings it to her mouth. Half the water spills, running down her blue cotton dress. She looks down and sees that the water has caused her dress to cling to her body and the breasts which seem strangely separate from her.

  “I’m waiting, Lenore.”

  Myra sees that his eyes are on her breasts. She moves a hand up, touching the dress where it’s damp, but feels nothing.

  “She knew,” she finally manages to say, “about what I did.” Even as she says this, Myra feels the regret. Why is she telling him? It must be the drugs, making her lose control.

  “Your mother?” the doctor says. “She knew about what? What did you tell her?”

  She feels her body shaking, but it’s another body—a separate body. It is not her. Lenore wills herself into silence as she pushes the past into the dark regions of her mind.

  “You need to talk to me, Lenore. If you ever want to leave this hospital, you have to talk to me. I’m the one who holds the power. Talk to me and someday you may find yourself free to leave.”

  Myra looks at him. A smile slips across her face, before her dark eyes shift, her gaze drifting away.

  Dr. Thurston comes around his desk. She feels his hands on her shoulders again, watches as they move down to her breasts.

  “Maybe it’s just a matter of trust,” the doctor says. “Once you learn to trust me, you will open up and begin to heal.”

  Myra’s mind slips farther away. There’s a body somewhere far below where she sees the man, the psychiatrist who lifts up her dress, pushes her across the desk, and spreads her legs apart, saying, “It’s all about trust. This is so that you will learn what it means to trust.”

  Far away now, floating up, drifting through the clouds, Myra is gone. She feels nothing as the psychiatrist enters the body below, moving, thrusting, violating something that she once was.

  When it is finished, Myra sees the girl being led away, back to her room. The image is fleeting, ephemeral, like a distant memory. She knows that soon Azazel will visit the girl she once was. When that happens, vengeance will arise and death will come again.

  ***

  “We can’t find Chloe anywhere,” Rose says, trying to catch her breath.

  “She’s probably hiding out,” Henna adds. “Afraid of her own shadow.”

  Myra feels herself being pulled back into the present by the words of her sisters. She again sees the park where they’ve searched for Chloe. The fragile, broken girl she once was is pushed back into the shadows of the past. She checks her watch, controlling her anger, and realizing that she has other duties awaiting her.

  “Stay here and keep your eyes open,” Myra says. “If you see her call me, but don’t approach her. Chloe belongs to me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I can’t go into specifics at this time,” I said, standing at the gate in front of Love Dawg’s estate before dozens of reporters, “but I have the sad duty to report that Trevon Jackson, an entertainer, was found dead in his residence early this morning. Mr. Jackson’s body was found by a housekeeper who called the police. We are treating his death as a homicide and we are in the very early stages of processing the crime scene. We will provide additional details as they become available.”

  I turned away and was about to head for my car, when Haley Tristan shouted above the other reporters and stuck a microphone in my face. She was with her ever-present aide, Cher, who looked she belonged on the cover of a slutty magazine.

  “Detective Sexton, can you tell us how Mr. Jackson was killed? Was this a shooting, similar to the murder of Karma’s agent, Harriett Nordquist?”

  I turned back to her. “I’m not at liberty to discuss any details at this time.”

  Tristan was not deterred. “Why wasn’t your department more proactive in protecting Mr. Jackson when his fiancé was the possible target of yesterday’s shooting? Why wasn’t there a police presence at his estate?”

  “Once again, I am not going into details.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Skully standing next to me as I continued, “other than to say that we will continue to process information from both crime scenes until we bring the perpetrator of these crimes to justice.”

  “But why can’t you tell us more?” Tristan went on. The other reporters started shouting at me, the tension growing. “Are the citizens of Hollywood safe? What about the tarot card found at the first crime scene? Is there a serial killer on the loose who could strike again tonight? People have a right to know.”

  I tried one final tactic. “The police will continue to serve and protect the public, just as we have always done. There is no need for anyone to panic. We have no reason to believe there will be anot
her killing.”

  I turned and started to walk away, taking Bernie from one of the uniforms. My anger was barely under control. I almost bumped into Skully, who still had the world’s biggest shit-eating grin. The captain had let me take the heat for his botched investigation and we both knew it.

  After leaving Jackson’s estate, I did some deep breathing to calm myself and decided to stop by Mom’s house on the way to meet with Charlie and Pearl. As I pulled to the curb, I was thankful that the press was no longer camped out, but knew they’d moved on to the site of the most recent killing.

  I took a moment to call Charlie and fill him in on what Chandra Martin had told me while Bernie sniffed the flowers on the sidewalk. “The writing at both crime scenes are lyrics from a song called, ‘Love Me or Kill Me,’ from a heavy metal group called, Fleshded.”

  “Never heard of them,” Charlie said.

  “Me neither. But according to what Chandra told me, the lead singer is female and she’s singing to her lover—Satan.”

  “Nothing like a good love song.” Charlie was quiet for a moment. I wasn’t sure if he was eating something or processing what I’d said.

  “How did Karma take the news about her fiancé’s murder?” I asked.

  “She was at a recording session, so I had to call her. When I broke the news, she went into hysterics and the line went dead. She’s supposed to be back here within the hour.”

  I told Charlie I would meet him and Pearl at Karma’s estate and ended the call.

  Bernie and I found Robin in Mom’s living room. My brother’s usually carefully styled hair was uncombed. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night. I didn’t see my mother until Robin pointed her out.

  “She’s been in her spirit room all morning. I think she’s in some kind of trance.”

  I gave Bernie the settle command and left him as Robin and I moved into the psychic parlor. I saw that Mom wore the same headdress she had on yesterday. She didn’t seem to notice that we were there.

  “Mom, it’s me, Kate. Are you okay?”

  Her gray eyes moved in my direction, but registered nothing. I looked at Robin.