Anderson Williams is a Literature Professor at NYU and he has the perfect life—loving and understanding father, wonderful friends, great students. Then suddenly all that is turned upside-down when his father gets murdered and a sexy but annoying cop, Sam Morgan, waltzes into his life.
Sam Morgan is after a murderer, plain and simple—not love, not Anderson’s tantrum. But as one murder leads to another, he finds he is spending more and more time with Anderson. The professor begins to seep beneath his skin and Sam knows he cannot allow that. He has to stop this killer and get out without losing his life or his heart.
The killer, whose calling card is the orchid, seeks revenge for an age-old slight. Will he succeed with all his plans?
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The Orchid Murders
Copyright © 2010
John Simpson and Remmy Duchene
ISBN: 978-1-55487-473-6
Cover art by Angela Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books
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The Orchid Murders
By
John Simpson and Remmy Duchene
Dedication
To Johnny—Thanks for taking a chance on me.
To all the readers who have been asking me for something longer—this was written with a great friend so I hope you enjoy.
Chapter One
It started out like any other day in the 27th precinct, Homicide Bureau, until the call came in about another homicide on the lower south side. Detective First Grade Sam Morgan was up in the rotation and therefore got the assignment from the Chief of Detectives.
“Morgan, we got a messy one over on Delaney Street and Carlyle. You’re up!” yelled the Homicide Chief. “Take Sizemore with you.”
“Got it—on my way.”
It was just what he wasn’t in the mood for: a messy one on a hot day. God he needed a vacation and soon. “Let’s go, Roger, you heard the man.”
As Detective Roger Sizemore and Morgan got out of their squad car, they noticed a rather large crowd looking down from the roof across the street from the victim’s apartment. It looked like they were looking directly into the apartment of the victim, watching every move the cops made.
“Officer, what floor is the victim on?” Morgan asked a uniformed officer at the door to the building.
“He’s on the fifth floor, in apartment 505.”
“Great…and the whole world is watching the crime scene from up there,” Sam said, pointing to the roof across the street.
To Morgan’s great distress, they found that the elevator was out of commission requiring a five-floor hike up the staircase, grumbling all the way. It was too fucking hot to be walking up five flights of stairs!
Finally, arriving at the victim’s apartment, Morgan and Sizemore entered while putting on surgical gloves so as to not taint any evidence. They also put on those little blue “booties” that doctors wore so they wouldn’t leave any footprints to confuse the crime scene.
The first thing they looked at was the windows in the room where the victim was laying—all around in—before ordering the curtains to be closed. Morgan refused to add to the entertainment by providing more for the crowd on the roof to watch.
“What do you have so far on the vic’s identity?” Morgan asked the lead uniform on the scene.
“We found a wallet in the bedroom that belongs to a Wadsworth B. Brighton, age 65, 5’9, and 156 pounds. As you will notice, Mr. Brighton is in several pieces in different parts of the room. There are two bloody kitchen knives over there, but no evidence of a saw of any kind.”
The scene was like something out of a grade B horror movie with actors you never heard of before. The body had no clothes on it…on any of the pieces. The head was in the middle of the floor, the arms were in separate corners as if placed there, and the legs were crossed and sitting in front of the head. The main torso leaned up against one wall, with a potted plant on either side of it. Blood…blood was everywhere and on everything.
Sizemore went into the bathroom to see if the body had been dismembered there, but found no blood evidence to indicate that was the case. It appeared that the victim had been killed and cut up directly in the middle of the room. The furniture, what there was of it, was pushed against the opposite wall from the torso.
As Morgan entered the bedroom, he noticed that none of the drawers appeared to have been opened and nothing disturbed on top of the dressers. In fact, the only thing that was odd in the room was a faint sweet smell that Morgan first took for cologne of some sort. But as he walked towards the bed, he noticed a flower in the middle of the bed. That was where the faint but distinctive odor was coming from.
Morgan bent over the flower and saw nothing unusual other than it was attractive and of some variety of which he was not familiar. As he walked into the other room, he told an evidence technician to bag and tag the flower on the bed. Most men don’t put flowers in the middle of their bed unless a sexual liaison was planned.
“Let’s do a canvass of the apartments that surround this one and see if anyone heard or saw anything. I’ll be shocked if we find one person who will admit that they heard this butcher shop in operation,” Morgan said to Sizemore.
The neighbors who were home and would actually answer the door failed to provide any information, as Morgan had predicted. No one would admit to even being awake during the time of the murder. This was the usual result of a canvass at a murder scene.
All letters and documents in the apartment were gathered and bagged to be reviewed at the station. Since there was little else to do on scene, Morgan and Sizemore left and headed to lunch before going back into the office.
In the office, the two detectives went over their notes on the murder scene to see if either missed anything. The evidence from the apartment was sent to the crime lab for analysis with a request to rush the report. They would have photos processed and on their desks first thing in the morning.
“You know Roger, it takes some kind of sick bastard to do to the victim what this maniac did. I mean he wanted to do more than just kill the victim; he wanted to decimate the victim. Why? What is there about the victim that triggered the anger and hatred that it takes to turn a human being into chicken McNuggets? Where did our guy work? I think that’s the first thing we need to find out.”
“Okay, I’ll start the background on the victim and let you know what I find. It should only take a couple of hours to get all the preliminary information on Brighton.”
“Great, you do that, and I’ll run DMV and see if he had a car and find out what that tells us. Then I’ll see if I can locate the landlord for this property and find out the lease details.”
The crime lab received the evidence from the crime scene and began to validate the contents agains
t the inventory card that came in with the items. When the lead technician saw the orchid, he immediately picked up the phone and contacted the lead detective on the case.
“Detective Morgan,” he barked into the phone. “Detective, this is Orenstein in the crime lab. I just got your collected evidence from the Brighton murder and I thought I better call you right away.”
“Ahh, shit, what? Did I forget to sign one of the three thousand fucking copies of one of the reports that go with that stuff?”
“No, sir, that’s not it at all. I thought you would want to know that I had evidence from another murder scene come in last week from the North side, and one of the items that was included was a flower. In fact, the flower from your crime scene and the other one are the same: they are both Lady Green Slippers, which are members of the orchid family. Don’t you think that’s beyond coincidence?”
“No shit! How rare are these slipper things?” Morgan asked.
“Well, you won’t find them in just any flower shop. I would imagine that you would need a specialty shop that carries different varieties of orchids. The fact that two of these orchids showed up in two murders may indicate you have a serial killer on your hands.”
“Who’s the assigned detective on the other case?”
“Lemme check. Ah, that would be Detective Gary Barnhart of the 14th precinct.”
“Okay, thanks. Get me that report as fast as you can, will ya?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Damn! Just what I needed, a fucking serial killer!” Morgan shouted to the Gods of luck.
As he dialed the number for homicide at the 14th, he had a sour taste forming in his mouth. If it was a serial killer, there would be no rest until they caught the guy. The department would go ape shit over this as would the press. The sheer brutality of the crime would propel the case into the headlines for weeks.
“Barnhart here.”
“Detective Barnhart, this is Detective Morgan over at the two seven. Got a minute?”
“Sure do, what’s up?”
“I understand you had a homicide last week where you found a flower at the crime scene. Is that right?”
“Yea, sure did. It was a bloodbath, too—pretty vicious killing. The victim was a 64-year-old Bertram Holder. “
“Great. We had a murder in the precinct a few hours ago, and we had a flower at the scene. The crime lab tells me your flower and my flower match. Both orchids. Was your victim in one piece?”
“Negative. The body was dismembered and scattered about the room. Yours?”
“Same. I think we got ourselves a serial here. When can we meet in the morning? I wanna compare crime scene photos and exchange notes. This has to be the same guy leaving some fucking orchid as his trademark or some fucked-up shit like that.”
“Fuck. Okay, how about meeting around 11:00? I’m in court in the morning.”
“Okay, Roger Sizemore and I will see ya then at your place.”
After hanging up with Morgan, Barnhart informed both his partner and Captain about the phone call, and notifications started to go up the chain of command that a serial killer might be loose on the streets of New York City. The news made no one happy and the pressure to catch the killer began. As a door swung shut in the 14th precinct, a captain was heard to yell about the press having a field day with this one. Sam decided to hit the gym on the way home and work out and check out the hot studs in the showers. It had been a while since he had gotten laid and it was beginning to show. With a serial killer on the loose, who knew when he could get to the gym again?
The next morning, as Morgan and Sizemore sat drinking coffee, the crime scene photos came in from the Brighton murder case. As they sat there looking at them, the coffee in their stomachs began to sour.
“Did you find out anything yet on our vic?”
“A little. The guy was widowed, worked as a senior court reporter and didn’t have much of a social life after his wife died a few years ago. No arrests, nothing, not even a parking ticket. The guy was clean and not known to use drugs of any kind. So far, that’s it. You find anything?”
“Not much. He didn’t own a car and apparently used the subway to get around here in the city. The landlord said he’s had the apartment for over three years now and was never late on his rent and generated no complaints from other tenants. So, he is starting to look like a ‘goodie two shoes’ who gets whacked for some unknown reason. Let’s hope we find a connection with the victim over at the 14th.”
An hour later, Morgan and Sizemore parked their car and entered the homicide bureau at the 14th precinct. The place was a beehive much like the office they had just left.
“Hey, guys, want some coffee before we get started?” an overweight Detective Barnhart asked.
“I never turn down free coffee, wouldn’t be very police like, now would it?” Morgan answered with a laugh.
After getting their cup of coffee, all four detectives settled into a conference room with their files. Each detective exchanged crime scene photos and if they hadn’t already known that they were looking at two separate and distinct homicides, they would have thought it was all the same crime scene.
“Holy shit. These two crime scenes are carbon copies of each other. And look at this Roger,” Sam said, pointing to a photo, “The flower in the middle of the bed is exactly like our crime scene.”
“Well, that confirms it. We got a serial killer on our hands,” Barnhart noted. “This is going to send off fireworks at the Commissioner’s office.”
“The good thing is we should be able to get all the resources we need to catch this sick fuck,” Roger said.
“Well, they’re gonna put together a task force to catch this guy. I bet it doesn’t take more than a couple of days for the word to come down,” Barnhart’s partner observed.
Morgan’s radio squawked. “Middleburg to Morgan, come in.”
“Oh fuck, it’s the Captain. What now?…this is Morgan, go ahead Captain.”
“Get on over to 25 Battery Place, between Greenwich street and West street. The Ritz Carlton residence, number 4523. Report of a body found in that unit. It’s supposed to be like the one from yesterday.”
“Okay, Captain, we’re en route.” Morgan acknowledged. “Great, another one already. Let’s go, Roger. Stay in touch guys, huh?”
* * * *
Anderson gathered his things from his desk, stopped to answer a few questions from his regular students who oftentimes stopped to speak with him then he was out the door. But the fact that he was all but racing from the building didn’t seem to stop anyone from trying to ask him questions in the hallways. One student went so far as to jog with him halfway across the large courtyard before getting winded and almost passing out. After a quick stop to make sure the student was alright, Anderson half jogged half ran home. He tossed his keys into a bowl by the door, plugged in his cell phone to charge, then darted up the stairs two at a time. He stripped on his way up the stairs and tossed the dirty cloths into the arms of a large chair by the window in the bedroom. He took the fastest shower he had ever taken and when he was finally dressed, he took a moment to glance at himself in the mirror. He had to meet his father for dinner and he didn’t want to be late. Anderson was dressed in a sleek pair of black dress pants, a dark blue dress shirt. He attached the necklace his father had given him for his graduation from university, slipped on his Rolex before dumping some aftershave into his palms. He rubbed his hands together, lathered his neck and gave himself a corny gun–salute in the mirror before jetting down the stairs.
Pushing his feet into his shoes, he unplugged his cell and grabbed his car keys from the bowl beside the door and began whistling as he made his way to his car. Backing out from the driveway, he turned the car towards his father’s place. He really didn’t want to tackle the traffic but there was no way to get to his father without it. Side roads were basically non-existent because of tolls. Moaning as he got stuck behind a large bus, Anderson reached forward to flip on the radi
o then the air conditioner. A cool whoosh of air caressed his face gently while he picked up his cell phone and dialed his father. He might as well tell Jazmon that he would be late.
The phone rang over and over, but no one picked up which was rather strange. Ever since his mother died, every other Friday was used as dinner night. It was strange that his father didn’t pick up. He hung up and called back once, twice, until the traffic picked up some for about two blocks only to grid-lock again. Anderson slammed a fist into the steering wheel and swore. He always complained about how bad the traffic was but Anderson never once thought of moving until that very moment. There had to be a better way. Side streets were out of the question since there were no real side streets in New York anyway—they all looked like the street he was on. But he had to get to his father. Something was not right. His mind began racing about the possibilities.
Maybe Dad was in the shower.
Maybe Dad stepped out for a second.
Maybe…
But when the guard allowed Anderson into the parking lot and he pulled up behind his father’s car, the bad feeling still hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had worsened.
“Hey Andy!” the guard called when he walked back towards the doors leading to the elevators.
“Hi, Mike,” Anderson called but didn’t stop to speak like he normally would. There was urgency about the way he moved, like a spirit quickly through the doors and jabbed his finger impatiently against the button leading from the parking lot to his father’s floor. When he was finally there, his eyes widened to see the front door to the large apartment standing wide open. He knew something wasn’t right. His father would never leave the door open not even if he was expecting his son to arrive. He held his breath as he walked up to the front door and stepped into the lobby. The floor was clean as his father would normally keep it but still that dread washed through him. His heart began slamming against his chest, his palms sweating.
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