Harvest of Homicide

Harvest of Homicide

Gary Lovisi

A Griff and Fats Crime Novel

Published by Bold Venture Press

www.boldventurepress.com

Cover design: Rich Harvey

Harvest of Homicide by Gary Lovisi

Copyright 2017 by Gary Lovisi. All Rights Reserved.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder. All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

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Contents

Harvest of Homicide

About the Author

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1

the Artist & The Hunter

He fondled the trophies he had taken from each of his victims. Lovingly touching the precious things, harsh souvenirs that had once been parts of a human being. Now they were his possessions, remembrances — and something far more sinister. They were inanimate objects that had once been living, breathing human beings. Lovely young women with thoughts, desires, hopes and dreams. Not any longer. Now they were all his. Not once, not twice, but six times. For now he had six women — but he still wanted more — he needed so many more.

So he told The Hunter to get him more.

***

Bay City Police Officer Jim Slade said he wasn’t there when his partner Eddie Doyle got it. Eddie had gone into a block off Livonia, in Blacktown, the colored section of Bay City. He’d gone in alone. He had not been wearing his uniform. He’d been called to finally collect some money that was owed him. He knew this was something that could not stand the light of day so he went alone. That was his first mistake.

He never told a soul about it, not even his partner. That was his second mistake.

Eddie Doyle took the cash out of the hand that belonged to the man who had reluctantly paid up. It was another one of those pay up, or else deals. Eddie was good at squeezing cash out of the Colored. But not good enough. Not this time. He never saw the man’s other hand bring up the small snub-nosed .38 that was suddenly pressed against his head. But he must have heard the click of the trigger that set off the weapon that blew his brains out all over the brick wall behind him.

Eddie Doyle slid to the ground with the handful of cash. The Blackman who had shot him took back the cash and stuffed it into a pocket in his slacks and then walked away. If anyone saw anything, they were not talking.

***

When he heard, Officer Jim Slade freaked for vengeance to get the killer of his friend and partner, Eddie Doyle. All of the Bay City cops were together on the same page to get Eddie’s killer too, but Slade quickly slid off the deep end diving into hard-core brutal revenge. He was making threats, and worse, carrying them out to get information. He was looking for a certain Black ex-con, and he was beating suspects for information, but no one was talking. One or two guys, well, they seemed to have never been seen again. Maybe they’d left town? Who knew for sure? What everyone did know was that Slade was out of control. He had eventually been relieved of duty. He was told to go home, get some rest. Stay out if it all. Relax.

Relax!

The only way for Slade to relax was to track down Eddie’s killer in his own twisted way. Bay City was now set to explode.

***

When Jones hit the streets of Bay City, back again after a long stretch in prison, he was an older and wiser criminal. A graduate of the hardest prison in the state, he was lean and hungry and primed for damage. Before all that however, he had a few things on his mind that he wanted to do. Like get himself some women. Maybe a new one every day. You see, since Jones had been away for so long, he’d gotten some powerful urges. Yeah, he’d slake his thirst on the Bay City whores first, then go look into what had happened to little Jimmy.

Jimmy was Jones’ little brother, who relatives said was shot dead in a robbery by the cops. Now that always bothered Jones when he was in the joint, because he was a professional robber and the blackest sheep of the family — but little Jimmy was a good kid and not in that life at all. Or so he remembered from when he had gone away. Maybe things had changed? If they had, he didn’t care. His brother had been killed and he wanted to get the guy who done it.

The ironic thing was that little Jimmy always wanted to grow up and become a cop — Jones even used to razz the kid, tell him how he’d just end up having to arrest his older brother. See, Jones was a criminal and he liked being a criminal. He’d told little Jimmy there was no way in hell white people was ever gonna let no colored boy become a policeman. Not in these times in this country, in those long ago days. That bit was true. Jones lied about a lot of things but before he’d gone away the last time, he tried to steer his little brother in the right direction. Set him up with some good people. And it had worked for a while, but once Jones went away, little Jimmy got eased into a job for a guy on their block who ran numbers. Now that the kid was dead, big brother wanted to know how and why. He also wanted to know who. Who had killed his little brother? Fact is, Jones was just fired-up crazy and angry whenever he thought about the death of his little brother and he was out for bloody revenge.

***

Griff saw them everywhere. All around him…

Bay City Police Lieutenant Bill Griff Griffin hated them. They were palm trees. He was having that dream about them again. It was early in the year 1963.

To Griff it seemed they grew like crab grass, all along the roads, the highways, the sunlit boulevards. Big ones. Short ones. Leafy ones. Most of them tall and lean, bushy and green up top, with long fronds swaying seductively in the gentle Bay City breeze.

He hated them.

Griff looked over at his partner, Sergeant Herman Stubbs, over 300 pounds of Bay City hard-ass copper with a bad attitude, known simply as Fats by his partner — but never called that by anyone else — if they were smart. He told him, They’re all over.

Fats just nodded, spit a large glob of phlegm out the window of their unmarked police car and grunted, Yeah, they sure is.

Palm trees, Griff muttered. Everywhere. Everywhere I go. Everywhere I look.

His partner just laughed, You got a thing about palm trees?

You know why.

Yeah, I guess I can see it.

I hate them, Griff continued in a hard tone, as if it mattered to the palm trees. As if it mattered to his partner. The two detectives drove down more tree-lined boulevards. The light fronds swayed in the gentle breeze. Seductively. Soft, lovely, teasing in the warmth of the sweet honeysuckle air.

But they’re so beautiful, Fats said laughing now, mocking his partner and friend. They had been together in Homicide for many years. The big cop was egging the tall cop on. His three hundred pounds shook with laughter like the blubber on a whale as he razzed Griff.

That’s why I hate them so much. Griff blurted. "They are beautiful. And they beckon. They sure as hell do. That’s it, I think, it’s all because they beckon. To me, to everyone, saying ‘welcome to paradise’. But they lie. They lie worse than the whores on Dumont Avenue."

It’s all a lie, Griff.

But the palm trees, they lie worst of all, they say ‘here it is, Eden! Paradise! It’s all yours for the taking.’

Fats nodded, adding, I know. I live here too, remember? I don’t believe it anymore, haven’t believed it since I got here.

But it’s a lie all the same. This is not Eden, it ain’t no Paradise, it’s just a big false front, a city all wrapped up in palm trees, phony smiles, and full of damn lies.

You mean you really don’t like it here?

It’s, a stinkin’ sewer, all done up in pretty ribbons and bows, and we’re the rats caught up in it swimming for our lives.

That’s when he woke up —

***

Fat’s was driving, he nudged his partner awake, Hey, Griff, you been dreaming again?

Yeah? Griff sounded groggy, pulled the hat up off his eyes. It was bright and sunny but there were no palm trees anywhere. Not a one.

Palm trees? Fats asked.

Yeah, the same damn dream.

"That’s weird. Ah, you do know there ain’t no stinking palm trees here in Bay City?"

Yeah, I know, Griff said, but he looked around again carefully just the same.

Fats just shook his head. He was used to his partner by now. The two cops were actually too used to each other after so many years together. That was a good thing in early 1963 being on the job, all alone, in the thick of things. There was no backup, no help ever expected — nor asked for. If you didn’t know your partner one hundred per-cent and couldn’t rely on him one hundred and twenty per-cent, you were dead. Maybe not right then, but it was just a matter of time.

***

They couldn’t believe what they’d done. How truly incredible it was. They had their own harem of lovely women, totally compliant to their every thought and desire. Never would be the word no be uttered by any of these compliant females. Nor any words at all. For they were all dead. And some of them didn’t smell too good, but the brothers were up for fun and games and they didn’t care much about things like that.

Roger Coeurl took his brother Rodney into the special bedroom. The room had only one item of furniture in it, a large round bed in the center of the floor. Upon the bed were five stunning young women, all dead.

They’re all for you Rodney, the older brother, Roger said, he knew his kid brother liked to have fun with the corpses before he got down to the serious work of cutting them up and rearranging their parts to create his own specially made woman.

It was ghastly, but Roger and Rodney felt no shame, no emotion, only a twisted lust, and certainly no sympathy at all for these poor and innocent victims of their evil depravity. They thought they were doing the young ladies a favor, making them immortal.

2

The Big Black Car

Fats? Griff asked softly. We got a tail?

I see it. Back two vehicles, right?

Big black car, Caddy probably, or maybe a Lincoln. They ain’t making it too obvious but they don’t seem to be going out of their way to hide the fact they’re following us either. Anyone you know?

Nah, and they’re not closing up on us, kinda laying back, just following, calm-like.

The two cops drove around a bit to make sure they really were being followed. They were. It was spooky and getting them concerned. They didn’t like this kind of game.

Make a few more turns, then find a stop sign, blow it, and see what they do, Griff told his partner.

Fats was at the wheel and ready for his own kind of game too. Fats liked to play cop style. He gunned the old Plymouth and it sped through the stop sign. They heard screeches from the brakes of a car on the right coming into the intersection. No crash yet. The driver had jammed on his brakes just in time, and cursed them loudly.

Fats laughed.

The big black car followed right through.

Hit the siren, let’s go after them!

Fats made an instant U-turn but the car had already

anticipated their move and ducked down a convenient side street.

Go in here, Griff said.

Fats guided the car into a narrow side street. The big black car was gone. They’d lost it. They made another turn down another block and Fats saw the car was behind them again.

Damn! Griff barked. Can you pull a U-ey here?

The street was narrow.

Fats smiled broadly, this was more his style. I like that, no problem. We’ll get right back in their face.

Fats made his turn quickly. Screeching tires and skid marks showed his pathway. He’d put a hell of a surprise up their ass now. He figured the driver must have pissed himself. They’d find out just what the hell this tail on them was all about. Maybe fix it so the guy couldn’t follow anyone, ever again.

Fats spun the car, and they were now in the opposite direction coming fast from the corner right back at their follower. Up ahead Griff saw the big black car coming right at them. There was a second that seemed frozen in time. He tried to look into the windows of the car to see the driver or any other occupants, but the windows were all tinted.

Tinted windshield! Fats said in surprise.

Back then in Bay City or any other city, a car with tinted windows meant just one thing to cops. The driver wanted to be hidden. He was up to no good. It could be a killing car.

That was a sobering thought and made this suddenly much more serious.

Well that settles that. It can’t be any cops or them IAD rats, FBI either, Fats growled. He brought their Plymouth to the far corner now where the black car was coming from the other end of the street. He’d gone down another block, cut into a narrow lane and they were on a parallel block. Now Fats was on their tail.

Yeah, must be someone else.

Fats shrugged, he didn’t care right now, he just wanted to get them.

So did Griff.

Fats was about to make a sharp left onto the street where their tail was coming off of when he noticed that instead of slowing and turning they’d hit the gas again, made a quick U-turn, and were now racing down Dumont. They blew a light and shot down another side street.

Son-of-a-bitch! Fats shouted.

Hey! Griff barked. They wanna play, let’s give ’em a chase.

Sure, Fats flattened the gas pedal and their car rushed ahead like a rocket, making a sharp, noisy right onto Dumont. Now they were tailing them!

What do you think? Why would they follow us — then run away? Griff asked, as the car shot down the straightaway.

Don’t know. No one I ever seen before. That car makes a statement though. Says danger and death, and that they don’t give one damn. Not cops, that’s for sure. Not FBI or any of them kinda guys. And doesn’t seem like our regular Bay City mutts and skells.

Try and move up on them, I’ll get down the tag, we’ll run it later. Griff said.

Fats shot the vehicle ahead, but with a new burst of speed, the big black car