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Action/Thriller
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A detective catches a serial killer who escapes from jail and, after three years, resurfaces in the detective's hometown.
Malacca Longwood is a NYPD detective. He and his partner catch a serial killer who has been terrifying the city. He has been skinning his victims. The killer, Moonleigh, is convicted and sent to prison, but escapes and disappears.
Three years later, Moonleigh reappears—in the detective's hometown. Longwood has left the little southern town physically and emotionally, but must return to catch or kill the murderer.
He is assisted by his Grandmother, a voodoo queen from New Orleans who has been dead for twenty-two years.T
Excerpt
Chapter 1
The second one.
Our escort, a uniformed officer, took us past the yellow Crime Scene tape. We went through pale oak double doors into an indirectly lit foyer. Wading through cream-colored carpet, our steps were almost silent.
To our left, a living room’s white sofas and overstuffed chairs sat illuminated by tiny spotlights. Picture windows, framed by open draperies, gave a panoramic view of Manhattan’s sparse early morning lights. A professional decorator’s touch glittered in the contrast offered by vivid paintings and prints on every wall.
The cop stopped and faced left, toward the windows. He’d been silent since introducing himself in the hallway. He still didn’t speak, waving an open hand toward bright lights behind him and into the kitchen where crime scene technicians worked.
We’d heard chatter as the officer opened the doors. When Peterson and I became visible to people working there, it stopped. The ME supervisor, Brewster, a man I’d worked with before, came to us.
“Detective Longwood, Detective Peterson: we apparently have a serial killer in the city. Follow me,” he said.
Before entering the crime scene, we’d put on latex gloves. Brewster glanced to make sure and led us into the kitchen. Normal conversations among the technicians resumed, but more muted than before. I’d been a little loud last time I was around them and some hushed their conversations as soon as I appeared.
I nodded to the techs as we passed. Smiling wasn’t in my toolbox of expressions for tonight.
“Just like before, the killer taped the couple to facing chairs. He glued their lips shut and their eyes open. They couldn’t shut out the sight of atrocities being inflicted on their partner,” Brewster said.
I kept my voice level. I worked hard to do so.
“Brewster, tell the techs I won’t yell at them. I just blew up last time. Too much evil scorched my nerves to hear such a silly word used to describe a filthy murderer.”
I’d overheard one of the techs calling the butcher, The Nanny. I’d exploded, yelling something like “Bullshit! This coward is not some cutesy name. He’s slaughtering innocent people!”
The nickname had somehow gotten to a reporter after that. The next afternoon, newspapers and local TV had picked up the word. That had been three weeks ago and tonight’s tableau of horror would ensure the media would use The Nanny in their headlines. I couldn’t remember which of the ME techs had used the word, but my temper probably made it memorable. The tech obviously told some journo.
“Same as the one three weeks ago. Only the names, condo address and children are different,” Peterson said.
“Yeah, a doctor again. The woman was a neurosurgeon and her husband was a big-time bond trader at one of the houses off Wall Street,” Brewster said.
The pattern held in more ways. These, too, had lived in an ultra-expensive condo in downtown Manhattan. Both couples had been flayed—skinned alive in precise strips.
“Detective Longwood, look at this.”
He held up a bloody piece of skin in a pair of forceps. It was torn unevenly on one end.
“He only displayed the ones that were a neat two or three inches long. Those that tore off unevenly, he threw in the trashcan under the sink. There’s also evidence he put some down the garbage disposal. Look at the edges. See that little black line, like a bruise?”
Brewster pointed to a dark edge along the long side of the piece.
“He marked them with a pen before he cut. He used a surgical pen with sterile ink before. I’ll bet that when we analyze, it’ll be the same.”
“How’s that going to help us catch the bastard?” I said.
He shrugged.
“Probably works in or around a hospital. Nobody else is likely to have access to the pen or ink.”
The thought of watching someone mark your body and that of your mate, probably using a ruler to mark little rectangles for slow, careful cutting, made me queasy. I’ve seen death—and caused it—on the battlefield and as a cop in several gruesome forms, but the utter coldness of this meticulous butcher astounded me. I could almost feel the chill of a straightedge and the pressure of the rolling marker along my skin, knowing a scalpel would soon burn a bleeding path along the same line.
The sting of a blade along the line would be paltry compared to the grinding agony as flesh ripped away—probably carefully and slowly—as the killer enjoyed each horrendous second, anticipating more awful fun.
“It’s the same boy,” Peterson said.
He held up a plate Brewster had handed him from the refrigerator.
“The asshole arranged the strips of flesh of each individual, by length, on separate dinner plates and stored them for preservation.”
The neat ribbons of skin were laid out in meticulous starburst fashion, leaking blood to one another on cream-colored bone china. A special piece centered the display on one plate the techs pointed out.
“This one is a precise one inch square.”
It featured a tiny red star tattoo centered on pale skin. Probably from one of the woman’s breasts.
On a third plate, the man’s testicles and penis were laid out in an anatomical grouping: the shriveled, circumcised penis in the middle and the testicles on each side. The woman’s small, pink nipples flanked the testicles. I shuddered. Had the killer mutilated the man’s genitals and the woman’s breasts before he started skinning them?
“Detective Longwood?” a female tech said.
“What’ve you got?”
“My God, this is awful but hardly different from the other one. This appears to be the same guy. You’ve got a serial killer to catch.”
I nodded, but didn’t speak. She held up yet another strip of skin. This one had squared ends.
“The tools the killer used, were professional surgical instruments. Compression marks on the strips of skin were from surgical forceps,” she said.
I didn’t remember seeing her at the earlier crime scene, but then I hadn’t been focusing on anything but the victims. Now, with a virtual repeat of the earlier murders, I needed to be more aware of who was helping me and may be helping again to catch this asshole.
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