Serial Vigilante A Shadow Over Vegas

By CH Kelly

Renowned private detective Dustin Pitt’s income depends on the insurance
firms he assists, but his true passion is in closing criminal cases that
have baffled the police. Yet, there is one criminal who has persistently
eluded him: a serial killer of unequaled mobility and flexibility.

Malcolm Penn is not tied to any location. Each year he has moved to a new city.
Best of all, he enjoys changing his modus operandi with each relocation. He has mimicked a different historic serial killer in each metropolis he terrorizes.

Las Vegas Mayor Cynthia Barber has agreed to allow Pitt and his team to
assist the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police in their pursuit of this
villain. But the problem is more critical than it has ever been, because Malcolm is now changing his MO with each victim. His year in “Las Vegas” is almost up and if his pattern holds, he will shortly be off to another hunting ground. Pitt will either catch him very soon, or many more will die.

Pitt’s frustration sharpens. The bodies accumulate. The mayor draws near
to panic. And freedom is running out for Malcolm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CH Kelly
• Release date: Feb 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310908798

CH Kelly

C.H. Kelly is a Navy veteran who has experienced many cultures within the United States and abroad. He has held a wide variety of occupations including a carnival worker, a real estate agent, water district manager and author. C. H. Kelly currently resides in southern New Mexico with his wife and three cats.

Book preview

A SHADOW OVER VEGAS

C. H. KELLY

Copyright © 2014 C. H. Kelly

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

ISPN 978-1310908798

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual crimes is purely coincidental. To the best

of his knowledge the author has never met, interviewed or was befriended by an actual serial killer.

To my wife Diana

My love, my life and my sounding board.

I could not have finished this without you.

Acknowlegements

Stephen for your artistic eye

Angie for your attention to detail

Francis for you impeccable style

Table of Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Epilogue

C. H. Kelly

Prologue

Blackness. Blessed blackness. Lost in this sea of darkness, he was safe. No light, no thought, and most importantly, no feeling. To remain in this state the rest of his life would be wonderful, but this was not to be his fate. Gradually, but much too quickly, the red hue of consciousness grew and with it the horrendous pain.

Bruce’s eyes opened to see the cold, steel-blue eyes staring down at him. The man removed the syringe from the IV tube attached to his right arm and again he felt the familiar thumping of his heart as the injection took effect. However with the returning consciousness came the agonizing pain. He could no longer attach it to a particular part of his body. It permeated every part of his being.

How long this torture had been going on he could not guess. His world vacillated between horrendous torture and blessed blackness for days, weeks, maybe even months. It felt like an eternity. Every time Bruce felt himself drifting away he prayed it was for the last time. Oh God, he begged, please let me die. God was not listening.

He vaguely remembered when the ordeal started. Bruce was in the parking garage headed toward his car when he approached the cursing man standing at the open trunk of a Cadillac.

God damn bitch. The blue-eyed man looked at him as he approached. All I ask of the woman is to keep me presentable. Look at this jacket, see the stain? What, is she blind? How am I supposed to go to an important meeting looking like this?

Bruce stopped to survey the jacket. It was a nice, silk, double-breasted blazer. A dark stain about the size of a quarter stood out just above the left pocket. It was hard to miss.

I know what you mean, Bruce sympathized, I can’t tell you how many problems I’ve had. I keep a spot remover in my glove box for such occasions. I’ll get it for you. He was coming to the rescue of a fellow businessman, and that was when the first blackness came, as he turned to go to his car.

When he awoke, there was a throbbing pain behind his right ear and a burning in his nostrils as if he had used too much nasal spray. He was looking up at a white ceiling with a few cobwebs where it met the white walls. The temperature was cool around his nude body and he could feel that his wrists and ankles were bound to something beneath him, keeping him in a spread eagle position. He tried to call out but found his mouth was secured by some kind of tape.

After a couple of hours of useless struggling against his bindings, Bruce heard a door open. The blue-eyed man came into the room wearing coveralls and gloves and went to a canvas sack that was heaped in a corner of the room. Blue-eyes did not acknowledged him until he had pulled a large set of channel lock pliers out of the sack. Then he looked at Bruce. Without uttering a word, the man walked over and squatted by his left foot. The pain of his toe being crushed was unbearable and the man just stared into Bruce’s eyes, remaining silent as he suffered. After pausing for about five minutes he started again. Somewhere during the ordeal Bruce blacked out.

When he came to, an IV had been inserted into his arm. The man started again, and it seemed like hours before Bruce finally blacked out this time. Since then the man had gone through all of his toes, fingers, ankles, wrists, elbows, knees, and broken each of his ribs making every breath an agony.

Every time Bruce thought that the pain could not get any worse, the blue-eyed man proved him wrong. He did not remember when the man had unbound him, but he had not been able to move on his own for what seemed like days. He never knew if this devil was going to start on a new area or go back to work on an old one.

This time the man just looked at him for what felt like hours with a slight smile on his lips. Then, he went to the sack and Bruce closed his eyes. When he finally opened them again, the man was kneeling at his crotch waiting. Once he was sure he had Bruce’s attention, he started again for the last time.

One

Judge Renee Gibson glared down at the defense attorney. His motion to dismiss was in order, and she knew she had no choice but to grant it. His numerous motions had been convincing enough to eliminate the most damning evidence leaving the prosecution without enough to sustain the charge. That the pimp Eugene Simmons had strangled thirteen year old Natalie Green to death was apparent, but the less than professional police investigation had put the judge in this most undesirable position.

Motion granted, she announced in a voice that revealed her disappointment to the entire courtroom. As Barney, her old personal bailiff, gave the order All rise, Judge Gibson marched from the room swiftly, as if getting away quickly would lessen her disgust. In her chambers, Judge Gibson removed her robes and, collapsing into her chair, closed her eyes to the pounding inside her skull. Over the years her position seemed to make less and less of a difference in a system that allowed these maniacs far more rights than their victims.

Serving on the bench over the last five years she had witnessed the release of almost as many defendants as she had seen convicted. However, this was nothing compared to the phenomenal number of plea bargains which allowed the city's worst offenders to escape with nominal punishment. At least that got them off the streets for awhile. Nevertheless, she often had the feeling that she was fighting a losing battle. With the growth of the area it seemed that every honest citizen who arrived brought along two new criminals to victimize them.

She didn’t hear the door open, but she could feel Barney was standing patiently across from her waiting. After twenty-five years as bailiff in the Las Vegas court system, Barney had seen it all. He was a great companion to a young judge trying to cope with the frustration of the day to day failures. An excellent listener, he had also acquired a great deal of knowledge of how the system really worked, or did not work.

Barney, how could I let this happen?

Relax, Your Honor. There was nothing you could do. I wish I could teach a course at the academy on proper procedures for collecting evidence. Whoever is doing it now is not getting through to them. Hell, breaking down the door because of some screaming on a porn tape is not probable cause for collecting evidence, much less destroying all the furnishings in the room!

Some of the screams coming from those videos are pretty scary, Barney. You might have done the same thing. I can’t believe he kept a video of the murder, and in plain sight even. If they had just approached me for a warrant that bastard would be facing the needle.

Barney’s face wrinkled as he commented, Had they left and gotten the warrant, we both know that the tape and any other incriminating evidence would have vanished by the time they got back.

Renee pulled a prescription bottle out of her top desk drawer, removed a huge blue pill, and swallowed it with the cold coffee that had been sitting on her desk since earlier that morning. She closed her eyes again and sank back into her red leather chair.

Another headache judge? Barney inquired.

Yeah.

Isn’t this the third one this week?

Yeah.

It’s only Tuesday.

Yeah.

See ya later, judge.

Renee took a deep breath before answering Yeah, but Barney was already gone.

***

Mayor Cynthia Barber’s desk was stacked with various reports. On top were the crime statistics for the year 2013 and the January 2014 supplement. Cynthia’s phone conversation with the Police Commissioner was going well. Of course he made the cursory objection to bringing in an outsider, but the District Attorney was also up for reelection and had been pressuring him to get these cases solved. So he agreed to make the call, and assured her that the copies of the requested files would go overnight by FedEx to the private investigator, Dustin Pitt.

He is willing to send someone tonight to pick them up, Cynthia offered.

They will be ready by 5:00PM, Commissioner Gary Malone said with a voice of authority, and she knew that they would be. Gary got things done.

Thanks Gary, I will let him know, she replied and pressed end on her cell phone.

Cynthia picked up the letter she had received from Mister Dustin Pitt of Pitt Investigations that had started the discussions with the District Attorney and the Police Commissioner. It used the easy to read Arial font and was printed on the finest watermarked stationary available. She was familiar with this stationary, and knew this guy had paid well for this paper. He only gave one reference, but it was the right one. Los Angeles Mayor Grant Sterling was a personal friend of hers and their conversation that morning had informed her of the mysterious recluse who had an incredible ability to solve the most baffling cases with only abstract information.

Don’t expect to meet him, Mayor Sterling had told her. I don’t think he ever leaves his ocean front estate in Malibu.

Is he some bored, rich, armchair detective?

No. He makes his money as an investigator. Mostly he freelances for insurance companies, but he has done some work for our detectives when they reach a dead end. I talked with a couple of our best, and they say he has pointed them in the right direction when they were at a complete loss.

How exorbitant are his fees?

He doesn’t charge us. And he never grandstands. Pitt Investigations has been involved with several high profile cases both inside and outside the department, but you will never see their name in print. Anyway, if he has offered his services, I highly recommend you accept his proposal. From one mayor to another, he is worth a try.

So she had. Now she hoped he was all Grant had told her he was. If this murder rate continued to rise she would be just another one-term Mayor soon forgotten. That was not the reason she fought so hard and sacrificed so much to get here. She had higher ambitions.

***

The taxi stopped in front of the tall building that housed the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. As Rick Hayes exited the cab he rose to his full six foot height, turned, and asked the cabbie to wait, he would be right out. He smoothed the tailored, black, pin-striped suit he had worn that morning for a meeting with his father and climbed the stairs. Rick wandered into the lobby of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and asked for homicide detective Frank Kopatz. It was 6:20pm. That the boss called him to make this trip on such short notice was unexpected, but not a surprise. Rick was a fine detective in his own right but Dustin paid him far more than he could have made on his own. He was also able to work on a wide assortment of cases he would have not otherwise been involved in.

He knew that Kopatz would be resentful and uncooperative as all the law enforcement people they dealt with were at first, but somehow always came around to his boss, Dustin, the little man with no personality. How this happened was beyond Rick, but he liked the respect he received as a result.

A tall, thin, haggard looking man in a cheap suit approached him carrying a large envelope. The man looked like he had not slept in days. This seemed a common trait among the civil servants Pitt investigators worked. Rick could not imagine being a policeman. He got into the private investigation business to be Sam Spade, not Colombo.

You Hayes? the detective grumbled.

Yes, Detective.

We don’t need any help here. We’ve got a good crew and if we had just a few more men we’d have this under control. But, the Commissioner says you get these files, so here they are. Tell your boss not to waste my time.

Yes, Detective, Rick replied respectfully.

Rick took the package and headed out of the lobby. It was standard operating procedure to keep the initial contact with the law enforcement agency as brief and pleasant as possible. He hopped into the back of his waiting taxi and headed back to McCarran Airport.

***

His steel-blue eyes watched the lights of the strip glow in a swirled distortion on the surface of the pooling blood. Carefully, Malcolm scraped the skin residue under the fingernails of the right hand. Now a couple hairs placed delicately into a small tear of the nail on the index finger completed the illusion.

Bruce Castle had been a wife-beating bastard. A man of wealth and influence, he had never even been arrested for his numerous offenses. Even though he was the main suspect in his first wife’s death, there was not enough evidence to do more than bring him in for questioning. It seemed that most of the people who knew him thought him a saint and were uncooperative in the investigation, so it stalled and was now in the cold case files.

Malcolm Penn, the name he currently used, now truly enjoyed his passion: murder! After his depressing career in the Seattle area where he mimicked the cases of Jack the Ripper, the infamous English murderer of the 19th century, he decided to change his requirements for choosing his victims by selecting those more deserving of his attention. Besides, the prostitutes had been too easy, and those investigating could not find anything to link him to the crimes. In Seattle he was getting bored with what he was doing and almost wanted to get caught so he could take his place in the history books. However, this did not mean that he would allow himself to leave any evidence that could be traced back to him if at all possible.

His depression and an accidental overdose of Valium landed him in a religious hospital where he did not truly find God, but felt if he could do God's work through his passion, it could be more challenging and entertaining. So Malcolm left Seattle to travel the country.

In the months before he left he created a couple of false credentials from men of his build and age. Later this would be known as identity theft and it served his need for anonymity. Malcolm had since built up a dozen identities that would easily pass a cursory check.

Over the following years the boredom and depression had gradually disappeared. He was now enjoying his life and the challenges of creating unique MOs across the country while ridding the world of its demons. Since arriving in Las Vegas he added a new challenge: implicating its other less than honorable inhabitants, keeping the local law enforcement from looking for him, and keeping the Feds out of the equation.

With a cool detachment and a swift sweep of the knife, Malcolm surveyed his work. On the verge of death there was the occasional twitch but that would not last for long. Even in the emergency room with the very best specialists, he could not survive his current state. The demon Bruce had suffered a fitting demise, torture followed by a slash to the carotid artery. Other than his head and spine, over half of his bones were broken. To look at him one would think his arms and legs were put through a rock crusher and his chest was used as the heavy bag of Mike Tyson for half a year. With a few vials of adrenaline, he stayed alive to suffer for almost two and a half days. If Malcolm had used adrenaline made for humans he may have lasted longer. Using the horse variety had worked well enough. The coroner probably would not notice anything wrong since he had obliterated any sign of the intravenous needle. Malcolm was having so much fun.

His only consistency was, when feasible, bringing his victims out under the sky to present them to the god he felt he was the instrument of. His eye for an eye and then some philosophy allowed him an endless list of styles of manslaughter that kept the local law from connecting these crimes to one another or to him. As long as he was careful.

Leaving the body, he followed his tracks back to the apartment in which he entertained Bruce dragging a heavy dark wool blanket. It didn’t completely obliterate the footprints, but the police wouldn’t be able to make an exact match to a specific pair of shoes. Hopefully the prints would match to the brand and size of his fall guy.

When he reached the sidewalk next to the building, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and walked bent over as if trying to keep warm on this cool February evening. Two blocks from the apartment complex he dropped it in an alley. He knew the Mission was nearby and, even on a Tuesday night, the blanket would probably be picked up by one of the homeless in the area.

He strolled to a dumpster another four blocks away and tossed the double-bagged brown paper sack that contained the pliers, utility knife, hammer, and duct tape into the half full receptacle. Then he swung the 10 pound sledgehammer in. He had not bothered to clean any of the tools so the LVMPD would have no trouble connecting them to Bruce. Of course, there was no evidence of his involvement. The hair and skin he had placed under Bruce’s fingernails had been acquired from a lifelong criminal whom had been paroled early last week. His friend the judge had told him about the release of a criminal with several convictions for assault, and the timing was suitable for this project.

Two blocks away he found his three-year-old Cadillac in the lot of the health club of which he was a member. Personal trainer Jesse led a popular aerobics class that had started 10 minutes ago. As usual, this filled the small parking area but presently it was devoid of people. The club had 6 branches across the city allowing him accesses to several places to clean up and change clothes. He never went inside on a day he deposited a body, but on other occasions they provided an excellent reason for being somewhere. Malcolm pushed one of the several buttons on the key chain remote and the trunk opened like a yawning hippo. In he tossed his coveralls, shoes, and latex gloves into an old pillowcase and slipped on his loafers. Checking his watch, as he climbed into the leather seat, he noted that the time was 7:13 p.m. He had forty-seven minutes to get to Henderson for his listing appointment.

***

Detectives Frank Kopatz and Jesus Valdez looked at the body lying on the thick navy blue bedspread. Although there was plenty of blood present, it was obvious that this was not the original scene of the crime. It was impossible that someone could be put through what this man had experienced quickly. In an open lot like this, someone would have seen and it never would have been allowed to go this far.

The shorter detective, Jesus, looked grim, almost like it was all he could do to keep from being sick. He looked at the body and then looked away. He forced himself to look back again. He was the younger of the two and did not have the ability to look at a gruesome crime scene like this with the cold detachment his partner seemed to. It was his first year in homicide and he wondered if this ever got easier.

How could someone do this to another human being? It was both a question and a statement.

The Frank put his hand on the elbow of the younger Jesus and led him through the crime scene investigators and passed the coroner to the car. It wasn’t until they were inside that he spoke.

While you are in homicide you will see things that most people never have to see. Every time you think you have seen the worst possible crime, another will come along that makes all others pale in comparison. In my twenty-nine and a half years I have seen people shot, stabbed, and beaten. I’ve seen women strangled by their husbands and children smothered by their mothers. It never gets easier.

Have you ever seen anything like this before?

Not in twenty-nine and a half years.

***

Richard Wasp looked past the cheap white curtains on his bedroom window down to the construction site below. The red flashing lights of the squad cars illuminated the apartment walls. The additional flashing of pictures being taken drew his attention to several officers who were putting up yellow tape to identify the area as a crime scene.

What is it honey? The hooker asked in a dreamy voice as she stowed her needle and replaced her fix kit in her purse.

Some asshole got himself killed, he responded still observing the scene below. That it had to happen behind his apartment was an annoyance because he knew he would be the first person the cops would question. It had already been a bad week since his release from prison. First someone broke into his van and stole some of his tools and now this. Well the bastard probably deserved it. I just wish the fucker could have found somewhere else to die.

He rubbed his neck where the scratches were starting to itch. That old blue-eyed homeless bitch was probably drunk when she fell into him earlier that day. What, did she think he looked like a handrail? He’d have taught her a lesson if the black and white hadn’t pulled up at that moment.

Richard didn’t notice when the girl in his bed pulled a wad of tissue out of her purse and dropped a gold colored key behind the headboard. He had no clue that the nice steel-eyed man had promised her a week’s worth of sunshine for doing so.

Turning from the window he wondered when to expect the pigs to pound on his door. Other than the hooker he hadn’t seen anyone all day. Maybe Ron would cover him. Ron got out over a year ago and the cops were still hassling him. Besides Ron owed him big for favors he had done for him inside the pen. He would give him a call as soon as the whore split.

***

Valerie Walters closely watched the large screen high-definition television in her temporary home. The suite on the eighteenth floor of the Boston Harbor Hotel was comfortable without being overly extravagant. It wasn’t chosen for its comfort, but rather for the excellent view of the small marina, in Boston Harbor below. The 55 inch plasma, 1080p, HD television didn’t come with the room and wasn’t connected to the more than two hundred channels provided by the cable. Instead it was connected to a sophisticated inferred camera set up on the balcony.

She was waiting for the arrival of a small motor craft that would make its way to a boat in one of the slips at the southeast end of the marina. Her boss expected the boat tonight. Once she saw it she would make a call and a dozen squad cars would seal off all land access to the pier. Simultaneously a Coast Guard cutter and three harbor patrol boats would cut off any escape by sea. Eighteen of Boston’s finest were concealed on boats moored in the marina and the access to the slips. Their job was to keep any of the paintings from being destroyed and to apprehend the thieves. This was Val’s first assignment since her two and a half-month medical leave.

Her boss Dustin Pitt, aka the Pitt, a name she had picked up from her fellow associates, said she needed to update her prosthesis to something more inconspicuous if she was going to do more involved fieldwork. He had sent her to the most advanced facility in the world. Her metal hook was replaced with an prosthesis made with a reverse mold of her left hand. Now her right fingerprints were an exact reverse of her left ones. It was surgically attached and all the fingers worked. She even had some sense of feeling in the fingertips created by electrodes connected to nerve clusters in her stump.

She