Devil In The Mist

By Diane Dorce

While Southern Africa struggles with a deadly plague, one lone detective and a cast of unlikely heroes discover the virus was engineered, specifically for killing. Zack Monstar is assigned a simple murder case that’s anything but simple. Two men dead, one black, one white, both associated with nations’ leading health organization. After, NBA All-star, Akewali Dimbi dies returning from Africa, Zack finds himself immersed in case that will leave a trail of bodies from Africa to Atlanta . Zack discovers an intricate plot, involving government agencies, biological agents and deadly immunizations. In this modern day tale of David versus Goliath, Zack risks it all to save the woman he loves, taking on the government, the world, and finally The Devil in the Mist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firefly Publishing & Entertainment, LLC.
• Release date: Jun 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9780984642823

Diane Dorce

Diane Dorce’ was born in Gary, Indiana. Her first writing venture was a self-published preteen novel,"Loving Penny" which received rave reviews and a Honorary Mention in the Writers Digest Self-Publish Book Awards. "Devil in the Mist" is Diane’s first mystery-suspense novel. Since then, she has penned "52 Broad Street", a urban drama, as well as contributed to the short-story anthology, "Bloggers Delight", where her short-story "Smoke" received rave reviews. The author currently resides in Georgia, where she is at work on her next novel while also running her boutique publishing company, Firefly Publishing & Entertainment.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Dr. Stephens stopped in his tracks, standing completely still except for the trembling…first his hands, then his entire body. After a moment, he continued retrieving the remaining papers from the copier and shoving them into an already full briefcase. He couldn’t leave a thing behind. He wiped the sweat from his face and breathed deeply. The whole espionage thing had taken its toll on him. He already had two strikes against him…one not being a young man and two not being physically fit. He would change, he vowed. He would get healthy, lose fifty pounds and take a real vacation just as soon as this was over.

Stephens had little time to think. The deal was made, and no matter the cost, he had to believe he was doing the right thing. Soon it would all be over. Just like that, a decade of work and dedication would be misplaced, forgotten. All for the better, he thought. He had less than two hours to make contact. He checked his watch and marveled at his pace. It was midnight, and the hallways were free of the usual cleaning people and guards.

The 6 level staff parking garage was just beyond the building. It was well- lit, and in close walking distance. All entrances were gate controlled, and each gate opened with a magnetic entry card coded specifically for each paid monthly parker.

Stephens zipped his card and entered the gate. He reached the middle of the garage and stopped. He felt a rush, an uncanny feeling. Someone just walked over my grave. As stupid as that statement was, it best described how he felt. He looked right and then left, but saw nothing. Strange. All of a sudden he wasn’t so comfortable any more. He was scared. He quickened his pace while his body bounced and pushed itself to the limits to keep up. He could barely breathe, let alone run any more. Stephens rested. His heart drummed against his chest. He tried to laugh, but ended up coughing. Another breath and the drumming stopped. In fact, everything stopped. Silence. A car horn blew and startled him. The normal sounds of night returned. Stephens shook his head, laughing at his own paranoia, yet he remained alert. His car was just around the corner. Just a few steps more, and he would be there. He walked quickly, occasionally looking behind him.

Dr. Stephens had just set his briefcase down to retrieve his keys when he heard it, a sound like a low whistle, but not a whistle at all. He searched for his keys. He checked his pants, his pockets and his briefcase, where he finally found them. As he was unlocking his car door, he was oblivious to anything or anyone except getting out of the garage as soon as possible. The lock clicked. He reached behind for his briefcase, feeling nothing. It was gone! What the. . .

The blow was sweeping and quite effective, sending the hefty doctor crumpling to the ground, a massive clump of flesh resting near the front tire.

Have you gone mad? Dr. Stephens grunted. Touching the back of his head, he felt the warm and sticky wetness on his hand. It’s over, he said brokenly, trying to get to his feet. I have seen to that. Fool! Goddamn crazy bastard! You’ll be nothing when I’m finished with you. You hear me?

Dr. Stephens barely had time to blink when the assailant withdrew a gun with a silencer attached in one hand and a filled syringe in the other.

No! Dr. Stephens gasped, surprised by his assailant’s quickness and strength. What have you done? he cried out, reaching for the needle that protruded from his thick neck. Stephens knew, more than anyone the consequences of this act. Killing him was the easy part, but hiding the evidence would be difficult, even in death. As he sat there taking his last breath, he was pleased with the thought that they wouldn’t get away with it. And although he couldn’t move, a smile spread across his lips, followed by a series of convulsions and massive hemorrhaging. Within minutes, every major organ in his body had shut down and like the rest, Dr. Stephens was dead.

The assailant was fascinated by how quick the serum worked, doubling up on the dose had produced record results. His people would be pleased and he would soon be a very rich man. He picked up the syringe and bent to retrieve the doctor’s case when he heard a noise behind him and froze.

Hey, what you doing there? The assailant heard a man ask. He turned and saw a young black man slowly approaching him from twenty feet away.

Can you help me? This man’s hurt, the assailant said. He watched the man get closer, ten feet, five the young black man came, walking hard, thuglike, carrying nothing but a paperbagged bottle.

Hey, I know you, aren’t you…

He never finished, never had a chance. The shot was precise…right between the eyes. The bottle slipped from the man’s grasp, spilling its contents onto the cement. The two fell simultaneously, a ballet of sorts…of death. The assailant had to work fast. Someone may have heard the shots or god forbid, saw him in the act. He emptied his gun into Dr. Stephens face, leaving a mess of flesh and bone, not even his mother

would recognize. With Stephens out of the picture he could proceed as planned. A smile crossed his lips. Soon they will all die.

Chapter 1 Death and Murder

The boy moved from side to side, his eyes wild, his stance unstable, but the gun remained steadfast and pointed at his girlfriend’s head. Back up, Muthafucka! You heard me! Back the fuck up! he barked to the detectives and approaching police officers while moving closer to the platform. Detective Zack Monstar eased his way around the elevator with caution. The situation was critical, and although there were no trains approaching, the boy was close enough to jump or throw the girl onto the tracks. Zack took a position near the center of the station, in front of the twenty-four foot mural of happy brown faces and flowers for which the Decatur, Georgia Marta train station was famous.

It’s alright! Zack said, waving off the officers behind him. Rick? That’s your name, right? The boy nodded, while the girl moaned. Hey man, look at your girl. She’s scared. All of this can be squashed. Just let her go, Rick, Zack said, inching closer, yet keeping a safe distance between himself and the boy.

Think! Zack was desperate to end this situation in a peaceful way. He didn’t know Rick from any other street kid, and yet he knew him all too well. Rick could have been him, twenty years ago, until someone stepped in and saved his life.

He was on a mission to do the same, save this boy’s life. The boy had moved closer to the end of the platform, next to the stairway…too far to reach in a matter of seconds.

Across the way, members of the S.W.A.T team positioned themselves on the stairway and below the platform. Zack calculated the distance between himself, Rick and the girl to be about four feet and closing. He took another step. Rick, I need you to listen to me. I need you to take what I’m saying real serious. You hear me? The boy nodded. "Okay then, right now, you stand a chance of making it out of here alive, but if you don’t release that girl, you’re a dead man.

Not badass, not a thug, a dead man, Rick! Is that who you want to be? You want to die?" Another step.

The boy shifted his weight again, angered by Zack’s words. I don’t give a shit. She’ll be dead too! So, it would be just like you killed her. You shoot me. I shoot her. You let me go; I let her go. Word is bond!

The boy was now about three feet in front of him. "Look, I’ll tell you the truth. I can’t save you, Rick. Look around you. Every gun here is pointed at you. The odds of you making it out of here alive are slim to none. You only got

one chance out of here, and that’s with me. You let the girl go now, and you walk out of here alive. You walk out of here with me today, and I promise you. You will never walk alone. Word is bond. Let her go, Rick. It ain’t worth it."

The boy shook his head, mumbled something then went back to shaking his head. Zack didn’t like it. Rick’s eyes shifted to the S.W.A.T team and back to Zack who was no expert in hostage negotiation. He was no dummy either. He recognized the face of terror, and knew the look of a defeated man, with no will to live and no fear of dying. Foot soldiers. He knew them better than anyone did, and had watched them die one by one, until there were none. This one, he wanted to save. Zack moved closer. Rick! No answer. Rick, we can walk out of here right now. You and me, Brother. Zack spread his arms. I got your back; trust me, then placing one hand behind him accessing his gun while the other remained clearly in front of him so Rick could see he meant no harm. Work with me, Rick. Come on; let her go!

The boy was silent, his hands still, when a small wet spot formed in the center of his pants; then a pool of fresh urine surrounded his leg. The girl squirmed, her eyes big with disbelief that her thug boyfriend had pissed his pants. Zack experienced it all, the silence, her fear and the scent of urine. He was suffocating. He noticed the boy’s demeanor change; there were tears in his eyes. Rick was giving up. Zack let go of his gun, happy that Rick was making the right decision, pleased with himself, when he heard a click, the sound of a gun chamberit was too late. Shots were fired in every direction, hitting columns and pretty brown painted faces. Zack leaped, knocking Rick and the girl both to the ground. The girl was sobbing but the boy was silent. Zack touched him and was shocked to find his hand covered in blood.

He’s hit. Somebody get EMS! Now! He felt for a pulse. The boy’s breathing was ragged. Come on, Man! Zack pleaded. Hang in there! He pressed hard against the boy’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding when Rick gasped for breath. Zack applied mouth to mouth, and Rick’s breathing returned but Zack could see he was losing him.

Rick died moments before the EMS finally arrived. Zack sat with bloodied hands by the body, unable to move, his thoughts drifting back and forth.

The scene, the shots and the blood. It was like déjà vu. No matter how he tried, remnants of his past always caught up with him. Flashing bulbs snapped him back, and he could see himself in the next day’s paper, head down, sitting beside the body, with the headline ‘Black Youth Dies at the hands of police.’

* * *

Akewali Dimbi steadied his hand. It tremored slightly, unnoticeable to everyone but himself, so he continued to sign autographs while the plane loaded. This was not one of his favorite tasks and yet he held no disdain for his fans or their constant pursuit. He was just exhausted from his many days of traveling.

A flight attendant politely interrupted the group. Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s allow Mr. Akewali some private time. Thank you, she said, waving the small crowd out of the first class section.

Akewali appreciated her intervention, especially since all he really wanted to do was rest. He rubbed his temples slightly. He had the makings of a monster headache and felt hot all over. He asked the flight attendant for an aspirin.

Of course, Mr. Dimbi, she said, and promptly brought a cup of water and aspirins. Are you feeling okay, Sir? It looks like you’re breaking out in a sweat. Would you like me to turn up the air?

Yes, please, he answered, then took the two pills and drank all the water. The water definitely helped; now if only he could get rid of this headache, everything would be fine. He lounged in his chair, reclining it as far back as possible, closed his eyes and recounted his week’s visit in his homeland, Botswana, Africa. Although he was happy to spend time there, he was happier returning home to Atlanta. The work he had accomplished in his small village had been worth all of the effort and the trip. For the first time in history, his people would have a modern and well-staffed hospital. Lives would be saved, children given a chance. He was in a position to give back to the community that had supported and praised him through childhood and his basketball career. The NBA had made it all possible.

The coldness permeating his whole being brought him back to the present. His body shook uncontrollably. The same flight attendant noticed him from across the aisle and rushed over to help him. She retrieved two blankets from the top compartment, draping them around his shoulders and spreading them to his knees. The tremors decreased and he was able to nod a thank you. Yes, he thought. Everything had gone well at the opening of the new hospital. In four hours, they had been able to inoculate close to two hundred children and adults, including himself. He volunteered to take the first inoculation so that the others would not be afraid, and much to his delight, it worked. They all came forward after that with arms outstretched ready to be vaccinated. It was mind- boggling.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, recalling the very warm climate of his country and his people, signing autographs, giving hugs and making speeches. He had stood before the grand hospital, named after him, The Akewali Dimbi Memorial Hospital. He promised to visit again. Thoughts of his wife and four children brought a smile. He would see them soon. He thought about the upcoming season, with the new basketball coach and how he couldn't

wait to get back and play ball. He began to shake again, rocking his seat back and forth with enough force to disturb the other passengers seated in his section. His mind slipped into a deep sleep as his body convulsed.

At 5:00 P.M., Friday evening Flight 1039 out of New York landed at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. At 6:35 P.M., Akewali Dimbi was officially pronounced dead on arrival at Crawford Long Hospital.

* * *

Akewali was dead. Two deaths in two weeks was more than any normal man could deal with, especially when one was your friend and the other died in your arms. Akewali Dimbi was an excellent basketball player, loving father, husband, humanitarian and a good friend. Zack remembered the last time they had played. Akewali was all over him, but still Zack pulled off two jumpers, right in Akewali’s face. He got much respect for that move, not only from Akewali, but also from the crowd. It was a sweet moment. He thought, how come the good ones always die young? Then he thought about Rick, age fifteen, not all good, but dead just the same.

He was returning from his latest undercover stint when he got the call on his police radio.

All units, two unidentified corpses found outside DeKalb County Industrial Waste Plant.

Zack radioed back. Has the coroner’s office reported to the scene? "Hey, Zack. It’s Blue. We don’t have an extensive report yet; things are

kind of hectic. Listen, stop by and see me when you get a chance."

Yeah, all right, Blue. Zack subconsciously pulled out the ashtray, pushing in his lighter. He wanted a cigarette bad. He scratched at his newly formed beard, caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and a stranger stared back. Zack hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and when he did sleep, he found himself waking up somewhere in the middle of the night, struggling, fighting demons long since buried, but not forgotten.

Zack’s thoughts shifted from himself to the sight in front of him. He quickly pulled up alongside Union Grove. It ran kittycorner to Pleasant Hill Road. Blue lights flashed everywhere. Zack counted four county cars, and it looked like the coroner had arrived. Someone must have leaked the incident to the news media, because channels Eleven and Forty-six were on the scene, cameras aimed and mics ready. Pleasant Hill Road and Union Grove were two of the streets that

bordered Georgia’s only industrial waste dump. The other street was Dead Man’s Row, a dead-end street at the back of the waste dump. Outside the gates of the facility were two huge, blue waste containers, similar to those outside an apartment complex or commercial building. Beside the two containers, a forest of untamed pines and shrubbery grew wild. There was only one lonely streetlight in the far corner; loose gravel and Georgia red clay covered the ground. Zack quickly canvassed the area. There were a lot of people on the scene. Not good. He hoped that his staff, more importantly, the forensics team, had arrived early enough to document and investigate the area before it became contaminated.

He parked his blue Volvo across the street from the plant and made his way across the once-barren field leading up to it. The halogen lamps glowed, producing a daylight atmosphere even in the dead of night, casting a giant shadow on Zack’s six-foot-five frame. His ragged clothing and disheveled appearance made him look even more menacing. He didn’t get a chance to change into regular clothing after his last undercover assignment as a homeless man. It was an easy assignment, but one that challenged him more on a personal level than a professional one. Killing somebody over crack cocaine or a mattress was common among street people. Most of the time, no one cared.

This time it was personal, a friend bludgeoned to death for a pack of cigarettes. Zack had no trouble finding the perp or the blood soaked pack of Newports.

Zack attached his badge to his collar, just in case someone got the wrong idea. Careful not to disturb the police tape or the officers working, he quickly made his way through the crowd of people. The chilling, howling wind sent the trees back and forth while pushing him along his way. His walk soon became a run. Zack cursed the weather, cursed police work and anything he could think of for having to be out on a night like tonight. With temperatures in the low teens, and the wind chill at minus fifteen, it felt like Gary, Indiana, rather than Atlanta.

Gary, his hometown, the place he had left to get away from the cold; but it now seemed the hawk followed. Someone called out to him, Z, over here.

There was no mistaking that voice or the face of the person squatting in the grass, hunched over a yellow legal pad. As Zack approached DeKalb County’s own medical examiner, Bobby Semien did his signature head bounce, reminiscent of a homeboy greeting. From his straggly brown hair, twisted into dreads, to his V-shaped goatee, he was anything but a homeboy. He capped off his attire with horn-rimmed glasses, which actually made him appear more of a hippie than an educated white boy.

Yo, Bobby. I see they got you on the graveyard shift now. They finally making you pay some dues? Zack reached down, slapping Bobby’s hand before going into their brother handshake. So who they got leading? Court?

Naw, Man. I’m it! Court had to take leave, stress or something. You didn’t hear? I’m the H-N-I-C!

"Don’t be fooled, Bobby; you the head white boy in charge, and to tell you the truth, that ain’t too far from being the head white man in charge."

Always with the race card, Z. When you gonna learn, I’m no more white than Michael Jackson is black?

You lying; Michael is black? Zack said, laughing. So tell me, Black Man, what we got here?

Bobby led Zack to the bodies found behind a blue Dumpster cordoned off with yellow tape. "One of the cleaning crew found them around 2:15 A.M. Mr.

Yoo, a Korean immigrant, was making his final trip to the Dumpster. His final trip? He makes more than one trip?"

Normally, yes. This was his second and final. The first trip was made around 10 P.M.

So some time after 10, and before 2 the bodies were placed here? Yep, that’s what it looks like.

Where’s Mr. Yoo?

I got some uniforms taking down his account.

Zack looked around; it seemed to be getting more crowded by the minute. "Alright, Bobby, let’s see the victims.

Bobby lifted the yellow tape then shined his flashlight on the victims. We got a Caucasian male, age forty to fifty, and one black male, age eighteen to twenty-five. The white male took five shots in the face at close range, and it seems he had some blunt-force trauma to the back of his head. The brother took a direct hit. Clear shot too. The bullet entered between the eyebrows and exited at the back of the skull. From the looks of it, the perp probably used a Smith and Wesson or Magnum with a silencer.

Shell casings?

None found here. They were done elsewhere. This was just the drop-off point. Oh yeah, their hands were severed.

The corpses don’t have hands?

None. They were cut clean from the wrist. Something really sharp, like surgical tools.

So what came first, the bullet or the saw?

I think the bullet. They were still bleeding when dumped

Zack had heard enough. Let’s get this over with, Zack said, putting on his rubber gloves and moving in for a closer look. He was used to seeing dead bodies but what he saw shocked and sickened him at the same time. His eyes stayed glued on the two oozing corpses far too long. These were some Night of the Living Dead corpses, he thought, like the ones in the Thriller music video.

The body on top was a white man who resembled a Nevada landscape. There were peaks and valleys of large blisters; blood and pus poured out of the open wounds as well as every exposed area on the man’s skin. It was nasty, creepy and smelled not just dead, but unnaturally dead. Zack couldn’t see much of the second body except that it was a black man with no hands. Most of him was covered by the mass of the white man, whose body lay on top. Zack removed his flashlight from his pocket, shining it on the bodies. He examined the black man. A child’s face, he thought, not more than twenty-one, twenty-two, with just a dusting of fuzz growing on his chin. His lifeless eyes stared into the heavens, while trickles of blood poured from the third eye, a bullet hole perfectly centered in his forehead. Zack coughed, nearly choking on his own spit, and backed away. You said they may have been dead for seventy-two hours or more?

Yep! Strange, huh? It’s too cold out here for those bodies to be looking like that, Bobby said.

Zack, aware now that he had quickened his pace to almost a trot, slowed to allow Bobby to catch up.

I’ve seen nasty before, limbs cut clean off, blood, guts, heads half blown away, but even this is new to me. Zack inhaled deeply, hoping the cold air would remove the stench that still lingered in his nostrils.

Damn near made me sick too! Bobby said. Where are the hands, Bobby? Did you find them? Nope, but I’m sure they’ll show up somewhere.

Yeah, Zack thought; that’s what I’m afraid of. One more thing—how about those blisters, the pus?

Not sure yet. It could be from exposure but I won’t know for sure ‘til I run some tests. I’ll work all night and should have an answer for you in the morning.

* * *

The jangle of the telephone jerked Zack awake. He checked the clock on his bedside table. It was 6:30 A.M. He reluctantly answered.

Yeah?

Z, it’s me, Bobby. What you got, Bobby?

I did a preliminary on the old dude, and he was dead before the perp blew away his face.

Dead from what?

Don’t know. I’m sending some skin and blood samples to the lab. I haven’t done the brother yet. I’ll finish with the old boy later this morning and the brother by noon.

What about the blisters, that pus and blood? I won’t know nothing until I run more tests.

How long? Zack asked impatiently. He hated the waiting. At least a couple of days, Bobby said, yawning.

Alright Bobby. I’ll stop by later. Zack hung up. Why would someone shoot a dead man? Dead was dead.

* * *

Zack didn’t get much sleep after Bobby called. He spent the next three hours thinking about the John Does. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn’t restnothing a pot of coffee and a shower couldn’t cure. He had plenty of questions, like why would the murderer take such care, removing their hands, totally erasing a man’s face with bullets then leaving the victims in a public place? He was sending a message, but to whom? For some reason, the killer wanted those bodies found. The identity of the black man was the key to solving this.

Zack took the back streets to the precinct. It lacked the normal congestion of the highways, and he liked the scenery better. The distance between his apartment on Pine Street and the precinct was approximately ten miles. It usually took him about fifteen minutes to get there driving the streets. He drove practically uninterrupted as the radio crackled.

All vehicles, we have a report of an explosion at 232 Halstead Street.

That was the city morgue. Zack cranked up the volume and called in. "Annie, it’s Zack; I’m about five minutes from there; anybody else

reporting?"

Roger, Zack, we have the DeKalb Fire, EMS and backup at your disposal. DeKalb Fire is already on site.

Any casualties? he asked.

No reports yet. I’ll tell them you’re on your way.

Zack cranked up the engine, pulled out his blue light and headed toward the morgue.

Zack arrived on site in just under five minutes. He parked his car on the sidewalk across the street from the city morgue. The firefighters had already begun dousing the thirty-foot-high flames rising from the roof. Black smoke surrounded the building, making it difficult to breathe or see. The scene was chaotic. TV news and emergency vehicles as well as onlookers covered every square foot of the grounds. Zack rushed over to the action.

Who’s in charge here? He flashed his badge. Someone hollered, Over here, Zack.

Zack turned to Ed Bruin, chief firefighter. What happened? Zack asked.

A guy across the street at the Waffle House said he had just sat down to eat his breakfast around eight. Out of nowhere, the building exploded. Said the explosion was so loud, it rocked the street and the Waffle House, sending plates of food flying off the counters and tables.

What would cause such an explosion?

Almost anything. I’d say dynamite, gas leak, just hard to tell right now. The chief turned his attention to his men on the far side of the building. Hey, over there, get the corner; it’s getting out of hand.

So you all got it under control?

Not really; not much left to control. We just want to make sure that we don’t have any more explosions. So far, we pretty much got it contained to this building. If we can keep it from spreading, we’ll let it burn its way out.

You get everybody out?

Yeah, those that were living. We got two in serious condition. They’ve been transported to DeKalb General.

Zack thought about Bobby. He was working late the night before on