The Red Writer

By DC Davis

Veteran FBI Special Agent Devin Knight and new transfer Special Agent Victoria Sanders' first case together will test their investigative abilities, loyalty, and morality, as they struggle to gain insight into the mind of "The Red Writer": a serial killer who writes his own romantic tale of love, despair, and heartbreak, into the flesh of the young women he seduces. As the victims pile up, the agents search frantically for clues, hoping to discover the identity of the meticulous killer, and bring his murderous spree to an end, before he finishes his story and disappears forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DC Davis
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310055270

DC Davis

Thanks for your interest. I love to write, to inspire, to elicit emotions and ideas, and to help others dream. My debut novel, The Red Writer, is available now. Please check it out, and stay tuned for my many upcoming projects: The Black Cell (A Knight and Sanders Novel), Web of the Widow (Erotic Sci-fi), Biblical (Comic/Graphic Novel), The Vale (Horror), and more.

Book preview

She falls forward, burying her face in the bend of his neck and shoulders. Her teeth dig into his skin. A breathless moan escapes her mouth as her body twitches against him. Playful giggles follow.  Kisses sprinkle his neck, shoulders, and chest as she laughs.

God, she whispers against his skin, rolling off his gleaming wet torso. That was intense.

He brushes a few strands of her auburn hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear, and pulls her close. The kiss is a gentle brush of lips and tongue.  Would you like a beer?

She smiles. Please.

He rolls out of bed and pads naked across the small space. The hotel is built for extended stays; each room designed like a studio apartment. She watches him go, marveling at the tight lines and hard curves of his body. Earlier in the evening, as they danced the salsa, she could tell he was far more muscle than fat. The dull ache between her legs and the sated beast curling up for slumber inside her were further proof.  He closes the refrigerator door and offers her an open bottle as he returns. Last one. She receives it with a smile and takes a deep swig, ingesting half the contents with two gulps. Bet you were fun at keg parties. he teases.

She laughs and hits him with a pillow. Ass.  The bottle returns to her lips. The rest of the drink vanishes. So, you never finished telling me about this book of yours.

He smiles. It’s a love story. Typical boy meets girl. They have this wild, turbulent, explosive love affair which involves sex, drugs, and violence. But with a twist.

She yawns deeply. What kind of twist?

Wouldn’t be much a surprise if I told you.

I can’t wait to read it. Do you have an agent or publisher lined up? Her eyes feel heavy.

He sighs, his shoulders sagging. You know what the hardest thing is about getting published? Even self-published? She blinks heavy lashes at him. Her vision blurs around the edges.

Original content. Everything’s been done. Every story you can imagine; it’s all been written. He stands and crosses the room, crouching in front of a black overnight bag. ’Avatar’ is ‘Ferngully’ in space. ‘Ferngully’ is ‘Dances with Wolves’ for kids. Everything can be compared to everything else. There’s no originality anymore.

The bag he carries back to the bed is the size of a woman’s pocketbook.  He lays it beside her, just out of her field of vision. She wants to turn and look at it, but her neck is heavy and numb. She wants to reach up and feel the muscles on her neck, massage life back into her tired body, but her arms feel like they weigh a hundred pounds.

You know what really gets you noticed? he continues. Delivery. How you get your work out there. Forget traditional publishing. Forget eBooks, Nooks, Kindles, tablets, iPads-- You got to do something different if you really want to get noticed.

The scalpel in his hand is a thin blur of gleaming metal as her eyes began to lose focus. In the fog of her mind, she knows she should be scared, terrified, but she’s just so damn sleepy.

The last words she hears seem to come from far away, as the haze and darkness encompasses her like a warm blanket. You and I... we’re going to make history.

Chapter 2

Devin Knight.

Victoria Sanders. Her handshake is firm, her hands rough and callous. She’s tall; nearly six feet in modest heels, and smells like lemons and vanilla. Black slacks cling to thick, muscular legs. A dark blue blouse covers breasts that hint at a life filled with more push-ups than most women are used to. A black leather waist length jacket covers wide shoulders and a sidearm in a shoulder rig. Her hair’s black with dark crimson streaks, and cut off her neck. Not masculine, but easy to manage. Dark brown eyes twinkle under perfectly arched eyebrows. Light pink lips spread in a half smile showing bright white teeth.

She notices him looking. I’m hot, right?

Lil’ bit. His answer is nonchalant. He puts the large black SUV into gear and pulls into traffic.

That going to be a problem? she asks.

I don’t know. You as good as your file says?

I don’t know. What does my file say?

He smiles at her. Born here in East LA. Your dad’s a mechanic. He owns a custom Low-rider shop off Santa Fe. You’re the youngest of five; four brothers. Enlisted straight out of high school. Four tours in Iraq. Honorable discharge after a lot of black marker during your last trip to the sandbox. Accepted into The Bureau upon discharge, due in no small part to letters of recommendation from a lot of brass. Four years in the Detroit branch. Responsible for the successful retrieval of three kidnap victims. Noted several times by local vice for aiding in taking down a prostitution ring, and a multi-million dollar drug bust. Numerous commendations, including a Purple Heart. Top scores in marksmanship, hand to hand, and critical thinking. Newly transferred to the LA branch and assigned to yours truly.

She looks at him, impressed. Did you seriously memorize all that?

Hell no. I read the file on the way here. I won’t remember half that shit by lunch. He maneuvers the SUV onto a congested LA freeway.  To be honest, I’m more interested in what’s not in your file.

What’s not in my file?

Seven kills; three during the drug raid. One week administrative leave for beating a suspect into a coma. An entire department full of men who are so scared of you, not a single one was willing to talk about you in the negative. One woman who says you’re the most arrogant, cocky, and narcissistic person alive, not to mention the Whore of Babylon, and one more who asked me to tell you ‘Cyndi say’s hi.’ And while I want to offer my sincere condolences about your mothers passing, and say I completely understand your desire to transfer closer to home, I can’t help but feel a little worried that my new partners head may not be in the game.

She crosses her arms over her chest. May I ask you a question?

Absolutely.

If none of that was in my file, how did you know any of it?

The car in front of them stops unexpectedly and Knight slams on the breaks. He punches the horn and let’s fly a string of colorful curses before taking a deep breath and looking at her.  Special Agent Lydia Harris. We went through training together.

Sanders nods. Did she really call me the Whore of Babylon?

I paraphrased. he admits. I think what she said was ‘that bitch will fuck anything with a dick and everything with a cunt.’

She laughs. You know the difference between a slut and a bitch?

He smiles. A slut will sleep with anyone. A bitch will sleep with anyone... but you. The traffic in front of them starts to free up and Knight navigates over to the carpool lane.

I’ve killed twelve men since joining the bureau. she begins. "They only document seven because after nine, you have to take six months off for extensive psych evaluations. The other five were credited to those men in the locker room who won’t say anything negative about me because I spent four years earning their trust and respect, not because they are afraid of me. And most of those kills were made to save their lives.

That suspect I beat into a coma, she continues He was a child molester and serial rapist. He kidnapped a nine year old boy and had him locked in a beer cooler. The kid was running out of air and I didn’t have time to ‘ask nicely’. What I did helped me to reunite a little boy with his family, and put a piece of shit in prison for the rest of his life. I make no apologies for that. As for my mother, She takes in a lot of air.  Thank you.

Knight is silent for awhile, focusing on the road in front of him. What about that whole ‘anything with a dick and everything with a cunt’ comment?

She smiles and shrugs.  I kissed a girl and I liked it, but a silicon stick is no substitute for the real thing. But I don’t piss where I swim. I don’t shit where I eat. And I don’t fuck where I work. In Mo-town I was one of the guys: poker nights, Super Bowls, family barbeques, even the bowling league. I have four older brothers; I grew up with baseballs and cleats instead of dolls and tutus. I spent three years in the sand pit with men who’d get killed if they were more concerned with screwing me than covering each other’s asses, so I learned to be one of the boys. All that makes me the ‘cool girl’, the one all the men refer to as their niece, or their little sister. The one all the guys were protective over.

And you know what they say about the girl with all the guy friends. he finishes for her.

She nods.  

He sighs. They continue in silence for a few moments.

So do we have a problem? she asks.

He spares her a glance. You read my file?

Do I need to?

He shrugs. I’ve been with the bureau six years. I’ve been assigned to fourteen VIP security details, one of which involving the President.  I’ve run point on two kidnappings. One girl we got back. One girl we didn’t. I spend more time in training ops than in the field. I’ve discharged my weapon five times in the line of duty, and I’ve never killed anyone. What you did in Detroit is impressive. The guy you beat into a coma, I would have put a bullet in his head. If killing a guy saves an agent, a victim, or a civilian, then you kill as many scumbags as you need to. That goes double if it’s my ass that’s on the line. If you have to take out someone to save me, shoot him! Then go to his house and shoot his dog! I mean it! Don’t take any chances.

She hides a laugh behind her hand.

Like I said, you did good work in Detroit, but this isn’t Detroit. Pot’s legalized. Local PD handles everything besides kidnappings with ransoms, anything political or high profile, or any serial killer cases that cross state lines. For the most part, it’s dull, boring and routine, and I like it that way. It means I can come to work without worrying about making it home and I can look forward to retiring in a twenty years with a decent pension. It means that if someone needs some time to reconnect with family, and focus on what’s really important, they will have the chance to do so without running and gunning through downtown LA. And as long as you can remember all of that, Agent Sanders, then we definitely do not have a problem.

Good to know. She glances out the window as a sign that reads Orange County flashes by. So what’s the case?

Body found at an extended stay hotel. It matches a MO found in Galveston three months ago. Same perp, different state makes it serial, and makes it ours.

Ever work a serial killer case before?

Only on XBOX. he admits.

And here I had you pegged as a Playstation man.

He smiles. Don’t tell me you’re a gamer-girl

Four brothers, remember.

They take an off-ramp. Hotels line the road. Knight patiently makes his way through the light traffic, stopping at a red light. So you really didn’t sleep with anyone back in the D? he asks.

She glares at him. "Don’t tell me you’re going to be that guy."

Just trying to gauge my chances. We might end up on a stake out together... stuck... alone... in this SUV... night… after night… after night... You see how spacious that second row is? he teases, glancing at the back seats.

She turns towards him, and looks him up and down slowly. You’re what? Six foot one... two twenty? Two thirty?

He makes his eyebrows dance. And she continues to impress.

Bet you work out five days a week like clockwork.

Six.

She nods, impressed. I’m guessing under that button up are rock hard pecs and washboard abs. Inside those flat front pants are tree trunk thighs, an ass that could crush diamonds, and judging by your hands and... size thirteen DKNY’s, a massive penis that would leave me dizzy with pleasure and walking funny for two days.

Knight’s grin spans both ears. That sounds about right.

She continues to look at him, her dark eyes playing over his features seductively. Chocolate skin, smooth bald head, cocoa eyes, manicured goatee around a beautiful mouth and sexy smile, and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a straight man.

I’m a sexy beast!

She giggles and unfastens her seat belt. She moves like a cat as she crawls towards him. Her hands glide over his smooth head, her fingers trace soft lips. She leans in close, her mouth inches from his own. The heat from her breath makes his skin tingle.  Her voice is a whisper into his mouth It’s. Never. Going. To. Happen.

A horn blast erupts from the car behind them. Knight blinks at her, and watches as she slithers back into her seat and fasten her seatbelt. The car behind them honks again, and Knight drives forward. And that’s the difference between a slut and a bitch. he says.  She laughs; a deep throaty sound that makes him smile.

They continue to the hotel in relative silence. The front of the building is blocked with black and white vehicles, unmarked cruisers, and a CSI van. Knight parks behind a black and white.

So what about you? she asks.  What did you do before the FBI?

He opens his door. Before the FBI? He winks at her. I didn’t exist before the FBI. He climbs out, closing the door behind him.  She follows.

Chapter 3

A group of uniformed officer meets them in the lobby. They flash their credentials and are escorted up to the fourth floor. The hotel is quiet and all but deserted. The room is at the far end of a long hall. A collection of uniformed officers and plain clothes detectives crowd the space in front of the door. A man in a dark blue blazer of khaki pants notices them approaching and moves to meet them. He offers his hand You the feds? he asks.

Special Agent Knight, he answers, taking the man’s hand in a firm grip and shaking it. He gestures to the woman beside him. Special Agent Sanders.

Detective Lee, Homicide. the man says, shaking Sanders hand.

Want to bring us up to speed? Knight urges.

The man gestures for them to follow, talking as they navigate through the small crowded corridor.

Tonya Bittle. Age twenty-seven. Housekeeping found her this morning around six am. Forensics are doing their thing, but they estimate she been here awhile, maybe a day or two. We called you guys because this seems ritualistic and we hoped it was something you’ve seen before.

What do you mean, ritualistic? Sanders asks.

Lee steps to the side and gestures into the room. See for yourself.

The space opens in front of them like a small studio apartment as they enter. There’s a couch and matching armchair, with a coffee and end table to one side, a small kitchenette behind a bar top sitting area to the other. Everything is neat, clean, and organized. Beyond the living area is a long dresser, a wall mounted flat screen television hanging over it. A small pile of clothes are folded neatly atop the dresser; tight fit jeans, a small red top with spaghetti straps, and black thong panties sit next to a pair of black and red pumps atop a light black windbreaker. A black and white clutch lay’s on its side neck to the jacket. A small desk and rolling swivel chair sit in the corner opposite the bed.

The woman is completely naked, her arms and legs spread wide. Her blue eyes stare blankly at the ceiling fan above. Her head is completely shaven. Her once alabaster skin is yellowing from decay and blood loss. At first glance, Knight estimates more than ninety-five percent of her body, including her scalp, is covered with tiny intricate cuts and lacerations.

A flash from a forensics camera makes him blink and step further into the room. Sanders follows close behind. He stops next to the woman with the camera and looks down at the delicate features of the victim. The short woman glances at him before snapping another picture. Devin. she says.

Felicia. he replies.

You didn’t call. She takes another picture.

Been a little busy. he lies.

She turns and smiles at him. Did I scare you off?

He swallows hard. Not at all.

It was just an idea. I said you didn’t have to if you weren’t comfortable with it. Some men find the sensation very pleasurable,

Sanders clears her throat.

The woman looks at her for a long moment. New partner?

He nods. Special Agent Sanders.  

She’s pretty. Bet you two will have a great time ‘working together’ Knight rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond.  Felicia Banning. Forensics. she adds.

What can you tell me, Ms. Banning? Sanders asks.

Well, She turns and snaps another photo. Beside the dead lady, The camera flashes again. This is the cleanest hotel room I’ve ever been in. Excuse me. Knight steps back and gives her room to move to the front of the bed for more photos.

Knight glances around the room. Yeah, I noticed it was a little neat for a murder scene.

Before you arrived, we treated the room with Luminal and ran a blacklight lamp over everything. Banning continues. With the exception of a few traces of blood under the victim, we didn’t find much.

Which suggests the victim was killed somewhere else and moved here, Sanders offers. Or the killer is a neat freak.

I’m betting on neat freak. Banning gestures to the pile of clothes.

Sanders moves closer to the dresser and leans over the small pile. She frowns. Is that... laundry detergent I smell?

Clothesline fresh. Banning says. I buy the same brand.

You have any latex? Sanders asks.

Powder-free. In my bag. She points to a small bag sitting on the armchair. Sanders goes to it, pulls free two pair of gloves, hands one to Knight, and returns to the dresser. May I? she asks.

"Already