by Rick Murcer
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
CHAPTER-1
CHAPTER-2
CHAPTER-3
CHAPTER-4
CHAPTER-5
CHAPTER-6
CHAPTER-7
CHAPTER-8
CHAPTER-9
CHAPTER-10
CHAPTER-11
CHAPTER-12
CHAPTER-13
CHAPTER-14
CHAPTER-15
CHAPTER-16
CHAPTER-17
CHAPTER-18
CHAPTER-19
CHAPTER-20
CHAPTER-21
CHAPTER-22
CHAPTER-23
CHAPTER-24
CHAPTER-25
CHAPTER-26
CHAPTER-27
CHAPTER-28
CHAPTER-29
CHAPTER-30
CHAPTER-31
CHAPTER-32
CHAPTER-33
CHAPTER-34
CHAPTER-35
CHAPTER-36
CHAPTER-37
CHAPTER-38
CHAPTER-39
CHAPTER-40
CHAPTER-41
CHAPTER-42
CHAPTER-43
CHAPTER-44
CHAPTER-45
CHAPTER-46
CHAPTER-47
CHAPTER-48
CHAPTER-49
CHAPTER-50
CHAPTER-51
CHAPTER-52
CHAPTER-53
CHAPTER-54
CHAPTER-55
CHAPTER-56
CHAPTER-57
CHAPTER-58
CHAPTER-59
CHAPTER-60
CHAPTER-61
CHAPTER-62
Perfect Sinners
By
Rick Murcer
www.rickmurcer.com
Perfect Sinners
Copyright © 2017 Rick Murcer
All rights reserved
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
To the loved ones we’ve lost this year. Pat, Jack, and Sandy, thank you for what you brought to our lives. Rest in God’s loving arms.
CHAPTER-1
Denial.
There was nothing more contemptible than those who failed to realize the depths of their sickness, their sin, their darkest side.
Nothing.
That malfunction in self-realization was what troubled his city, and deeply troubled him.
Was “troubled” the correct word? Perhaps not. The notion he had of the city’s condition entailed destruction, and from the inside out. That’s what parasites and disease did best. They forced their way inside and began the ravaging process. It was in their very nature.
He moved slowly toward the young woman, a girl really, tied-up, lying on the warped wooden table.
Was she not the very epitome of what would ravage this town? Unless, of course, there was an intervention?
He bent close to her face. Her eyes were closed; her face absent of stress. It made her look even younger than she was. Too young to be the sinner she’d been.
Straightening, he shook his head in heart-felt disapproval. Who would have thought someone like her to be a cog in this city’s destruction? Unrecognized for what she, and so many like her, actually were. They held true to their dark natures and ignored the enlightening invitation these sinners had been called to embrace. That all people had been called to embrace. There was no denying that truth.
But, even with a life filled with sin, one could crawl out from the miry clay. He’d heard God speak and had responded in kind so he knew the truth of the call.
Shifting his weight, he gazed toward the decrepit ceiling, his thoughts trying to avoid the disgust and contempt that were slowly wrapping around him like deadly tentacles. Again.
A minute passed before he closed his eyes, still fighting the desperate emotions that encounters like the one with this woman brought to the surface.
It was such a burden to see what he saw. It had always been.
Those unsightly visions had brought more nightmares, more revelation, leading to more sleepless nights. But that was all a part of his gift and he humbly accepted that gift as intertwined with his special destiny. His people had confirmed that destiny. More than once.
Opening his eyes, he smiled and shoved all thoughts of benevolence away, ready to accept his divine path. What could be better than that?
Moving closer to the woman, he reached into the pocket of his tattered jacket and began fingering the object hidden there gently, then with increased fervor.
Recognizing the doleful evil in people hadn’t been his life’s ambition. For him, to recognize deep transgression, no matter how hard the human vermin tried to hide it, was akin to bliss.
Even in one so young.
Their interactions with him appeared to have been happenstance, or at least that’s how it had seemed at first. But, there was no such thing as coincidence in this world. Ever.
His fingers worked harder against the edges of the piece in his pocket. He hesitated, then finally relented, touching her arm with his other hand.
“Such a waste,” he whispered. “You had perfection at your fingertips and chose to be a sinner. But I’ve helped you get home. I’ve saved you.”
After one last look, he took the object out of his pocket, kissed it, then placed it around her pale neck.
A moment later, he lifted her from the table, placing her gently over his shoulder, then ventured out of the door into the awaiting night.
CHAPTER-2
Big Harv Patterson gazed up at the warm morning sun beaming down on his small home on Chicago’s north side. At least that was something to enjoy.
He sighed, then walked into his new vegetable garden, put both hands on his hips, and began to curse, a skill he’d put to good use more than once in his thirty-plus years serving with Chicago’s finest.
It had been something for a man his size, even though he’d lost forty pounds, to bend over and pull those damned weeds once, but twice? Where in God’s name did they come from? His garden had been as clean as a whistle a couple of days ago. Now the little demon spawns were back and they’d brought family. A lot of family.
“So this is what happens when you have to retire and they tell you to relish the mythical good life? Weeds?” he growled out loud.
He wondered if that train of thought was some deep metaphor for life in general and then dismissed the idea. Life was almost always what you made it. And when it wasn’t? Well, fate was dealt a hand in this game too.
After rubbing his chin and considering pulling up everything, even the plants he had painstakingly put in the ground, he decided that was a bit desperate. Defiantly, he glared at the s
mall patches of weeds jitterbugging in the breeze.
They winked at him again.
“Keep it up, you little bastards.”
The good thing, at least, was that they were a fine mix of colors. He liked the purple thistles the best. Although the dandelions were nice too.
He smiled. What would his daughter, Ellen Harper, forensic expert extraordinaire, think of him if she knew he was enjoying nature’s colors, even if they were weeds? She'd confiscate his Jim Beam and then escort him into the psych ward for evaluation, lecturing him on mot mixing pain pills with JB.
He scratched a perceived itch on the back of his head. The growth of natural pests wasn’t entirely his fault. He’d been pulled away for a few days to do some consulting work while he awaited the approval of his private investigator’s license.
Becoming a PI had never entered his realm of thinking prior to retiring from the Chicago Police Department. Private dicks were always a pain in the ass to the CPD and had managed to screw up more than one investigation. But none of them had been a Captain with the CPD and had his connections.
Even though his heart doctors had told him to take it easy after his near-death encounter three months ago, thanks to a balky heart value, he was feeling great. He guessed the heart deal would kill him someday, but no one got out of this world alive. He’d decided to enjoy the time he had left.
Picking up his short wooden stool leaning against the white picket fence surrounding his attempt at gardening, he plopped down with a grunt. His thick fingers yanked the first weed from its bed then began moving rapidly to thin the forest. He kept pulling, even hoping to hear a weed scream or two, but his mind turned back to his first unofficial case as a PI. He’d agreed to help locate the seventeen-year-old daughter of one of CPD’s detectives.
Ramona Ackles had left her home on the north side near Wrigley Field, three days before, sporting one of those infamous teenage huffs after an argument with her parents, and not been seen since.
Big Harv exhaled then tossed the next batch of weeds in a pile by the fence. He knew what that whole what-you’re-doing-is-wrong argument with your daughter was like because he and Ellen had had two of those. One of them became heated right after her mom had died in a fiery crash on the Ryan Expressway almost six years ago.
The pain was better, after those six years, but there was something missing inside. He’d never admit it to Ellen, but that argument was far more him than her. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t think they would be able to live another hour without his wife.
After the second argument, he decided they wouldn’t have any more of them. It had taken him some time to shelve his own pain and realize that Ellen’s was more important to deal with.
Words said in anger, no matter the intent, were still words said that could never be taken back, only forgiven. He and Ellen had agreed to forgive and move on the best they could. It had worked, until her divorce from her asshole ex, Joel Harper, had triggered an anger in her that he hoped would stay buried. A little more of that apple falling close to the tree metaphor. He and anger had been long-time friends.
She’d pretty much recovered from the bout with depression and anger except for the occasional face punch to someone who’d pissed her off. Hey, at least she stood up for herself and that had given him some of that secret pride that fathers have for their children.
Big Harv hesitated as he reached for the next weed. Ellen had been angry with him as a teen, but she’d always come home after an hour or two. Unlike Ramona. He’d talked to her friends, her teachers, her teammates from volleyball, and every relative that he could reach. He’d examined every text and call record from her phone. Every Tweet she had received and sent and had even and scoured her Facebook page with a careful consideration to friends accepted and people unfriended.
Nothing. Simply nothing had helped him locate Ramona. But he wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. When all else failed, good old-fashioned police work, the kind that got people off their asses, was the best solution.
He snatched another clump of weeds, then moved his chair a few feet to the middle of the garden.
He had contacts all over the city who didn’t include cops or his Ellen, but people with all kinds of personalities and appetites. Some of those folks he was almost ashamed to know but he was sure this investigation could be leading into the darker, unsavory underbelly of his beloved city. The side that was hidden from most citizens other than cops and perverts. He prayed that Ramona wasn’t where any of those contacts could find her. But what else could he do?
“It is what is,” he whispered.
With knees cracking, Big Harv stood again, moved the stool for the third time, then sat down again, fingers in motion.
“Take that, you little bastards. And that. Go with your damn relatives,” he mumbled as he flipped the weeds onto the growing pile. “You all have to die.”
“So, do you always talk to yourself when you’re playing weed slayer, old man?”
Big Harv smiled without looking up, then hid the smile with a well-practiced frown.
“Who are you calling old man? No respect. And I’ll damn well talk to these little punks if I want, Ellen Harper.”
He scooted around on the chair to get a better look at the entrance to the garden and saw that Ellen wasn’t alone. No real surprise there.
Since the disturbing case involving two brothers who had been kidnapping Chicago’s young women, her and Brice Rogers, the enigmatic, well-conditioned detective, had been almost inseparable. Throw in the third leg of their faction, Bella Sanchez, the curvy, fiery Latino detective and Brice’s partner, and one had quite a team.
“Damn, don’t you three do anything without each other?”
“No, anciano, do you want to see some pictures of what we do?” said Bella, smiling that wide, infectious smile. She was even more lovely with that smile.
That grin had been one of the first things he remembered seeing upon waking in the recovery room as she held Ellen’s hand. He still remembered the feeling at seeing them both. He realized that day that love could take on more than one face.
On top of that, who would have thought those two would grow so close, especially after they had exchanged punches at a Christmas party? The shitty heart attack had at least been good for something.
“Hey, Chica. I know what that word means. Both of you need to know I ain’t that old. Brice, help me out here.”
“Well, Captain, your spring chicken days are over, but you got lots of years to go,” he answered, grinning.
He squinted at Brice, taking in the face that earned the ‘Superman’ nickname. “That didn’t really help. You all are officially on the shit list.”
“Wow, not again,” said Brice.
“Welcome to the club,” said Ellen.
Focusing on Ellen, her stunning violet eyes bright in the morning sun, he noticed that her auburn hair was a little longer. The stress lines around her eyes and mouth were gone. She was every bit as beautiful as her mother had been.
He felt a sudden pang of melancholy. God in heaven he missed that woman. He shook that feeling away, as was his usual, and looked back to Ellen.
Even with working the long hours that were required for a Forensic Tech Supervisor with the CPD, she seemed far more relaxed these days and hadn’t hit anyone for months.
Brice had been good for her in so many ways. Not the least was helping her stamp out some of those anger, real anger, issues after the divorce. That contrary attitude would probably never go away completely. It was good to see her getting back to her old self though.
He frowned and they all stopped smiling. There was something wrong for all of them to be here at once. Ellen was never good at hiding her emotions or thoughts. This morning was no exception.
“What are you staring at dad?” Ellen tilted her head.
“I’m wondering what the hell the three of you are doing here. You work for the good people of Chicago and you’re all over here farting around, picking o
n a senior citizen to boot,” he said. “What is it Ellie?”
His daughter folded her long legs and squatted next to him.
“We found her this morning, Dad.”
He felt his heart sink. “You found Ramona?”
“Yes,” she said, grabbing a dead weed and holding it in her fingers.
“Alive?”
She shook her head. “No. Her body was floating in the river near West Lake and Canal, down by the tracks. She’d been in the water for around ten to twelve hours, at least that’s what the preliminary report shows.”
He didn’t really think it possible, but Big Harv could still be stunned, even after all of these years as a cop.
He shook his head slowly. “Foul play?”
“I don’t know yet. She could have jumped. She could have fallen in. She could have been stoned or drunk and lost her balance. I’ll have to see what the science tells me.”
“Do her parents know?”
Ellen nodded. “Brice and Bella picked me up after they left the Ackles’ house.”
He sighed. It was near impossible to imagine what Ramona’s mom and dad must be thinking right now. Seeing your baby hit the door for the very last time directly after an awful fight was bad enough, but not being able to say you’re sorry after you’ve lost them forever is a shitty reality. He wasn’t much of a praying man, but he’d do it for them today.
“What does your gut say happened to her?”
“I leave that ‘gut feeling’ thing to you detective types, remember?” she said softly.
“Yeah, I remember. But tell me what you think anyway.”
Ellen stood and offered him her hand.
He took it.
They stood eye to eye, neither wavering.
“Based on what you told me, she liked her life, mostly. Those types of people don’t take their lives, usually. But who knows what goes on in a teen’s mind? Still, I think somebody has first-hand knowledge of what happened to her, if that answers your question.”
“It does, for now. Go do what you do. I have to call Dave Ackles and his wife,” he said.
He kissed her on the cheek and turned toward the house.