15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  The person on the other end grunted and said, “I’ll get my delivery driver on it.”

  The phone went dead. Richard felt as if his fate had been sealed. But little did he know, nothing was sealed on that day. That day was special. It was remarkable, in fact. It was unpredictable.

  Not every ending to a killing spree is as straightforward as one would like.

  Fifty-Five

  As Santiago and I approached our boss, Chief Shaw, we noticed the half-pleased look on his face. It was as if he knew something that we didn’t. We’d find out soon enough. But I knew something big was happening. The precinct was abuzz with movement and commotion. Phones were ringing off the hook. Uniformed officers were rushing around, holding files and other office supplies in their hands. My gut feeling was telling me that we were moving in on our man. We must have had a break. A tip from the public was usually a good sign that the suspect was close to being flushed out. Obviously, it could have been a hoax, but Shaw wouldn’t summon us if he wasn’t a hundred-percent certain that the tip was anything but legit.

  “Glad you two could make it,” Shaw said as we walked up to him. I was reaching in my pocket for my pill container. I’d grown so accustomed to popping my prescription that I did it without even thinking twice. Even in front of my boss, who knew about my mental faculties and how I needed those pills to keep them. Even so, popping pills in front of the Chief wasn’t always the smartest of ideas. But we were late in the game, and I couldn’t give a hoot what I did or who I did it in front of. Chronic tiredness, aka “can’t be fucked” syndrome. It usually hit me at around the thirty-seventh hour with no sleep.

  “What seems to be going on?” Santiago asked, ignoring the look Shaw was giving me as I ate on my pill dispenser like they were Skittles.

  “We’ve had a tip from a member of the public. Apparently our guy has been broadcasting himself to the world on an Internet streaming app. He went live thirty minutes ago. He introduced himself and told the viewers that he would be taking many more lives that day. Then suddenly, he decided to switch the camera off and go about it on his own, without the streaming website.”

  I scrunched my eyes a little, since the lighting in the precinct played havoc with the compression headache that was pulling on my eyeballs.

  “Surely we would have heard about this earlier?” I asked, still chewing on my prescription. I could tell that Shaw was attempting to mask his anger at me as he watched me chew on my pills like nobody’s business.

  “Well, we didn’t. So we have to be thankful that somebody had the foresight to call when they spotted our man. You would have thought that one of you two would have come up with the idea of searching the Web for his presence after we found his website,” Shaw said as he crossed his arms.

  “I’m so sorry, Shaw,” I butted in. “I was just really busy, you know. But next time this occurs, I’ll be sure to stop whatever I’m doing, leave the murder scene, and hop onto my laptop and do a little Web surfing!”

  Shaw shook his head in frustration and turned his attention to Santiago.

  “We have Frank’s man for hire, Lathan, working on finding a location on our killer.”

  I groaned loudly and said, “Sounds fantastic. I’m sure his location will magic itself out of thin air, and then we can have a parade once we catch the killer.”

  “Shut up, McKenzie. Your negativity is bringing Santiago down.”

  San smiled and said, “Used to it. Carry on, Frank. It would be weird if you didn’t.”

  Shaw gave us one of his patented “I wish I could fire you” looks and seemed to relax a little on cue, as if he had a switch within his mind that he could flick whenever he was around me to stop himself from exploding or something.

  “Lathan told me that there was a way we could get a location on Richard, even without his camera being on,” Shaw said, sounding a lot calmer.

  “How?” I asked, almost abruptly.

  I could see I was trying Shaw’s patience, but I think we were all frazzled by then. We hadn’t slept properly in three days, and we were not in the mood to tolerate each other’s company, let alone our own.

  “Apparently, most websites these days use your social media profiles as login credentials. Once somebody logs in to one of these apps, they ‘check in’ their location. It’s one of those Terms of Service small print things they add. A lot of privacy advocates disagree with the practice, but apparently it’s common.”

  “So when Kendrick switched on his camera and began streaming, he could have given away his location?” I asked, feeling a bit better about our chances.

  “Yeah, but there’s one problem,” Shaw added.

  “What?” San and I asked in unison.

  “We need a court subpoena to get the website to give it to us.”

  I shook my head, and said, “Fuck that — why don’t we get Lathan to hack into the servers and extract that information?”

  I heard somebody laugh behind us. We all turned to face Lathan, who was standing there, smiling from ear to ear. He had a printout in his hand. It was flapping violently under the AC that was roaring through the building.

  “Court order can wait,” he said, holding up the paper up for everybody to see. “We’re moving in!”

  Fifty-Six

  Richard Kendrick was scared. There was no other way to put it, but he was on the verge of going to the toilet where he sat. Never in his life had Richard thought he would quite literally shit himself. It never crossed his mind. He always had a strong stomach and an even stronger bowel, but it wasn’t enough. Given the right sort of circumstances, most people might find themselves in the same predicament. Chronic fear and stress can cause severe diarrhea, which in turn can cause even more stress. It’s a vicious cycle that RANDOM RICK was experiencing first hand.

  He clenched his fists as his stomach gargled, and he began to feel the urge.

  “Please, I need to go to the bathroom!” he screamed. He still couldn’t see through his puffed-up black and blue eyes. He resembled a panda, just not quite as cuddly…but maybe just as endangered, if Tony had anything to do with it.

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” Tony screamed back at him. For good measure, he thumped Richard two times in the sternum. That was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

  “Oh, god!” Richard screamed.

  Tony stood there, dumbfounded, for a few seconds. The smell was atrocious. It hung in the room, rising up and sticking to the ceiling.

  “You dirty motherfucker. You shat yourself! You actually shat your pants! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tony said, holding his fingers to his nose.

  “I’m in agony. I can’t take any more. It’s too much. Please…end it!” Richard cried. Never in his life did Richard think he’d be covered in fecal matter, while crying for his life as somebody beat on him until he passed out.

  Unconsciousness was a blessing. He craved it, like a gift from the gods. If anything, he wanted to be beaten some more. He just wanted to be asleep. He didn’t want to experience any more pain. A little bit of him was feeling some sort of regret about his prior actions. He hadn’t planned on killing all those people. Maybe only a few. But it was like an addiction. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. But the universe always gets what it wants. No matter how hard you try to resist, it will get what it wants. And if what it wants is you…then you’re shit out of luck.

  That was how Richard felt. The universe wanted him bad. He could feel it deep down, in the pit of his gargling stomach. The world wanted him. The gods, if you will, wanted him to pay for his crimes. Richard knew that he would pay. He’d known from the very start. You’d have to be stupid to think that killing nine people wouldn’t come back to haunt you in some way.

  Richard knew it was coming back, and coming back strong. But he was ready for it. He wouldn’t go out without a fight. He was just looking for his opportunity, and once it appeared, he’d strike.

  Granted, crapping himself on purpose wasn’t part of the plan originally. But he needed
Tony to think that he had broken him. That he was done. That there was no way of him returning. But what Tony didn’t know was nothing could break RANDOM RICK. Nothing could hurt RANDOM RICK.

  Nothing could stop RANDOM RICK.

  It was just a matter of time before Richard broke out of his restraints, killed Tony, and escaped to safety.

  And after he was done escaping the grasp of the law, he figured killing a few more people wouldn’t go amiss. His addiction needed feeding, and he intended to feed it until it was fat and riding a motorized scooter down to the supermarket.

  He could hear footsteps above them. Somebody had entered the house. He counted two people. Maybe three. They were talking quietly. He broke into a smile. Looked like dinner time was just around the corner.

  “What the hell are you smiling about?” Tony yelled, hitting RANDOM RICK in the face a few times. But his smile didn’t fade. He just grinned some more.

  The idea of more dead bodies excited him terribly.

  Fifty-Seven

  The sirens were blaring. The horns were wailing. My mouth felt dry. I hung onto the threads of my seatbelt as my back felt glued to the seat. Santiago was driving, and, as you can guess, he was going very, very fast. Our Ford Capri wasn’t a powerhouse or anything like that, but it was a doozer when it came to how quickly it accelerated. It was my favorite car, and San enjoyed it as well. So much so that we officially entered it as our “appointed car” at the HR department. They bitched and moaned a little, telling us that it wasn’t discreet enough for stakeouts, but I told them I didn’t give a damn, because this car was made to chase motherfuckers, not hide from motherfuckers…hence why we were gunning it down the terraced streets of Boston. We were on North End, smashing past traffic.

  We had gotten a possible location on our killer. Just a few blocks from here, on a suburban street that resembled a rich, stately area, but in actual fact it was just a bit yuppie. San and I didn’t like yuppies. We were Micks (San was half of one, but one nonetheless). Micks don’t like caviar and champagne — they like hot dogs and beer.

  “You reckon we’ll bust this guy or what?” San asked, shifting down to second as we barreled around a corner. I looked at the rearview and spotted six cars behind us, as planned. That was the convoy, and in that convoy of sedans and other mediocre cars were men carrying assault rifles and wearing Kevlar vests. They were ready to take this guy down if need be. I, on the other hand — I just wanted some clarity surrounding the why’s and the how’s. I couldn’t care less if they shot him afterward, as long as I got my answers.

  “I think we’ll get him. The longer he’s out there, the more chance he has of fucking up. The more he fucks up, the closer we get to catching him and making him wish he’d never even so much as contemplated murdering those people.”

  San gave me another one of his “looks” as he took a right. We drove past a construction site. They were building a flashy department store for all the well-off folks around this area. And, judging by the lack of loitering gangsters and street-side one-dollar hookers, this place looked like a decent area to live. Shame about us blaring our blues and twos, ruining everybody’s morning tea and scones, or whatever other weird shit they did down here.

  “But what if we fuck up?” Santiago asked. I looked at him plainly and smiled.

  “Police officers don’t fuck up, Santiago. We just ‘mistakenly shoot’ people.”

  It was a bad joke, and one San didn’t really appreciate.

  “Well, if I see the cunt, I ain’t mistakenly shooting him. I’m putting as many rounds in him as I can. If I had a nuclear submarine on me, I’d nail him with that, too.”

  I shone my partner a smile. “Good job the only thing nuclear about you is the radiation treatment you’ll be getting on your balls,” I quipped.

  San shook his head, his fingers gripping the wheel, and said, “You know what, Frank?”

  “What?” I asked, nearly choking on the cigarette I lit up.

  “At first, when I met you, I thought you weren’t such a bad guy. You might go to heaven even. Maybe God put you here for shits and giggles. I don’t fucking know. But one thing is for certain, Frank.”

  I laughed and said, “What’s that?”

  “You aren’t going to heaven. You aren’t even going to hell. I believe God has a special place for you. Someplace where you can wallow in your inadequacy until the end of time.”

  I sat there, a little shocked at the pain San was throwing my way in the form of some home truths.

  “Man, that hurts. I thought we were friends,” I said.

  “Well, shut the fuck up about my balls, then!” he snapped.

  We began to chuckle a little. Which was strange, seeing we were pulling up to the street where we suspected Richard Kendrick was hiding. The engine died, and we got out of the car. We weren’t wasting any time with any more small talk. Right now, it was about getting the job done.

  By any means necessary.

  Fifty-Eight

  We’d been on the scene now for eleven minutes. We were going down the right side of the street, checking every front yard for any signs of a struggle. It seemed as if most people were either at work or away from their homes. What made this area even harder to search was the fact that every house was rather large, meaning we searched the fronts and the backs. Technically, we didn’t have warrants to go searching inside the buildings, but the plan was simple: If we saw anything that looked just a little bit suspicious, we’d suffer the consequences and go in for a bust. We’d all probably face some disciplinary action, but if we caught our guy, then it would be worth it. I doubted Internal Affairs would mind terribly. One killer off the street versus a technicality? A killer off the street always wins.

  “What makes you think that Lathan is right about this?” Santiago asked as we walked out of the fourth house we’d searched the perimeter of. We hadn’t found anything but potted plants and a friendly dog in its doghouse hidden in the back. The residential street was like a maze. The construction work being carried out a block away was making communication hard. The sound of heavy machinery could be heard from here.

  “Lathan is always right,” I offered in a delayed response.

  “Sure, but what if he isn’t right now?” Santiago asked as we watched a few uniformed officers rush into the front yard of the fifth house. They were searching bushes and looking through the windows. Nobody was home. Just our luck, so we moved down the road and were about to search another house when I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Frank?” I heard San say. “What if he isn’t right?” he repeated as he looked at me with a blank, expectant expression on his face.

  “Oh, he’s right,” I said, looking down the street at something that caught my eye. I saw three cars. One big house and a half-open gate. Normally, that wouldn’t raise any suspicion. But there was something about that house. It was situated right near the north exit of the street. We’d come up from the south exit. I’d thought it was a one-way street, but I was wrong.

  “What?” San asked, following my gaze. As soon as he saw what I saw, he reached for his sidearm and pulled it out, keeping it aimed at the ground.

  “Black sedan,” I said under my breath. That was the killer’s car. At least, that was what he’d been driving in the security camera footage we had on him.

  “Suspect’s car spotted on the north end of the street,” San said into his radio. After a few seconds of static, a dozen voices began to roll call back at us. That was standard procedure. If somebody didn’t acknowledge a radio roll call, we would assume they were otherwise engaged with the suspect or they had been taken out. Thankfully, everybody was accounted for. I turned around and saw the SWAT guys moving in on us. They were aiming their sights down the street, right at the big house with the three cars parked outside. One of them winked at me. I knew what that meant. He could see I had a look of relief on my face, accompanied by a severe bout of anxiety. What if this was all for nothing? What if it was a misfire, and we were ab
out to smash into somebody’s house just for having a black sedan?

  “Shame we don’t have a registration number for the plates on the guy’s car. We have a partial, though,” I found myself saying, more of an observation than a statement.

  One of the SWAT guys tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face him.

  “What’s the partial?” he asked.

  “N7A,” I said.

  The guy nodded and flicked a scope on his gun. It popped out from the side and clipped into place. It looked like the scope you’d get on a sniper rifle. He aimed down the sights and then gave me the thumbs-up.

  “N7A partial plate confirmed. It’s our guy. Let’s move in!” he bellowed.

  Suddenly, everybody started jogging toward the house. They kept to the right side of the road, staying out of direct eye contact with the windows and doors of the premises. We were hugging the bushes and fences that belonged to the other houses as cover. A deathly silence echoed through my ears as I made my way down with the SWAT guys and Santiago. All I could hear was my raspy breathing and rapid pulse. My head felt like cotton wool, and my hands felt like silk. The sweat dripping off them made the gun I had in my hand feel as if it was seconds away from dissolving into my skin. We reached the outside perimeter of the suspected building in which the target may be in. I turned my head slightly as I leaned against a small wall. I could feel the brick denting into my lower back. It sent a shiver of pain up my arms. Next to us, the suspected killer’s car sat. The engine was still radiating heat off it. He hadn’t been here for long. The two other cars parked up the curb were also fresh off their trails. Their engines were stifling hot, meaning they had just turned up. A few things were running through my head. We had unknown suspects in the building. We didn’t know if they were dangerous. We didn’t know if they were dead. We didn’t even know if we were on the right trail. Who’s to say the killer hadn’t abandoned his car and gone off on foot?