THE BRAILLE KILLER
AN ALICE BERGMAN NOVEL
BOOK ONE
THE BRAILLE KILLER
Copyright © 2019 Daniel Kuhnley
Visit the author’s website at danielkuhnley.com
All rights reserved.
Edited by Catherine Jones Payne
www.quillpeneditorial.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC
PO BOX 67458
Albuquerque, NM 87193-7458
eBook Edition - February 2019
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-947328-12-9
Cover design by Dan Van Oss, CoverMint
www.covermint.design
Other Books by Daniel Kuhnley
Alice Bergman Novels
Birth Of A Killer (novella)
The Braille Killer
The Dark Heart Chronicles
Dark Lament
Reborn
Rended Souls (Coming Soon)
Visit Daniel’s website to find these books and more!
danielkuhnley.com
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Table of 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
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
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To Be Continued…
About The Author
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
I cannot peel my gaze away from the manila envelope sitting in the driver’s seat of my sedan. The single, calligraphic ‘A’ handwritten on its front is unmistakable. Immediately, I know what day it is, but I take my cell phone out of my pants pocket and engage the display to verify. It reads Tuesday, July 17 06:34. My fingers and toes curl and chills sweep through me despite it being ninety degrees already.
After ten years you’d think I’d never forget this day, or perhaps I would’ve added a calendar reminder on my phone so that I wouldn’t. Yet I stand frozen in my driveway staring through my car window at an envelope I should’ve expected but didn’t. In my defense, it’s not an event that I ever wanted to be memorialized, but the bastard who’s left it will never let me forget it.
I glance around, half-expecting him to be watching me—waiting for my reaction and getting off on it like the disturbed voyeur I imagine him to be. It sickens me that he’s eluded me for so long, and so the chase goes on.
He’s forced me to participate in his twisted little game. I never asked to be part of it, yet I obsess over it. I will not rest until I bring him to justice.
I take my keys out of my pocket. They jingle-jangle in my trembling hand like sleigh bells. I wish the envelope were from Santa Clause or some other imaginary entity full of jolly and kindness, but I know better. I settle on thanking the stars for the key fob that hangs from the keyring. If not for it, I’d be keying the side of my car trying to unlock it.
I press the right button on the key fob, but nothing happens. I press harder, then several more times, but the doors don’t unlock. Anger stills my hand. Why does technology thwart me at every turn? It has my entire life, and I’d love a reprieve from it. Just for one day. This day. Is it too much to ask for?
I smash the button down one last time and the doors unlock with a click. Tension drains from my fingers and toes, but I know it’ll be short lived. I pull the driver’s side door open, grab the envelope and toss it onto the passenger seat, and then plop down in the driver’s seat.
I thumb the lock button on the door several times, even after hearing and seeing the locks engage. A scream rises in my throat, so I force it back down like bile. He’ll never hear my fear manifest.
My hands wrap the steering wheel and I stare at the brown stucco wall in front of me. I have no desire to open the envelope because it will contain another letter and some random-ass item that leads me straight back to where I am: nowhere.
However, my resolve is fragile, and my curiosity is piqued, so I snatch the envelope off the passenger seat and clutch it between my hands. I want to rip it open and dump its contents into my lap, but this one is different than the others. The ink used for the ‘A’ on its front is blood-red instead of the usual black.
My breath catches in my throat like half-swallowed food, and my heart knocks against my rib cage with such violence that it jolts me forward time and again. What does the red ink signify? My heart knows the answer, but my mind isn’t ready to make the connection and draw the conclusion.
I turn the envelope over and carefully bend up the two metal prongs that secure its flap. I pull the flap open, reach inside the envelope, and pull out a bracelet of tightly woven strands of red and brown. The materials used are silky and fibrous simultaneously, their origins elusive.
Another friendship bracelet?
I examine it closely for clues but find nothing tangible. No tag. No message. A simple bracelet just like the first one. Why would he send these to me? I slide it back into the envelope, pull out the folded piece of yellowed, card stock paper, and place the envelope back on the passenger seat.
Unfolded, the paper stares up at me. Without lead, graphite, or ink marring its surface one might assume it to be blank, but it’s far from that. Its message will pierce my heart just as the others have.
My palms, wet with perspiration, stick to its edges. I peel my right hand away and wipe it on my pantleg several times. The clamminess remains.
I take a deep breath and slowly glide my finger across the page. The
words, strung together with braille letters meticulously pressed into the paper, pierce my heart and numb my mind.
A badge and a gun you possess
But it’s a heart you’ve never had
The lies you tell make you far less
And drive this hatter mad
You should’ve listened to me
But you blew your last chance
You wouldn’t pay the fee
For your sordid little romance
Now my patience has run dry
And your time has just run out
You’ll no longer turn a blind eye
To things that come about
You will play into my plans
And soon you’ll see just how
All the blood is on your hands
And there’s no stopping now
As with all his letters, it ends with a threat of disclosure: “This matter stays between us. Involve the authorities or anyone else and everyone you love will die.”
I groan and the paper bends where I’m clutching it. I want to wad it up and toss it into a burning trashcan down on South Central. I want to forget Denise ever existed, but I can’t.
Why does her death still haunt me?
I didn’t even know her, let alone kill her, yet I’ve clung to her existence for these last ten years. She’s the thread that binds me to him, and he’s the only person in the world that can explain why she chose me and why he helped her. This single event forces me forward on a path I might never have chosen, and I cannot rest until I meet its end.
I smooth the paper out where I bent it, fold it back up, and return it to the envelope. I close and secure the envelope and take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. By this point in my life I should know that lying to myself does no good.
I press the start button on my dash and the engine roars to life without hesitation. Honestly, I’m surprised. I switch on the AC, but nothing happens. I smack the top of the dash with my fist because sometimes it helps make things work, but not today. Not on July 17th. The damned thing’s gone on strike.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the parking lot at the police station. I’m not sure how I even made it here, the drive just a blur. I shove the envelope under the seat and climb out of the car. My clothes are stuck to my sweat-covered body. I pull at my blouse and fan myself with it to try and get some air circulation, but the result is far less than I’d hoped for. I’m glad I showered this morning.
I walk inside and straight to my office, grab my mug off my desk, and head for the breakroom down the hall and to the left. The aroma of fresh coffee wafts in the hallway and tractor beams me into the breakroom. The coffeepot isn’t on the warmer. Glass shards and puddles of coffee glisten on the countertop and across the floor. Officer Janis kneels with her back to me, picking up pieces of shattered coffeepot.
“What happened?” I ask even though the evidence is clear.
She looks up at me over her shoulder. “Stupid thing stopped dispensing water, overheated the pot, and exploded. Luckily no one was in here at the time. Heard the pop from my desk.”
“Ugh. How am I supposed to survive the briefing without caffeine?” I eye the counter to my left. “No donuts either?”
Officer Janis shakes her head. “Nope. Bob’s out sick today.”
I groan. The perfect storm.
Like the rest of the police station, the breakroom is battle worn. Paint chips hang on the cinder-block walls in several places like scabs waiting to be peeled off. The carpet is ripped in places and completely gone in others, the pattern it once donned lost in the past. Brown stains dominate the yellowed, drop-ceiling tiles which were once a pristine white. All three tables sit on crooked legs, each wobblier that a Weebles doll, and the chairs are a hazard waiting to be had with cracked seats and unbolted backrests. Budget cuts have impacted everything.
Defeated, I retreat back to my office, drop off my empty mug, and head to the locker room. A few minutes later, I find myself staring into my open locker, my mind hung on the words of this morning’s letter. All the blood is on your hands. Had he meant Denise or something far worse?
“Bergman.” Lieut. Frost’s voice startles me.
I glance around, knowing the exact reason for his visit. No Seth? Where the hell are you? No one else lurks about in the locker room.
Lieut. Frost strides toward me with dogged determination. His bulldog jaw is set and his ice-cold, brown-eyed gaze chills my core. This day can’t possibly get better. I shake my head and slam my locker door shut.
Lieut. Frost pulls up next to me and suddenly I’m a dwarf from Middle Earth. I’m 5’7”, but he’s nearly a foot taller than me and twice as wide. He has the Superman look nailed, but there’s no chance of him having a suit and cape underneath his drab attire. Every day he wears brown slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and some sort of power tie. Today it’s red and matches his cheeks.
Matches the ink on the envelope.
The smell of his cheap cologne snakes into my nostrils like octopus tentacles. I breathe through my mouth and do my best not to gag on its skunk-butt odor. Lieut. Frost’s brow sinks, and his nostrils flare. He’s clearly immune to his own stench. I stifle a snort by coughing.
His eyes narrow as he pushes his wire frame glasses up his nose. Even in that small act his bicep bulges underneath his shirt. I’ve seen him do it a thousand times, but I still stare with awe. He is an exquisite specimen of the human male and I cannot deny myself a lingering glance even though his personality repulses me even more than his cologne does. I lower my gaze.
“Bergman, where’s that worthless partner of yours?” His gruff voice shakes my chest with a barrage of bass reminiscent of rap songs. It focuses my attention quicker than a dog sighting a squirrel.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the locker for effect. “Oh God, I knew I’d forgotten to do something. Ryan’s car is in the shop. He asked me to give him a lift this morning.” I slam my fist into the locker next to my head. “Dammit.”
“You keep covering for him and it’ll be your ass, Bergman.”
I sigh and pull my head away from the locker. “I swear, Lieutenant, he really did ask me for a ride this morning. I totally spaced it. This one’s on me.”
He shoves a meaty finger in my face and shakes it at me. “Briefing room in thirty. Detective Ryan had better be there. Am I clear?”
Clear? Not through your skunk-butt cloud of cologne. I need to seek lower ground to survive. I hold my tongue and nod. It’s a rare occasion, and I’m proud of myself for doing so.
Lieut. Frost shakes his head, a boulder atop his broad shoulders. “Save your smirks until after I’ve walked away. Makes your blatant lies a bit more palatable.”
I nod again and then clear my throat when I hear the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the other side of the lockers. Lieut. Frost doesn’t react to the sound and instead storms away. I let out a deep sigh, breathe in through my nose, and regret it. The air still reeks of skunk butt.
I turn around and face the opposite end of the line of lockers. “You can come out now, Seth.”
Seth Ryan’s head pokes around the end of the lockers. “How do you do that? I didn’t make a single noise when I came in.”
I breathe on my nails and rub them on my shirt. “I told you I’m a certified ninja. I’ve got more than ten years of ninjutsu training.” I move into an angry tiger stance and motion him forward. “Nothing escapes me. By the way, you need new shoes. The soles are wearing on the outside edge and causing you to walk bowlegged. I don’t date cowboys, so you’d better get them replaced.”
Seth rounds the corner and waddles toward me like a penguin-cowboy. A crooked smile mars his otherwise beautiful, hairless face. I conjure a smile as I roll my eyes.
His wavy brown locks hug the top of his head like a glove, and the sides and back are trimmed short. If he were allowed to grow it out, I think he’d look even sexier. He r
eminds me of Jon Bon Jovi, but only in looks. Seth can’t carry a tune to save his life. Believe me, I know. Karaoke night at The Dive was a one-time deal. I’d never been asked to step off the stage in the middle of a song before. Awkward moment. Who knew a duet of Close My Eyes Forever would bring us to the lowest point in our relationship? I’m certain I did Lita Ford proud, and who could possibly screw up Ozzy Osbourne? Seth. Only Seth.
We still hang our heads in shame every time we pass by The Dive’s doors, and we’ve never set foot inside its walls since. I think back on all the situations we’ve been forced into over the last two years that we’ve worked together, and I cringe. Hopefully Seth will never have to sing to save my life. His voice might kill me before my captors got a chance.
His tight blue jeans hug his muscular legs and drape over his black leather boots like curtains hung too low, and his black button-up shirt is untucked at the side and back. He always wears his shirt with two buttons undone at the top—a sight I relish. He’s not a hairy man, so thankfully there’s no tuft of hair poking out like the gerbil on Tom Selleck. A thick, silver necklace with a dagger pendant hangs just below his neckline. He’s never without it, just as I am never without my cross-pendant necklace.
His cologne, Drakkar Noir, precedes him and chases away the skunk-butt scent that Lieut. Frost left behind. I breathe deep, every muscle in my body tenses, and I shudder with delight. Seth is my partner, both in work and in life. He is my foundation rock. My shelter. He holds the weight of the world on his shoulders so that I don’t have to. He keeps the monsters at bay—at least the ones he knows about.
There are some things I keep from Seth, not for his sake but for mine. He knows nothing of my past, and I’ll do everything in my power to keep it that way. He doesn’t know about the ten letters I’ve received over the past decade either. I cannot risk losing him and everyone I love, so he never will.
The Braille Killer (An Alice Bergman Novel Book 1) Page 1