Sin Killer

By Patrick J O'Brian

A serial killer remains free in Buffalo, New York after a task force comprised of state and local authorities fails to apprehend him and the wrong man is imprisoned. No one is more frustrated than Terry Levine, the state police investigator who headed up the team. Ordered to leave the case alone by his superiors, but unable to let a killer continue his murderous ways, Levine reaches out for some help to continue the investigation in a different kind of way.

Meanwhile the man dubbed the Sin Killer by the media chooses to tackle new challenges, particularly when he crosses paths with a mafia henchman who has a murderous reputation of his own. The mafia man wants out of the business when his employers begin aligning themselves with the dangerous Russian mob that arrives with false promises. The hitman reluctantly promises to carry out an important assignment that will forever link his association with the Russians one way or another. If he fails, he places his family at risk while his mafia family will feel the wrath of the Russians.

While Levine begins gathering evidence through his sources that will take the Sin Killer off the streets for good, the serial killer draws closer to his new target, unaware of how many lives hang in the balance if he kills the hitman. Blood soon spills and Buffalo area police find themselves trying to conduct multiple homicide investigations, knowing they still have to arrest the true Sin Killer. Now running out of time, Levine knows he must stop the serial killer before the man’s insatiable urge to kill adds to the death toll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick J O'Brian
• Release date: May 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781604143782

Patrick J O'Brian

Patrick O’Brian lives in northeastern Indiana, working full-time as a firefighter. He enjoys photography, theme parks, and travel. Born in upstate New York, Patrick returns to his home area once a year to visit family and conduct research for his future manuscripts. His other fiction books are: The Fallen Reaper: Book One of the West Baden Murders Trilogy The Brotherhood Retribution: Book Two of the West Baden Murders Trilogy Stolen Time Sins of the Father: Book Three of the West Baden Murders Trilogy Six Days Dysfunction The Sleeping Phoenix Snowbound: Book Four of the West Baden Murders Series Sawmill Road Ghosts of West Baden: Book Five of the West Baden Murders Series Non-fiction: Risen from the Ashes: The History of the West Baden Springs Hotel Pluto in the Valley: The History of the French Lick Springs Hotel

Book preview

Chapter 1

Saturday, July 4

Norwood, New York

Terry Levine walked carefully along Mechanic Street in his hometown, not enjoying the festive holiday like his fellow residents. The crackle and booming of fireworks echoed from nearby Earl K. Drew Memorial Firemen’s Field, followed by a brief illumination overhead that lit up the crime scene like a flash of lightning before fading away with a fizzle.

Initially enjoying a rare day with his family, Terry took his son to the Fourth of July parade that afternoon, followed by some of the festivities at the park. A full day of watching his son ride carnival rides, buying cotton candy, and watching a few tractor pulls left the state police investigator slightly dehydrated and sluggish after so much time in the sun. He felt no desire to examine a murder scene, especially one of a man he saw alive and well just a few hours earlier.

The victim, Kenny Hughes, headed the custodial staff at Clarkson University in nearby Potsdam where he also resided. He spent many of his summer weekends touring with the renowned Norwood Brass Firemen, a brass ensemble that toured throughout much of the state and sometimes beyond. Terry knew this much without speaking to one witness or band mate. Local people knew one another by name, face, and reputation. Though Terry didn’t particularly know the man personally, he recalled watching the band’s tuba player playing and dancing on stage as his band members threw their caps on or inside the instrument’s bell.

Now the man who entertained countless thousands each year lay dead on a patch of dirty gravel beside the dead-end street. Next to him, overgrown grass and weeds strangled a green commercial building that might have served as a dozen different businesses over the years. Currently vacant, the building and its metal roof appeared in excellent condition, simply waiting for a new buyer to give it a try. Only one other building existed beyond this one further down Mechanic Street and it appeared windowless.

So much for witnesses, Terry thought grimly.

Forensics people and the Bureau of Criminal Investigations captain were coming to assist in the investigation. Terry dared not step off the road for fear that he might trample footprints or other evidence. Murders, especially something brutal such as this, occurred about once a decade in area towns. Though hundreds of potential suspects remained nearby in the park and downtown, where lawn seats lined Main Street to watch the fireworks, Terry already had a prime suspect in mind.

Staying on the paved street, Terry knelt beside the deceased brass player to examine the body without touching it. Hughes had landed on his back, the sousaphone still wrapped around his torso the way he carried it, propping the upper half of his body. No visible wounds appeared in his light blue uniform shirt, so Terry looked under the body, finding six inches of visible space between the victim’s back and the gravel. A pool of blood formed beneath his back, indicating Hughes was shot or stabbed from behind. The small, glistening puddle indicated he died rather quickly instead of bleeding out.

If Hughes had bled to death, the pool would have been significantly larger. From what Terry saw, the blood emanated from near the man’s heart, which explained the quick death. Terry doubted the musician ever knew or saw his attacker, contrary to most homicides. What baffled him was the route Hughes chose to walk toward the fire station where his vehicle was likely parked. Perhaps he avoided more populated streets to view the fireworks better because only now were they coming to an end after half an hour.

Terry responded immediately after the 911 call to his dispatchers because he was still in town. After retrieving his firearm and identification from the car, he sent his son and youngest daughter home with his wife before walking two blocks to the scene where he found the sole distraught witness. Knowing the investigation might take all night, Terry could always ask road troopers to give him a ride home instead of inconveniencing his family.

At first I thought he was passed out, the owner of a nearby tavern said when Terry arrived.

Wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt with loafers, Terry considered himself passable as an investigator. Two local police officers and a deputy shut down the two streets that provided access to the body so no one poked around. A large boom diverted Terry’s attention toward the sky, which revealed a collection of red, white, and blue sparkles meant to resemble the American flag.

Close enough, he muttered, though it really wasn’t.

Fireworks just weren’t meant to create specific shapes or patterns, but every year the contracted company attempted a patriotic ending, so he gave them an ‘A’ for effort. Standing with his hands on his hips, Terry watched the last of the glistening colors fade into dust as they descended toward the earth. He returned his attention to the body, seeing no cuts or scrapes in Hughes’ arms or neck, reiterating his theory that no struggle occurred during the attack.

Terry examined the man’s shoes next, finding a thin layer of dust on them that likely came from his walk on and around the gravel beside the road. The shoes were otherwise free of scuffs and marks, retaining their high gloss shine. His baseball cap, part of the uniform the band wore when playing casual settings, had fallen to the ground behind him. Hughes’ thick head of brown hair appeared untouched, a few droplets of sweat still clinging to some of the follicles.

He pictured Hughes walking toward the village park, possibly returning to his vehicle, turning occasionally to view the fireworks. In his slightly inebriated condition, Hughes might have been too distracted to see danger approaching him, or perhaps his attacker took him by surprise when the entertainer turned to see what accompanied the boom of the fireworks.

The man’s hazel eyes remained open about a quarter of the way, his death trance staring into the starry sky. Terry knew a lot of the Brass Firemen drank beer during their intermissions and after their gigs finished, typically in moderation. A holiday such as this probably called for a heavier celebration since many of the band members arranged for rides home.

Terry noticed some redness in the corneas, which might have accompanied death, or formed after a few too many beers. Unwilling to judge a man who certainly didn’t deserve death, Terry walked over to Ernie’s Tavern where the owner stood outside his door, chomping on an unlit cigar.

Thanks for sticking around.

No problem, the older man answered.

Dressed in a black motorcycle t-shirt with blue jeans, the man appeared to be retirement age, perhaps trying his luck in the tavern business to pass the time and entertain friends. Several tattoos covered his arms like extensions of his shirtsleeves, while scuffed black boots protected his feet. Left with a fringe of gray hair, the man looked rugged enough to ensure no trouble started in his bar that he couldn’t handle.

Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Terry asked again, even though the man previously answered several brief questions.

No. Like I said, I walked outside to take out the trash and watch the fireworks a minute, and that’s when I saw him.

So the fireworks had definitely started when you stepped outside?

Maybe three or four had gone off.

Was there anyone else inside the bar? Maybe someone who left right before you stepped outside?

I had a small run after the parade, but business died off after that. I didn’t have anyone in here for almost an hour before I stepped out.

Terry started jotting down what the man said with a pen and scrap sheet of paper his wife handed him before leaving. While it didn’t look the most professional, neither did his appearance. The parade occurred hours prior, leaving his prospects looking rather dismal.

No noise? Gunshots?

Nothing like that. I would have heard gunshots because the fireworks were plain as day from inside.

Terry wondered exactly when Hughes left the park, though circumstances kept him from checking at the moment. He suspected witnesses would come forward like water through an opened floodgate once the police asked for their assistance. Leaving the body before someone else showed up wasn’t an option, despite the officers standing guard at the ends of Mechanic and Leonard Street.

Do any of the businesses around here use any kind of security cameras that you know of? Terry asked.

Nah. Most of us can barely afford security systems.

In Norwood, most businesses didn’t really need systems, much less video equipment. Terry recalled growing up with parents who never locked their doors and dropped whatever they were doing to assist someone in need.

You never saw anyone else on the street? Terry asked the owner. Not even someone you knew?

No. Everyone’s watching the fireworks. God, who would do that to that poor guy? Everyone loves the Brass Firemen.

True, Terry thought. The group who traveled to the 1984 Olympic Games in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia was immortalized locally and on some websites. Iconic in Norwood and much of the state, the band consisted of some volunteer firefighters and talented musicians approached during their high school years. Kenny Hughes volunteered as a firefighter in Potsdam, worked full-time, and performed with his band at least once a week during the season. Terry knew that much, but he didn’t know anything concrete about the man’s personal life. Though he intended to treat this like any other homicide, following up on every lead, he felt certain he knew who murdered Kenny Hughes, and exactly why.

Chapter 2

Saturday, July 4

Onondaga County, New York

Moonlight reflected off the surface of Mangrove Lake, a small manmade pond designed to serve as the focal point of a summer home resort area. Six cabins, all with boats docked at their common waterfront, remained occupied during the summer months. Tonight the lights of three cabins shimmered against the dark water, but only one of the cabins interested the man sitting in a restored 1969 Mustang convertible.

Casually smoking a cigarette as he observed the cabin nearly a hundred yards up the road from him, Richard Stepaniak kept watch for anyone monitoring him.

He found no one down the road even looking his way. He didn’t really expect to, considering he drove in with his headlights off, then parked to the side of the paved drive on some gravel. Just a few miles northwest of him, Syracuse residents were likely enjoying their holiday. While they partied, drank, and shot off some fireworks, Stepaniak had something quite different in mind.

His daytime job, a front as some who knew him referred to it, was restoring old cars for clients who didn’t have the time or the incentive to do it themselves. He made fairly good money at his business, but he didn’t work on clients’ cars himself. Other than covering his true occupation, his business provided him with the pick of the litter when it came to old cars sold cheaply or donated to him.

The Mustang he occupied was one he paid handsomely for because it required minimal restoration. He made it a weekend project at his house, keeping it distanced from the shop and clients who might want to own it. Working on a car at home wasn’t real work, so he never gave it a second thought when he replaced a mirror, or changed out a few engine parts.

Serving as part of his cover because the trunk contained his tools of the trade, the Mustang proved invaluable. With the car’s top already down for the sake of observation, Stepaniak shifted in the black vinyl bucket seat. It creaked as his dressy black leather jacket rubbed against it. He wore the jacket to keep from getting chilled by the night air with the top down, and also to prevent his shirt from getting ruined by blood.

Another twenty minutes passed before Stepaniak quietly exited the car, popped the trunk, and looked at the array of weaponry before him. He buttoned the second button from the top on his jacket to keep it from flapping before selecting a small, sheathed knife from the trunk to secure along his ankle by means of a Velcro strap. After readjusting his trousers Stepaniak pocketed a garrote designed especially for strangulation and breaking the windpipe. Finally, he selected a Ruger .22 silenced pistol and tucked it into his belt where it dug slightly into the small of his back.

Good, he thought as always, the discomfort meant the gun wasn’t going anywhere. He removed a small case with lock picking tools from the trunk, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, then walked toward the two-story cabin while cautiously peering to his left and right sides.

Only one of the six cabins owned a good vantage point of Stepaniak’s target residence and its lights were shut off shortly before a car exited the garage almost five minutes prior. His target residence’s lights remained on, both upstairs and down as though a party might be starting at any moment, but Stepaniak knew better. The owner, somewhat of a recluse, probably felt security in having the lights on and an alarm system installed.

False security.

Stepaniak stayed in the shadows as he walked, avoiding any sticks or leaves that might crunch underfoot and give him away. He spotted his target on the second story, leaning on the balcony as he enjoyed the pretense lake’s view. Despite being a recently molded body of water, it sounded authentic with frogs croaking and several fish batting the water with their tails as they snatched insects from the surface then raced downward with their prey.

Mentally assuring himself he wasn’t leaving footprints, and that his car left no tracks along the trail or the patch of gravel where he parked, he continued onward. Stepaniak also made certain to discard his cigarette butts within his car, rather than risk leaving evidence of his DNA on the ground. Quitting might have made his job a little easier, but a 44-year-old contract killer needed some vices to make himself convincing to the powers that be.

His personal rule was to carry at least three deadly weapons with him on any assignment. In his line of work, one could never be prepared enough because the unexpected often happened on someone else’s property.

More often than not, his employers, or the people who contacted them to contract him, provided some kind of background information or dossiers about his targets. Though he read the information, he found it more prudent to spend time observing his targets before confronting them. For instance, he discovered the house before him was armed with a security system. After studying the hand movements of the owner when the man armed it, Stepaniak now knew the code. He also found no security cameras outside of the residence, and from what he saw of the inside with his binoculars, it seemed unlikely any existed there either.

No dogs, no guards, and no one other than the target presented himself.

Stepaniak reached the house a moment later, peered inside an open blind, and saw no one on the lower level. Last he saw, the gray-haired gentleman upstairs returned to the comfort of the cabin, closing the screen door behind him. From what he knew, Stepaniak doubted the man expected anyone to come for him. Apparently the target once headed a family out of New York City that made a move against someone loyal to Stepaniak’s family. Blood was spilled and someone died because the man a floor above Stepaniak gave the order. In the sense of long-term strategy, it seemed prudent for the families to let things cool off in the aftermath, but not wait too long to retaliate.

Most people didn’t know Stepaniak by name because layers of shielding protected the hitman from the outside world. The few who knew him often questioned how a made man with a Ukrainian last name tied in with the dwindling number of Irish mafia members left in Buffalo. Calling them a family, or a mafia for that matter, didn’t set well with Stepaniak. Only after finding himself entrenched in their lifestyle did Stepaniak truly realize the only way out of his occupation was a box with six pallbearers.

If not for his true family, especially his younger brother, he might have taken the risk of leaving the Murphy clan years earlier. Unfortunately they would simply hire someone just like him to take him out because he knew their secrets.

Stepaniak found the rear sliding glass door open, so he donned thin black leather gloves before slitting his way through the screen with the knife after assuring himself of no surprises awaiting him inside. Stepping onto the wooden floor, he realized the security system wasn’t armed, so he treaded lightly along the floor. He halted and froze in place when the sound of footsteps thumped above him.

One set of footsteps, and they were heading toward the stairs. Stepaniak slid his way out of sight against a wall beside the staircase, prepared to strike when the homeowner came downstairs. Not one for words, or lingering to endanger his planned escape, Stepaniak found no need to explain to people why they were about to die before taking their lives. The idea of telling someone about their indiscretions, which they already knew, seemed redundant, because they were seconds from losing their lives regardless of whether or not they understood why. Giving them forewarning led to them pleading for their lives, which always seemed pitiful and pathetic to him. No one wanted to die, but Stepaniak believed men in his profession should simply accept the end they created for themselves.

Most times Stepaniak didn’t even know the circumstances of their wrongdoings. He only knew they lived their lives as he did, which ensured their nominations for sainthood were never coming.

Occasionally a client wanted him to say a few words to the soon-to-be departed, which he did coldly and efficiently. In those circumstances he used a firearm to ensure they couldn’t escape while he carried out his instructions. While Stepaniak didn’t particularly enjoy killing like a serial killer might, he found some satisfaction from his job. It provided him with a good lifestyle and instilled fear into those who knew of him, but he knew his occupation came with a heavy price tag in the form of an early departure from the thing called life.

Fully capable of making his murders appear like accidents, Stepaniak seldom displayed the ingenuity it took to pull off such a feat because his jobs were often meant to cause fear and unrest. No one worried that their death might come next if Uncle Joe died from a heart attack or drowned in the pool. Finding their family members or colleagues shot in the skull, or strangled in their pajamas sent an entirely different message.

Footsteps sauntered down the wooden stairs without a care in the world. Back pressed to the wall, Stepaniak listened carefully, knowing the sound came from a man’s feet based on the thumping sound and the rhythm of the steps. Women tended to make their own sound when walking, whether they wore heels or slippers. He paid attention to the little details in life, which he fully believed extended his own existence. Stepaniak believed if hell truly existed, like the Bible said, he was almost certain to take a trip there when his heart stopped beating.

He found no reason to rush into the afterlife to discover the truth.

Silently pulling the garrote from his jacket pocket, Stepaniak took hold of the two wooden handles. Certain he wasn’t being watched, and no one could see his position from the cabin directly across the tiny lake, Stepaniak waited until the homeowner touched the ground floor. At last he saw the man close up, gray-haired yet reasonably solid for a man nearing seventy. It took the man only a second to notice the slit in the screen door, and less than that for Stepaniak to slip the deadly wire over his head.

Ordinarily Stepaniak passed on the idea of using the wire, but against an older victim, he decided it wouldn’t be too much hassle. His victim, George Rudolph Moretti, did the instinctive move of reaching up to grasp the wire. The wire served its purpose, cutting into Moretti’s neck, then his fingers when he tried pulling it away. Moretti gasped and groaned as the strangulation began, clawing at the wire, then his assailant’s gloved hands. Stepaniak withstood the man ramming him backwards into the wall, then grasped the handles and pulled with the force enough to crush the man’s windpipe.

While Moretti didn’t simply fall to the ground limp, the injury proved mortal, because his resistance lessened significantly, allowing Stepaniak to keep the pressure on the neck until his victim lost consciousness. Even as Moretti’s arms fell to his sides, and his body went from tense to limp, Stepaniak retained pressure on the wire until he felt certain the man was no longer breathing. His father taught him early on that unconsciousness and death were two different animals. Unconscious men might come back to haunt you, whereas a dead man told no tales and sought no revenge.

Stepaniak finally shoved the man’s body to the floor once he recovered the wire, then looked around once more for any potential witnesses or damning surveillance equipment. Seeing none, he double-checked the floor for footprints and quickly doused the area with bleach and household cleaners after sweeping the areas of the floor where he’d stepped. While he kept his hair and full goatee short to prevent hair fibers from incriminating him, he took extra precautions when time permitted.

He dumped the swept remnants outside where the wind would carry them away, then followed his path out the door one last time by dumping cleaning solvents behind him. Discarding the container by throwing it in a nearby bush, Stepaniak felt better protected. His gloves kept him from leaving fingerprints while the chemicals nullified any potential DNA findings if he indeed left any trace evidence behind.

Satisfied he left no traceable evidence behind, Stepaniak took the path least likely to leave any footprints as he returned to the Mustang. He still had Sunday to recover and tinker around the house before returning to his other family on Monday to collect his salary. Knowing he was trapped by the very nature of the work he carried out, Stepaniak took solace that his two children would never follow in his footsteps. His life as seen by the outside world was a sham so that his wife and children would never know what those short business trips were about. Susan, his wife, suspected something more than a car restoration business that generated extra income, but Stepaniak maintained cover stories for every aspect of his life.

As the beauty of the Mustang came into view, he wondered how he kept his own webs of deception straight sometimes. His car, with its dark blue paint scheme, mirrored him because although it continued to age it proved reliable. It also possessed a knack for getting the job done without complaining or faltering. After unbuttoning his jacket, Stepaniak tugged down on the inner flaps to inspect them for any blood or damage. He didn’t recall seeing any blood protrude from his victim, but sometimes cuts or nosebleeds occurred during the course of his work.

He hated stains because they required him to change or buy new clothes before heading home. His shirt and tie were also free of damage upon inspection, so he opened the car door. Giving one last look around, he popped the trunk, replaced the weapons, then removed an old Rossi 38 Special revolver. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he slid the gun beneath the seat before starting the engine. Leaving the top down probably wasn’t the best idea, because even July nights felt cool at interstate speeds, but Stepaniak didn’t much care.

Getting out of Onondaga County was his primary concern, but he needed gas first, because time didn’t permit much preparation for his Saturday night excursion. Typically, Stepaniak took painstaking measures to ensure he packed sufficient food and beverages, and topped off the tank before leaving so he never needed to stop at a gas station and risk showing his face. Not nearly stupid enough to leave a paper trail by using a credit card during his out-of-town jobs, Stepaniak now felt somewhat foolish for not taking a few extra minutes to fill the Mustang’s tank before leaving Buffalo. His own habit of taking time to observe his target came back to haunt him this time because family obligations kept him home longer than he wanted. Unfortunately the orders clearly stated the hit needed to take place on Independence Day, after dusk, leaving him in a time crunch.

He decided instead of stopping at a mom and pop gas station, where people often remembered the faces of strangers, to stop at one of the interstate full-service rest stops. They sometimes had cameras, but he would simply keep his head down and pay cash. Besides, he could wait until he was west of Syracuse before stopping. Gas and a restroom were all he needed to stop for, then his native city would embrace him as it always did, providing safe haven for him and his double life.

Chapter 3

Saturday, July 4

Norwood, New York

Terry found himself able to carry out interviews and information gathering once investigators from his barracks and the Bureau of Criminal Investigation (BCI) out of Ray Brook arrived. The Ray Brook barracks housed both the BCI people and the Forensic Investigation Unit (FIU) for all of Troop B. The state police within New York are segmented into troops, each of which cover several counties, broken down into specified zones with stations. The only exception comes in the form of Troop T, which covers all of the New York State Thruway.

Although Terry understood that crime scenes, even murders, couldn’t be rushed, he often felt helpless waiting over an hour for the Ray Brook investigators to arrive. Now the Senior Investigator for his barracks and holding the rank of sergeant, Terry felt a burden of responsibility to act. At least he had one less call to make, because the Senior Investigator was typically the first state police investigator called on a homicide. From there, a chain of phone calls went up the line to the BCI captain and the major who oversaw the barracks.

Terry felt personally attached to this case because he knew the victim a little bit.