With Mother's Approval: The Seattle Police Hunt a Serial Killer

By Mike Wells and Robert Rand

When the Seattle Police Department bumbles the investigation of a serial killer who has brutally taken the lives of five women, Detectives Allie and Jeremy Branson take over the case. The husband and wife team work out of the King County Sheriff Department's Violent Crime Unit and have one of the best track records in the country. But this time around, the Bransons are tested to their limits. Will they catch "The Call Girl Killer," or will the sadistic murderer continue his spree of horrific crimes unchecked?

"As a fan on of thriller books by Stephen King and Lee Child I was immediately intrigued...overall a fantastic, absorbing read that does not disappoint. Another well deserved 5 stars." - Adisha Kariyawasam

"This is the first of the collaborative series between Mike Wells and Robert Rand. Although it is much more graphic than Mike Wells' usual style, it's a good story with plenty of suspense and action. It includes several graphically brutal sex scenes." - Sandy Penny, Reviewer, Sweet Mystery Books

"I have always liked a good mystery and With Mother’s Approval didn’t disappoint. It was a bit graphic and made me squeamish at times (I’m not complaining but I thought I’d share that for those who might get more than squeamish)" - Dawn "sleepygirl2" Joplin, MO, United States

"If you enjoy a fast paced action packed mystery i highly recommend you read With Mother's Approval" - Lady G.

"Keeps you on the edge of your seat.. You will not want to put this one down!!" - John R

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Wells
• Release date: Sep 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311285225

Mike Wells

Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A single fly landed on an expanse of wrinkled, pale flesh.

An instant later, a plastic swatter came down with a ‘whoosh’ and squished the insect.

The inert body on which the unfortunate fly had landed was known to friends and family as Sassy. She stared without seeing. It had been nearly a year since she had last been out of bed and four months since her voice had been heard. Abigail Sassy Monroe had long since ceased to exist as a human being.

Sassy’s only child was sitting in the hardback chair beside her narrow, hospital-style adjustable bed. Daniel Dano Monroe was now 45. He had never been married, and, except for several trips to prison, boarding school and the Navy, had never lived anywhere other than in his mother’s house. She had been his only love…and he hated her.

Her living corpse lay naked upon the once white linen bed sheet. A faint, foul odor permeated the room, but Dano had grown so accustomed to it he was nearly unaware of it. Dano could have used a can of Raid that was stored under the kitchen sink to kill the flies, but Mother Sassy didn’t breathe too well these days. So he kept all the windows wide open most of the time.

Dano still needed his mother. Rather, he needed her approval.

When will one of them be good enough? Dano asked her.

The ruby painted lips did not move. Yet, Dano still heard his mother’s reply. I’ll know, Dano boy. And then you’ll know.

Dano didn’t say anything more to his mother. His gaze wandered to his mother’s nipple. Did I suck that breast as a baby? he wondered.

You shouldn’t be there! Dano said sharply to the dead fly.

With the tenderness of a sainted nun caring for a leper, Dano used a baby wipe to clean the fly guts from his mother’s breast. He gazed longingly at the nearly flat, flaccid skin. That breast had once been full. It had also once had a twin sitting adjacent to it atop Sassy’s sunken chest. Breast cancer had taken the other one several years ago. Ribs and sternum showed through the thin, papery skin where the left breast had been. Dano never looked at the thin curved line of scar tissue that had replaced it. With his mother, it was always a ‘breast’, never a tit or anything as crass as a booby or hooter.

As Dano stared at the one remaining organ, thirst caused his throat to become parched. He ran his tongue over his upper lip, then pulled the lower lip into his mouth and chewed at it unconsciously while his thirst increased. Leaning forward, Dano brought his lips to his mother’s one intact breast, pulling the nipple, surrounding areola and a large portion of the saggy skin into his mouth. He sucked greedily. He imagined that he was drinking in his mother’s nourishing milk. Saliva filled his mouth and three thick rivulets poured down the breast like lava down the sides of a volcano.

Dano climbed into bed with his mother, curling up against her. He could hear her words of comfort. There’s Momma’s little man. Drink, Dano boy, drink. They were words only his ears could hear.

Soon, Dano Monroe was fast asleep in the safety of his mother’s embrace, where he dreamed.

Chapter 2

Allie and Jeremy Branson were an unlikely pairing. He was a couple inches over six feet, broad of shoulder and ever rumpled from his tad-too-long blonde hair to the linen, out dated, Miami Vice-style suit.

Allie, on the other hand, was meticulous in her appearance. Her light brown hair was worn as the Lord had provided, naturally straight, cascading about her shoulders. What little make-up she applied each morning served to enhance already striking features. She had full lips, an aquiline nose and dark eyes that showed her Hispanic heritage far more than the light skin tone could ever convey.

Today she wore a silk pantsuit of dark brown and a cream button-up blouse. The jacket was perfectly tailored to hide the 45-caliber Sig-Saur model P223. The weapon was held snugly to her body beneath her left arm by a leather shoulder holster. She was a dead shot. She held seven state and national titles for law enforcement pistol shooting and could nail a target from 50 yards while in a dead run. But even without the weapon, her years of Tae Kwan Do training made her a more formidable opponent than her golden gloves boxer of a husband. She could outrun Jeremy, even in pumps, but unless it was life dependent or death preventative, she was generally more than happy to let Jeremy be her hero.

Jeremy and Allie had been partners on the King County Sheriff’s Violent Crime Task Force for the past nine years. They had been married for eight. This arrangement was highly unconventional as well as being outside the strictures of regulations. However, this was overlooked by their supervisor, Lt. Bill Greene, due to their 95% capture/conviction rating—the highest of any agency in the state.

Jeremy was blessed with boyish good looks and a childish sense of humor—farts were still funny and ‘booger’ never failed to make him laugh. One of his front teeth was slightly chipped, which only added to his youthful image. He lolled in the arm chair more than sat, one leg casually draped over the right chair arm, his shoulders leaning the opposite direction so he could be closer to Allie, who sat in an identical faux leather chair next to him.

Late last night, Allie had gotten the phone call from Lt. Greene. Will you and your illustrious husband please stop by my office for a chat first thing in the morning?

They both knew that phrasing meant one of two things. One of them was in big trouble—Jeremy, most likely—or there was a new, big case for them to work on.

Jeremy was relieved when they entered Greene’s office. Their boss was standing at the window, eating a donut. He didn’t have a scowl on his face, and there was a big fat file folder on his desk. He looked tense, though.

Greene was the last to sit down. His chair was of the same imitation leather and squeaked with a thunder gust as he lowered his double extra large frame on to the seat.

Watching him, Jeremy struggled unsuccessfully to restrain the giggles that threatened to dissolve into belly laughs. Allie, always prim when in the company of others, slapped her husband on the hand. This was no time to play.

Stifle that shit, Jeremy. Lt. Greene’s words were delivered through tightly clenched teeth.

Jeremy knew when to revert to the posture of the humble, though professional, civil servant. He quickly sat straight in the chair, squeaking his own vinyl fart without so much as a sparkle of delight in his baby blue eyes. Whatcha got, boss?

Greene picked up the thick file folder on his desk before speaking. These goddam idiots at Seattle P.D. are trying to win an award for most incompetent police force in America.

Greene’s olive complexion darkened to a deep red as his anger and blood pressure flared. Waving the file he continued, They have three missing women in eight weeks. Their clothes were all discovered on dumpsters around the city. Then the cocksuckers wait until this morning to call us in. We have one exactly like it in our jurisdiction from two weeks ago. They claim to have just noticed the similarities that link them together.

I’m guessing we’re going to take over for Seattle? Allie was already reaching for the file as she spoke.

Greene handed it over and Allie carefully laid it across her lap, pausing for a moment and thinking to herself Three women, odds are murdered. One or more scumbags are responsible. Jeremy and I to catch them.

She looked down at the file, closed her eyes and silently prayed that God would show her the evidence that would put this miscreant away.

The pages in between the manila folder covers contained a collection of faxed missing persons reports, crime reports, witness statements and photographs. What is this? Allie asked Greene as she held up a sheet of paper.

There are three pieces of ordinary printer paper left behind at each crime scene, with the same fingerprint—same thumbprint—in blood. The blood is the same in every instance, same DNA. So, logic says it’s not the victim’s, but the perp’s. Possibly. No matches on any of the databases, of course.

Jeremy picked up each of the three papers, then blew out his breath with a long low whistle. His slacker appearance made people assume he was none too bright when in reality his ease of pace provided his extremely high IQ a chance to process that much more information. He noticed little things that most others overlooked.

The print doesn’t belong to our killer. The statement was made with such assuredness that it sounded as if he were already reading the words from a lab report.

Greene looked surprised.

Jeremy laid the three papers out across the lieutenant’s desk. See here? He pointed out a tiny smudge along each side of each fingerprint. They appeared to be nothing more than your average fax machine excess ink marks to Greene and Allie. When you print a perp, Jeremy explained, and you get ink on your fingers, you end up with these kinds of marks on the print card after you push the finger down.

Son of a bitch, Greene said slowly.

Don’t talk about my mom like that, boss, Jeremy said with mock indignation.

I would never have caught that, Allie admitted.

Jeremy smiled sheepishly and told them that when he had gone through the academy he had somehow managed to get as much, if not more, ink on his hands than those of the person he was fingerprinting. That had necessitated him having to daub countless marks with Whiteout in order to get the print-cards to pass. He would never forget the twin fingertip taps alongside every damn finger he had printed.

Here I thought you were having one of your Nero Wolf moments of genius, Allie muttered.

Allie removed the photos of the missing women from the folder. They were all white and ranged in age from late twenties to early forties. One blonde, one brunette and one redhead. She immediately saw at least one common trait—their physical attractiveness. All three of these women were equally striking. And well-educated: one doctor, one attorney and one commodities broker. All were professional, hard working, or at least in jobs that were high stress and results-oriented. And all were single.

Okay, Jeremy said, Those are the similarities. How about the dissimilarities?

Scanning the documents, they quickly listed the obvious points, housing, vehicles, and employers.

We’ve got to find two things, Allie began. First, how he picks them and then, how he meets them.

What makes you think the killer meets them rather than abducts them? Lt. Greene asked. While it seemed he was of the same mind, he always liked to hear his detectives make their own judgments.

Allie pulled out all the photos of the clothes found on the dumpsters. Look at the clothes, all are high-end evening wear. Absolutely no one goes grocery shopping in a sequined Donna Karan original.

Agreed, Greene chimed, looking pleased that they’d all come to the same conclusion.

The way he lays these clothes out on top of the dumpsters, Jeremy was theorizing, it’s as if a valet or maid had laid them out for someone.

One thing is for sure, Allie said. We need to get to Seattle P.D. right away. With that, she picked up the papers, reinserted them into the file and stood to leave. Jeremy followed along. He was usually a few steps behind his wife, not out of deference for her rank, though she was a Senior Sergeant to his lowly Detective status—no, Jeremy just enjoyed the view.

Allie had a terrific ass.

Chapter 3

Dano always spent the late afternoon hours providing for Mother’s needs.

But today was a special day.

Dano began the tedious process of preparing Mother for guests. He stripped the narrow bed, rolling her on her side just as the home health care nurse had taught him. Next, he used Ponds Cold Cream—Mother always used Ponds—to wash the heavy make-up from her face.

Dano had yet to learn how to apply make-up effectively, let alone master the art. Nevertheless, he did as best he could with only his memory of Mother brushing eyelashes, daubing shadow, melding blush and coating lips with both color and gloss. The finished product was clownish if one was to put a kind twist on it, but in reality, Mother looked like some garish Rocky Horror Picture Show reject that had morphed into a zombie.

You’re looking beautiful, Mother, Dano said as he leaned over and kissed the painted lips. He tried to push his tongue between them only to be met with unyielding, clenched teeth. Mother wasn’t often so rigid. Maybe she wanted to get dressed, he thought.

Slowly, Dano dressed Mother for the evening. He carefully unrolled one silk stocking over the long-toed foot, covering the parchment-like, liver spotted skin with a black, rose patterned thigh-high. The other leg was next. He slid the black lacy garter belt around Mother’s waist. It had bra-style hooks and six of the twelve hooks caught bits of wrinkly skin that tore as soon as he spun the garter around so the hooks would be in the back. He paid the scratched flesh no mind.

From the dresser, Dano next withdrew a pair of thong panties to match the lingerie. He pulled these over the legs and had to struggle to stretch them over Mother’s Depends diaper. The trousseau accumulated by Dano for his mother was quite extensive. The saleswomen at the Victoria’s Secret thought him to be a very attentive husband or suave player, depending on which saleswoman was asked—he shopped there every week.

Dano gazed down at his beloved mother, admiring her loveliness. To him, she remained the beautiful woman from his memories. Mother remained the woman who had turned heads and stopped conversations when she entered rooms. The woman who, on his thirteenth birthday, the day of his second stepfather’s funeral, had come to him, after the final guest had long left their condolences, and given him the best present an adolescent boy could hope to get. At least, so it was to his way of thinking. He caressed Mother with his eyes while reliving that event in his mind.

On that fateful afternoon, thunder accentuated the brilliant flashes of lightening that cracked all around the waters of Puget Sound. It was a storm of majestic proportions, one not directly witnessed by but a few due to the dangerousness of its strength and unpredictability. The sane and insane alike stayed safely indoors, away from windows and the potential of falling tree branches. The few friends coming by to offer their sympathies following the funeral of Dano’s stepfather on the mainland were all neighbors on Whidbey Island. Their safe passage home had been made long before the storm had engulfed the area in the spectacle of heavenly war.

Sassy Monroe had secluded herself in her room with her greatest source of consolation, a bottle of Remy Martin. When the last of the bottle’s contents had found its destiny, Sassy had gotten herself off the floor and managed to lurch over to the chair at her dressing table. For a long time she stared at her reflection. She recognized the fact that she was strikingly beautiful. For her, that beauty was a gift, which allowed her to attract wealthy men.

Her most recently deceased husband had been an executive in Redmond, Washington. Bill Gates was the only person to whom he answered. Now he was dead, murdered, stabbed repeatedly in the chest and face. The coroner was only able to estimate that Drake Stanton had been stabbed upwards of 200 times with a sharpened instrument consistent with a butcher’s knife. The police had no leads.

However, Sassy knew who the murderer was. She also knew the motive. With an unsteady hand, she washed the lightly applied make-up from her face. Her usual application of cosmetics entailed nothing more than a touch of color to her eyelids, some mascara and lip-gloss. Next, she painted her face, powder followed by a thick layer of foundation. Her eyes were lined in black with sky blue mounds of powder on her heavily mascara coated lashes. She painted her lips red with a tube of lipstick left over from several Halloweens ago. She no longer looked like anyone she knew. For Sassy, this was good.

Sassy Stanton, ‘Monroe,’ she thought to herself—It’s Sassy Monroe again, that’s what it will always be—made her way to her son’s bedroom on wobbly legs. She did not knock, just turned the knob and pushed the door open. Dano had a porno magazine open on his desk and was just beginning to stroke his swollen dick. Sassy stared at him for a moment. For reasons he could not explain, he was not startled, nor did he feel any impulse to hide what he was