Killing Room

by Shawn Raiford

  Copyright-Kindle

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First edition published as an eBook, February 2018.

  All rights reserved.

  “Killing Room“

  Copyright © 2018 Shawn Raiford

  Kindle Edition

  The right of Shawn Raiford to be identified as the author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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  Editor: Stacy Juba

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  Book Blurb:

  Edward prefers younger women, because they are better screamers.

  Chloe wakes up naked and strapped to a metal table. There is a stench of death in the air, a curious blend of copper and pork. The room she's in screams torture, death, and decay. When she sees power tools hanging from the wall she understands their purpose: Excruciating pain is in her immediate future.

  Henry Creed (Chloe's brother) and Mitch Mason, Houston Police Department Investigators, catch a case. A young woman was murdered. Nothing is missing from the woman's apartment. Also, there is no sign of a struggle. Henry believes the victim actually knew her killer.

  During their investiagation, Henry and Mitch learn Chloe might be in grave danger from a madman who makes snuff films. Their only problem is they don't know the location of his killing room.

  Can Henry and Mitch act quick enough to save Chloe from a brutal and painful death?

  Chapter One

  Copper and pork part I

  AS I OPENED MY eyes, my temples ached something awful.

  What did you get yourself into Chloe, I thought. A light bulb dangled above me, giving off just enough light. Confused, I tried to get up. But I'd been strapped naked to a metal table. As a contract killer, I had serious ass-kicking skills, but getting out of this seemed impossible. I could barely move.

  The table I laid on looked familiar. Then memories flood my mind. The same table in a video I saw in Barry’s apartment, earlier. "No! Son of a bitch! This can't be happening!" I said. Terrible things were done to that woman in the video; they were done by Edward Rawlings—he tortured her.

  Awake now, my heart pounded; blood raced in my veins. Craning my neck, I searched all around. At my feet, I spotted my black wig on top of a headless female torso. Obviously Edward's work.

  The table I laid on butted up against a wall. Power tools hung like small metallic carcasses from hooks a couple feet above me. Behind me, bookshelves were against the side wall. Like a gruesome display of wild game trophies, four human heads—all at various stages of decay—occupied the top shelf. The head on the far end looked like it hadn't begun to decay yet. Fresh, perhaps once attached to the torso at my feet.

  Even farther back, a sink and faucet. Above that, a small AC unit blew cold air. Also, a cabinet stood against the back wall. But the doors were closed.

  Closer to me, it got interesting. Tendrils of steam ascended from a big pot positioned on a desk positioned next to the head display. The smell reminded me I should have eaten that second Taco Bell burrito. What's a pot doing here? What's cooking? Then, it hit me like a wet sledgehammer. Ah shit! He's cooking her? He eats people?

  Suddenly, I lost my appetite. With a suppressed gag, this poor girl's death particles, suppressing a gag reflex.

  Then the door flew open. A huge man loomed out of the darkness. He knocked me out and strapped me down to this table. He is the man in the video: Edward Rawlings!

  My brother, Henry Creed, and his partner, Mitch Mason—Inspectors with the Houston Police Department—knew I were aware of my presence at a warehouse, but I didn't give him the address. All I wanted was to have a look around. So dumb. For some time now, they both knew that I worked as a contract killer, and could handle myself in dangerous situations, but I still should have given them an address.

  Just the thought of not seeing Heather, Hascal, and Julie—Henry's kids and wife—anymore made my stomach churn. Henry and his family were my entire world.

  Edward had something in his right hand, but I could not see it. Whatever it was fell to the ground. Sounded like a bag of potatoes. I thought a heard a whimper. A person? Who? Did he have a place where he stored them?

  Night vision goggles adorned his head. Which explained his ability to sneak up on me and knock me out.

  Staring me in the eye, he smiled manically. He hulked his way over to the steaming pot. His mass blocked my view. Metal clanked against metal, maybe a ladle in the pot.

  "Ah, the meat is coming off the bone nicely,” he said. “This skull will be a nice addition to my collection."

  Skull? Collection?

  If the video I saw earlier foretold anything, I expected excruciating pain in my immediate future. Blissful death would follow, I hoped.

  Pressure built up in my chest and behind my eyes. Before, I had found myself in bad places, but nothing ever like this. I took a long, deep breath in, and released it slowly. Handle what you can control, I told myself.

  I wasn’t a hundred percent sure where I was, but I assumed up in the office, inside the warehouse. Entering this warehouse had to be the Mount Everest of my mistakes. Now, my survival depended on Kathleen Henderson.

  Naked, and strapped to a metal table, I was surrounded by body parts, and power tools hung on the wall next to me. Oh yeah, a psychopath boiled human parts in a huge pot only a few feet away from me.

  Opening my eyes up to a squint, I couldn't see what he dropped upon entering. Shutting my eyes again, I rotated my head a little in his direction and kept still there for several moments. Things were quiet, so I wondered what he was doing. My gut told me not to, but I opened my eyes ever so slightly. My heart shot up into my throat when I realized he was staring at me. Humongous, his face hovered a foot from mine.

  Opening my eyes fully—steeling myself—I swallowed. In a smile, he showed me a mouth full of bad teeth. Then, an atrocious odor violated my nose after he breathed on me. In a deep voice that sounded like it belonged to an ogre, Edward asked, "Are you ready to scream?”

  Chapter Two

  People don't know what they don't know

  APPROXIMATELY TWO HOURS EARLIER

  Based on the size of the pool of blood, the victim died where she lay.

  Inspector Henry Creed stood in the apartment's entrance. A uniformed officer guarding the door held out a box of Latex gloves like a waiter in a party offering hors d'oeuvres.

  He plucked a pair from the box. As he snapped them on, his stomach told him that he should've made himself a sandwich before leaving the house.

  Later, they could stop and eat, but that rarely happened once they sank their teeth into an investigation. Every minute within the first twenty-four hours after a murder was the most important and stopping to eat took a backseat to police work.

  He ran a finger over the doorjamb. Smooth, the strike plate had no scuf
f marks, which meant that no one forced open the door. Whoever killed her had a key or she let him in. since these apartments lacked patios or balconies.

  As he entered the apartment, he pulled out his notepad. Smells of food were absent. Just an a light aroma of cinnamon. Probably a candle.

  The apartment appeared average. Positioned next to body, the couch—dark blue and real nice. Expensive. At the end of the couch a chrome reading lamp sat on a dark brown end-table. Like the couch, both most likely Ikea purchases.

  A wall, with a four-by-four foot square section cut out of the middle, contained book shelves. Accounting and business books filled the shelves, with a smattering of novels.

  Two red bar stools stood in front of the counter. A Tabasco towel hung from the oven’s handle in the kitchen. Which was small and clean. And a cozy dining table, along with four thinly-framed chairs, occupied the space next to the far wall.

  A standard apartment, you see one; you've seen a thousand.

  Mitch inspected the body.

  He looked at his partner with skepticism. In addition to wearing the same suit he wore earlier today during their regular shift, and a five o'clock shadow—Henry got a whiff of Mitch's cologne. Not normal for the man. An obvious attempt at masking body odor or smell of alcohol, or both.

  Flipping open his notepad, Henry thinned his lips, exhaling out his nose. "Didn't have time to go home and change, huh?"

  Ignoring Henry's question, Mitch vigorously chewed gum. Chewing gum, the easiest way to mask whiskey breath. The job, booze, and easy women encompassed Mitch's life. He had a daughter, who he loved, but didn't see that much. Mitch limited his time with his daughter, Henry believed, because he felt like he had failed as a father.

  When not working a case or at the gym, Mitch planted himself at a bar coaxing the next beer-chugging, thirty-five-year-old grandmother into bed.

  Their victim, a young white female, appeared to be in her mid-twenties with an average body build, with dark, long hair. Wrapped around her left wrist, an Apple watch. No rings were on her fingers. The small silver hoops appeared to be expensive. Perhaps a gift from a man. "Definitely not a robbery."

  "Nope," Mitch replied.

  "What was her name?" It had become somewhat of a ritual for him to ask Mitch about the barfly he bedded the night before. Because of the hour, he wasn't sure if Mitch had time to work his magic.

  Writing in his notepad, Mitch looked up and smirked. "I forget."

  With a twist of his mouth, Henry dismissed it. His partner appeared to be alert and ready to work so he wouldn't rib him. Besides, Mitch had a thing for the doctor and he didn't want to ruin his chances with her by insinuating that he was a man whore.

  Hunched over the body, the M.E., Dr. Cecelia Herrera, placed clear plastic bags over the victim's hands. Then she zip-tied them. A procedure to preserve biological evidence that may be under the victim's finger nails.

  Wounds were not visible on her hands. All ten fake fingernails were still attached, which meant she did not fight with the killer. You knew your killer.

  Apparently the woman died from blood loss caused by the gaping wound on her neck, courtesy of a knife blade. Also, Henry didn't need to be blood-spatter expert to understand what the pattern of arterial spray on the floor and the amount of blood on her shirt indicated. The huge pool of blood indicated she bled out and died where she lay.

  Dr. Herrera looked up. "The perp cut her throat. The edges of the skin are smooth not jagged, so the blade was not serrated."

  They wrote in their notepads.

  Henry pointed down at the body. "What is her name?"

  Mitch flipped through his notes. "I already spoke to Hernandez, she was first on scene. She found the victim's purse." He reached over to the dining table and grabbed something and held it up. A driver's license. "Her driver's license indicates her name is Caitlyn Marie Meadows. Caitlyn's twenty-six years old, five-foot, four inches, with blue eyes."

  "What's TOD, Doc?"

  "Based on liver temp, and the temp in here, I would say approximately four-to-six hours ago."

  Time of death would have been around four to six p.m. People arrived home from work around that time. He wrote in his notepad: Any screaming? Yelling?

  "How much money she have? Cash?" Most young people did not use much cash but he liked to know.

  "Twenty bucks was all she had. She's got three credit cards."

  Who ever killed her did not take her money or credit cards. Henry turned to his partner. "Who found her?"

  "A neighbor." Mitch paused to check his notes. "Janice Gilseg in 1G. Hernandez talked to her, and said she looked shooken up, so Hernandez told her to go to her apartment and we'd want to talk to her later."

  "She say why she was in Caitlyn's apartment?"

  "Miss Gilseg told Hernandez that she and Caitlyn were friends and had exchanged keys. Says she wanted to return a book Caitlyn lent her. Miss Gilseg knocked, and when no one answered she let herself in and found the body."

  They did want to talk to her, see if she saw anything out of the ordinary: people don't know what they don't know, and that’s why cops asked the questions.

  Henry scanned the living room and area in front of the entrance. Clean and orderly, the apartment clearly belonged to a woman.

  "She knew him, and let him in," Mitch said.

  Henry thinned his lips. "Yeah."

  "I'm thinking boyfriend or lover."

  Mitch always went with lovers, boyfriends, or husband. When it came to the male species, Mitch had almost no faith. Besides, it's a safe bet to say a man killed her. Especially in a violent murder.

  Henry squinted. "Maybe. She let him in or he had his own key."

  Mitch nodded and went back to drawing a rough sketch of the crime scene in his notebook. Drawing crime scenes was his thing he liked to do. Part of his process.

  Located near West University, a nice section of town not far from Rice University, her apartment was nice. Hardly any crimes in this area much less murder. But anywhere humans existed—Henry understood all too well—murder could happen anywhere humans existed.

  He stepped away. The body couldn't tell him any more. In a day or two the M.E. would let them know if she scratched the killer or not and if she had sex or had been raped before she died.

  Henry walked over to the bookshelf. Along with books, a few knickknacks were placed in optimum viewing spots. After coming up empty in the living room, the inspectors made their way to the only bedroom. Upon entering, Henry spotted her vanity, and a chair under it, against the wall. His wife, Julie, had a nice one at home. A gift from her parents, full of expensive makeup. Because she was a nurse, she did not use it much. Just when they went out to dinner or took the kids somewhere. He told her multiple times that she had a natural beauty and did not need all the makeup, but she bought it all anyway. Along with dozens of purses and shoes and clothes. But he never said anything about it. If it made her happy, he was all for it. Buying sport memorabilia was dumb, but that didn't stop men. He had a nice baseball card collection. Worth a few thousand. For the most part, Henry agreed with his sister: if it doesn't hurt anyone and you aren't ripping someone off, then do it.

  Atop the vanity was: makeup, makeup remover, cleansers, a box of Kleenex too, eyelash curlers, little scissors, 10x mirror, curling iron, two hair dryers, brushes and combs, and other crap Henry did not recognize. Women and their products!

  A jewelry box sat on the chair. He opened it, and found earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and other accessories.

  Turning his attention away from the vanity, the bedroom was clean. No clothes strewn about, and the bed had been made. Most young, single people don’t make their beds throughout the work week. More of a weekend chore.

  They rummaged through the dresser drawers. Mitch found two-hundred dollars in cash under some panties. Jewelry, rings and necklaces tucked in a small box next to a nineteen-inch TV that sat on top of the dresser.

  Next, Henry checked the closet. Typical women's
clothing: skirts, blouses, belts, and a few pant suits. High heels and tennis shoes covered the closet floor. Behind a Snoopy Christmas decoration, he found two shoeboxes on the top shelf. He brought the boxes down and placed them on the bed. "You want to check that one?" He pointed to a black Nike shoebox.

  "Yes." Mitch gave him a thumbs up.

  Family pictures filled both boxes. They looked through them. Most had been of an older man and woman and Caitlyn. Also, there were pictures of a man. They figured the couple was Caitlyn's parents, and the man was her brother. A picture of Caitlyn holding a newborn baby caught his attention. A name was written at the bottom: Kathryn-Anne Meadows, along with a date——could be the baby's date of birth. He showed it to Mitch; they thought the baby could have been her niece due to the same last name.

  The picture made Henry think of his own children: Heather and Hascal. Not long ago, his kids were just babies themselves, crawling around in the living room. Now, Heather was turning into a young lady, and Hascal started playing sports. Before Henry and Julie knew it, their daughter would be driving off with a boy he didn't approve of and their son would be on the varsity football team hooking up with loose girls.

  He'd cross that bridge in a few years.

  Then the image of Caitlyn's dead body flashed in his mind, and it reminded him of the age-old question: why do the innocent die?

  It was one of many questions he had for the Man upstairs. But He hadn't answered yet. Henry was Catholic, so it meant he was patient.

  Hands on his hips, Mitch said, ”Nothing looks like its missing. No open drawers or empty boxes were left on the floor or in the closet."

  “Think you're right, partner,” Henry said, wondering if she owned a laptop or an iPad. She had a TV in the living room, but none in the bedroom. An ereader lay on the nightstand next to the bed, along with a single lamp.