Unturned Stones

By Scott Prussing

Violence strikes without warning—and seemingly without reason. An elderly white woman is assaulted in her home. The unseen intruder slices her hand off at the wrist, then applies a tourniquet and dials 911 before leaving. A Vietnamese jogger is sprayed with Mace from behind a bush. While the jogger is blinded, the assailant breaks his leg with a baseball bat. Finally, a young black transsexual has her breasts burned by an assailant who first knocked her unconscious. Though gruesome and mystifying, there seems to be nothing to connect the three attacks.

Star detective Robert Foster has been forced to resign from the San Diego Police Department for what his superiors labeled “insubordination.” Foster prefers to call it “thinking outside the box,” the result of his unique, somewhat OCD personality. Either way, his days on the force are over—until he makes a surprising discovery. While surveying crime reports surreptitiously provided to him by his former partner, Foster stumbles across the three assaults. As he looks more closely at the details, he recognizes something his former colleagues have all missed—these attacks are SO completely different that they have to have been planned that way. But why?

Intrigued by the paradox—and by the challenge—Foster launches an unofficial investigation. As the violence escalates and the assaults begin hitting closer to home, he finds himself pulled into a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a foe who seems to be every bit as clever as he is.

Add in a beautiful blonde reporter who may not be what she seems, a brilliant psychologist happily turned homeless person, a possible split personality, and clues from a Shakespearean play sent by the perpetrator, and you have Unturned Stones, a gripping novel of mystery and suspense you will not soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Prussing
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310782756

Scott Prussing

Scott Prussing was born in New Jersey, attended college and graduate school in Connecticut, but was smart enough to move to beautiful San Diego as soon as he received his Master's degree in psychology from Yale University. In addition to writing, Scott enjoys hiking, riding his bicycle at the beach, movies and golf. He is one of the few remaining people in the United States without a cell phone.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Edna Mae Conners chuckled wistfully as Jay Leno cheerfully bid her goodnight. Her laughter was a mixture of mirth and resignation, and it rang louder than it should have in the stillness of her drab living room. She had enjoyed tonight’s show, especially when the cute little white poodle with the big pink bow crawled up Jay's shoulder. She wished the show lasted longer, to keep pace with the nights, which grew more interminable with every passing year. A soft sigh escaped unnoticed from her cracked lips as she switched the television off. Sadly aware it was too early for the succor of sleep, Edna Mae grabbed a dog eared paperback from the top of the jumbled pile of romance novels beside of her chair.

Her thoughts drifted to her late husband, gone almost a dozen years now. Walter was a fine man—not much in the looks department, she had to admit—but quiet and dependable and a good provider until a speeding driver with too many beers in his stomach careened around a downtown corner and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk. Walter’s death ended Edna Mae’s dreams of a better life and shackled her to her decaying San Diego neighborhood as surely as any ball and chain. She would never make it back to her native Georgia, she knew. Settling back into her chair, she thumbed the book open. With practiced ease, she dissolved into the story.

Edna Mae was in Tahiti, vying for the heart of a handsome sailor. The world was against them, of course, but none of that mattered, for never was there a love like theirs, a love forged in the crucible of shared...

A sudden creak from the back of the house snapped Edna Mae’s head from the pages of the book. Her eyes flickered about the room as fear tightened around her chest, trapping her breath in her throat. Was it the niggrahs, whose lustful eyes she could feel watching her hungrily whenever she ventured outside the house, come to get her at last? Or was it just the aged floorboards settling? Heart pounding, she listened anxiously, her fleshy fingers tugging unconsciously at the folds of mottled skin hanging from her throat. She strained to separate the harmless sounds of the street outside from any within her home. How she hated the night, when the silent, lonely blackness fueled the demons that daylight kept at bay.

The creaking did not repeat. The house remained quiet. Only the staccato thumping of the ever-present rap music from somewhere up the block penetrated the walls. She hated the pounding sound. Jungle drums, she called it. Still, it was a normal noise, one she lived with every night. When the drums stopped, her old books and movies had drilled into her—that’s when you should be afraid. The tightness in her chest slowly melted and her breathing slowed. She chided herself for her fears. Hadn’t she installed new deadbolt locks in the front and back doors only last year? The thought of the shiny new locks and the sturdy iron bars across her windows helped her relax.

Tucked safely inside her prison, she returned to her book and slipped back to the balmy Tahitian evening. Her lover was waiting on the moonlit beach. A pacific smile creased her sagging cheeks as he drew her into his loving arms.

The familiar screech of the back door jerked Edna Mae from his embrace. Her body stiffened, the book slipped from her fingers, forgotten. This time there was no doubt—it was the niggrahs, come to violate her pure white flesh. Her eyes whipped around the sparsely furnished room, but found nowhere she might hide. The only phone was in the kitchen; it might as well have been in another city. The lights in the house suddenly flicked out, enveloping her in a shroud of darkness she knew beyond any doubt would be her grave. Terror filled her throat, blocking the desperate cry for help that sounded only in her mind.

The faint yellow glow from the streetlight outside filtered through her curtains, softening the darkness as her eyes adjusted to the blackness. She watched a dark silhouette slip from the kitchen, seemingly floating toward her like some spectral phantom loosed from Hell. Shadowed hands reached for her, and a sweet, antiseptic odor assailed her nostrils as a soft cloth was pressed against her face. Burning fumes filled her throat and chest. Edna Mae began a silent prayer for deliverance as consciousness fled her.

Mercifully, she never felt the heavy blade that neatly severed her right hand from her wrist.

A thick layer of heavy gray clouds hung over coastal San Diego like a sodden quilt, keeping Xahn Thieu Doc, Doc John to his American friends, comfortably cool as he pounded along the shoulder of Friars Road, nearing the midway point of his daily six mile run. June Gloom the locals called the low, coast-hugging clouds, drawn in almost nightly from the Pacific Ocean in late spring and early summer. Fed by the ocean’s moisture, the clouds seemed to belie San Diego’s reputation as a sunny beachside paradise, but Doc John knew the sun would melt the clouds away by late morning, leaving behind another sparkling summer day. He didn’t really understand or care how the meteorological phenomenon worked—he simply enjoyed the coolness it provided for his morning runs.

Traffic on the wide, curving the road was still light, but every car that whooshed by him seemed sleek and new. Doc John’s favorite saying echoed in his head: America is a wonderful place. He turned west, slackening his speed to scamper down a dirt embankment onto an old two-lane road that hugged the north side of the San Diego River’s flood control channel. Sheaths of tall green saw grass knifed upward from the brackish water flowing sluggishly along the old riverbed. Above the clogged estuary, hungry seagulls swooped and glided in graceful arcs, their screeching calls slicing through air heavy with the smell of salt and rotting vegetation. Far ahead, the ocean was a narrow, gunmetal gray strip on the horizon.

He saw a pair of eastbound cyclists rolling toward him, and he smiled. Only in America, he thought. A smooth paved road used almost exclusively by runners, hikers and bike riders. In his native Vietnam, the road would have been considered a modern highway. Here, it was an almost forgotten byway. America is a wonderful place. God bless America. He flashed a toothy grin and waved hello as the cyclists drew closer. The riders smiled and nodded in response as they whizzed by in a flash of bright yellow, green and black spandex.

Doc John plodded along the long straightaway, his mind turning inward as his legs settled into a steady rhythm. Even after thirty-plus years, he still marveled at the turn his life had taken. For his first fifteen years, poverty, misery and war had been his constant companions, until somehow, in the final hectic days before the Americans fled Vietnam, he managed to secure a place on a crowded transport plane. Along with thousands of other refugees from Southeast Asia, he ended up in San Diego. Aided by rudimentary English picked up in Saigon, Doc John found a job in a small local grocery store, where his abilities as a translator attracted flocks of his countrymen. As the business grew, he was rewarded with pay raises and increased responsibilities, until now he was a manager overseeing three stores catering to Asian customers.

The former street-urchin now owned a four-bedroom stucco house just a few blocks from the battered old Navy barracks the government had provided for the refugees, as well as two shiny cars and a flat-screen television. His pretty Vietnamese wife had given him a son and three lovely daughters who had grown up without ever knowing hunger, or the fear brought by sounds in the night when your country was at war. Doc John smiled again. America is a wonderful place.

Suddenly, a black leather hand shot out from behind a thick bush at the edge of the road. Doc John’s startled brain registered a brief glimpse of a small blue and white canister before a burning mist assaulted his eyes and nostrils, blinding and choking him. Strong hands shoved him to the pavement. Gasping, he tried to roll away, scraping his skin on the rough asphalt. That pain was nothing compared to what came next. His right leg exploded in agony as a heavy object smashed against his shin, shattering the bone.

Thirty years ago Xahn Thieu Doc would have stifled his screams, for to cry out would have revealed him to his enemies. But that was a world away, and now Doc John’s cries split the morning stillness.

Leslie Brown seldom walked anywhere these days—she strolled, sauntered, paraded or ambled, but she was much too happy to simply walk. Today, strolling briskly through downtown La Jolla, she felt especially cheerful, enjoying the cool breeze that blew in off the ocean and caressed her ebony skin like a gentle lover as she weaved through slow moving clumps of shoppers and tourists. She didn’t mind the crowd at all. In an hour or two the streets and sidewalks would grow even more packed as people deserted the beaches and ventured out in search of dining and entertainment. Crowds meant business, and business meant money. Saturday was the busiest night at the restaurant; before the evening ended, Leslie expected to be several hundred dollars closer to her goal. Her grin broadened into a flawless smile any television anchorwoman would give a year’s salary for. She wondered what her customers would think if they knew how their generous tips would be spent. The thought added an extra sway to her strut.

Heads turned as she passed. Some men stared openly, others peeked with furtive, hungry glances their wives pretended not to notice. Leslie reveled in the attention. After all, why clothe yourself in a tight white strapless dress cut high above your knees and cinched snuggly at your waist with a wide red leather belt, if not to show off the slender curves of a five foot nine inch frame? It took more than cheerful, efficient service to garner tips of twenty five and thirty percent. She was proud of her body. It was the best that hard work and modern science could offer.

She owed her job to her stunning looks and figure, she knew. Black waitresses were rare in the tony seaside village of La Jolla, but Charlie Barino, the balding, overweight owner of The Sea Goddess Restaurant, had taken one look at Leslie and hired her without asking for other qualifications. A self proclaimed lady-killer, Barino conveniently ignored the part his full and always open wallet played in his success with women. All he knew was that he usually got what he wanted.

He had never wanted anyone like Leslie, though.

She had played him perfectly, right from the start. Each time she resisted his advances, her manner gave promise that soon her resistance would crumble. In just a few weeks, Barino wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman, and Leslie made certain everyone in the restaurant knew it, inviting his affection at the most public of moments. Intoxicated by her, Barino gladly played along. Then Leslie dropped her bomb.

The restaurant had closed for the night. Leslie was adorned in her tightest dress, a short, gold silk sheath that clung to her curves like a layer of paint. She offered no resistance when Barino snaked his hands around her waist and drew her into his embrace. His chubby hands were clumsy and his breath reeked of garlic but she pretended not to notice. She returned his kisses passionately, probing the inside of his mouth with her tongue and pressing her breasts against his chest. She still remembered the throaty groan that escaped Barino’s throat, his hand quivering as he fumbled under her dress, prying aside her silk panties to reach the moist treasure within.

She smiled at the recollection of Barino recoiling as if he’d grasped a live electric wire, his face twisted into a mask of shock and horror. Leslie had merely grinned and pushed her flaccid penis back into her panties.

That had been more than a year ago. Since then, she was always assigned the best tables and collected the most tips. Barino kept his distance, and Leslie kept their secret.

Leslie had been born Lester Brown, but for as long as she could remember, she was uncomfortable with the gender nature had chosen for her. Nature had blessed her with a wonderful brain, though, and her troubled adolescence in a tough Watts neighborhood added street smarts to her native intelligence. At sixteen, she dropped out of school and began working two jobs: day shift as a fast food clerk and night shift as a porter, saving every penny for the treatments that had begun transforming Lester into Leslie. Hormones raised her voice, stayed her beard and developed her breasts. A skilled surgeon and a bit of silicone added the finishing touches. By twenty two, Leslie was a beautiful young woman in all respects but one. The operation that would complete her transformation was expensive, but by the end of the summer, she expected to have the money she needed.

Still smiling, she turned into the Sea Goddess and sashayed toward the long wooden bar where Barino was finishing his inventory. Not yet open for dinner, the place was empty and quiet. The savory aromas of sauces, marinades and slow broiling beef floated from the kitchen.

Hey, loverboy, Leslie drawled seductively.

Hi, doll, Barino replied, feigning affection, but backing up a step when Leslie leaned up against the bar. How’s my favorite waitress?

"Ready for a real big night." Leslie stepped up onto the brass rail along the bottom of the bar and leaned closer, providing Barino a peek at her braless breasts. She smiled as he tugged self-consciously at the front of his pants, pleased that her body could still affect him, despite what he knew.

I’m gonna freshen up in the girls’ room. Wanna come help? she teased.

Barino groaned. Go on, get outta here. I got work to do.

Leslie swaggered across the empty dining area, turning back for a quick wink at her boss before disappearing around the corner. She pushed the dark wooden door open and crossed to the gilt-edged mirror that stretched above four black marble sinks. Leaning close, she examined her flawless black skin. Once, she had hated mirrors, for they gave lie to her deepest fantasies, but now she loved them. Her reflection smiled back at her, full lips glistening under a coating of burgundy gloss, dark eyes shining from beneath a light layer of lavender shadow. She ran her fingers down her cheeks, thrilling to the sensual softness where for years rough whiskers had tormented her.

Soft footsteps padded behind her. One of the other girls coming to get ready for the big night ahead, she assumed. She expected a hello, but there was only silence. An inner alarm began to sound in her brain. She started to turn. In the corner of the mirror she glimpsed movement that was much too close and much too swift. Before she could twist around, a powerful blow to the back of her neck sent a flash of pain and light bursting through her skull. Soundlessly, she collapsed to the tiled floor.

Not until she awoke on her back in a hospital bed, plastic tubes running into her arm and sedated for pain, did Leslie feel the throbbing ache where her left breast had been burned into a shapeless lump of charred flesh.

CHAPTER 1

"Forced to Resign" Detective Robert G. Foster opened his eyes at precisely 7:00 a.m., alert and awake, as he had virtually every morning in the two years since he had left the San Diego Police Department. Had the glowing red numerals on the clock beside his bed reached 7:01, the alarm would have sounded, but his own internal alarm always awoke him before the electronic one could launch its strident buzzing. Still, he dutifully set the alarm every night, just in case.

Foster’s official status was Retired Detective, but he liked the Forced to Resign sobriquet much better. Not only was it more accurate—and after seventeen years as a cop he prided himself on his accuracy—but he felt the word retired somehow unfitting for a man only forty-one years old. He wasn’t ready to join the shuffleboard and croquet set just yet.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he slipped his feet into a pair of soft leather moccasins and donned a blue silk dressing robe, a gift from his ex wife Barbara on the first anniversary of their divorce. He immediately began making the bed, smoothing out every wrinkle as carefully as any Marine recruit awaiting inspection in boot camp. His mother’s strident scoldings still echoed in his head, chastising her only son for the slightest imperfections in his bed-making or other chores. When he was satisfied the bed looked suitably neat, he headed into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. As the coffee maker bubbled to life, he moved to the bathroom and attacked his morning stubble with an electric shaver. In two hours, he would take his daily stroll down to Sal’s Barber Shop for a real shave, but he saw no reason to feel grubby until then. He rinsed a dusting of stray whiskers from the sink, carefully brushed his thick black hair, and went to the door to fetch his paper.

Outside, the air was cool with a trace of morning mist, laced with the sweet fragrance of flowering honeysuckle from the hedge beneath his windows. Already, the hum of commuter traffic using his street as a shortcut toward the freeway rumbled through the courtyard. The San Diego Union-Tribune, clean and unfolded, rested below his door, his reward for the generous ten-dollar tip he gave his carrier every month. Picking up the paper, he leaned against the doorframe and counted to ten. On cue, Mrs. Phelps bustled through the doorway of the apartment across the courtyard. The matronly woman smiled and waved as she hurried toward the carports in the rear, her leather heels clicking on the smooth cement surface.

He waved back, admiring the consistent precision of her schedule. They had yet to converse, but he had seen her every weekday morning since she had moved in two weeks before, and he wondered what kind of job she hustled off to each morning. Watching her disappear around the corner, he imagined her as the very efficient secretary to some CEO or lawyer. He felt a twinge of envy that she had somewhere to go, and a job that obviously meant something to her.

Pushing the thought away, he stepped back into his apartment. The inviting scent of percolating coffee drew him to the kitchen. He filled his brown ceramic Superman mug—another gift from Barbara—and settled down at the plain wooden dining table. Last night’s news had been empty of any interesting crime stories, so he skipped the first two sections of the paper and turned to the sports pages instead. Just below the baseball standings, he spotted a listing of the fans’ All Star voting. He shook his head in disgust as he studied the list. As usual, the fans were voting on sentiment, rather than performance. Why people always seemed to choose emotion over facts, he could never understand. Numbers did not lie; they could be used to make sound judgments. So why did people so often go the other way? Was there some innate human craving for the abstract over the concrete? If so, it was a craving he didn’t share.

He grabbed the paper and headed to his study.

The converted bedroom was cramped, but neat. A waist-high oak bookcase spanned the length of the far wall. Works on criminology and law enforcement were arranged alphabetically on the bottom two shelves, while newer books about computers and statistics filled most of the top shelf. Above the bookcase hung his Police Academy diploma and three framed newspaper clippings, four items he felt nicely summarized his career as a cop.

The first eight column headline read MIDNIGHT STRANGLER CLAIMS SIXTH VICTIM and detailed the latest killing of the murderer whose four-month rampage had terrorized the city. The next clipping blared STRANGLER CAUGHT ON COP’S HUNCH and reported how Detective Robert G. Foster had tracked down the killer. A grainy picture showed Foster leading the manacled suspect into police headquarters. The article included a statement from Police Chief Joseph Kennerly minimizing Foster’s unorthodox methods by explaining the department never stands in the way of innovative and creative police work by its members.

The third headline, dated two years later, proclaimed STRANGLER’S CAPTOR RETIRES. The article reported rumors and suspicion that top detective Robert G. Foster was forced to resign by powers higher up in the department. It also included the official statement by Chief Kennerly that the department was saddened by Detective Foster’s decision, and wished him well in his new endeavors.

Foster ignored the clippings as he stepped into the room, turning instead to the tall glass display case to the left of the doorway. Behind the spotless glass more than two-dozen knives gleamed against a background of dark red felt. The collection included knives of all shapes and sizes, from a two foot-long Central American machete to a slender Italian stiletto purchased from a street-corner vendor on a trip to New York City. Each blade glinted like a piece of jewelry against the red felt. Each was razor sharp. And each shared one other thing in common—they terrified Foster.

For as long as he could remember, he had suffered from an intense phobia of knives. The fear was unreasonable, he knew, and he hated unreasonable or illogical things, but it was real all the same. The origin of his fear was locked somewhere in the forgotten recesses of his troubled childhood, but he suspected it had something to do with his alcoholic father. Whatever the cause, anything sharper than an ordinary kitchen knife caused Foster’s heart to race and his skin to grow clammy. He had started the collection with the hope that familiarity would lessen his fear, but he had faced his enemy every day for fifteen years and still his pulse quickened at the sight of the knives. Fortunately, very few people were privy to his secret.

He stared at the gleaming blades, trying to will himself to remain calm, to master the familiar, gnawing fear that crept through his gut, but with no more success than the day before, or the day before that. Defeated once again, he exhaled a harsh breath and turned toward his computer. Purchased with an advance from a publisher still awaiting Foster’s manuscript about the Strangler, the machine rested upon a pine desk under the room’s only window. He had bought the thing primarily with word processing in mind, but had fallen in love with its abilities for data collection and manipulation.

A twinge of guilt flicked through him as he settled in front of the computer. His agent had warned him his penchant for detail would bog him down, but details were the lifeblood of his work as a policeman and had been a big part of his life even before then. Marcus was right, though. More than a year had passed and the book remained less than half completed. Foster shrugged off the guilt. Writing didn’t really interest him; numbers and statistics, with their exact laws of logic and order, did. He could play with them for hours and never grow tired.

He switched the computer on. A soft hum filled the room as the machine awoke, ready to do his bidding.

The buzz of his doorbell interrupted him. Shaking his head, he got up and headed to the door, opening it to the smiling face of rookie patrolman Jose Morales.

Morning, Detective Foster, Morales said cheerfully. Detective Murillo sends his usual greeting and advice.

Foster chuckled. Detective Anthony Murillo had been his partner for his last ten years on the force. Murillo’s usual greeting was, Good morning, you shiftless leech, a reference to Foster’s generous police pension, and his advice was, Go out and get a job.

Good morning, Jose. Kindly inform Detective Murillo that checking up on him remains a full-time occupation. Suddenly and embarrassingly aware he was still wearing his robe, Foster moved closer to Morales. Do me a favor, will you, Jose? Don’t mention to Tony that I was in my robe.

Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Morales tried to restrain his smile, but failed. He handed Foster a thick brown folder, held closed by a pair of elastic bands. Here’s your package, sir.

Foster took the folder, which contained copies of police reports for recent unsolved violent crimes, and shoved it under his arm. The information was courteously and unofficially provided him every few weeks by his former partner. Thanks, Jose. And you don’t have to call me sir. I’m retired, remember?

Yes, sir, Morales said with yet another smile. I’ll try to remember.

Foster smiled, wondering how long it would take before the job drained away Morales’ boyish enthusiasm. He strode back to the study, removing the rubber bands from the folder as he walked. Back in front of the computer, he switched to the database containing the data from Tony’s previous reports. This was as close as he got to real police work anymore, the one small buzz in his too humdrum life. He missed the job fiercely—had even toyed with the idea of going into private investigating—but just could not see himself spying on unfaithful spouses and tracking deadbeat debtors. So he worked on Tony’s data, comparing, sorting and correlating the ever-growing mass of information, searching for similarities, patterns or connections to pass on to his former partner. Already, his endeavors had paid off once, when he discovered a complex alphabetic pattern in a string of liquor store robberies. Foster predicted the next store to be hit, and a police decoy apprehended a retired professor of linguistics with an expensive cocaine habit trying to rob the store. Foster had enjoyed the success more than he admitted.

He spent fifteen minutes laboring at what he called the drudge work, his fingers flashing across the keyboard as he entered the data. Glancing up at the old travel clock atop his bookcase, he saw he had time for a quick analysis before heading to Sal’s for his shave. He decided on a three way correlation study. Simply speaking, the computer would create every combination of three from all the crimes in the database and compare each trio on fifty six different variables, including physical characteristics of the victims, location, day and time of the crime, and type of violence used. If enough factors were similar, a significant correlation would be produced. He could then study the selected trio to see if they might be linked in some way.

The printer began spitting out an intimidating looking mass of data six pages long, but only one column interested Foster right now. As each page dropped into the tray, his practiced eye scanned the list of correlation coefficients, searching for numbers large enough to merit further study. So accustomed was he to looking for the higher figures he almost missed it—only the complete abnormality of the number caught his attention even as his eyes sped past it. He looked back up the page. There it was. A zero.

He stared at the offending digit, his cop’s six-sense beginning to twitch. The zero meant this particular trio of incidents shared no common factors, an extremely unlikely situation. He checked the adjoining column that gave a coefficient for the three pairs formed from the incidents. Again, all were zero. The twitch became an alarm. Something was very wrong here. The chances of three crimes sharing no common factors were infinitesimal.

Forgetting the time, Foster turned back to the computer and set his monitor to display all the details of the three crimes in side-by-side columns. He examined the columns, his eyes widening as they moved down the screen. There was no mistake. Not one factor repeated. Impossibly, all were different.

He leaned back in his chair, the fingers of his right hand beating an unconscious tattoo on the top of his desk as he struggled to reconcile the abnormality. There could be only one explanation—and it was not a pleasant one.

He reached for his phone.

CHAPTER 2

Foster threaded his tan Buick Century through the clogged streets of downtown San Diego, ready to slip into