15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  The woman burst out crying.

  “Somebody get a PTSD doc down here. She looks like she’s going to need some psych work done.”

  The two uniforms and the check-in girl went back down the hallway. I watched as they disappeared into the distance. I knew that the girl wasn’t lying about the crime scene being just around the corner of the hallway. I could smell the copper in the air. Must be a nasty one.

  “Saddle up, boys,” I said, then immediately noticed the female cop next to me. “And girls,” I added. “This is going to be an interesting one.”

  We braced ourselves for the worst and made our way around the corner. What we saw was pure carnage, with a hint of evil thrown in.

  Eight

  The first thing that I noticed was the woman in the black dress. It was a strange sight. She looked magnificent in her tight evening dress, yet at the same time looked horrific. She was covered in blood. The carpet and welcome mat beneath her were soiled with red and black plasma. The walls had bloody hand prints on them. They resembled the sort of finger paintings that hang on most parents’ fridges. The hallway was sparsely lit, and the flickering light bulb above us gave the room an authentic feel when it came to something out of a horror movie. Because that was what it felt like. It felt like a horror movie. The blood and gore were over the top. The setting was well chosen for an ambush, and the hotel itself looked like a perfect piece of set dressing.

  “The killer knocked on the door and stuck her with the knife,” I said out loud.

  Santiago was next to me. He nodded. “Looks like she was killed quickly. Judging by the amount of blood and the way it’s projected up the walls, I’d go so far as to say that she died instantly,” San replied.

  I agreed with his analysis. The woman cop, Janet, was next to us. She had a look on her face that I’d seen many times before. She looked like she was going to need a sick bag.

  “First murder scene?” I asked the pretty police officer.

  “Nope. Just the first one with this much blood,” she replied.

  We were quiet for a few minutes. I usually liked to work in peace. I could feel my mental faculties escaping me by the minute. My mild mental illness was making itself known. I was hearing those voices again. I had to sort my equilibrium out before I fell victim to the ghouls in my gray matter.

  “What you doing?” Janet asked, noticing that I was pouring a few pills into my mouth and swallowing them dry.

  “Medicating,” I replied.

  She looked at me with a hint of shame in her eyes. As if she was ashamed of being in my company. I knew straight away that we had a golden girl in our presence. One of those “do it by the book” people. God, I hate those people.

  “You know that taking narcotics, prescribed or otherwise, is against Section Fifteen?” she asked, giving me a smarmy look.

  I chucked a few more pills in my mouth and shrugged.

  “Fuck Section Fifteen,” I jeered. “Let’s move into the room and check out the other body.”

  We did just that. It took a minute or so for us to swing over the female body lying in the entrance of the room. We were careful not to disturb any of the evidence. When we all got into the room, we noticed the distinct smell of blood in the atmosphere. Without seeing the body, I knew that this one was going to be the worse one.

  There was an en suite bathroom to our left, and a bare wall to our right that made a narrow walkway into the bedroom. I followed the trails of blood and turned the corner. Just past the en suite bathroom, around the corner of the room, was the bed. On it, a male victim lay slouched against the headboard.

  I could hear the girl cop beside me gagging. I turned to her and said, “Maybe it’s best that you go downstairs.”

  She didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at the man on the bed. He was in dress pants and a white shirt. The shirt was bloodstained pink and red. The buttons were ripped. There were holes in his chest, and his right eyeball was missing, leaving a fair-sized hole in his skull. I could see the blackness of that hole. It was growing ever bigger as I stared at it, until San’s voice interrupted me.

  “Bloody footprints on the floor, leading into the en suite,” he said, following those prints.

  A few seconds passed, and I heard him say from inside the bathroom, “Found the guy’s eye. Looks like it was punctured by a blade. Maybe eight inches long, two point five in width. The killer used the sink to wash his hands and knife. Specks of blood all over the basin.”

  There was a long pause. I was drawn to the wallet on the side table. I grabbed it and flipped it open. I saw the driver’s license picture and name. My heart sank.

  “This just got political,” I said.

  San walked out of the bathroom and creased his face in anticipation of what I was about to say.

  “Roger Bulscelli, next in line for the Governor of Massachusetts job.”

  “Oh, shit! We need to tell Shaw,” San said.

  I already had my cell out. I pressed speed dial and got an answer on the first ring.

  “We have a problem, sir,” I said.

  I heard Shaw laugh on the other end. “You’re telling me!” he said, laughing nervously and then saying, “There’s been another one. A woman murdered on the early morning school run. Same MO. Knife to the throat. Get down there. I need to see if it’s related, or a complete coincidence. Hopefully you’ll find her husband down there, attempting to wash the blood off his hands.”

  I didn’t tell Shaw about the governor-elect being murdered. I thought I’d let somebody else inform him.

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy.” I hung up and turned to San. “There’s been another one,” I said.

  San nodded and turned to Janet, the uniformed officer.

  “You stay here and wait for another detective to show up. Remind them that this case is ours. Don’t let them push you around because you have breasts. Even if they are perfectly shaped and all,” Santiago said.

  I winked at the girl cop, and San and I got out of that crime scene quicker than you could say “on to the next one.”

  Nine

  Sitting down in a cyber café, the guy with the nickname RICK entered his username and password into the login page. The screen flickered a few times. It then showed his profile picture. Granted, the picture showed him in a better light during “happier days,” but he still looked like a decent human being. Even after the things he’d done that day. The three lives he’d taken. The many more that were due to come.

  RICK knew many things. He knew that the human brain can survive without oxygen for a whole minute before risking permanent brain damage. He knew that the heart pumps 2,000 gallons of blood a day around the body. He knew that if you poked your fingers in the right place, just above the neck, snuggled between the shoulder blades, you could knock somebody out instantaneously.

  RICK wasn’t a doctor. RICK was a movie buff. He also liked reading books. All in all, he was a pleasant human being. To many, he looked like a respectable guy, but deep down, within the chambers of his heart, he was a vicious animal. He’d known of it for a while. He was aware of his bad thoughts. He knew that he’d have to act on them soon, or they would eat away at his skin, crawling under it and nibbling on his innards. He knew it was time.

  Yesterday he made the decision to act on his impulses. Yesterday was the beginning of it all. And now it was a new day. A day that would live in history. He planned on taking many lives that day. He had no one in particular in mind. For his first kill, he envisioned a couple. A man and a woman. He didn’t know who they were, or whether they existed. But when he got that call from his paid stooge, he knew it was time. He knew that it must have been fate. It was the only explanation. He had no bias against the lives he took. He just wanted to take many, many more.

  Nothing would stop him.

  But, like many killers of the western world, he felt as if the world needed to know. They needed to know the face behind the evil. He felt that the police should be given a fair shot at capturin
g him. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be caught, but it was only fair for the lives he took that they should have a smidgen of favorable odds in their favor. It would be inhumane not to allow such a thing. Especially considering he was on a random attack around the city. He planned on striking many places by chance. He didn’t care who he killed. Which sex they were. Which age. Which color. He just wanted blood. He wanted it so bad that he could taste it. But it wouldn’t be any fun unless they knew he was coming. He wanted people to be afraid to open their doors. It would make the game that little bit more interesting. And then when they did open the door to him, they’d see his face. They’d recognize their mistake. And he’d capitalize on it. Because that’s what predators do. That’s what killers do.

  That was what RANDOM RICK would be known for.

  “It’s time for them to know,” RICK muttered under his breath.

  He took one glance around the cyber café. His surroundings were quiet. Just a few customers were in. It was still early. Not even midday. But the world would be darkened. The city would grow weary once he set foot on its doorstep and knocked until somebody answered. And when they did, it would be over for them.

  “Over for many,” he said.

  He clicked the left button on the mouse and scrolled down a page. In front of him was an empty blog post template. The cursor was flashing on the screen. The black dot seemed to be pulsating against the white cream background.

  And then it began:

  RANDOM RICK STRIKES

  They call me RICK. I call myself RANDOM RICK.

  For those of you who don’t know me, you will come to fear my name.

  There is no pattern to what I am about to do.

  There is no hope for the people I’ll come across.

  Once you see me standing on your doorstep, you are as good as dead.

  Because when RANDOM RICK comes knocking, there’s no turning back.

  I’m coming, Boston.

  Fear me.

  Remember me.

  Indulge me.

  Catch me…if you can.

  Knock knock…. Who’s there?.... Dead…. Dead who?.... Dead you.

  Ten

  This particular scene was a lot different from the other. The hotel scene was one of lust and animalistic violence. Both the woman and the man, who we later found out to be Roger and Mandy Bulscelli, were killed in an aggressive fashion. This scene struck me more as one of opportunity. It was quick and to the point. There were far fewer wounds to the victim. The woman was put out of her misery quickly, which suggested that the killer either knew her or felt something toward her. Or I could be looking into it the wrong way, from the back instead of from the side, as San liked to say.

  “I’m betting money that this is the same guy,” I heard Santiago say. I was too preoccupied with looking at the victim. She had interesting eyes. Eyes that told a story. A story I wanted to know.

  “I can’t be too sure, either way. I just want to know why,” I offered in return, going down on one knee and grabbing a loose piece of paper from the porch, an inch from her body. It was nothing. Just smoke and mirrors. A receipt for hairspray, marked 2011. Unless the killer was mighty efficient and only used hairspray once every two hundred days, I doubted that it was related to the case. But I bagged it up nonetheless.

  “You can’t be on the fence,” San said as he joined me on one knee. We were both over the body of our vic. She was a pretty lady. Maybe in her early forties. Her eyes were still pulling me in. I didn’t know why, but an interest in her personal affairs was on the agenda for me.

  “I’m not on the fence,” I replied, on delay as usual. “I’m just soaking in the evidence,” I added.

  I saw Santiago give me his wide-eyed look. It was usually accompanied by a wag of the finger, like an older lady telling you off.

  “Don’t soak for too long, Frank. Before you know it, you’ll be covered in blood.”

  San went off and did a perimeter search around the property. It was a detached house. Nice and big, if not average by most standards around here. A small group of suburban moms were watching from across the road. They looked like they were ready to camp out. Maybe even start up a BBQ and get a few drinks on the go. The resourcefulness of the suburban mom always impressed me. No matter the weather, a cookout would be in the cards.

  The onlookers were annoying me. I didn’t usually mind people ogling the dead, but I was of the mindset that this lady had been through enough. Having her throat slit and being left for dead on her porch was enough of a spectacle to not have to contend with nosy neighbors getting an eyeful. So I got up and made my way over to the onlookers, who looked like they were ready to pass bricks at the sight of me steamrolling toward them.

  “I’m sorry, people, can I ask you to go back indoors? When we need to talk to any of you, we’ll knock on the door,” I said.

  I watched as disappointed faces turned around and walked back into their abodes. I was a little awestruck at the disappointment in their eyes. I mean, who would want to put themselves through a horrific crime scene like this? Bored housewives, apparently. And a few house-husbands to boot!

  I was taken out of my haze by Santiago touching me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw him grinning at me.

  “Must be good news, then,” I said.

  “Only the best news,” he replied, pointing at a lamppost a few yards to my right. I looked at it and then saw what was making him grin. “Neighborhood watch,” San muttered under his breath.

  “Who would have thought that a security camera in the suburbs would pay off?” I replied.

  My vision then focused on the curb next to the lamppost. I saw some tire marks. They were faint but still of some interest. I then noticed something that made my heart flutter. I saw blood specks on the ground. I walked up to the curb and knelt down, trying to get a better look.

  “We have blood!” I said, looking back at the porch from my position. The body on the porch lay about forty yards opposite. It was more than enough space to park a car, murder a woman, and then drive off. A well-executed murder always has a good exit route. You can’t get much better than this exit route. He was long gone before raising any suspicion. Now all we had in our favor was the security camera on the lamppost. Judging by where it was pointing, we weren’t going to get the murder caught on tape. But we might get the killer, or the car and its registration plates.

  “I bet we don’t get shit,” I heard San say, interrupting my inner mojo.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Because the odds are looking stacked. I mean, what sort of killer would go to all this trouble just to park right under a damn security camera? I’m thinking this murder was planned to the ‘T.’”

  “I disagree. I think we are looking at a spree killer.”

  San’s eyes widened under a smile. “I bet we aren’t. Two hundred bucks.”

  I could feel my crow’s-feet crinkling. “You sure like throwing money around. What’s with all the sudden interest in betting?”

  San shrugged and then said, “I thought that I might as well try to get as much money out of you before you get that lieutenant job. Simple economics, Frank, that’s all.”

  I stuck my middle finger up and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  And I was right. Neither San nor I would be going anywhere anytime soon. This case was about to get that little bit more interesting.

  Eleven

  RANDOM RICK was calculating his next move. He didn’t know who to strike or where to strike. He made sure that wherever he went and whoever he killed, they would have no link to him. He was adamant that the guilty people in his life shouldn’t suffer. He was only interested in taking a random life. It was the only way to live up to his name. If he did it any differently, then the moniker RANDOM RICK would be nothing but a farce.

  RICK was not interested in being a farce. He was all about being legitimate. He wanted his name to mean something. He wanted the people of Boston to remember him for his dedi
cation to the name. He knew that a killer who senselessly went around stabbing people on their doorstep would bring terror to the streets. It would scare the people of Boston into submission. They’d speculate. They’d accuse. And as they were doing that, going out of their minds, RICK would be taking more lives.

  The police would be confused. They’d suspect all the wrong people. They’d try to link the killings. That would be their mistake. RICK knew they had their best intentions at heart, but sometimes you couldn’t help but feel sorry for the pigs. They tried so hard, but nine times out of ten, they missed the big picture. And that was what RANDOM RICK was all about. He was about making people aware of the big picture.

  RICK left the cyber café with only one thing on his mind: He was ready for another kill. Some might say that he was too eager to take another life, but RICK himself knew that in this game, you needed to be prolific. If he rested on his laurels, before he knew it, the police would have caught up with him, and the fun and games would be over.

  He had no interest in hiding himself away from the spotlight. In his opinion, only a coward would do such a thing. Being a killer was all about standing tall above everybody else. You felt empowered to take the life of the undeserving. That was what RICK was all about. He knew he deserved to be the widowmaker that he craved to be. He knew he was justified in wanting to make men mourn and women cry. He wanted kids to long for their mothers and fathers, only to find out that they weren’t coming home.

  RICK didn’t know why he felt this way. For a very long time, all he could remember thinking was that he owed the world pain. He owed it in full, and he was ready to pay up. Being in debt was a sin, for you have to pay for what you owe. And RICK knew he owed big-time. And he was ready to kill…big-time.

  RICK sat in his black sedan, waiting for his GPS system to turn on. He had a tablet on his lap. On the screen, a Google Maps aerial image of Boston flickered. He hovered his finger over a random residential street. He then quickly pressed down, awaiting the screen to load his chosen destination. It didn’t take long. An image of the residential street loaded up. It looked a little different from the previous street he was on. That one was a suburban kill. This one looked as if it was going to be a projects kill. It brought more danger to his job. The people who lived on the street were most likely going to be overly suspicious. They could have weapons. They could fight back.