by Luis Samways
MURDER MYSTERY
MCKENZIE
Luis Samways
Text © 2014 by Luis Samways
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by The Purple Book Co.
Luis Samways has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
EBook Edition first published in July 2014
******
V1.0
For more information on books by Luis Samways Visit:
www.LuisSamways.com
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© 2014 by the Purple Book Co.
Table of contents
The Casual Killer
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty one
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Forty Five
Forty Six
Forty Seven
Forty Eight
Forty Nine
Fifty
Fifty One
Fifty Two
Fifty Three
Fifty Four
Fifty Five
Fifty Six
Fifty Seven
Fifty Eight
Fifty Nine
Sixty
Sixty One
Sixty Two
Sixty Three
Sixty Four
Sixty Five
Sixty Six
Sixty Seven
Sixty Eight
Sixty Nine
Seventy
Seventy One
Seventy Two
Seventy Three
Seventy Four
Seventy Five
Seventy Six
Seventy Seven
Seventy Eight
Seventy Nine
Eighty
Eighty One
Eighty Two
Eighty Three
Eighty Four
Eighty Five
Eighty Six
Eighty Seven
Eighty Eight
Eighty Nine
Ninety
Ninety One
Ninety Two
Ninety Three
Ninety Four
Ninety Five
Ninety Six
Ninety Seven
Ninety Eight
Ninety Nine
One Hundred
One Hundred and One
One Hundred & Two
25th of Dismember
Plenty of Pain
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
ALL F**KED UP
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Ice Cold Case
Gun To
The Head
Bonus Christmas shorts
Sample
Thank you, from the author
The Casual Killer
One
The sound of his beeper wakes Frank up. Slouched against his headboard, he looks around his bedroom and tries to shake his hangover while squinting and trying to adjust to the light finding its way through the curtains. He smiles when he sees the empty bottle of Jack lying on the floor next to his gun. Grabbing his packet of cigarettes from the bed side table, he fondles around the drawer for his lighter. He finally finds it, and lights the cigarette. The dim light reveals a messy room with folders and documents strewn all over. He drags hard on the smoke and exhales a cloud of grey bliss that soothes him to near sleep once again. As he does, his cell phone starts ringing. It startles Frank. ‘Frank speaking,’ he answers, still smoking his cigarette while half awake.
‘Hey Frank, you need to come in,’ the voice on the phone says. ‘There’s been an incident down Stella Avenue in Rixton.’
‘What kind of incident?’
Frank tries to clear his throat.
‘There’s been a massacre in a family home, around 15 dead, Sir.’
‘Damn, I’ll be down as soon as possible; meet me there.’
Frank hangs up the phone and shoots out of bed, rushing around looking for his clothes. He puts on what he can find, a white T shirt and charcoal trousers. There’s a stain on the sleeve of his shirt which he manages to get out after a few minutes. He goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror.
He stops dead, intently staring at himself like he doesn�
�t recognise who he is. Grabbing some hair gel from the cabinet above the sink, he applies it to his blond short hair. He looks harder into his reflection and notices his beard is starting to come through; he has no time to clean shave. Frank looks around for his electric beard trimmer and spots it on a pile of wet towels. Grabbing it, he shaves rapidly, not caring about the hair debris falling on the floor but he moves over to the sink. As he shaves, looking in the mirror, the sound of the razor drives him into a hypnotic state. He stares deeper into his own reflection, catching a distorted glimpse of his eyes. He stops in awe of his cold blue eyes. The razor shreds the hair up and down his side burns. Flashes of the reasons he drinks play in his mind. As he looks deeper into the mirror, a woman’s ghostly face appears, replacing his reflection. She snarls at him. Her face is covered in bruises. She laughs.
‘Have fun dying, Fucker,’ the woman in the reflection growls.
Frank jumps and the razor clips his ear. Blood trickles out. Frank sneers and throws the beard trimmer at the mirror, shattering it. Shards of glass fall sharply and bounce off the hair ridden sink to the floor. Frank yells in frustration.
‘Fuck!’ he screams.
Frank composes himself and opens the medicine cabinet. Rummaging through the assortment of pills and medical Paraphernalia, he finds what he is looking for and grabs the yellow pill container. Frank gasps in relief. The label reads: Veratril: .benzodiazepine 125 mg Medicated. 2xs a day. FRANK MCKENZIE.
He pours 5 pills into his cupped hand from the little container. Throwing the pills in his mouth urgently he bends over the sink, yanks on the tap and drinks from it like a water fountain. He cups his hands under the flow and splashes watery residue on his face and hair.
Looking into the broken mirror his sees his entire face relaxed and dripping wet in the jagged surface. Brushing his hands through his hair for a neater appearance, he walks out of the bathroom and grabs his grey suit jacket. He puts it on and kneels to slot his boots on. He grabs the gun from the floor as he rises and walks over to the front door of his apartment. Turning around, he scans his home, realizing this could be the last time he sees his apartment. He sighs, turns around and walks out. This could be dangerous. Gut feelings have never let him down before. The quiet hiss of the door swings shut on the dark empty room as the bolts snap in place. Silence deafens the apartment.
Two
A blue Ford Capri gently stops in the driveway that seems to go for miles as an assortment of officers rush around the exterior of the crime scene. One officer spots the car and shakes his head in disapproval and turns to his superior.
‘It’s McKenzie,’ the officer says in disbelief as Frank gets out of the car and leans against it to light his cigarette. “He actually showed up.’ The superior gives the brown nosing officer a smile that says he shares the man’s distain for McKenzie and walks over to Frank…
‘What the hell are you doing here Frank? You don’t work for the department any more, you no good drunk.’ The officer is loud enough to catch the attention of the men and women working and they stop what they’re doing to witness the public grilling.
Frank continues smoking his cigarette and stares a hole into the man challenging him.
‘What’s the matter Frank?’ The officer smiles with enjoyment at being the center of attention. “Have you forgotten how to talk or something? Because the Frank I used to know would not shut the hell up! I find it strange that a man notorious for talking too much is stone cold quiet now!”
The crowd erupts in laughter. A brief smile comes across Frank’s face as the man licks his lips in glee.
‘If you’re not going to talk Frank, then get the fuck out of my crime scene! I don’t see the point in having you here if you’re not going to give me a reason to take the piss out of you.’ The man laughs.
Frank takes one last drag from his cigarette and smiles. He flicks the cigarette butt at the superior officer. It flies straight into the man’s right eye. The officer screams and clasps his hands over his face, holding the injured eye. When the man removes his hand from his face and pulls back to strike Frank, Frank beats him to the punch. A solid upper cut to the jaw knocks the officer to the cobble stone drive. The surprised officers surrounding them outnumber him but do not react. They idly watch what unfolds in front of their eyes. Frank laughs quietly, and shrugs off the adrenaline ‘This is my crime scene now,” he tells them. “I am in charge of this case, appointed by the district attorney 25 minutes ago.” He takes a deep breath. “Truth is, I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me here. I guess it’s hard to look into the eyes of the men who sold me down the river because of a few discrepancies. After all I did for you guys. You were all taken care of and most importantly, I got the job done at any means necessary. The costs accumulated throughout the years have not been on you but on me. I have to live with my mistakes and me alone. I am only human,’ he finishes.
The on looking officers are still in shock.
‘Get back to work. 15 people died here tonight,” Frank says. “Let’s catch whoever is responsible for this.’ Stepping over the knocked out officer on the ground, he follows the cobblestone path to the entrance of the house. The officers make way for him and a few attend to the officer on the ground. Frank walks into a narrow hallway, entering the crime scene.
The signs of a struggle are evident everywhere. He looks down the hallway and takes a deep breath in as he takes in the carnage. Blood cakes the walls, pools of it contaminate the floor. Frank is careful not to leave footprints that will confuse the attending crime lab technicians. Despite the excess of blood on the floor, no bodies in the vicinity justify the mess. He follows the bloody path down the hallway. The amount suggests some one died here. An abundance of holes in the walls are the unmistakable aftermath of shotgun shells and the hallway is plastered with shotgun shrapnel.
Light from other rooms pierces through the holes in the walls. Frank sticks his finger through one of the holes, and is surprised at how thick the walls are. Three inches from side to side suggests that the shooter was in close proximity of the wall when shooting.
But still, there is not one body near any of the bullet holes. A lot of blood though.
Frank pulls his finger out of the hole and stares at it. The urge to peep through overwhelms him and he bends down and looks through. An eye stares back at him and he jumps away from the wall. Sweat forms on his brow and Frank loosens his tie. It is definitely hot in here.
Returning to the wall, his mind races. A faint whisper seems to emanate from the hole. The sweat trickles freely down his face and Frank breathes harder. He feels the heat of the wall with his hand, the whispering becomes clearer.
‘Don’t you touch me,’ a dark raspy voice whispers.
Frank squirms and pulls his hand away from the flaky dry surface. The sticky sweating is profuse now and his once white T shirt is drenched. Frank’s throat feels dry.
‘It’s so hot. The wall is so hot.’ he murmurs to himself.
He reaches toward the wall and the whispering stops. He smiles nervously and bends to look through the bullet hole. The eye meets his gaze again and Frank feels fire in his soul.
‘Die, Fucker,’ the voice whispers.
Someone taps Frank’s shoulder from behind. He turns around to face the intruder. The man studies Frank with curiosity.
‘You okay, Frank?’ Frank clears his throat twice. ’Yeah I’m okay; it’s just real hot in here, Eddie’
‘Like a Goddamn Mexican whorehouse,’ Eddie agrees. ‘Well, heck it’s good to see you! Boy it’s been far too long, but under the circumstances I’d rather just get down to business. You know that I don’t like to come to crime scenes at all, but this one is a little too close to home. I knew a few of the victims. If this sort of shit is happening on my street, what hope have I got at making this city a safer place?’ he asks.
Frank looks unsympathetic. ‘With all due respect, I think we’d all like to not come to crime scenes like you.’ Frank cannot keep t
he hint of bitterness from his tone.
‘Well all I’m saying is to get your ass in gear. We need to nip this in the bud before anything else like this goes down. It will be a media circus when the press finds out this shit went down in my own neighbourhood. I am the victim’s next door neighbour!’ The DA tries to make his intentions clear.
‘I got it Eddie. I’ll just get on with what I am here to do. I’m sure you didn’t break protocol so I could listen to you rant.’
Eddie looks Frank up and down disapprovingly, noticing the sweat riddled shirt. ‘Frank get your shit together! I don’t condone drugs or taking them, but man if you’re going to do your job, I need you to get your fucking shit straight! Pop a pill. Do whatever you do. Just get me some damn results, or the only protocol I’ll be following is the one under the Drugs ACT,’ Eddie warns.
As Eddie walks away, Frank grits his teeth and tries to hold his temper. As soon as Eddie is out of sight, Frank reaches for his pills and takes 3 to settle his nerves. He is going to need the edge if he is going to catch a mass murdering psychopath
.
Three
Frank had been at the crime scene now for twenty minutes. Light was breaking through the morning clouds shading the living room’s towering white bay windows. Those windows would have been worth the price in cold cash if the 10 foot security wall around the garden hadn’t prevented any likelihood of someone witnessing the crime. Or maybe that was the whole idea.
Frank looked around the once immaculate living room. It was well furnished and had its fair share of Persian exports. He thought about how wealthy the occupants were compared to him. They were not millionaires by any stretch of the imagination, but they could afford premium cable. A 52 inch theatre sat nicely in the corner.
No wall brackets. At least they were not idiots. TVs were notoriously unstable mounted on walls.
They had some marvellous paintings on the wall, but he didn’t genuinely care for art. He realised he was paying attention to the mundane because of what lay in the corner and finally decided to acknowledge the 15 bodies neatly piled there. The corpses were scattered with bullet holes and he was sure there was not a pint of blood left between them.
‘Shit. That’s sad.’ Frank said to himself.
‘What’s sad?’ A woman’s voice asked next to his ear
Frank turned to see a tall brunet standing beside him. She wore a white lab coat that identified her as part of the forensic team. Overtly assertive in the way she stood, she knew she was good looking, but she also didn’t think of it as an asset. ‘It’s sad,” he says, ‘That the Persian carpet underneath the bodies can’t be sold at the police auction now. It’s probably worth at least $800; I could have gotten it for $150. Always wanted one of them rugs.’ The woman isn’t impressed by his sense of humour.