The Slowest Death
JACK MURPHY DELIVERS JUSTICE
Detective Jack Murphy can read a crime scene like a book. When the naked, brutalized corpse of a narcotics cop is found, it’s not the body that tells him a sick killer is on the loose, but the monkey figurine—of the “see no evil” kind—shoved down his throat. It’s a message, not a clue. Then a high-profile judge is set on fire. Another figurine left behind. Murphy has a guess what’s next. But it’s not what he expects. The torture-killer taking out Evansville’s defenders of law and order isn’t the only one with secrets. The victims might have a few, too.
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers
THE DEEPEST WOUND
“Reed gives the reader a genre story worth every minute and every penny spent.”
—Book Reporter
“Whew! The murders are brutal and nonstop. Det. Jack Murphy tracks killers through a political maze of lies, deception and dishonor that leads to a violent, pulse-pounding climax.”
—Robert S. Levinson
“The things Reed has seen as a police officer make for a great book.”
—Suspense Magazine
THE COLDEST FEAR
“Everything you want in a thriller: strong characters, plenty of gory story, witty dialogue, and a narrative that demands you keep turning those pages.”
—BookReporter.com
THE CRUELEST CUT
“Rick Reed, retired homicide detective and author of Blood Trail, the true-crime story of serial killer Joe Brown, brings his impressive writing skills to the world of fiction with The Cruelest Cut. This is as authentic and scary as crime thrillers get, written as only a cop can write who’s lived this drama in real life. . . . A very good and fast read.”
—Nelson DeMille
“Put this one on your must-read list. The Cruelest Cut is a can’t-put-down adventure. All the components of a crackerjack thriller are here, and author Reed knows how to use them. Readers will definitely want to see more of Reed’s character Jack Murphy.”
—John Lutz
“A jaw-dropping thriller that dares you to turn the page.”
—Gregg Olsen
“A tornado of drama—you won’t stop spinning till you’ve been spit out the other end. Rick Reed knows the dark side as only a real-life cop can, and his writing crackles with authenticity.”
—Shane Gericke
“A winner of a debut novel . . . Reed is a master of describing graphic violence. Some of the crime scenes here will chill you to the bone.”
—Bookreporter.com
Books by Rick Reed
The Jack Murphy Thrillers
The Cruelest Cut
The Coldest Fear
The Deepest Wound
The Highest Stakes
The Darkest Night
Nonfiction
Blood Trail
(with Steven Walker)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Slowest Death
A Jack Murphy thriller
Rick Reed
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Rock Reed
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: February 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0454-3
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0454-4
First Print Edition: February 2018
ISBN-13: 1978-1-5161-0455-0
ISBN-10: -5161-0455-2
Printed in the United States of America
“Death is not the worst that can happen to men.”
—Plato, 427 B.C.
“Men may know many things by seeing; but no prophet can see before the event, nor what end waits for him.”
—Sophocles, 496 B.C.
“Look not at what is contrary to propriety; listen not to what is contrary to propriety; speak not what is contrary to propriety; make no movement which is contrary to propriety.”
—Confucius
Chapter 1
Moonlight fell through the broken windowpanes of the abandoned house, casting squares of light like oversized picture frames across the trash-strewn floor. Detective Sergeant Franco “Sonny” Caparelli lay on his side, naked and freezing. Pain throbbed behind his eyes and skull from the blow to the back of his head.
He remembered sitting in his truck waiting for the go-between. He was going to buy a couple of bricks of heroin for $100K and keep both money and drugs. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye just as he heard a ratcheting sound and the ASP expandable baton shattered his window. Strong hands reached in, grabbed him and yanked him through the opening. He felt a bone-crunching blow land at the back of his neck followed by a loud, insistent ringing in his ears. He woke up bound hand and foot.
Something warm ran down the side of his face and felt sticky under his cheek. Footsteps approached and stopped. In the darkness, he could make out the shape of legs, a shadow, someone standing over him. The shadow moved, a knee pushed down on his bare back, gloved hands gripped the bindings on his wrists. He could hear and feel nylon flexi-cuffs tightening, cruelly cutting into his flesh.
“Hey, you don’t have to do this, man. If you want money, I got money. Thousands. It’s in my truck. Under the seat. Take it,” Sonny said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Hands gripped his feet and ratcheted down those flexi-cuffs until they ground his ankles painfully against each other.
“I’m not lying. Whoever’s paying you to do this, it ain’t enough. I’m a cop. I promise you this is a bad move. Take the money and go.”
Sonny felt something, a cable or a heavy cord, slip over his head and draw snug around his neck.
“Did you hear me, asshole? I’m a cop. You do this and there’s no going back. There’ll be no place to hide.”
His captor finally spoke. “I’m not hiding. On the contrary. It was you and your conspirators who went into hiding,” the man said.
Sonny felt his legs being pulled up, bending his knees, and some of the cable around his throat being slipped between the bonds at his ankles. The man wrapped the end of the cable around a short piece of wood, creating a makeshift handle. Sonny said, “This ain’t funny. Don’t do this, buddy.”
The cable tighten
ed and Sonny’s neck jerked back toward his feet. The earlier pain in his head was replaced by choking, gagging, arching his spine to the breaking point. Pinpoints of light drifted across his vision. The cable eased. Sonny gagged until it brought on a series of coughing fits. He got it under control, squinted to clear his vision and spat on the floor. The man stood with his back to the windows, a shadow in deeper shadows. The general outline was that of a tall man, maybe six foot plus. The build and age were indiscernible. The most telling thing was the fact the man was making no attempt to hide his face.
Sonny clamped his eyes shut, not wanting to see a face. Knowing that would spell the end. When he did so, it caused a new explosion of pain behind his eyes. He held his breath, willing himself not to black out. He had to keep talking. The pain eased just enough for him to say, “I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know who you are.” Saying even this much brought on another coughing fit. He tried again. “I don’t want to know who you are. I don’t even want to know why you’re doing this. For all I know you grabbed the wrong guy. It’s not too late to stop. You can just walk away.” “And you won’t come for me?” The voice sounded sincere. “You’ll forget this ever happened?”
For the first time since he awakened in this nightmare, he felt a flash of hope. He didn’t want to get caught in a lie and blow any chance he had at being released. “Well, you know it’s a serious thing to assault a cop, but if it was a mistake I’m willing to let it ride. You didn’t really hurt me too bad. What do you say? Let me go. You can still have the money.”
In answer, a boot came down on the side of Sonny’s face, the sole grinding his cheek into the floor like someone was putting out a cigarette. Sonny could feel his skin twisting and tearing on both sides of his face. He could taste the boot sole crushing down across his mouth.
The man stopped and said, “Be still. Shut your lying mouth.”
Sonny saw only the lower part of the legs. Sharply creased pants were bloused into the tops of tightly laced military-style boots. The only people Sonny knew that dressed militarily were a group of neo-Nazi survivalists he’d busted a couple years ago. He’d taken their money, their drugs, guns, manifesto. He’d kept some of the Nazi memorabilia, money and guns. The skinheads had all gone to prison, and the kids living in the compound were placed in foster homes. He hoped this asshole wasn’t one of the men he’d arrested. His best chance of getting out of this was to keep his mouth shut and listen for a clue. When he got out of here he was going to hunt down this piece of shit and flush him. His head felt like a balloon that was ready to burst. He licked at his lips but his mouth was dry and his tongue made a clicking sound.
“Tastes like dirty socks, doesn’t it? It should. I used your socks to gag you. If you so much as blink again…” The cable tightened until the blackness swam behind Sonny’s eyes again before loosening.
“If you do something I don’t like, that is what will happen. The Japanese call this Kinbaku. Can you say Kin-bah-ku? Well, it doesn’t matter if you can pronounce it or not. Literally translated it means ‘tight binding.’ During the Edo period, this form of bondage was used to show superiority.”
“You’re crazy,” Sonny said just before the headlights from a vehicle flashed through the broken windowpanes. The room was bathed in a temporary bright light. Sonny screamed for help but the words came out hoarse, weak, defeated. When the lights diminished and the vehicle had moved on Sonny stiffened, preparing for the punishment he knew would follow.
Instead of the promised punishment, the man said, “I’ll give you that one. We’re humans after all, and it’s human nature to want to live, isn’t it?”
Sonny asked, “Why me? I’ve never done anything to you. And even if I did I can fix whatever it is. Make it right. Just let me make it right. I’ll do anything.”
The man took something from his pocket, squatted and leaned close to Sonny’s face, holding the object in front of Sonny’s eyes. The object was a carved figure of a monkey; an inch tall, sitting Indian-style, hands over its eyes.
“Mizaru, this is Sonny. Sonny, meet Mizaru,” the man said.
“What?” Sonny asked.
“Who. Not what,” the man corrected. “From the proverb of The Mystic Apes? Nod if you’ve heard of them.”
Sonny just stared at the object.
“No? Well, I’ll enlighten you. There are four legendary Japanese monkeys known as The Mystic Apes. Mizaru sees no evil, Kikazaru hears no evil, and Iwazaru speaks no evil. The fourth monkey, Shizaru, does no evil. In the Koshin belief, The Mystic Apes teach a desired code of conduct.”
Sonny said nothing.
“I can see I’ll have to explain further,” the man said, as if talking to a child. “Sonny, the Koshin religion teaches that good behavior brings good health. Bad behavior brings bad health. The four monkeys label the behaviors you should avoid. If you engage in any of these unsavory behaviors, you will answer to Ten-Tei, what some believe is the fifth monkey, the most powerful of all Koshin deities. Ten-Tei has come to punish you for your crime in Boston.”
Sonny said, “What crime? I’ve never been to Boston, and I’ve never even heard of this crap you’re talking.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Five years, seven months and eleven days ago. I know you remember, because I will never forget what was done to her. The sheer hell she went through.” The man squatted. “Tell me something, Sonny. Did she beg? The autopsy report said she wasn’t dead when she was set on fire. Did you do that? Or was it your partner?”
“It wasn’t me,” Sonny said. “I didn’t do anything to anyone. I swear.”
“The time for swearing has come and gone, Sonny. Tell me the whole truth, and I’ll spare you some pain.”
“I told you the truth. It wasn’t me.”
“I know the names of everyone involved in her murder and rape. Tell me, did she struggle? Of course she did. Bits of nylon were melted into her wrists and ankles. Nylon. Like the flexi-cuffs I put on you. They’re so easy to use and hard to escape from. You can barely move. I can do anything I like with you. How does that feel? If I rape you, there is nothing you can do to stop me.” He flicked a folding knife open and drew the razor-sharp blade down the side of Sonny’s face. “Do you have empathy for her now? Do you want to confess your sins?”
Warm blood ran into Sonny’s mouth and eyes. The realization that he’d never leave here alive hit him like a fist and at the same time sucked the air from his lungs. His chest hitched in short spasms as tears ran down his face.
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me,” Sonny said pitifully.
“Are those tears of remorse? Self-pity? Relief? A real man would have trouble living with what you and your friends did. A compassionate man would have nightmares. I’m not afraid to admit that I’ve had quite a few nightmares over what I’ve had to do to even things. But I doubt you have even had bad dreams.”
The knife folded shut and he laid it down in front of Sonny’s face. He reached into a cargo pocket and pulled out a pair of thin black leather gloves, slipping them on over the latex ones. He took a black brass knuckles—but not exactly brass knuckles—from another pocket and slipped his fingers through the holes, making a fist, gripping them tightly, so tightly the gloves made a creaking noise in the quiet.
Sonny’s eyes widened in recognition of the combination brass knuckles and Taser. He’d used a pair similar to these a few times when he was dealing with some scum-bucket, making them talk. He hadn’t used anything like it since moving to Evansville. They were made of molded black polymer, with finger holes and four small metal spikes on the top. Now here they were, being held in his face. He could see the man’s thumb on the rocker switch. He watched the knucks/Taser come alive, electricity arcing and crackling along the top spikes.
“I found these on Amazon,” the man said conversationally and drove the spikes into the soft tissue of Sonny’s face, driving the tips deep into the flesh,
delivering nine hundred fifty thousand volts of electricity into Sonny’s head.
“Did you really think you could hide from me?” The knucks slammed against the side of Sonny’s neck and fired again. Sonny’s muscles locked in a spasm and a stuttering sound escaped his throat. The fist came down again and again, ripping flesh, scraping bone, infusing each contact with burning electricity.
The man sat back on his heels breathing hard, plumes of breath rising. He placed the Taser/knucks on the floor beside the folding knife. “I don’t think you can take much more of this, do you? Bleed if the answer is no.”
Sonny lay there unmoving, bleeding.
“I know you didn’t land the job here with the feds because of your personality, Sonny. Big Bobby Touhey pulled in a favor for you. Do you know the saying, ‘Keep your friends close?’ Well, for Big Bobby to send you all the way here, you must be on his shit list.”
Sonny’s eyes traveled from the weapons to the man’s face. It was obvious he recognized the name of Big Bobby Touhey.
“Sam Knight doesn’t have that kind of pull. And your partner, Vincent Sullis—what a piece of work that guy is—resigned from Boston PD and went to law school after what happened. Graduated bottom of his class. Touhey got all of you these jobs, didn’t he?”
Sonny tried to squint the blood out of his eyes.
Strong fingers grabbed Sonny’s face and pulled it up, straining his neck to the breaking point. The man said, “I’m talking to you. You’re being impolite. And you’re still working for Touhey? That’s how you got this cushy job? That’s how you’re able to live so extravagantly in that fancy house by the river?”
Sonny still didn’t speak.
“Maybe your girlfriend will be more talkative?”
Sonny broke his silence. “They’re gonna kill you, asshole. You don’t mess with Big Bobby. No matter what you do to me, they’ll do worse to you. I’m not afraid of you. I spit on your grave.” Sonny tried to spit blood but was unable.
The man laughed. “You think so? Well, you may be right. They might get very lucky. But after you, I’ll be two for two and they still have no idea who I am.”