Dead Men Can Kill is a fast paced thriller that takes place in a small, otherwise peaceful town in New Mexico and pits Jim West and the town’s authorities against a ruthless, psychotic killer.
Jim West Thrillers
Dead Men Can Kill is a fast paced thriller that takes place in a small, otherwise peaceful town in New Mexico. Former federal agent Jim West moved back to New Mexico with the goal to start an easy going second career as a part time professional lecturer on investigative techniques to colleges and civic organizations. He never envisioned that a practical demonstration on forensic hypnosis with a student at a state university would stir up memories of an eighteen year old murder. When the student is himself murdered three days later West finds himself ensnared in a web of intrigue that pits West and the small town’s authorities against a ruthless, psychotic killer.
Bill White, the student’s killer, has also recently returned to New Mexico under an assumed identity in an effort to evade a law enforcement dragnet closing in on him on the east coast. Despite keeping a low profile, as the investigation into the student’s death evolves Bill begins to feel that his true identity is now at risk.
The cast of characters not only helps to mold the plot it also brings in a romantic relationship between West and a local reporter whom the killer soon identifies as being a threat to his anonymity. The story twists back and forth building the characters of West and the others caught up in this struggle, leading to the inevitable confrontation.
Seeing blood doesn’t bother me, I had seen it many times before, but something about being alone in the middle of nowhere with the top half of my body inside the empty interior of a bloody Suburban gave me the creeps. I instinctively pulled my head out and slammed the door. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I did it. First rule of evidence, don’t disturb the crime scene. A little thing, but I felt like a rookie. I shouldn’t have closed the door. I was beginning to think I wasn’t in charge.
I took a few breaths and looked out over the front hood of the vehicle, down the ravine and up the other side. No indication of movement anywhere. The SUV looked okay from what I could see. I turned away from the vehicle, maybe to head back, maybe to look around. I did neither immediately. I gasped. There just fifteen feet from where I was standing sat Rick Jimenez, the other reporter, as he had described himself that morning, for the town’s newspaper. His face was contorted and covered with dried blood. His white shirt completely soaked in blood now drying in the hot sun. He was dead.