15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  Male bonding was a strange thing, but Sway knew that you took what you could get when it came to friends. No man wanted to be friendless at the age of forty, so any company was good company for him.

  “Set the camera up over there, but before we do that, I was thinking that we could attempt to get a shot through the glass?” Sandra Austin said, pointing at the tinted windows of the cyber café.

  It was late in the evening, and the two patrolmen who were guarding the building had been paid off by News72 to go on a “bathroom break.” It was Sandra’s idea to do so. She had been a news reporter for Channel 72 for more than ten years. She had been offered the anchor job six times that year, but turned it down every time. She liked being in the field and had been part of the coverage on most of Boston’s big news stories, including the Boston Marathon bombings.

  Being on a news story like this one brought back memories of her late cameraman Mike. He had passed away during a massive train explosion during a 2012 terrorist attack by a man named Conner Chase. She had avoided cases like that ever since. Not that terrorist attacks happened every day. But she used to do all sorts of crime scene reporting around the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. She’d visit areas in New England where a killer of some sort was wreaking havoc. It was uncommon but happened frequently enough to maintain interest. In the average year, the state would experience at least one or two serial killers. But this current case, the one they were calling the “Door to Door Killer,” felt more like a movie than the others did. It had been two years since she reported on a mass killer in Boston. And now that this particular killer was striking while it was hot, it made her feel uneasy.

  She felt like this news story would play out for a while. She didn’t see the police catching him quickly. She was tipped off by one of her online informants that they had found a website linked to a possible spree killer in the city. She didn’t believe it. The police hadn’t announced anything regarding the victims. But one of her contacts within the P.D. had told her that the informant was right. A big case was underway, and the mayor wanted to keep it under wraps.

  It bothered her that a man of his integrity and position would sit on a gigantic case like this. The public had a right to know. So she paid off who needed to be paid off. She was given a location with nothing else to go on.

  The plan was simple. Move in fast and get as much footage as possible of the scene.

  “I think we should bum-rush the place,” Sandra said to her cameraman, Jimmy Sway.

  He looked at her in confusion but got what she meant after a few seconds. “Step into the dragon’s layer?” he said with a smile on his face.

  “Yeah. Turn the camera on, and let’s go inside. We’ll get arrested, but make sure it’s going out live. I’ll contact Bob back at the station.”

  She got her cell phone out and punched speed dial for her boss, Bob Sinclair.

  He answered on the second ring. She spoke first.

  “Patch us in live. We’re going in for an exclusive on the crime scene.”

  Bob was smiling on the other end. He knew she would pull through. She always did, you see. That was Sandra Austin all over. A top-class reporter with balls bigger than his.

  “Right you are, my love. You’re on in ten seconds.”

  Sandra hung up and started primping her hair. It was bouncing up and down as she made herself look the part. The mounted light on Jimmy’s camera came on, hitting her straight in the face. She scrunched her eyes a little, but then they adjusted. Jimmy counted down with his left hand.

  One finger went down. Two more to go.

  She took a deep breath in and then exhaled.

  Another finger. One more to go.

  She cleared her throat.

  Jimmy’s hand turned into a fist.

  It was show time.

  Thirty-Five

  RANDOM RICK walked into the bunk room, clutching his possessions in his right hand, his left shaking a little in anticipation of what he would see. When he entered the room, a group of men stared at him as they sat on a bed and rolled what looked like to be a marijuana cigarette. RICK nodded his head sternly at them and scanned the room for a free spot. He saw another group of men looking at him. They seemed meaner than the other group. They were covered in tattoos and looked like a bunch of cons. RANDOM RICK guessed that those gentleman were the ones to be wary of. Funnily enough, though, once he laid eyes on one of the cons, the guy winked back at him. It wasn’t for intimidation purposes. That’s not what RICK read into it. It was as if the con knew RICK was one of them.

  One of the evil ones.

  But RICK ignored it and carried on scanning the room for a free spot. The rest of the bunks were taken up, but there was one bunk left, a rickety one made out of plywood. The rest seemed to be made of metal and plastic. RICK figured that the wooden one was one of those cheap flat-pack IKEA ones. He came to the conclusion that the hostel-cum-halfway house was in dire need of all the money it could muster, or they were skimping on the beds so they could make a profit. RICK decided that he wasn’t going to make a judgment on the management. At first he wanted to kill them for making people on the bread line pay for such basic and below-average accommodation. It was like Robin Hood charging the poor for protection. It certainly felt that way to RICK, but he had bigger things on his mind. Like making himself at home.

  He walked up toward the rickety wooden bunk and sat down on the bottom bed. He set his rucksack down beside the bed, partially shoving it under the gap between the floor and the mattress. Little did the people in the bunk room know that he was a killer. He was most likely the only killer in the room. Even with a bunch of ex-cons in his company, he knew that the prison didn’t let killers go on probation. So these guys were most likely small fry. Not that it guaranteed they weren’t violent. You don’t get sent to prison for life for beating some punk up. So RICK still had to be cautious. There was no use being overly confident in a place like this. It could cost him his life…or his face.

  RICK decided to relax, and lay down on his back. The mattress was surprisingly comfortable, considering the look of the bed. He was just about to close his eyes and get some Z’s when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes abruptly, his fists tensed up, ready for a fight. But what he saw surprised him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the voice said. “But you’re on my bed. You can have top bunk if you want. But bottom is mine.”

  RICK sat up, and shook his head. “Sorry pal, this is my bunk. Fuck off onto the top one.”

  The expression on the person’s face was one of pure shock. RICK then noticed that the voice belonged to a disabled teenager. He was in a wheelchair. RICK felt bad about telling him to go for the top bunk and immediately got off the bed.

  “I’m ever so sorry, kid. Take the bottom bunk. Didn’t realize you were in a wheelchair there.”

  The kid shook his head and stuck his middle finger up at RICK. It sent a shockwave through his stomach.

  “Fffff-fuck you!” the kid said in a stutter, and climbed off the wheelchair into the bottom bunk.

  RICK felt like he had been had. Like he was being made a fool of. He decided that somebody would pay. He wasn’t into killing kids. But that didn’t stop him from sticking a seven-year-old girl, so a mouthy teenage wheelchair-bound punk wouldn’t be too much of a leap.

  RICK gritted his teeth and climbed onto the bunk. He purposely kicked the wheelchair kid in the leg as he heaved himself onto the top bunk.

  “Watch what you’re doing, retard!” the kid said.

  It made RICK angry as he lay on his back, contemplating his actions.

  “If only you knew who you were talking to….” RICK muttered under his breath.

  His mind was racing with violent thoughts. Soon he’d be able to take his anger out on the world. Until then, sleep was calling. A world of dreams. A place with no pain. Just serenity.

  A far cry from what he had planned when he woke up.

  Thirty-Six

  Lathan Girds w
as working the computer terminal at lightning speed. His fingers were moving at a pace that I wasn’t used to witnessing. I looked on in awe as he glossed over the data files on the screen. They came down in columns and rows, numbers appearing and disappearing in sequences only a computer programmer could comprehend.

  Santiago was sitting next to me. We were sharing a coffee table and were seated on a couple of beanbag chairs. Lathan and the killer’s computer were only a few meters away from us. It was close enough for me to keep an eye on Lathan’s progress, but far enough to give him some space. Santiago took the opportunity to hand me a coffee he had just gotten from a vending machine. I thanked him and took a sip.

  “Nice cup of Joe,” I said, trying to make small talk with my partner. I was finding it hard to do so. Every time I looked at him, I was reminded of his undiagnosed testicular ailment. I hadn’t asked him any specific questions regarding his condition, but I gathered that something down there was amiss. It’s not the sort of thing that guys enjoy talking about. Men usually find it hard to talk about emotions and feelings, let alone testicles and discharge. We just aren’t as open to health-related conversation as our better, much prettier, and understanding opposite sex.

  “It hurts when I pee, you know?” I decided to offer up, looking at Santiago and taking another sip of my coffee.

  He looked at me for a second or two, and then broke into a smile. “Maybe you should go to a doctor, then?” he said casually.

  I shook my head, taking another sip. I was missing my smokes. You couldn’t smoke at a crime scene. Might contaminate the area.

  “I don’t know. What do you think it is?” I asked.

  I saw his expression and knew I had made a mistake. He was angry. Really angry.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to know? Do I look like a doctor?” he said, taking a sip of his own coffee.

  “Sorry, just thought you’d have an idea,” I said.

  Santiago grimaced a little as he put his coffee down on the table. I watched the steam come off the cardboard cup. The condensation was running down the cup, making a tiny pool of water on the oak finish.

  “Why would you think I’d have an idea? Because I might have cancer?” he said loudly. I quickly looked around and saw a few uniformed officers giving us the once-over. I gave San a look, as in, keep it down. He gave one back, as in, shut the fuck up.

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but your urinary tract infection is nothing compared to what I might be facing.”

  I looked at him and smiled. “So you do know what it is!” I said.

  San put his finger up at me and grinned. “Shut up, Frank.”

  So I did. I remained quiet for a while. Both of us did, actually. We watched Lathan’s back. That was all we could see. That, and his arms moving up and down. He looked like a musician playing the piano on a hard classical bit that required all his attention. And then his attention was interrupted, and so was ours. I quickly turned around and saw a light coming toward us. I heard footsteps and a woman talking. I then saw who they were.

  “Fucking news reporters!” I said out loud in disgust.

  “How did they get in?” Santiago asked.

  We both put our coffees down and got up. I steamrolled over toward them. They were filming the scene of the crime. The cameraman was taking shots of the blood on the walls and the computers. Luckily for us, they hadn’t noticed Lathan working on the only computer that mattered in the building. They also hadn’t noticed me. Not until I punched the cameraman straight in the jaw. To his credit, he didn’t fall. His camera did, though. And it smashed into a few dozen pieces.

  “Hey, that’s my camera, you piece of shit!” the guy hollered.

  I was about to pounce on him when the woman reporter blocked me from hitting him. Then Santiago grabbed me and dragged me away from him. I think I was kicking and screaming, but I can’t recollect it all too well. Must have been the red mist.

  Two uniformed officers escorted both the reporter and the cameraman away. The TV camera was left there on the floor. It was now evidence. Little did we know that they were broadcasting live, and the city was watching as an overprotective detective went commando on a news crew. It only meant that the paranoia about the case and what we were doing grew ever more present. It actually forced our hand and made us make the spree public knowledge. It didn’t thrill the mayor all too much, but as far as I was concerned, he could sit and swivel.

  I was pushed back on the beanbag chair to calm down. There was something about sitting on a cushiony surface that reminded you of childhood and made everything feel better. No matter how many times you get shat on, a beanbag chair can do wonders to clean it up and clear your head.

  Feeling a little calmer, I sipped on my coffee once again. I was just about to make some excuses for overreacting when Lathan called us over. Judging by the tone in his voice, whatever he found was a biggie. So San and I practically sprinted the few feet toward his terminal. He turned to us in his swivel chair and had a big grin on his face. It was annoying me that he was being dramatic about the situation.

  “Spit it out, then — what you got? What’s with that big grin?” I asked.

  He paused, which was typical Lathan. Amateur dramatics and all.

  “We have a name for the killer,” he said, immediately dissolving all feelings of anger I had toward him. So much so, I actually kissed him on the forehead.

  “That’s not all,” he interrupted. “We have an address and the school he attended.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Day Three of the Investigation:

  6.56 a.m.

  After finding out the killer’s name and where his parents lived, considering the guy’s age, we assumed that it would be a safe bet to pay the mom and dad a visit. Little did they know, we were coming armed and prepared!

  San and I got out of our car. We started strapping on bulletproof vests on orders from Shaw and our point man, Sergeant Salazar. He was the local SWAT boss and drove a hard team of men into some of the most compromised criminal hideouts, and still walked out clean on the other side. He was the sort of man even I had respect for.

  “Looks like shit’s about to get real, my friend,” San said to me as I finished tightening the grips on my gloves. I was watching Salazar from a distance. He intrigued me, and so did his job. If it weren’t for my mental ailments, I would have tried for SWAT years ago, but unfortunately for me, it was just not meant to be.

  “You got a hard on for the Sarge?” I heard Santiago say as I strapped on my utility belt.

  “Nope, just like watching a guy who’s crazier than me on the right side of the law for a change.”

  San smiled and handed me two CO2 grenades and a few nine-bangs. We were preparing for a breach-and-clear raid on the house. We suspected that the mom and dad would be there, and were hoping that the son was there also. I wasn’t too convinced on the theory Shaw had put together before we left for the mission about the son possibly working with his parents on the killings. That being said, the amount of carnage that the kid had caused did suggest one of two things. Either he was a bona fide killer who had the foresight to get his work done in a timely and effective manner, or somebody was helping him stay hidden. I was working off the first assumption. The rest of the crew, including Santiago, were going with the parents helping him out. The dad’s previous conviction for attempted murder twenty years ago didn’t help sway their minds to my theory.

  I decided to speak up. “This is a waste of time. What’s the point in going in for his family? I mean, surely that will just aggravate the guy even more. And if he wasn’t aggravated before, I dread to think what he may be capable of once we piss him off.”

  San handed me a handgun and took one for himself. We were getting our supplies from the back of the trunk. The eight or so SWAT guys came with their weapons already, like preassembled killing machines. We, on the other hand, were like wind-up soldiers ready to go off in whatever direction our masters told us to go.

&
nbsp; “The parents are the key to getting inside this guy’s head. If we can flush him out, all the better. We can’t stop this guy from doing what he has planned. Let’s face it, Frank, without our input, so far, eight people have bitten the dust at his hands. Nine, if you include the attempted murder. But he could have done a lot more damage since then. It’s not like all murders get reported straight away. Especially if everybody present was taken down as well.”

  I clasped a few more ammo clips on my belt and caught a glimpse of myself in the back window of the car. Shutting the trunk, I felt an immediate sense of dread. We were moments away from confronting a killer’s family and hauling them in for questioning. In one sense, I was relieved at the fact that we’d finally caught a break. But, on the other hand, I was worried that we might cause some waves. Especially with the media now involved. We were in essence poking a hornet’s nest. It was just a matter of time before one of us got stung real bad. And I was hoping it wasn’t me.

  I’m allergic to bee stings.

  Thirty-Eight

  RANDOM RICK was wide awake. He had been for hours. But for some strange reason, the hostel he was in was full of lazy inhabitants. Nobody was awake. He was the only one with his inner lights switched on. He was raring to go, pistons firing on all cylinders. His core engine had fired up, and his veins had expanded with the rush of adrenaline coursing through his blackened heart. His eye whites were all that was visible of him. They were shining in the dark. He looked at his digital watch. It read 7:11 a.m. It was much too late to be wasting the day in bed. The other people in the room would have to sleep on without him. He had much to do, and little time to accomplish it in.