The Deepest Wound Read online

  Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers

  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.”

  —Book Reporter

  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

  Also by Rick Reed

  THE JACK MURPHY THRILLERS

  The Cruelest Cut

  The Deepest Wound

  NONFICTION

  Blood Trail

  THE DEEPEST WOUND

  A Jack Murphy Thriller

  RICK REED

  KENSINGTON PUBLISING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Highest Praise for Rick Reed’s Thrillers

  Also by Rick Reed

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BONUS MATERIAL

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  For my wife, Jennifer,

  who has made so many things possible.

  CHAPTER ONE

  His hands stopped shaking, but every muscle in them ached as he knelt, clutching the toilet seat and tasting the bile that burned his throat. He looked at the body in the other room, sprawled on the floor, legs spread, arms bent, hands limp on either side of her head. Dark hair spilled across a face that five minutes ago was beautiful, now drawn into a rictus of death.

  “Dear God!” He ground a knuckle into his mouth as his mind flashed back over horrible images—shoving her, her head hitting the brick fireplace, hands around her throat, thumbs driving deep into the flesh until something crunched. And the blood—he’d never seen so much blood.

  He hadn’t seen anyone outside when he came to her house—no lights on, no sound coming from any of the houses on the block—and in his panic he thought about fleeing the scene of the crime. But he knew that wasn’t going to help him in the long run. He had undoubtedly left fingerprints, fibers—they could find all sorts of things these days. The most damaging evidence was the body itself.

  Maybe he could dispose of the body. And there was that other problem he had to deal with.

  Who am I kidding? I’m no killer. But that isn’t true anymore. I am a killer. But she brought this on herself. I only wanted to talk to her, explain my side. All she had to do was keep her big mouth shut.

  She had deceived him. Betrayed his trust. Women were like that. All nice when they wanted something, then baring their claws when they didn’t get it the way they wanted. She had called him to come over, and it surprised him. It had been months. And just when he was feeling good about coming to see her, feeling good about himself, she dropped the bomb.

  She told him she knew about the girl named Hope and that he’d gotten the girl pregnant. She wanted him to do the right thing. Let Hope have the child, and stop pushing her to abort it. She even went so far as to say he should pay Hope to raise the child. When he laughed at that ridiculous idea, she became angry and started with the threats of public exposure. The bitch had somehow found about the other affairs, and she threatened to go public, ruin his career. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  That was when he lost it. Had gone into a homicidal rage. Any man would have. He could still feel his pulse pounding in his ears, and he felt the urge to retch again, but his stomach had nothing left. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his dress shirt, flushed the toilet, and buried his face in his hands.

  I killed her. I’m a murderer!

  And then he realized he knew someone he could call for help. Someone he trusted completely. They would know what to do. They knew people who could fix this.
>
  He took his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jack watched the festivities from Katie’s kitchen window, thinking about how his life had changed over the last few years. He was still young, or youngish, but his solid six-foot-one build was getting a little soft, and this morning he’d spotted some gray hiding in his dark hair. This house was his childhood home. He and his wife, Katie, had lived here. But then came the divorce, and everything had gone to shit—his life, his marriage, his home, and his happiness.

  Jack Murphy was a police detective, not a fortune-teller. He noticed if someone was right- or left-handed, calm or nervous, lying or telling the truth, going for a weapon or likely to run, but he’d never seen today coming. They didn’t teach you in cop school how to react when your ex-wife got engaged to another man. If he were a fortune-teller, he wouldn’t be here.

  When he and Katie divorced, they had remained close because of the friends in common. She had dated and he had dated, but it was never serious for him until he met Susan Summers. He thought maybe she was the one. Three months ago, Susan accepted a position as chief parole officer for the state of Indiana, which necessitated moving to Indianapolis. It was only a three-hour drive, and they had promised to get together often, but neither of them kept that promise. The last time they spoke, Susan said she was dating someone, and he realized that he was happy for her. He also realized that when he was with Susan, he was thinking about Katie. Comparing Susan to Katie. Maybe Susan knew that. Maybe that was why she left.

  Outside, Katie and her sister, Moira, were posing for photos. Katie was short like her mother, about five-foot-five, and she worried needlessly about her age because she possessed an ageless beauty, both inside and out. Moira was younger and taller, like their father. She was nearly Jack’s height and he was over six feet tall. The one thing they shared, and their most striking feature, was their bright red hair—thick, wavy, and long.

  Jack watched them standing together in the sunlight and thought about the telephone call he’d received from Katie two days ago.

  KATIE: Jack! I have some exciting news. Moira is coming home tonight and I thought we should have a celebration for her graduation from law school.

  JACK: Wow! That’s great, Katie. I’m proud of her.

  KATIE: Trent Wethington has offered her a position as a deputy prosecutor. She starts next week.

  JACK: She’s living with you?

  KATIE: She has some huge student loans.

  (Silence for a beat.)

  KATIE: Jack, will you come to the party? Noon-ish Sunday. Liddell and Marcie are coming.

  Of course he had said yes. Why wouldn’t he? He and Katie were still friends. And he adored Moira, and she him. Plus, his partner and his wife had already committed to going. So he said yes. Then Katie dropped the bomb:

  KATIE: Jack. I’m getting married. I’m engaged to Eric Manson.

  She prattled on, but he didn’t hear or remember any of the rest of the conversation, except her comment that her new fiancé had insisted on inviting Jack. Eric wanted them to be friends. Eric thought they should get to know each other. Well, Eric can kiss my ass.

  Jack knew the real reason Eric wanted him to be there. Eric wanted to establish himself as the alpha male.

  Jack had ended the conversation by congratulating her, promising to come to the party, keeping his tone light, going through the motions that he’d learned from a lifetime of giving and receiving bad news.

  Since that call he had thought of at least twenty ways to kill Eric without getting caught. Leave a trail of money leading into a wood chipper. Not allow Eric to talk about himself for a month. Keep him away from mirrors.

  Pulling himself back to the present, he thought about the look Katie’s father had given him when the old man arrived. Her father thought that anyone was an improvement over Jack.

  Maybe it was the Scotch, but Jack noticed several swarthy-looking characters out in the yard that he didn’t recognize. Some of them looked like Eric’s family, both from the resemblance and the holier-than-thou attitude. In fact, they resembled each other so startlingly, he wondered if incest . . . Be nice, Jack, he reminded himself.

  Other people he didn’t recognize. They were probably attorneys because they stood around with their hands in their pockets. Probably to keep the other attorneys’ hands out of their pockets. They taught that in Attorney 101.

  Everyone was having a good time. Liddell, Jack’s partner, had of course taken over the barbecue grill, and his wife, Marcie, spread joy and smiles to whomever she touched. Some chatted, and some drank. Some played bocce ball while they drank. “At least I’m drinking,” he said quietly, and lifted his glass of Glenmorangie single malt in a silent toast to Katie and Moira. “Here’s to the Connelly girls. May the road always rise to meet you.” Then he lifted his middle finger and said, “And here’s to you, Eric.”

  He knew he should be sociable, but he couldn’t make himself go out there and pretend he was happy about this. But, damn, if Moira and Katie weren’t radiant! Not a care in the world. He hoped it could always be that way for them. Being a cop, he knew that life was something that happened to you, not for you.

  Everyone was smiling like one big happy family. And he couldn’t get his mind wrapped around it. Katie’s engaged to Eric Manson. What the hell was she thinking? She knows I hate lawyers.

  “Ready for another?” a man asked.

  Jack turned and saw Eric Manson framed in the doorway, a full bottle of Chivas Regal in his hand.

  Slightly taller than Jack, Eric was perpetually tanned, with a bright-white smile and what women thought was a ruggedly handsome face. The only physical defect was an ever-so-slight drooping of the left side of his mouth and eyelid. It made him look like a younger Sylvester Stallone.

  Eric Manson was chief deputy prosecutor for Vanderburgh County, and Jack had worked with him many times. But even before his going after Katie, Jack didn’t like him. Eric was a competent prosecutor, but he had a reputation for playing fast and loose with his female coworkers—married and unmarried alike.

  Jack had three reasons to hate Eric. One: Eric was an attorney, no matter which side he pretended to be on. Two: he was offering Jack Chivas Regal, which was the same as offering a glass of lighter fluid to a man in hell. And the biggest reason: Eric was taking Katie out his life. Jack would be damned if he let her be hurt by anyone.

  So you think you’re good enough for Katie? “Brought my own,” Jack said, and nodded at the half-empty bottle of Glenmorangie on the countertop.

  Eric picked up the bottle and examined the gold and orange label. “I forgot you were a connoisseur.”

  “Every man has a hobby. What’s your hobby, Eric?” Besides chasing tail.

  Eric ignored his jibe and motioned toward Jack’s empty glass. “It’s a party. And yet here I am drinking Diet Pepsi.” He made a show of looking at his watch and said, “But I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  Jack resented the insinuation. “If you have something to say, counselor, spit it out.”

  “What do you think I’m saying, Jack?”

  Jack’s fists clenched, and Eric planted his feet.

  “There you boys are,” Moira said, walking into the kitchen.

  The men stared at each other for a long moment before Eric said, “Tell my fiancée I’ll be right there.”

  “But will you always be there, Eric?” Jack asked under his breath, his arms dropping to his sides.

  “I didn’t quite catch that, Jack,” Eric said.

  The accusation was on the tip of Jack’s tongue when his cell phone rang.

  “We’ve found an unusual item in a landfill. I’m afraid I need you to get over there pronto. It’s a homicide.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A flock of white gulls circled in a cerulean sky, drawn by the rubbish in the Browning-Ferris landfill. On top of this no-man’s-land, three massive yellow landfill compactors with enormous steel chopper whe
els lumbered up and down the hills of newly collected trash.

  Jack and Liddell stood ankle-deep in discarded waste outside the chain-link fence on Laubscher Road. The putrid smell was overwhelming. Twenty feet away, a half dozen crime scene and uniformed officers cordoned off a massive area with yellow and black tape.

  “Another fifty yards and the Sheriff’s Department would be working this,” Sergeant Tony Walker said, pointing at where a line of trees began. Walker was fifty years old, but except for his salt-and-pepper hair, he could pass for twenty years younger. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his frame. He had been Jack’s mentor and partner when he first made detective a decade ago, but then Walker was promoted to sergeant and transferred to Crime Scene.

  Since Tony had taken over, the Crime Scene Unit ran much more smoothly. The brass was afraid to cross him, and the other detectives respected him. It was the best of both worlds, as far as Jack was concerned.

  Liddell, like Jack, was still in the clothes they’d worn to the engagement party. He brushed some cake crumbs from his knit shirt and said, “My brother, Landry, and his family are visiting Friday, and I was planning a crawfish boil. Tony, do you think I’ll get back home in, say, five or six hours to start making the roux?”

  At six-foot-seven, weighing in at full-grown Yeti, Liddell was a big man by anyone’s standards. Jack called him Bigfoot for obvious reasons, but everyone else called him Cajun because of his previous job with the Iberville Parish Sheriff’s Water Patrol Unit in Plaquemine, Louisiana. He and Jack had been partners since Liddell and Marcie had married and moved from Louisiana to Evansville, where she could be closer to her family and Liddell could do what he did best—work homicides.

  Walker put his hands on his hips. “Friday? Friday is five days away. It takes you five days to make that stuff?”

  “You’ve never tasted my roux. It’s not ‘stuff.’ It takes time.”