by David Carter
Blaze propped Bulldog up against the door of his cell, and called out to the audience, “Close your eyes if you are squeamish, bitches! This is going to get fucking nasty!”
He plunged his knife into Bulldogs left eye without hesitation, twisting it back and forth, before retrieving it out. Bulldog let out a bloodcurdling scream as he fell to the floor. His body convulsed violently from the excruciating pain, but unfortunately for him, Blaze was not finished. He stood him up again and stabbed his right eye, mashing the knife around until there was nothing left in his eye socket. He let Bulldog drop to the floor as he casually cleaned the blade of his knife, wiping the blood and chunks on his pants, as if cleaning the dipstick after checking the oil level in an engine.
Bulldog screamed the walls down as Blaze dragged him over to where Nugget lay on the other side of the cell. He said to Bulldog, “I want to keep my blade sharp for my date with Poochie tomorrow, which means you get to die with your fingers and toes intact.”
Bulldog didn’t respond.
Blaze didn’t waste any time. He had to act quickly before Bulldog lost complete consciousness.
I want you to feel pain, thought Blaze.
As promised, Blaze shredded Bulldog’s shirt open and plunged his knife deep into the base of Bulldog’s sternum, and vigorously sliced down past his navel to the top of his pubic bone. Bulldog was barely breathing as his abdomen collapsed open, revealing his vital organs and digestive system. Blood and shit spattered over the floor as Blaze hacked out a makeshift noose from Bulldog’s intestines, before coiling it around his unresponsive head.
For the seventeen victims—and me, he thought reverently, then mercilessly tugged on each end of the intestine-rope with all the strength he had left. He struggled to get a decent hold; the slippery blood and body-fluids on his hands made it hard to grip.
The room went silent out of respect for Bulldog as Blaze slowly squeezed the remnants of his life away.
Sweet justice, thought Danny.
When Blaze was sure it was all over, he released Bulldog and let his head drop to the floor. He was breathing hard and fast after expending so much energy while fighting and strangling Bulldog. He panted as he walked over to the door of his cell, and called out to Archer, “That’s two from two. You fucking happy now?”
Archer walked towards Blaze’s cell, clapping his hands sarcastically. “Well done, Bobby,” he said. “You sure have some unique talents in the fighting arena. I’m very impressed that you aren’t full of shit like so many others who have preceded you. In fact, I’m so impressed that I’m going to let you choose whether you would like a new pillow or an extra-long hot shower as a reward for your efforts tonight.”
Blaze kept his head down, staring at the mess on the floor of his cell.
A bath of human fucking effluence, he thought.
Blaze finally looked up. “I could use a decent shower, asshole—and a new pillow.”
Archer grinned and nodded. “Very well, Bobby, I’ll send a couple of guards to escort you to a private shower block, where you have my assurance you will not be disturbed.”
Blaze pointed at the bodies in his cell. “You can send a fucking cleaner while you’re at it. I don’t want to see these pathetic excuses of human existence in my cell when I return!”
“I shall take care of it, Bobby. Not even I would make you sleep next to two dead animals with half their vital organs spread across the floor.”
Archer walked back to the switch at the other end of the room and turned the cameras off. He about-faced, slowly, closing his eyes and deeply inhaling as he captured the essence of death that lingered in the air from the night’s entertainment. He said to Blaze, “Thank you for the most wonderful evening, Bobby. I shall look forward to watching you in action again tomorrow.”
Archer left the den, and heard Blaze yelling something after him as he door closed behind him. He didn’t quite catch the words, and couldn’t resist the urge to find out what his latest prodigy had had to say for himself. He popped his head back in the doorway, and said, “I’m sorry, Bobby, did I hear you say something?”
Blaze stood at the door to his cell, and loudly replied, “Actually, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I said, fuck you, asshole.“
Chapter 18
Elizabeth bustled outside to satisfy her curiosity after two police cars and an ambulance came speeding through town, heading north past The Greasy Axle. Their tyres squealed as they negotiated the roundabout on the main street at high speeds, leaving a visible layer of rubber on the tarmac. She saw the convoy’s tail lights glowing in the distance as the cars slammed on their brakes and turned off the road, virtually opposite the Glendale Christian Church.
Sharon joined her outside. “What’s all the commotion at ten-thirty in the morning?” she asked.
Elizabeth frowned. “I’m not sure. It looks like something just out of town near the church.”
“What’s so important up there that could possibly demand such road rage from the cops? There’s only the church and the maize fields past that end of town, right?”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Don’t Constables O’Brian and Turner live somewhere up there in that old farmhouse?”
“Of course! I knew that,” she said with a cheeky smile. “I forgot it was down that driveway. It’s completely buried by all the maize crops at this time of year. They’ve rented it for a number of years now. I know the old guy who owns it. He comes in here every other night, telling me all the things he needs to do to bring her back to her former glory, but he never seems to get around to it.”
“Well, it seems he should be doing a lot less boozing and a lot more painting, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“I’m sure we’ll find out all the goss soon enough, but in the meantime, I sure could use another cup of coffee, if you don’t mind?”
Sharon smiled. “I think I’ll join you now my morning rush is over. I need to get off my feet.”
As Elizabeth sat down at her table, three unmarked Holden Commodores came screeching past, heading in the same direction as the convoy a few moments earlier. Elizabeth looked over at Sharon behind the coffee machine. They gazed at each other, mutually concerned.
“Here’s your coffee, Liz,” said Sharon as she placed it on the table in front of her.
“Thanks, hon, you really do make the best coffee. I’m sorry if I’ve made too much of a habit of coming here lately—you know ever since the...” Elizabeth tried to hold her emotions together.
“The fire?” offered Sharon.
“Yes, since the fire.” She sniffled, and wiped her teary eyes with a napkin.
Sharon put her hand on top of Elizabeth’s. “I’m here for you, Liz. I couldn’t ask for a better friend than you. I’ll never forget how much you supported me when my parents died. I was under so much pressure and financial strain. I’ll always think of you as my second mum. You’re all the family I’ve got, and there’s been so many days that I’d have been lost without you.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You are such a sweetheart, Sharon. How in God’s name are you not married?”
She blushed, then said, “I don’t know; I just can’t seem find a decent bloke around here. I know all the eligible bachelors in town, and I can honestly say my choices are somewhat, limited. I really fancied Luke Turner a few years ago, but unfortunately he never asked me out.”
“Oh, I do love a man in uniform!” said Elizabeth flirtatiously. “And that Luke Turner, well he is absolutely gorgeous! Did you try flashing those beautiful eyes of yours at him?”
Sharon giggled. “Believe me, Liz, I flashed more than just my eyes to try and get his attention! Stupid males; they can’t seem to read any signals unless you have a giant banner with flashing lights and loudspeakers telling them exactly what you want from them!”
“I couldn’t agree more!”
They laughed together, before discussing the finer points of the male species in greater
detail.
They finished their coffees, and both felt uneasy when they saw another unmarked Holden Commodore roaring past. They watched as the car’s brake lights shone bright red in the distance as it came to a sudden stop, and turned off the road virtually opposite the Glendale Christian Church.
Chapter 19
Detective Cameron Ryan pulled up to the house in his red Holden Commodore sedan. He stepped his tall frame out of the car and arched his back after his twenty-five-minute sprint race from Milton City. He squinted, hiding his dreamy blue eyes as the sun came out from behind a cloud, beaming directly into his line of sight.
He walked up to the house where two officers from the Glendale Police Force awaited him. He extended his hand as he said, “Detective Cameron Ryan.”
The two officers shook hands with him. One of them said, “You’re the lead homicide investigator they sent from Milton City, right?”
“Yes. Sorry for my delayed arrival; I was stuck in traffic. I got here as fast as I could. Would you please get me up to speed on the crime scene?”
“Sure, right this way,” said one of the officers.
“Jesus, it’s hot,” Ryan said quietly to himself as he took off his dark blue suit jacket and hung it over one of his broad shoulders. He then pulled out his handkerchief from the pocket of his matching suit pants and wiped his brow. He put it away, and apologised to the officers, as he quickly retrieved a notepad from the front passenger seat of his car, leaving his suit jacket behind, and made some observations as he returned. He noted the house was isolated at the end of a long, dirt driveway, around one hundred metres from the road. An easy target for a home invasion, he thought.
The house was one of many Victorian-style villas in Glendale, built in the 1920s, and in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The ancient layers of white top coat flaked away from the walls like puff pastry. It had UV faded blue shutters around the two sets of double windows on the front face of the house, and an old brown door that matched the worn-out appearance of the rest of the property.
“Were there any signs of forced entry?” Ryan asked one of the officers.
“None that we could find,” he replied.
Interesting; the victims may have known their assailant, thought Ryan as they approached the ambulance parked outside the front of the house.
Ryan peeked inside the rear doors, then asked, “Who’s the poor bugger in there?”
“That’s Senior Constable Karl O’Brian, one of our colleagues,” said an officer grimly.
Ryan quickly stood back. He noticed the intensity levels rising in the rear of the ambulance, as one of the paramedics yelled, “We’re losing him!” before rapidly performing CPR on O’Brian, while the other charged the emergency defibrillator as his heart rate flat-lined.
“Clear!” the paramedic with the charged paddles shouted. O’Brian’s body jolted as the electricity surged into his chest, shocking his heart into life, pumping vital blood and oxygen through his veins once more.
“We need to get him to hospital for surgery in the next few minutes before he bleeds out!” one of the paramedics said urgently to the driver.
They slammed the rear doors shut and roared off down the road to the Glendale Hospital, where an emergency team was already on standby, as his blood loss was at critical range.
“I hope the poor bugger makes it,” Ryan said to the officers.
They led him inside, where he found all the crime scene investigators that belonged to the three unmarked Holden Commodores that were parked outside the front of the house. They were all from the MCHU (Milton City Homicide Unit) where Ryan was based.
The house was a beehive of activity: people carefully placing evidence markers, others taking photos and collecting samples of blood and fibres, and dusting for fingerprints.
Ryan cleared his throat, and in a clear, authoritative voice, said, “Can everyone please stop what you are doing so I can be fully briefed—and so the crime scene isn’t disturbed until I’ve had a good poke around first. It’s nothing personal; I’m just simply following protocol. I thank you all for your patience and cooperation on this.”
Some of the investigators were not overly happy about having to step back for the young, hot-shot detective. Ryan had just turned thirty-four, and was rapidly climbing the rungs up the homicide ladder—which had ruffled some feathers amongst the more seasoned veterans who were now under his command.
Ryan was greeted and led into the master bedroom by Steve Hampton. He was in his late fifties, tall, but slightly shorter than Ryan. He was an expert in his field after twenty-five years as a homicide detective, and had been Ryan’s partner for the past two. Ryan valued and trusted his opinions without question, and had the utmost respect for everything he said and did.
Hampton enjoyed working with his much younger boss, and had formed a close friendship with him. He was impressed that Ryan wasn’t just another young jerk-off ass-licking his way up the ladder. He was a genuine detective with the right attributes: he was driven, hard-working, and respectfully used the experience and knowledge of the older heads around him to his advantage. He didn’t blow his own trumpet when he cracked a case, and he made damn sure any credit for an arrest was given to whom it was due. There was one attribute that he admired above all: his willingness to cross the line and do anything necessary, with the best of intentions, to solve a case. He had been suspended on more than one occasion during his career, but he had also brought justice to many families that otherwise wouldn’t have received any.
Hampton was secretly excited the day they had been paired together. He was confident they would make a cracking good team. He had got stale in the job after working for over two decades with the older generation detectives who only cared about their pensions and retirement funds. He knew he still had plenty to offer, and working with Ryan was the catalyst to reinvigorating his passion for detective work. From the outset of their partnership, he had given Ryan his full respect and loyalty, which had led to them bonding quickly, and solving a formidable number of high profile murder cases, prompting the higher-level administration to sit up and take notice, making their partnership a permanent fixture.
The mutilated body of Luke Turner lay face down on the bed. He was naked, and had the head of a golf club wedged in his anus.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Ryan. “I wasn’t prepared to see that! How is that even possible?”
Thick frown lines on Hampton’s forehead stood out as slowly shook his head and said. “I guess anything is possible when the correct amount of force is applied. I just hope the poor bastard was dead when the killer teed off with his three iron.”
Ryan cringed as he ran the image through his mind. “How do you know it’s a three iron?”
“It’s the only club missing from the set in the living room.”
“Do you know something, old timer? This job never gets any bloody easier, does it...?”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he replied.
Turner’s throat was slit from ear to ear, and had bled out in a large puddle on the mattress. Ryan noticed the killer had used his body as a message board. There was a series of jagged numbers and letters carved into the flesh on his back. Ryan asked Hampton, “What do you think? Knife or dagger wounds? We should try and establish the murder weapon first.”
Hampton pulled on a pair of white rubber gloves and gently peeled open one of the wounds on his back. After a moment’s careful observation, he said, “Definitely a dagger.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. Daggers have symmetrical curved edges either side of the point on the blade. Do you see that?” He pointed inside the deep wound.
Ryan peered closely. “See what?”
Hampton pulled the wound further apart. “Can you see those slightly curved incisions where the point of the blade has pierced the muscle at the deepest point of each downward thrust?”
“Yeah...”
“Well, the symmetry of those incisions sugges
ts a blade with mirrored edges was used. That rules out the possibility of a knife, as they are blunt on one edge and sharp on the other, which isn’t consistent with what we are looking at.”
“The silver fox strikes again!” teased Ryan.
They studied Turner’s body with incredible focus and patience. They deduced he had suffered multiple blows to his head with a blunt object, leaving a raft of thin dents in his cranium. “I’m willing to bet that when we get that golf club out of his asshole, the head will fit perfectly into those grooves in his skull,” Ryan said to Hampton, who agreed by nodding as he continued to scour the sheets on the bed for any stray fibre, speck of blood, or hair follicle that might prove useful in their investigation.
They eventually finished making their initial observations, leaving Ryan’s team to devour the crime scene, then ventured outside to debrief. Ryan said, “I think Turner was knocked unconscious and then placed on the bed, as I can’t find any defensive wounds on his body. I’ll assume you noticed the tiny pinpricks of blood on his scalp?”
“I did,” he replied tersely.
“I’m thinking he was laid face down on the bed, before his head was violently pulled back, pulling out small tufts of hair from his scalp in the process, indicating his throat was cut from behind by someone sitting or kneeling on top of him.”
“I think you’re on the money, agreed Hampton. You’re pretty good for someone still shittin’ yellow.” He chuckled.
Ryan laughed at the reference to his age, then said, “What I don’t quite understand yet, is the motive. I’m missing something, and it’s driving me nuts.”
“Well, O’Brian and Turner were cops, right? Maybe they pissed off the wrong people?”
“I’m not convinced of that. The golf club lodged in his rear end suggests that it’s more than just some pissed off thugs. What we have here is possibly the type of imagery used in a hate crime. Did you decipher the message that was carved into his back?”
“Yes, I did. Of all things, it was a reference to two scriptures from the Bible.”