Lonely Are The Dead

Lonely Are the Dead

by Paul Westwood

Copyright 2013 Paul Westwood

Published at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue

Sunday, November 13th, 1977

He loved the smell of November - decaying leaves, wet grass, and the memories of a summer that had a faded away like so many promises. It reminded him of change and the endless cycle of time. The only certainty of life was death, the final arbitrator. Of course death could be hastened along, and given a helping hand. Only soldiers and killers visited that darker side, understanding the razor-edge that divided one world from the next.

From where he was standing outside, the man could just hear the distant chimes of the clock inside of the house, signaling that midnight was here. The chill of expectation ran down his spine, sending a giddy energy that curled along his arms and legs. The familiar sensation felt better than an orgasm or any drug. It felt smooth as glass, but filled with a boundless joy - the fact that he was alive and in control. Control. In all the chaos of the living - the mass of uncertainties that made up most of everyone else’s existence, he had found order in the simplest of all things – bringing death to those who deserved, nay craved the final release..

Death was eternal and forever. It was the end, but also the beginning of something new.

With practiced routine, he tread along the garden walk, careful not to leave any lingering footprints that could be measured and used for identification. Ahead, the interior of the house was dark and quiet, but he couldn't help but feel that he was being watched by hidden eyes. That was part of the thrill - the unknown. No matter how carefully he planned or how carefully he went through his careful, practiced motions, there was always a chance of discovery. The universe was just a random collection of events, only organized by the slimmest of chances. He understood it would only take one minute variable to throw off the best of plans. And this night it almost happened.

As if by plan, as his boot touched the first wooden step leading to the back porch, a light inside went on. He froze, a spasm of fear curling in his stomach like a woken rattlesnake. However, he knew he would be safe from view since the reflection of the interior light against the sliding door glass would stop anyone from seeing outside. From his position, he could see inside, though only at a reduced angle. The overhead kitchen light had snapped on. There was a woman inside, her hair unkempt from sleep. She was wearing a red nightgown that reached to the knees and a pair of pink slippers. With a jerk on the handle, the refrigerator was opened, bathing her with yellow light that shone through the sheer fabric, revealing a youthful and lean body. She reached inside and pulled out a carton of milk. As he watched, she went over to the cupboard, took down a glass and filled it. She stood there, taking an agonizing time finishing the milk. The glass was then put into the sink, the overhead light turned off, and then the house was quiet once more.

Standing as still as a statue, he waited. The minutes ticked by as he counted the thumps of his own slow beating heart. After another twenty minutes passed, he took a glass-cutter from the pocket of his windbreaker. Taking the final steps up to the red cedar porch, he stopped at the glass slider, and with his gloved hands began making slow, even cuts; creating a rough square near the handle. After a few minutes of careful work, he gave the area a gentle push. The square of glass fell through, hitting the carpeting below with all the sound of a wasp landing on a window pane. Then it was only a matter of reaching through the glass, unlocking the door, and entering.

Death was here.

Chapter 1

Monday, November 14th, 1977

The phone on the nightstand was ringing. Thomas Markus could hear it, but his mind still hadn't made the connection that it was time to wake up and answer it. In the blurriness of sleep, he had forgotten who he was, or what he did for a living. It wasn't until his wife Jamie gave him a gentle shove with her knee, did his hand reach out of the covers to grab the receiver. He pulled the phone under the blanket and placed it against his sweaty ear.

Hello? he slurred into the phone, mentally damning the man who had invented the infernal device.

The female voice on the other end was annoyingly pleasant. Lieutenant, this is Dispatch. I'm sorry to wake you, but it is your turn to be on call.

Go ahead, Markus said, wondering why he had ever become a police officer. There was never enough sleep, never enough time to spend with the family, and the pay was miserable by any standards. But yet he couldn't help but love the unknown challenges that every day brought. It was certainly better than sitting behind a desk or working the line at some Joe Six-Pack factory.

Sir, there have been multiple deaths reported over on 1033 Steele Avenue. The patrolman on scene has requested that Homicide will want to see the scene of the crime. It looks like murder.

Does my partner know? Markus asked.

He has been notified and is waiting for you to pick him up.

I'm on my way, he said as he slid out of the bed, this time putting the phone back on the cradle with practiced ease.

What is it? Jamie mumbled.

Nothing, just go back to sleep. I have to go out for a little while. I'll be back in time for breakfast.

Before he even had his pants on, Markus could hear his wife snoring away with gentle, even tones. She had been living with a cop for too long to become unsettled by an early morning wake-up call. He finished dressing, wondering why his clothes continued to shrink. Or was he getting fatter? He laughed to himself at the idea of becoming older. His father had been an ex-marine who woke up every morning to do a full exercise regimen. In the end it turned out to be pointless since the old man died in a car accident over twenty years ago.

After combing his thinning hair in the bathroom, Markus brushed his teeth. He then grabbed his keys and wallet, headed downstairs to put his shoes on, and then went out to the garage. Inside were his wife's car, a 1975 Ford Pinto Wagon, and his own vehicle, a 1972 Chevrolet Malibu. Though the police force had offered to give him a Dodge Monaco to use, he preferred the Malibu for two reasons. The first was the big block engine that he had built himself, generating enough power to keep up with most anything except for the most aggressive of gearheads. The second reason was a natural distrust for Dodge products, an inherited fear that he learned from his father.

Markus opened the car door and slid inside, the familiar vinyl seat comfortable against his back. He clicked the garage door opener and then started the engine up. The burble of the powerful V8 was comforting, a reminder that power can be harnessed and controlled. He gently pulled out of the driveway, shutting the garage door with a click of the automatic opener. From there, he left the neighborhood and headed into the heart of Bay City. It was still dark out, with only a slight lightening of the eastern sky to remind him that dawn was just around the corner. It was also cold, so the heater was turned on, the fan squeaking under the dash with a familiar regularity.

His partner, Ben Holt, was waiting outside his apartment building, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Holt was built like a scarecrow - tall and lanky. He had a shock of blonde hair and a face that would win no beauty awards. But he still had an easy way with women that Markus never understood.

Holt waved as the car pulled over. They were soon off, driving past the morning delivery trucks that clogged the side of the road. Leaving downtown, Markus steered a course towards the shoreline.

You still driving this piece of shit? his partner asked as he rolled down the window a crack to let the smoke of his cigarette out.

You still living here in the ghetto? Markus replied with his own question. It was an old joke that had long gone stale, but he couldn't help smile. Holt had been his partner for the past four years, the previous man, Dan Waits, having retired after thirty years of service. He had learned a lot about policing from that old man. Though Holt was still relatively young - he had made detective at the tender age of twenty-seven - Markus couldn't but help like the fellow. Where Waits was a curmudgeon of the worst sort, his new partner was always happily telling stories and acting if the entire job was some great cosmic joke. Perhaps it was. The things that a homicide detective experienced were never a laughing matter, but a sense of humor was required since anything else would drive a man to the edge on insanity.

You know anything that Dispatch didn't tell me? Holt asked as he threw the cigarette stub out of the window.

Markus promptly answered, Multiple murders, number unspecified. The house is located on Steele Avenue, so it has to be pretty swank. He knew that the street hugged the shoreline bluff and was dominated by large expensive houses built for the views of the Atlantic sea below. It was the home of the old rich, the politician, and the more savory criminal element. The differences between the three were slight.

Turning off of Madison Street, Markus drove slowly down Steele Avenue, looking for the correct address. He had rarely taken this way before and was surprised by the ostentatious dwellings. The lots that passed by were all large and had homes of various architectural styling - from Tudor to Modern - but all built to a grandiose scale.

Gee, would you look at that, Holt remarked. I don't think a police pension will let me live in one of those.

Not if you're a clean cop, Markus muttered. The police force of Bay City was relatively ethical, dictated more by the moderately-sized manpower than any sense of morality.

Their destination became obvious by the car lights up ahead. Not only were there two police cruisers and the forensics wagon, but two local television stations had sent their vans. A pair of reporters with microphones in hand were standing outside the driveway, the lights from the camera shining brightly across the sculpted front garden.

Damn it! Markus swore as he pulled onto the shoulder. How did those reporters get here before us?

His partner laughed. They've got police radios too. And since this happened on this side of town, they know this isn't just another everyday murder.

We'll see about that, Markus shot back as he shut off the engine and opened the door. Exiting, he saw that the sun had just started to poke over the horizon. It was cold outside, a touch of frost in the air that signaled the coming of winter. The massive house was thoroughly modern - an ugly travesty to his eyes - with more windows than walls. It must have been hell on the heating bills.

Holt led the way, walking past the reporter without saying a word. But Markus was well recognized.

Hey, Tom! a reporter yelled out. It was Vincent Delgado of News Thirteen. What's going on in there?

The detective shrugged. Right now, you know as much as I do. I'll release whatever information I am permitted to. That was his standard reply. Some other cops made a little extra cash on the side, selling juicy bits of information to the media or even a politician. Markus never did that since such data could be used by the criminal, undermining any chance of solving the case. It also hardly seemed fair to turn a profit from an innocent victim who had no say in the transaction.

Fine, the reporter replied with a tone of disappointment.

Markus and Holt walked past the cop who was guarding the house from any outside encroachment. They were quickly recognized and waved through.

The front door of the house was painted a brilliant red and flanked on each side by a long wood-encased window and an alabaster Greek column. Holt opened the door, letting Markus through. Inside, they found a well-appointed entry way with oak floors, a series of modern sketches of the sea mounted on the wall, and a shiny chrome chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. The paint on the wall was a garish yellow. White carpeted steps headed upwards, while to the left and right were a living room and kitchen respectively. Every room was built to be larger than life, which struck Markus as to be a particular vice of the rich. Nothing was ever too big or too flashy. It was like compensation for some personal failing, or perhaps a chance to reach immortality by building something on the scale of the Parthenon.

Lieutenant, a deep voice called from above. The bodies are up here. It was Ed Merrick, from Forensics, standing on the top of the stairs. He was a squat little fellow with gray hair, dark eyes and a vapid expression that hid a deeper intelligence. He had been collecting evidence for some forty years now and was rumored to like the dead more than the living. Of course the same could be said for any person who had been around murder for such a long time.

What have we got? Markus asked as he began climbing the steps. Holt followed slowly, looking at Merrick with distaste, since he never liked the man. Not many people did. Perhaps the young detective felt uncomfortable around death which was odd, considering his profession.

Samuel Watson is in the bedroom. In the bathroom is his wife, Eileen.

Cause of death?

This is just from my preliminary examination, but Mr. Watson was struck in the head, rendering him unconscious. The blow was powerful enough to have partially caved-in the side of his head. He would have died anyways, but the throat was also cut, hastening the process to a considerable degree. I’m sure the coroner can give us a more detailed report.

Markus nodded. And his wife?

Merrick sighed. That's where it starts to get strange. Eileen Watson is in the bathtub without a stitch of clothing on. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with clothing line. But the trail of blood on the carpeting and bathroom tile shows that she was dragged there. Her body has been lacerated in several locations, but here comes the odd part - her right foot has also been amputated. Death would have been by bleeding, but with the cord around the neck, she appears to have been strangled.

Holt made a face and said, Who found the bodies?

The evidence man shook his head. I don't know - I didn't ask. But I'm sure one of the patrolmen would know.

He remembered his partner's distaste for the dead, so Markus said, Why don't you find out what they know downstairs, I'll go look at the bodies.

I like that idea, Holt said gratefully, and headed back to the first floor.

The coroner led him down a hallway that was marked with large bloody boot prints. I want pictures of those, Markus said.

Already done.

They entered the bedroom where two technicians were working. One was busy taking pictures, while the other was busy examining the wooden frame of the bed with a magnifying glass. On the blood-soaked sheets was the body of a middle-aged man dressed in underwear and a t-shirt. The hair on the side of the head was matted with blood while the throat looked to have been hacked open with animal ferocity. The blankets on top had been pulled back to the foot of the bed. On the far wall there was a wide dresser with a smashed mirror on top. Broken glass littered the floor.