The Butterfly Tattoo (A Joe Collins Mystery)

By Bill Craig

As a cop, Joe Collins knew there were bad people out there -- serial killers -- monsters that needed to be caught ... and eliminated. His vigilante brand of justice makes for exciting reading in this new mystery series that will etch itself into your imagination like a tattoo.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AbsolutelyAmazingEbooks.com
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310072376

Bill Craig

Bill Craig taught himself to read at age four and began writing his own stories at age six. He published his first novel at age 40 and says it only took him 34 years to become an overnight success! He has been publishing steadily ever since that first book Valley of Death and now has 27 books in print or ebook. Bill is the proud father of four children ranging in age from 38 to almost 8. He has 7 grandchildren and 1 great grandchild. Mr. Craig has worked a wide variety of jobs over the years from private security and corrections work to being a grill cook and dishwasher. He has been a news reporter, done factory work and even a stint as a railroad clerk. He currently does customer service work to support his writing addiction. His ultimate goal in life is to break the record held by pulp author and creator of The Shadow, Walter B. Gibson, for writing the most works in a single year!

Book preview

A Joe Collins Mystery

The

Butterfly

Tattoo

Bill Craig

ABSOLUTELY AMAZING eBOOKS

Published by Whiz Bang LLC, 926 Truman Avenue, Key West, Florida 33040, USA

Copyright © 2009, 2013 by Bill Craig.

Electronic compilation copyright © 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized ebook editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

For information contact: [e-mail]

To my friend Natasha with deepest affection, and to Elizabeth KK Webber for telling me all about butterfly tattoos and their meanings … and my friends on Yahoo’s Crime Writer’s group for their help and counsel on this work … and to attorney Paul E. Baylor for helping me get custody of my son in the divorce.

Beware the vengeance of the little yellow god

—John Milton Hayes

Chapter One

Joe Collins looked out at the night. Raindrops splashed against the window then flowed down in small rivulets to the ledge, pooling there until the pools grew too large and then flowed over the edge. He picked up the tumbler of whiskey and ice from his desk, sipping it as he watched the rain. Charlie Parker was playing on the stereo, the soft melodies haunting the room, and his mood, like the ghost of an old friend. Soon he would abandon this refuge to go out into the streets.

Collins studied his reflection in the window. Dark hair, chiseled features that cast sharp dark shadows over his flesh in the room’s half-light. His eyes were cobalt blue, piercing, almost black, in his reflection. Somewhere, out there on those rain swept streets, was a girl in grave danger. Danger she didn’t even know about, but marked nonetheless by a killer with a burning passion.

One thing marked her, just as it had marked his other victims; a butterfly tattoo. The whiskey burned its way to his belly, despite having been poured over ice to cool and dilute its fire. He needed the fire in his belly to warm him, to help focus him on finding The Butterfly Killer as the press had taken to calling the newest serial sensation to grip their attention. Four young women from various walks of life, no known connection between them, yet all linked by two things: they were embellished with a butterfly tattoo and brutally murdered.

How simple or elaborate the design didn’t matter. The quality of the tattoos had varied. It was the only common denominator besides the manner of their deaths: the butterfly tattoo. The telephone rang, shattering his reverie, forcing him into motion as he walked across the room and scooped up the cordless white telephone. Collins, he said.

We’ve got another one, Joe. Captain wants us to head to the scene right away, the voice of his partner, Doris Linacre announced.

Where? he rasped, in a voice low and tense, barely above a whisper.

I’m outside your building, Joe. I was on my way over when the Captain called me on my cell, Doris replied, her voice softening as she spoke his name.

I’ll be right down, he almost whispered, setting down his glass and walking around his desk. He scooped his department issued Glock 19 9mm out of the top drawer and stuffed it into the holster on his belt. Collins pulled on a black sports coat and then a tan overcoat and headed for the door. Maybe this time the killer had made a mistake. Maybe this time the killer had left a clue; something more than just a sliced up body with which to torment him. A reminder of the women he couldn’t save from the predators that haunted the city.

Joe tried to shake the thought away as he walked out of his apartment, pulling the door shut behind him. He couldn’t though. Thoughts of Beth filled his mind. His beautiful wife, she had been dead a year now. Victim of a killer, her murder was as yet unsolved and open. He closed his eyes as he waited for the elevator, and he could see her as she had looked the last time he had seen her alive. It had been on a night just like this. In fact, she had been killed on this very night one year ago. She had been wearing a bright red dress, the sides slit up to mid thigh. Bethany’s blonde hair had been pulled up in a bun and held in place with a couple of what he had always called chopsticks. She had been wearing expensive high-heeled sandals, a string of pearls draped around her neck, falling to the gentle swell of her breasts. She was wearing White Diamonds perfume, the memory of the scent strong now in his nostrils. Her blue eyes sparkled, brought out by her blue eye shadow, her lips painted a ruby red. Collins had helped her into her jacket, then gently spun her around and drew her close against him. He had kissed her hard and deep, not wanting it to end, but then it had.

I’ll meet you at Giovanni’s at seven, she had told him, before walking out the door. She had a meeting with one of the advertising agency’s biggest clients, Nora Seacrest of Seacrest Designs, at five. Joe had kissed her: he could remember how soft her lips had felt, how delightful she had smelled, how beautiful and alive she had been.

Beth hadn’t arrived at Giovanni’s at seven. He had waited for over an hour before calling Nora Seacrest. He had been told that Beth had left a bit after six o’clock. He was starting to get worried when his cellular phone had rung. It had been Capitan DeRosa. Beth’s purse had been found next to a parked car near Nora Seacrest’s mansion. Joe had gone straight to the Seacrest Mansion. No sign had been found of Beth that night. Two agonizing nights later, her body had washed up on the beach. She had been stripped of her clothing, her body savagely mutilated. Joe had barely been able to identify her remains. No trace of her killer had ever been found. Since then, Joe had made it his personal mission to watch over the women in Bayport. Trying to keep them safe from predators, like the one that had abducted and murdered his wife. Ones like The Butterfly Killer.

Joe blinked away the tears that had filled his eyes on the ride down to the ground floor. They were a deeply personal part of him. His tears were reserved for the helpless, the dead. He wiped his eyes before walking out the door. Rain was pouring down, beating a drum on every object. He instantly recognized the black Ford Taurus that his partner drove. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm as he walked to the curb, the headlights cutting through the darkness and illuminating the night. He heard the locks pop open as he reached for the door handle. He quickly slid inside.

Where? Joe asked his eyes fixing on Doris Linacre.

Corner of Wilshire and Flushing. Body was pretty fresh. The uniforms on the scene said the blood was still pumping out of her when they got there, Doris responded, as she smoothly slid the car into gear and pulled out onto the street. She already had the mars light blinking steadily on the dashboard as she moved through the dark streets like a knife, cutting her way through the rain and gloom to the murder scene. Joe nodded, the movement barely visible in the near darkness inside the car, but he knew she had seen it just the same. Doris never missed anything, which was one reason why he was glad she was his partner.

You think this is him? Joe asked, his voice slightly unsteady.

Could be. The vic has a tattoo of a butterfly on her chest, Doris responded as she navigated the Taurus through the night. Lightning flashed across the sky, briefly silhouetting her against the window.

I want this asshole, Doris, Collins almost whispered.

I know, Joe. I remember, Doris replied, keeping her voice light. Beth Collins had gotten a butterfly tattoo just a week before she had been kidnapped and murdered. The odds were good that she was the first official victim of The Butterfly Killer.

The next victim had appeared three months later. Jolene DuBuois, a tourist from New Orleans. Jolene had come to Bayport for Spring Beak, enjoying the college rite of spring. She had come to town with a bunch of sorority sisters, looking for fun and frolic. What she had found was death, sad and bitter, her blood pooling beneath her on the white sands of the beach.

Joe wondered about this latest victim. Was it the same killer? Or was it a copycat, getting his ideas from the national press coverage? The Federal Bureau of Investigation was dying to get in on the case, hoping to grab some publicity. They loved to hog the spotlight when a serial killer emerged. It was a feather in the cap of their whole Behavioral Science Unit when they managed to accurately predict the pattern of a killer.

Joe had little faith that the FBI would be of any real use. More than likely they would just muddy the water and obscure the trail of the real killer.

≈≈≈

Doris Linacre guided the car through the rain-slick streets. If her partner, Joe Collins, had anything to say, she knew he would. More than likely, until he viewed the evidence, Joe would say nothing. He was one of the most self-contained people she had ever met.

Sure, she had her own theories about The Butterfly Killer, but she was also aware that her theories would come nowhere close to what Joe Collins already knew to be fact. He ate, slept, and crapped The Butterfly Killer. Nothing could shake him loose, even though his superiors had tried on more than one occasion.

No, Joe was a bulldog. Nothing could swerve him from the facts. When he had a suspect, he would sink his teeth in until there was nothing that wasn’t known about the suspect, right down to how many times a day he masturbated.

Doris drew a pack of cigarettes from her pocket as she drove. Shaking one free, she rolled it to the corner of her mouth and replaced the pack in her pocket. She fished out a lighter and fired the cigarette up, drawing deeply until she had a double lungful of smoke, then she blew it out slowly. The smoke filled the car. Joe said nothing; she knew that her smoking didn’t bother him. It was just a part of her, a part that he accepted and forgave. She was surprised he hadn’t lit up as well.

Captain DeRosa had called her personally to give her the tip on the subject of the call. That the Modus Operandi was the same as The Butterfly Killer was for certain. DeRosa also knew how she felt about Collins, though she was careful not to let the Sergeant see it.

That was the thing about being partners. It was almost like a marriage. It didn’t matter if the partners were the same sex or opposite, as long as they were after the same thing. The goal was justice and an accounting for the victims. The police spoke for them, cared about who and what they were. Sometimes, they were the only ones that did.

Neither of them spoke during the rest of the ride. There was no need. Instead, the police radio filled the vacuum of conversation with its dull background. The press was on the Chief and the Mayor hot and heavy. They needed a break in the case, and they needed it soon.

They spotted the flashing red and blue lights at the same time, and she could feel Joe lean forward. She knew he was mentally photographing the scene as they approached, searching for any little thing that might be out of the ordinary and filing it away to look at later. He was exiting the vehicle even before she had the Taurus fully stopped, out and moving through the steadily falling rain towards the body. Yellow crime scene tape was already strung across the intersection in a twenty-yard area. So far there weren’t many curious citizens. In that respect at least, the downpour was a godsend. From an evidence point of view, it was a nightmare, as it helped wash away any trace evidence the killer might have left behind.

With a heartfelt sigh, Doris shifted the car into park and shut off the engine. She pulled a plastic rain bonnet out and tied it over her short dark hair. It might look funny, but she wouldn’t be as miserable as some of the others at the scene would be. Doris opened her door and stepped out into the rain, heading to where Collins was already standing over the body.

≈≈≈

Detective Sergeant Joseph Oliver Collins looked down at the corpse. The rain was washing the blood that had pooled around her body to the gutter. Her long blonde hair was matted and flattened by the rain, spread around her skull. He could tell she had been beautiful when she was alive. Death had stolen the beauty, leaving behind something cold and lifeless, diminished by circumstance.

Collins knelt down next to the body, studying it. He felt a catch in his breath as he spotted the tattoo on her chest, just above the valley that formed between her breasts. It still looked alive and real, as if a real butterfly had landed, except this butterfly, like Bethany’s, would never fly again.

The body was nude. There were numerous wounds across the abdomen and pelvic area. Collins hunched down, looking closer. He repressed a shiver, putting it down to the cool rain that was matting his hair to his scalp and running down his neck despite his upturned coat collar. He sensed someone behind him and looked up. It was Linacre.

He’s counting them now. Collins shook his head.

Counting? Doris looked at him, not comprehending. But then, she hadn’t looked as closely at the body as he had.

Carving numbers in them, Collins stood up. His eyes roved the buildings surrounding the intersection. Then he looked down at the body, the number 5 standing out clearly to him. Collins eyed the surrounding buildings again. The killer was out there, watching them, laughing at them. It just couldn’t be allowed to continue.

Chapter Two

He stood in darkness, safe behind the glass, obscured from the prying eyes below. There was one policeman who interested him, the tall man with the dark hair. There was something about him, an intensity that rivaled his own. That one might be a worthy adversary, something that had been missing.

The rivulets of rain running down the glass partially obscured his vision of the scene below. That was okay, however. He had the vivid memories of how he had used her, of the joys she had given him in their hours together. He felt himself becoming aroused yet again as he savored the sweet memories of her terror: when he had finished with her and then brought out the knife. His timing had been impeccable, with him leaving her body and slipping inside moments before the patrol car had turned off Wilshire and found the body.

Now all he had to do was wait. He could slip out of the office building in the morning when the workers began arriving and the cleaners where starting to leave. He had studied the building for weeks, watching and learning the routine, making sure he would be able to enter and hide with no one being aware of his presence.

Collins and Linacre were talking to the two officers who had discovered the body when Captain DeRosa pulled up. The rain had lessened in intensity, yet still showed no signs of abating. DeRosa walked over and joined them. He had a dark-colored fedora pulled down low over his forehead, protecting his rapidly receding hairline from the rain. The collar