The Doll Collector

By Edward Jakubik

Follow Special Crimes Unit Detective Beck McManus and his hunt for the Doll Collector. Six little girls—each about to turn seven years old—go missing in broad daylight without a trace. McManus and his long-time partner, Evan Graves, are tapped to head the investigation despite virulent protests from the police commissioner, who cites McManus’ own daughter’s kidnapping three years prior as evidence of his unsuitability. That case was never solved, and his daughter’s disappearance nearly cost Beck his career—and his sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Jakubik
• Release date: Feb 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311055729

Book preview

Chapter 1

May Aller lay on her ceramic kitchen floor, drifting in and out of consciousness. Pain scorched every nerve ending in her small body. Tears ran down her cheeks as she squinted and fluttered her eyelids to refocus her vision. She was split open from her belly button to her solar plexus. A small section of her intestine protruded out of the wound. Warm blood pooled around the middle-aged woman’s torso and head, as if a deep crimson cloud had begun to engulf her.

She tried to scream.

Nothing. Only the sound of her slowing heartbeat thumped in her ears. Her voice box was severed. Her saliva had a metallic taste, like a penny had been placed on her tongue. She glanced at her trembling, blood-covered hands and carefully ran them down the edges of the gash in her stomach. She twisted her head, to the left and the right, feverously scanning her apartment.

Is he still here? Where’s Andy? Is he OK?

Andy’s body lay motionless in the living room. His head had been bashed open.

May reached for the cabinet door and grabbed on to the brass hardware. She strained to pull herself toward the cabinet, propping her head upright. Bloody prints were smeared down its almond-colored doors. A crimson snail trail stretched along the tile floor. She clinched her fists in pain as her breathing quickened.

I’m running out of time.

She reached into the cabinet and desperately fished around until she located the plastic zip-lock bags. She shook the box until one separated from the bunch. Frantic, May took her trembling right hand and tucked her intestine back into her midriff, placing the plastic bag over the split. She gasped for air. The pain left her motionless for a few seconds as she slid down the cabinet. Body repositioned, she began inching along, using her legs to slowly propel herself forward in a slug-like fashion.

By the time she reached the front door to her apartment, the plastic covering gave way and the bleeding was uncontrollable. She extended her arm and grabbed the knob. Using every last ounce of energy, the fading Aller pulled herself up just enough for her trembling hand to reach the intercom phone cord. Jiggling it from side to side, the receiver fell from the wall mount and struck her head. She fumbled for the handset and it slipped out of her blood soaked grasp. Finally securing it, unable to speak, the dying woman held her thumb down on the doorman intercom button as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 2

The phone jolted Beck McManus from a dead sleep. With eyes still closed, he groggily wondered to himself if the ring was part of a dream. Fuck. He felt around for his cell phone, knocking his Rolex Submariner watch and a small alarm clock to the floor. He cleared his throat as his eyes slowly opened and focused on the digital display screen on the phone.

8:18 PM. The call was from his precinct.

This better be good. I‘m on nights this week and I just got off a double a couple of hours ago. You’re interrupting my beauty sleep.

Beck, its Lieutenant Marcum. You have an aunt named May Aller, correct? Still a bit confused, it took a few seconds for the question to register.

Yeah. Why? What the hell’s going on?

There’s been an assault at her apartment. Aller and an unidentified male believed to be one of her patients were injured.

Beck sprung from the bed, flipped the lamp on, and grabbed a pair of jeans from the bedroom floor. He used his shoulder to pin his Blackberry to his ear.

What’s her condition?

She was taken to Mount Sinai by ambulance. Detective Santiago called in a few minutes ago. He recognized you from a photo in her office. Branson filled me in on her being your aunt, and all. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Beck.

He jammed his cell phone in his pocket and threw the rest of his clothes on. Snatching his gun and badge off of the kitchen counter, the perpetually disheveled detective grabbed his worn New York Yankees lid off the coat rack, slid it over his bed head, and darted out the door. Having no patience for the elevator, he ran down four flights of stairs, taking them three at a time. Evan Graves, Beck’s partner for the last twelve years, pulled up as he burst through the glass double doors of his building.

Evan, you hear anything?

It’s bad, get in.

The sirens blared as the unmarked black Chevy Impala sedan slashed through the filled streets of Soho, heading east toward the FDR. The fifteen minute drive seemed to take hours. His stomach soured, fearing the worst. The whole time Beck wondered if he’d ever see his beloved aunt alive again.

**********

A small gathering of nurses were discussing the night-rounds schedule as the detectives walked swiftly past the check-in desk. The deafening boom of his own heartbeat sounded in McManus’ ears, while morbid visions of May’s lifeless body being zipped in a body bag invaded his thoughts. The two raced up the stairwell and moved toward the waiting area, passing a portly man in the lounge, fidgeting in his chair. A trauma nurse was engaged in conversation with a uniformed officer as the two approached.

I’m Detective McManus, and this is Detective Graves of the Major Case Squad.

Detectives, I’m Officer Canetti, but please call me Mike. I rode along in the ambulance with the victim. She never regained consciousness so we have nothing to go on so far. They all shook hands while speaking. Nurse DeRienzo was just about to give me an update on the assault victim. I take it that’s why you are here.

She is my aunt, Mike, replied a clammy, pale stricken McManus. A few seconds of gut-wrenching tension passed before anyone replied.

Detective, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

How could you? I just need to know if she is still in surgery or if she is on her way to the morgue.

Crimson faced with cheeks burning, the nurse paused before answering.

She is in critical condition but stable for now. Let’s let one of the surgeons fill you in when the final procedure is finished. It won’t be long now. Detective, I’m sorry for what happened. She is in all of our prayers.

The nurse re-entered the swinging doors leading to the surgery room.

Guys, hang on a second and let me make a quick call to my sister and break the news. This is going to be fun. Beck’s mouth cottoned in anticipation of the devastating news as he scrolled through his contacts. He counted the rings as they passed. Please don’t pick up. She picked up on the fifth ring.

And to what do I owe the pleasure? Her chipper sound was about to change.

Ryan, listen to me and listen carefully. May has been attacked and she was hurt real bad. Is Mike in town and can he drive you to Mount Sinai hospital?

Beck could hear her gasping, trying to catch her breath.

I-is she going to die?

I don’t know. Can you get here?

I dropped Mike off at JFK Airport yesterday. I had lunch with her yesterday, Beck. What happened? pleaded Ryan.

I don’t know all the details. May and one of her patients were attacked in her apartment. That’s all I have so far.

I’ve been begging her to move down to the shore with me. She kept telling me she’s too attached to her job and the city. She’s so goddamn stubborn.

It runs in the family, replied Beck, in an attempt to lighten the circumstances. Ryan, I promise we can discuss all of this later. Are you okay to drive? If not, I can send a car to get you.

I’m okay. I promise, replied Ryan in a cracking voice. I’m leaving now.

**********

A few minutes passed before a member of the surgical team came to the waiting room to give an update.

The surgeries went as well as can be expected under the circumstances. We were able to control the bleeding on the neck wound, but the torso is a different story. The knife severed the stomach and small intestine. It’s touch-and-go, so it’s going to be a while before we know anything for sure.

His stomach tumbling like a dryer, Beck rubbed the back of his head as he paced back and forth.

If there’s a silver lining around this cloud, it’s the people who are working on her now and the person who helped her just after the attack, the surgeon added.

Beck’s eyes shot to the doctor; his glance inquisitive. What do you mean?

As luck would have it, Dr. William Sheridan, one of the top trauma surgeons in the country happened to be in town doing a seminar at Fordham University. He was at City Crab in Gramercy Park finishing up a late dinner when we called him. He arrived within minutes. He’s working on your aunt right now. Also, I’d like to introduce you to Pete Barnett.

The four walked across the hall into the lounge. The stocky man they’d seen earlier rose from his chair as the small group approached. He was considerably shorter than the men, about eye level with the shield that dangles from around Beck’s neck. His plump, round face was flush and sweaty, and glistened under the bright florescent lighting. His resemblance to a pint-sized Jackie Gleason was astounding. Even his work attire looked exactly like Ralph Kramden’s bus driver’s duds in The Honeymooners. Dressed in dark slacks and a pale blue short-sleeved shirt, Beck noticed a concierge’s hat on his chair. He managed a shaky smile and extended his nerve-moistened hand. Large sweat rings covered his armpits and a v-shaped saturation mark formed under his neck below his collar. His pinkish-hued stubby fingers looked like Vienna sausages and were matted with hair just above the knuckles.

This is Pete Barnett, the doorman who found your aunt and called 911. He had sense enough to hold his hands down on the torso wound until the emergency unit could take over. If he hadn’t thought so quickly, Ms. Aller would have, in all likelihood, bled out. If she pulls through, he is one of the key reasons why.

Barnett’s eyes welled up and his bottom lip began to quiver as he addressed Beck. I froze for a second when I walked in the door and saw her lying there. There was a lot of blood. I‘ve never seen anything like that. I had to do something. I guess the little medical training I got back in community college came in handy.

Yeah, it sure did, said Evan, patting him on the back.

Mr. Barnett, I’m Detective McManus. May Aller is my aunt, and the last living relative on my mom’s side of the family. If it’s okay with you I’m going to ask you some questions and Officer Canetti is going to take some notes. Canetti fumbled around, collecting a pad and pen.

Now I remember you. I knew you looked familiar. You stopped by the building a few months back and dropped off tickets to some police dinner dance. Sure, fire away with the questions, but please call me Pete.

That was me, alright. You have a good memory, Pete. Let me ask you, did May call you herself?

The buzzer on the intercom was ringing like someone was holding it down longer than usual. I’d say it buzzed for ten seconds before it stopped. Mrs. Aller usually tapped it for a second or two when she needed something.

Is that why you proceeded upstairs?

Yes, I thought it was kind of odd. I called for her on the intercom system and when she didn’t answer, I knew something was wrong.

Did you take the elevator or the stairs?

Elevator.

Did anyone ride up or down with you?

No, I was alone.

During the commotion, did you see anyone in the hallway or in the front lobby when May was being moved by the medics? Anyone seem out of place amongst the nosy neighbors?

Pete smiled. No Detective, I knew all of the spectators.

Have you seen anyone suspicious looking hanging around the building? You know, have you had to chase anyone from the alley or the lobby recently? Think hard, Pete.

No, I would have remembered that.

Fair enough. A detective will be contacting you to do a formal interview and take a full statement. Beck reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew a business card and asked Canetti for his pen. He wrote something on the back of the card and handed it to Barnett, who took the card and flipped it over to read what Beck had written.

Pete Barnett is a friend of the NYPD. Call me if this is ever presented

—Beck.

Pete smiled. A tear ran down his flushed chubby cheek.

I’d do anything for Ms. A. She’s my favorite in the building. She always treats me nice.

Tears streamed down Beck’s face as he embraced his new friend.

Thank you, Pete. Thank you.

Chapter 3

The air was saturated with moisture, a near unbearable thickness; the clouds looked ready to burst. The skies were stained different shades of gray, creating an unendurable gloom across the great metropolis. A heat wave slammed the tri-state area, boosting the temperatures above one hundred degrees. The National Weather Service declared the thermal readings to test the highest ever recorded in New York’s history of one hundred and ten degrees in August of 2001, and the extended forecast gave no hope of any change. Power outages were reported across the five boroughs, throwing the city into frenzy. Overloaded transformers were shutting down all over town, causing the electric companies to broadcast warnings, asking the city to limit energy use. The threat of intentional ‘rolling blackouts’ loomed as the demand for electricity was on the verge of exceeding the power supply capability. Sultry temperatures always had a way of putting the people of New York City on edge.

Beck McManus was on edge for another reason.

The sweat-drenched duo met Special Detective Jorge Santiago and Marc Waterson, the head of NYPD Crime Scene Unit, at May Aller’s apartment on 77th Street between Third and Lexington. This desirable Upper East Side neighborhood boasted rows of classic townhouses and beautiful brick-faced buildings, occupied by a potpourri of some of the most prominent doctors, attorneys, and various other well paid professionals in the city. Her block resembled a postcard image of the streets of New York.

May’s apartment was nestled in an elegant pre-war building that had been converted into co-ops in the 1960s. Black and white checkered marble floors graced the open foyer bound by hand-carved woodwork inlays and moldings. Opulent brass light fixtures ran the length of the hall and up the open stairwell, adding an even statelier feel.

May had lived in apartment 402 for the last twenty-eight years. She worked as a psychologist, retained by the Manhattan D.A.’s office since the eighties. In recent years however, she worked mainly from her home office, working with patients who were dealing with life adjustments and stress issues. In certain cases, she would leave her nest for local shelters to work with court-appointed juveniles and referrals from state run facilities. The non-profit outfit she had the closest relationship with was The New Beginnings House which was located in Harlem.

And that’s where she met Andy Ross.

Residents of the complex and neighboring buildings had been stunned by the news of her attack. Well-known for her kindness, good nature, and generosity, it was almost inconceivable.

**********

Beck and Evan reached the taped off entrance of May’s apartment manned with four Starbucks iced coffee drinks. A large reddish-brown concentration of coagulated blood sat at their feet. It stretched the entire length of the apartment, across the light oak hardwood floors in the living room, into the center of the white tiled kitchen. His face burned as a queasy feeling formed in his stomach and worked its way up until a lump formed in the back of his throat. Stunned with disbelief, Beck stood silent for a minute as the realization of the attack sunk in. His brow blazed and beaded with perspiration. The detective took a few controlled breaths and fought to hold back tears. The coagulated plasma released a sour, nickel-type odor, an all too familiar smell to McManus.

The smell of death.

Bulbs flashed every few seconds as investigators snapped pictures of the bloodied apartment. A familiar voice broke Beck’s sad, droopy-eyed gaze.

Hey Beck, I was expecting you. Two CSU investigators stopped swabbing blood samples from the kitchen floor and the cabinets to see who Detective Santiago was conversing with. Please tell me one of those is for me.

Here you go— you drink an iced mocha with skim milk if I remembered correctly?

That is correct, amigo. You have a steel trap memory, replied a grateful Santiago.

It’s a coffee, not a Rolex. And please, don’t make his head any bigger, added Evan.

Beck chuckled while carefully handing the large iced drink over the yellow police tape. He wrapped the beverage in napkins to ensure condensation wouldn’t drip from the plastic cup.

Santiago closed his eyes and took a few long pulls from the large green straw. He swished the sweet beverage around his mouth before gulping it down.

Nectar of the Gods.

You should have auditioned for one of those Taster’s Choice commercials back in the day, said Evan. You have a flair for the dramatic.

Ain’t that the truth, sounded a voice from the hallway. It was Detective Eddie Driscoll, Santiago’s longtime partner. You should see what happens when he calls his wife to tell her he’s gonna be late. Ay dios mio!

The four cracked up laughing.

Hey Eddie, how have you been, my man? asked Beck.

Just living the dream, Beck. Hey, sorry to hear it’s your aunt. We had no idea she was related to you until we called it in. How’s she doing?

Good as one could be in the shittiest of shitty situations, I guess.

Yeah, I spotted you in a photo in the office—I could tell it was from years ago but you have a face that’s not easy to forget.

The compliments just keep coming, replied Beck.

I never said you were pretty, you know. Ugly faces are just as hard to forget.

Checkmate! exclaimed Evan.

Ouch. Georgie, I have a favor to ask—

Let me guess, you want to survey the scene when Marc and his crew secure it?

I’d owe you a big time favor. Anything, you name it.

"Not a problem, Beck. Go kill about an hour. I’ll text you when CS unit is done securing the place. But let’s keep this under wraps. I don’t need the higher-ups

Reviews for The Doll Collector

[cainebooks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Rough, lacking polish, and too heavy on jargon. The words tumbling through the author's head is palpable on reading, and easily forgivable for a first effort. All that said, there were some solid, likeable characters, and an engaging plot. Fast reading, held interest.