by Gary Starta
MURDER
BY
ASSOCIATION
A STANFORD CARTER PREQUEL
PLUS BONUS SHORT STORY – ANIMAL INSTINCTS
Maneuvering his Lexus IS 300 through the usual heavy traffic on Route 1, John had time to reflect on his past murders. “They all had it coming.” He rationalized in reference to his six victims. All of his previous murders were a necessary means to an end. The four women and two men he had killed painfully confirmed his distaste, for a crazy little thing called love. John hated the part of himself that kept seeking salvation in this despised emotion. But he was hardwired just like every other heterosexual male, to keep swimming upstream to land the big catch. John insanely reasoned that one day he would meet the love of his life. She would be an unattainable type of woman: A princess who would never criticize or hurt him. He fantasized that the two of them would one day look back at his present distressed life and laugh. The chances that John would find a woman who could chuckle about his murder sprees were quite slim however. This did not bode well for the good people of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Murder by Association © 2007 by Gary Starta
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic of mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
Murder
By
Association
A Stanford Carter Prequel
By Gary Starta
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Gary Starta Biography
Chapter One
Peter did not know his attraction to Debbie had become fatal. That’s probably because he did not realize a serial killer had factored into his love equation. The laughter and easy banter Peter and Debbie had enjoyed at a singles function, a few days earlier had fueled the rage of a serial killer named John.
John, the Serial Killer, figured there was only one way to solve this equation. Subtraction.
John was introduced to Debbie two days ago at the latest singles rage: speed dating. Why spend an entire night waiting for a bad date to end when only a few minutes were needed to determine if there would be chemistry or not? This philosophy had not worked to the advantage of John, who believed eight minutes was just not enough time to bare his soul to a partner. How could he ever condense the last thirty-three years of his life—not to mention six murders—in that amount of time? It didn’t take Debbie the full eight minutes to realize John was not going to be her next soul mate—let alone her next dinner mate.
The last three minutes of the introduction were spent in uncomfortable silence. The moderator of the event then rang a bell indicating their time was up. This meant that the single men at the event would now trade their seats in order to meet the next woman.
Women participants remained seated at tables while male candidates visited their tables in clockwise rotation based upon the letters of the alphabet. John was now going to table M and Peter would now enjoy the company of the gorgeous brunette named Debbie at table L. John barely spoke to the red-headed woman seated at table M. He was too busy watching Debbie’s face light up at table L. Debbie bared a smile, revealing her pearly white teeth and sparkling brown eyes for Peter. Unconsciously, Debbie’s left hand began to stroke the curly ends of her lustrous black hair. John translated this as sexual interest for Peter.
John knew Debbie and Peter would be hooking up. It was highly likely they had marked their attendance ballots to request each other’s phone number. John realized there was only an infinitesimal chance, that Debbie had requested his number. He decided not to request hers, in a futile effort to maintain his self-esteem. After all, why should he allow the speed-dating moderator the satisfaction of mocking him?
John would have to go to plan B if he was to save face.
After the introduction process had been completed, John decided he would get to know the man who had stepped between him and his latest love interest. After a few minutes of small talk, John was able to establish that Peter was a divorced software manager who lived in the Boston suburb of Needham, Massachusetts. The killer also learned that Peter did not work on Tuesdays.
John had all the information he needed. He left the small Framingham bar aptly called Whirlpools, as a tidal wave of emotions once again threatened to drown the last vestige of sanity in him.
John’s emotions eventually ebbed. His ranting gave in to a mental numbness. He utilized this state to immerse himself in work for the next five days. When Tuesday morning finally arrived, John picked up his cell to call out sick. A nauseous feeling in his stomach and dizziness in his head, reminded him of his next appointment with death.
Maneuvering his Lexus IS 300 through the usual heavy traffic on Route 1, John had time to reflect on his past murders. “They all had it coming.” He rationalized in reference to his six victims. All of his previous murders were a necessary means to an end. The four women and two men he had killed painfully confirmed his distaste, for a crazy little thing called love. John hated the part of himself that kept seeking salvation in this despised emotion. But he was hardwired just like every other heterosexual male, to keep swimming upstream to land the big catch. John insanely reasoned that one day he would meet the love of his life. She would be an unattainable type of woman: A princess who would never criticize or hurt him. He fantasized that the two of them would one day look back at his present distressed life and laugh. The chances that John would find a woman who could chuckle about his murder sprees were quite slim however. This did not bode well for the good people of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Utilizing his GPS system, John had little trouble locating Peter’s house. It was located among a row of peach colored townhouses bordering a cul-de-sac. John found it ironic that the housing development ended in a dead end. Deep down, he knew love was a dead end for him and anybody foolish enough to stand in his way of finding it. The men he had killed had all won favor with the women he lusted for. The women he had killed fell into two categories. The deceased females were either objects of his unrequited love, or they had unintentionally branded him as a loser with what he interpreted as a scornful look or disinterested gaze.
John did not realize his hypocrisy. He was quick to judge as well, handing out death sentences to those who had offended him. At the same time, he despised what speed dating symbolized about today’s society: Instant gratification and disposable people. He also hated those who behaved in a detached manner
from society. Every time a stranger passed him by without so much as a nod or salutation, anger welled in the pit of his gut. This anger dug into him like a nail. Yet, he could do little about the matter but seethe in silence. He simply did not have enough time to punish these people. There were just too many of them. An entire populace had been trained to de-value their fellow human beings. Most of them couldn’t be bothered with acknowledging their fellow man or woman. John eventually aired his sentiments to the nameless, faceless beings he spoke to in computer chat rooms. But nobody seemed to identify with John―the Serial Killer. His chat room buddies told him he was simply a victim of low self-esteem and to “get over it.” John refused to get over it. He was determined to make his tormentors experience the same psychosis he was experiencing. In John’s mind, he wasn’t really out of touch of reality―everybody else was.
John coasted his vehicle quietly into Peter’s neighborhood and popped out of it without a noise. He approached his victim from behind, not so much to surprise him, but to assume a state of detachment. John feigned aloofness, coldly calculating his kill as if he was a snake, and Peter a mouse. But in John’s heart, rage surged in a tidal wave proportion. Each step towards Peter made John’s heart thud like a drum.
Washing his car in the driveway with headphones on, Peter made an easy target. John scooped up a towel lying on the grass, grabbed the software manager around the waist, and shoved the chamois cloth into his mouth. From out of the corner of his eye, Peter thought he saw a neighbor moving a curtain in her bedroom window. He prayed the neighbor would alert the police of his plight. He couldn’t scream to warn her though. The towel muffled his cries. The manager could feel the hot sting of tears in his eyes. Guilt welled up in him. He had terminated many people over the years. He wondered if the man behind him was a victim of his downsizing. Peter recalled the catch phrases he had used on his former employees: “Don’t take it personal; it’s only business.” But right now, things were beginning to get very personal for Peter the software manager. The catchphrase haunted him as he began to travel life’s last superhighway―to his final destination, six feet underneath shade trees with an upside down view of one pricey headstone. John ignored Peter’s tears. He plunged a knife into his heart. John waited for Peter to die so he could carve a symbol onto his stomach. The etching would depict a crude drawing, a line drawn across a heart in a diagonal fashion. Both the line and the heart were enclosed within a circle among a canvas of flesh. Investigators would later remark that the symbol reminded them of the wordless signs, which prohibited such vices as smoking. Detectives would also find a tarot card at the scene portraying the Three of Swords.
But crime scene investigators would find little else. John had used the water hose to effectively eradicate any boot prints or tire tracks he may have left. He had successfully subtracted Peter from the equation.
Chapter Two
Lt. Detective Stanford Carter paced the floor of the break room at the Boston Police Crime Laboratory Unit. The 34-year-old Massachusetts native wanted to file the frustration of the last seven serial murders in the back of his mind. He knew this task was going to be next to impossible. However, as head of the crime lab, he was expected to fulfill certain obligations outside the realm of homicide investigation. When he was not dusting for prints or analyzing blood splatter, Stanford Carter’s job was to maintain the morale of his colleagues. Despite their dismal failings to track the killer dubbed the ‘The Plunger,’ the CSI unit had recently played a large part in prosecuting the perps, of three unrelated homicides as well as two armed robberies. Stanford decided it would be best to view his glass as half full. Jill Seacrest was a major reason the glass wasn’t completely empty. Carter planned to reward Jill’s efforts by making her CSI Level: 2. Only one level of advancement would now separate him from his highly ambitious and street savvy employee. Carter did not care to admit to himself that there was another barrier, which separated him from Seacrest. That came in the form of Carter’s personal credo: do not mix business with pleasure. Both Carter and Seacrest were quite eligible. Neither of them had been previously married. But each silently maintained that inter-departmental romance would not be beneficial, to the capture of Massachusetts’ most wanted felons.
As Carter sipped the enormously over-sized coffee he had bought from a local convenience store, he wondered what made Jill and his other employees devote their lives to law enforcement. The monetary rewards were not quite good enough to compensate for the long hours, heavy caseloads or risk of death. Stanford himself did not grow up pining to be a forensics investigator. He originally wanted to be a chemistry teacher. His career path changed abruptly when he learned his younger cousin had been shot to death in a convenience store robbery. Carter’s shock and grief were somewhat alleviated when investigators apprehended his cousin’s killer within three weeks. Stanford had marveled at how police had identified his cousin’s murderer, based solely upon evidence retrieval.
The bullet casings found at the original crime scene were found to be identical to a gun used in a similar theft, which had occurred one week later. Stanford had experienced a terrible tragedy; but justice had been served. The then 20-year-old Northeastern University sophomore had found his true calling. He would devote himself to the study of forensics. He wanted to be part of a team, which could bring peace of mind to victim’s families.
Stanford’s stellar work at the Medford Police Department resulted in immediate accolades from his superior officers. Captain Sean Lyons of the Medford PD recommended Carter for supervisor of the crime laboratory, after witnessing ten years of remarkable service. Lyons wrote in his reference letter that: “Carter has the unique ability to combine scientific analysis with gut instinct. Many investigators find it hard to incorporate these two powerful crime-solving tools. Scientists are quick to dismiss any hunch that is not supported by hard evidence. Contrarily, police often pass judgment without all the facts. But Stanford Carter is the rare individual who can use either theory or fact to catch the perpetrator. His arrest record speaks for itself. He will inspire others to excel.”
These words echoed in Carter’s head as a reminder that forensic analysis is quite often not enough. A chime on his cell phone broke the Lieutenant’s attention. A text message informed Stanford that his colleagues were on their way to the break room. In addition to Jill, Carter had invited trace lab technician Corey Parker, medical examiner Andrew Shock and crime scene investigator Tony Gelder to the promotion ceremony.
Carter’s face bore no expression as his investigative team filed into the break room.
Gelder was the first to break the silence. “Don’t tell me The Plunger is at it again?”
“No. At least not for the moment anyway,” Carter responded. “I invited you here to congratulate, Jill Seacrest. She is now a CSI Level: 2. Since we are on duty, I will raise my coffee mug in salute to you, Jill. Good work.” Carter clinked his mug―proudly purchased from Chug-A-Lug Coffee & Donuts―with Jill’s water bottle. Both of the investigators broke into wide grins in assessment of their mock toast.
“Why don’t you two go out for drinks later?” medical examiner Shock asked mischievously. “Perhaps some alcohol might spark some chemistry.” The examiner then nudged Tony in the ribs, which produced a slight smirk on the 27 year-old CSI’s face.
However, the smile on Carter’s face quickly faded. “There will no partying until our serial is apprehended. I trust all of you to maintain the faith and keep up the good work. And don’t pay any attention to what is being said about us in the papers.”
“Our crucifixion in the papers is all part of the Mayor’s publicity campaign. He’s bucking for us to come up with an arrest so the city doesn’t lose any tourist dollars.” Shock scoffed while munching on an iced donut hole.
“Ah, the city’s 375th anniversary. You know this marking of time only serves to show us that good will prevail in the end.” Carter’s veteran crew stood in frozen silen
ce, not knowing what to make of his cryptic comment. Jill eventually broke the tense moment.
“Is that how you see this, boss?” Jill asked. “Good against evil?”
“Well as a wizard named Merlin once proclaimed―good and evil are the same, as each cannot exist without the other. We define ourselves by how we choose to deal with the evil life throws at us. We must all continuously strive to overcome evil or face the consequence―the dark side.” Carter paused to observe a sly smile on Andrew Shock’s face. The detective equated the smile with a need to wrap up his speech, before the whole lab started to mock him with a word-by-word reenactment. Shock pounced on the slightest opportunity to pull a practical joke. Carter figured Shock would have every lab assistant and paper shuffler quoting him verbatim in mock tribute in a matter of hours. “Suffice to say,” Carter locked eyes with Shock, still wearing a facetious smile, “I believe evil is a part of all of us at times; but we should not give it the power to rule us.”
Shock could not resist a taunt. “I thought we were here for a party and not a lecture.”
“Excuse me, Andrew.” Jill interrupted. “I want to ask the lieutenant why he thinks the killer is a man.”
Carter squirmed, digging his hands deep into his lab coat pockets. He pursed his lips and released a small sigh. “I don’t Jill. I didn’t intend for ‘he’ to stand for either sex. My apologies. I’m afraid our lack of theories rivals our lack of evidence.”
“Unfortunately, I have to agree with our boss. How can we make sense of a killing spree which has crossed genders, races and counties?” Gelder lamented.
“I can’t tell you right now, Tony,” Carter answered. “But it’s our job to find out.” Carter broke a moment of silence by embracing Jill with a congratulatory hug. The investigator could not avoid noticing the beautiful fragrance that emanated from Seacrest’s long brown hair. In a way, this was evidence of Carter’s feelings. But this was evidence the criminalist would be forced to ignore.