Sins of the Father

By A.R. Wise

Lincoln Pierce has enjoyed a certain amount of fame from his previous case, but the attention isn't entirely good. The killer Lincoln unmasked has been linked to other murders in the Denver area, but a call from a mysterious detective puts that into question. Bentley convinces Lincoln to look into the case, but they have to question who's pulling the strings.

Darcy is working on a missing persons case while also trying to overcome the rigors of chemotherapy. As she gets closer to finding the missing girl, she uncovers a terrible secret that will put her family in danger and changes everything she thought she knew about the case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Wise
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311503060

A.R. Wise

I am a podcaster, movie and music lover, owner of the Talkingship website, and long time secret writer. I decided to sit down and force myself to finally put together a story and get it into people's hands. That happened with the release of my first novella, Deadlocked, on November 9th, 2011. For updates on my writing, news about upcoming projects, and to see a ludicrous amount of other fantastic things, head over to http://talkingship.com/wp/

Book preview

Book 2

By: A.R. Wise

Cover by A.R. Wise

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Johnny Boy

What’ll you be remembered for? Without me, nothing.

Father’s words propelled Johnny through the midnight streets of a sleeping city, past tightly packed rows of houses where bedroom windows flickered with the lights of televisions. Denizens with clouded minds, poisoned and corrupted by the lying media. False realities poured forth from corporate Gods, devoured by the gullible, the ignorant, the unenlightened.

Without me, nothing.

They suffer life. Each and every one of them. They get a good sleep so they can be wide-eyed as they trudge off to work, tick-tocking their way to a pine box, slaves to a way of life they’ve been brainwashed to believe is fulfilling. Lesser beings, all of them.

We’ll wake them up, Johnny Boy. We’re the bang of the drum, the ring of the bell.

Which house would he pick? Which lucky family would be granted the honor of a page in his book? Who would be part of the catalyst for revolution? Johnny scanned the yards, passing those with signs of children. A bicycle left on the lawn or a baseball mitt on the porch granted reprieve. Were they lucky, or had they missed the opportunity to matter? Was it luck to be forced to endure a meaningless existence?

A car approached. Johnny ducked his head and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. The vehicle rolled slowly down the street, its headlights brilliant and blinding. Johnny turned up a nearby driveway, anxious to appear as if he belonged there in case it was a squad car creeping along this quiet street.

The side of the house was red brick, and a strip of dying grass was in the center of the driveway, a flourish in the design that’d cracked the pavement where the weeds rooted. There was a detached garage at the end of the driveway, and a pair of muddy work boots had been left beside the back door.

The car passed slowly, but Johnny was well away from their view now. To them, he was nothing more than a member of the flock returning home; an ant on his way back to the mound. A dark shadow among many, and not the bright light he truly was.

We’re the light, Johnny Boy. They’re stuck in dark days, begging for a glimpse of what we’ve got to show them, but enlightenment comes at a cost. It always has. It always will.

Johnny opened the screen door, cringing as the hinges squeaked. He paused between the screen and the door, waiting for a sign he’d been heard. Once certain he hadn’t been detected, he set his backpack down and took out the towel, rubber mallet, and bump key. He’d practiced this a hundred times in preparation for this day. Father had taught him how to do this properly.

The bump key was just a standard house key with the points filed down. When inserted into most common locks it could swiftly grant access with just a quick, sharp bang against the back of it. He slipped the key into the lock, and then wrapped the towel around both the door handle and the base of the key. Next he used the rubber mallet. His first try was unsuccessful, and he waited to see if the muted ‘thump’ had alerted anyone inside. After a moment’s pause, he tried again. This time he was successful, and the lock clicked open, granting him access to a stranger’s home.

He put his tools away, zipped up the bag, and then crept inside.

The back door opened to a small kitchen, with a sink full of dirty dishes and a white fridge that had a slew of magnets holding up various pictures of smiling, Hispanic faces. The linoleum floor was white with black diamonds between the squares, and there was a broom leaning against the counter as if someone had stopped in the middle of cleaning, giving up until morning. The room smelled of simmering food, pungent garlic, onion, and citrus. There was a crockpot on the counter, left on a warm setting, the top dappled with condensation. He lifted the lid and smelled the carne asada that’d been left to cook overnight. The meat was still raw, but the scent was already delectable.

A man’s snore startled him. It was sudden and loud, followed by a grumble and then movement. Johnny gazed into the dark recesses of the connected living room and saw the culprit, a fat, half-clothed man laying haphazardly on the couch, one arm draped down and the other placed atop his mountain of a belly. There was a blanket on the floor, thrown off him earlier in the night, wet from a glass of water that’d tipped over.

The television was muted, the flashing glow like a silent thunderstorm in the otherwise dark home, illuminating the nightmare about to unfold.

Johnny’s gun was muzzled with a homemade silencer made from an oil filter. The gunshot might still be loud enough to wake up other people in the house, but the silencer would keep the sound from traveling outside.

Johnny inspected the male. Mid-twenties or early thirties, obese, and apparently ill. There was a toilet paper roll squished between the couch and his waist, and a pile of used tissues on the side table. Johnny guessed the man had chosen to sleep on the couch to avoid infecting his spouse.

He lingered over the man, his shadow cast against the wall by flickering commercials.

He was nervous. This would be his first.

Johnny studied the victim. He took time to soak in the details of the scene, determined to remember. This was no simple slaughter. This was transformative. This was the day he would prove himself worthy of Father’s trust.

You’re my soldier, my sword, my declaration of war. Blare the trumpets, Johnny Boy. Make me proud.

A stranger creeping through the dark, gun in hand, delivering painful salvation.

He picked the blanket up off the floor, gathered it, and then dropped it on top of the sleeping man’s face. Johnny pressed the oil filter silencer to the man’s head and pulled the trigger.

The muzzle flash provided a momentary glare that was only slightly more brilliant than the light of the television. The sound was loud enough to cause his ears to ring, but it was over in an instant. The scent of smoke lingered, not from the pistol but the filter, a cloying, metallic odor.

He was prepared to shoot anyone who came running to see what caused the noise. When no one came, he crept towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The first door in the hall was to an empty bathroom, and the next was to a second bedroom. The room was barren, a wood floor covered with a plastic tarp and a can of paint sitting beside an unused brush. He went further down the hall and pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

A woman slept there, her blanket half-on. Her swollen, pregnant belly was exposed. She wore earplugs, and was oblivious to the murderer who stood in her room watching from the end of the bed.

He stared at her pregnant belly, the skin stretched far enough to scar. Her belly button protruded, and the skin glimmered in the faint light coming from the television in the living room. The expectant mother had been trying to prevent stretch marks by applying oil to her skin.

He pointed the gun down at her stomach, steeling himself for a horrible act.

His finger slipped inside the trigger guard. He closed his eyes.

Blare the trumpets, Johnny Boy.

But he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready for this.

Johnny fled the bedroom. He closed the door on his way out. He felt sick, and went to the bathroom. His arms were shaking as he steadied himself against the sink, his fingers gripping the clamshell design as his stomach churned. He turned on the water and splashed some on his face before looking at himself in the mirror. His freshly shaved head was red with sunburn, and his blue eyes were glassed by tears. His thick, lower lip quivered as he gazed at the murderer in the mirror. There was no turning back. He would never stare in the mirror at an innocent man again.

My soldier, my sword, my declaration of war.

Mike, is everything okay? asked the spouse of the dead man as she opened the door to the bathroom. Did you throw up again?

Johnny locked eyes with the woman, turning her question into a shocked scream. She backed away, still staring as if his gaze transfixed her.

She screamed out her husband’s name, hoping he might save her as Johnny pointed the gun. She held up her hands as if they might stop the bullets.

The muzzle flashed, and Johnny scored his second and third kills with one shot.

Blood red salvation. Johnny Boy, you’re their savior.

Chapter One

I’m sitting here with none other than Lincoln Pierce, the private detective who put a stop to the man who might be one of Colorado’s most prolific serial killers. The female reporter referred to her notes. Police are exploring the possibility that Devin Harcourt, the man you caught and who has been linked to the murders of at least three women, was also the infamous Corridor Killer, who is believed to be responsible for the disappearances of nine other women. They’ve theorized that Mr. Harcourt traveled the I-25 highway, often referred to as the ‘Corridor’, between Wyoming and New Mexico, murdering prostitutes along the way. If that’s true, you’re the man who did what local detectives have been trying to do for years. So tell me, Mr. Pierce, how does it feel to be a hero?

Lincoln laughed. He tasted the hint of gin on his breath. No one who knows me would call me a hero. I just got lucky with this one. If your definition of ‘lucky’ is almost getting yourself killed.

They were on the outskirts of Denver, in a musty old brick building that was better suited for a dive bar than a film studio. The room felt like a freezer when he’d arrived, but now, with the glaring lights shining down on him, he felt like he was wearing a full suit in a tanning bed. Sweat dripped down his back. There were two cameras, each at an angle, one pointed at Lincoln and the other at Aubrey Mann, a comely Hispanic reporter from Channel 7. She was petite and young, no older than 25, with jet black hair that might’ve been a wig, and enough pancake makeup on to mold a disguise out of. The stylist had similarly assaulted Lincoln with the thick, greasy layer of makeup, and then powdered him to keep his skin from glaring in the light. It was a process he’d become used to.

It’d been two months since the event that propelled him into the national spotlight. The case of Betty Kline’s murder, and the revelation that Devin Harcourt had been the culprit, was fodder for the voracious 24-hour news cycle, and Lincoln gave numerous interviews, repeatedly detailing the case and how he’d become embroiled in it.

An announcement from local police a week earlier spurred a new flood of attention. Devin Harcourt was linked to a prostitute whose body had been found along I-25. That proof, combined with everything else that’d been learned about Devin, led police to believe he was the murderer known as the Corridor Killer.

I want to know what you think about what the police said. Do you believe Devin’s the Corridor Killer? asked Aubrey.

I don’t know. They’re the experts. They’re certainly not calling to ask my advice.

But you’re the one who tracked him down, said Aubrey. Seems to me you’d be the right person to ask what Devin was capable of. You and your daughter are the only two people who went face to face with that monster and lived to talk about it. She leaned in and asked, Is it possible that Devin Harcourt killed all those women?

I wish I knew.

Aubrey referred to her notes again. Police found bone fragments from at least two victims in Devin Harcourt’s home, and they also found evidence linking him to the death of Becky Kyle, who he murdered just one day before he abducted your daughter. To me, that sounds like a prolific killer – one who, perhaps, spent his days traveling up and down the highway looking for victims.

Lincoln nodded, but then shrugged. Possibly, but he also liked to go online to hire prostitutes. The Corridor Killer has a different M.O.

That’s true, and it’s the reason some people believe the police are jumping to conclusions. However, doesn’t the murder of Becky Kyle and his abduction of your daughter prove that he was changing his style? Perhaps he wasn’t set on one specific method of murder. She said the word ‘murder’ with an almost lustful zeal. It turned Lincoln’s stomach.

He’d become accustomed to this morbid fascination with serial killers. There seemed to be nothing the American public wanted more than to know there were monsters hiding in their midst. The possibility that their mild-mannered neighbor might secretly be a vicious killer dismembering prostitutes in his basement added an edge of excitement to their otherwise boring lives.

He was a psycho – there’s no doubt about that. Lincoln wasn’t afraid of using terms that professionals would shy away from. The press loved him for that. While an employed officer wouldn’t refer to a killer as a ‘psycho’, Lincoln didn’t have to worry about angry calls to the chief from upset viewers. He didn’t have anyone but himself to answer to, which gave him the freedom to say whatever he wanted during interviews. The kid was mad as a hatter, with a basement full of LSD and a bad habit of chopping people up. There’s not much he wasn’t capable of, if you asked me.

You looked into his eyes, said Aubrey, her tone again taking on that lustful edge. You saw what sort of devil he was. And you think he could be the Corridor Killer.

I think it’s possible, sure.

A ringing cell phone interrupted them.

Todd, Goddamn it, really? Aubrey was furious as she glared at the cameraman behind Lincoln.

It’s your phone, not mine, he said as he took Aubrey’s phone out of his pocket.

Aubrey’s angry demeanor suddenly changed. Oh, that means it’s Jan. Gimme gimme. She held out her hands, wiggling her fingers like a child waiting for candy.

Todd leaned in and handed her the phone. She held up a finger to let Lincoln know she’d only be a minute. Jan, hey it’s me.

Lincoln could almost hear the woman on the other line, her voice sharp and fast.

You’re shitting me, said Aubrey. What time? A twenty minute notice? Who’s at the… Paul? You’re not letting him take the… Yes, I can. If I leave now… Don’t you let Paul take this one. All right, all right. I’ll call you when I get there. She raised her hand and circled her finger while looking at Todd. After hanging up, she apologized, I’m real sorry, but we’ve got to run.

I figured as much. Did you get what you needed, or should we reschedule?

Todd, what do you think? she asked as she unclipped her lapel mic.

Depends on how much time they give us, and how long Old Windy blows.

Old Windy? asked Lincoln.

Chief Windsor, said Aubrey as she hurried to wind her mic’s cord around her hand and then unclipped the battery from her waist. We call him Old Windy because he’s got a habit of going on and on without ever actually saying anything. He just announced a press conference about the case, and barely gave us any warning.

They’ll want this piece for tonight at five, said Todd. Doesn’t give us much time to edit.

Maybe they’ll send it live, said Aubrey.

I doubt Windy’ll blow that long. Besides, Jan’s not shooting it over to Paul live, said Todd, continuing banter that Lincoln had no interest in.

Am I done? he asked, eager to get out from under the intense lights.

Yes, said Aubrey. I’ll call you if we need something else. Thanks for coming. Sorry it was so short.

Isn’t it usually the guy who says that?

Aubrey didn’t get the joke, and paused for a second.

It’s a dick joke, said Todd as he was winding up a cord.

Oh, I get it, said Aubrey. That’s funny.

Lincoln set the lapel mic and the battery on his chair, waved, and then headed for the door. It was midday and sunny, deceptively warm for the time of year. There were still lumps of dirty snow clinging to the gutters, remnants of a weak storm the night before. Water trickled down the curb, and dripped from the rooftops, adding a bit of humidity to the otherwise arid climate.

His car was parked around the corner, but there was a bar directly across the street. He checked the time. He’d told Darcy that the interview would last a couple hours, so he wasn’t due back to the office for a while. Plenty of time to indulge in an old vice.

He’d partaken before the interview, to loosen up, but that was just a nip from a flask and barely sated him. What he really needed was waiting across the street, but the ‘open’ sign wasn’t lit yet. He groaned in disappointment, but decided he was better off not having a drink. He’d made a promise to Ellen and Darcy to curb his habit. They’d hoped for him to stop drinking completely, and as far as they knew he’d kept true to his word.

The neon ‘open’ sign flickered to life, displaying the glowing red and blue he’d been waiting for. The other signs in the window came on soon after, inviting Lincoln in. He jogged across the street.

There was a young woman around his daughter’s age walking nearby, and she called out to him, Hey, don’t I know you?

Me? he asked before looking over his shoulder to see if she’d been talking to someone else. The only one behind him was a scruffy looking older man in a green jacket picking at his crooked, yellow teeth. Lincoln doubted the woman meant the vagrant.

Yeah, you. Where do I know you from? She walked briskly over. The young woman was spritely and ebullient, with short blonde hair and green eyes that were too bright to be natural. She was snapping her fingers as she tried to figure out where she’d seen Lincoln before. Give me a minute. Oh, I’ve got it. You’re that private eye. The one from the news. Right?

That’s right, said Lincoln, flattered by the attention.

Wait until my grandma hears I met you. She thinks you’re the greatest. The young woman glanced at the bar, and then back at Lincoln. Well, nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you too. Lincoln watched the young girl walk away. The vagrant with the crooked tooth smiled lasciviously at the girl, and tipped his hat to her, but she ignored him as she continued on. Lincoln shrugged the encounter off and went into the bar.

It was an Irish pub boasting a slew of local beers on tap. The interior was murky, with dark wood floors and stools with green cushions that were cracked and faded. The bartender was a squat, chubby man with a bald head and a short, ginger beard. He looked surprised to see Lincoln come in.

What can I get for you? He was using a remote to turn on an overhead television set as Lincoln walked over to the bar and sat down.

Dry martini, stirred. Tanqueray if you’ve got it. Colder the better.

You’ll have to settle for Sapphire.

Lincoln grimaced, and then reached into his pocket for his flask. Do me a favor and use this for my first one. Use whatever’s left in there. I’ll pay full price.

Did you hear the one about the guy who walked into an Irish pub with a flask of gin? asked the bartender. Lincoln’s confounded look must’ve been answer enough to get the bartender to continue, Neither have I. Why would there be a joke about something that doesn’t make any damn sense? He laughed as he took the flask, unscrewed it, and smelled the liquor. He frowned and said, Fill my flask with whiskey or nothing at all. But to each his own, friend. Bartenders don’t make money judging. To tell the truth, I knew a guy back in college who used to keep two flasks on him, one vodka and the other vermouth, so he could make martinis on the fly.

Not a bad idea, but I’m not a fan of vodka martinis.

Lincoln scrutinized the bartender as he mixed the drink. The man didn’t drain the vermouth enough, and stirred too hard, but Lincoln wasn’t brash enough to complain. Before the drink was finished, the bartender looked around as if missing something. He said, Let me grab the olives from the cooler. I’ll be right back.

Lincoln was left alone at the bar, staring at the mixer with his drink waiting inside. The thought of the ice melting, diluting the gin, disturbed him. When the bartender didn’t return fast enough, Lincoln reached over the bar and took a martini glass down from the slot it was hanging upside down from. He set it on the counter and then slid the shaker over, stirred the drink a little more to get the ice to cool it again, and then poured it through a strainer.

The glass frosted the moment the liquid poured in, and Lincoln took in the aroma. Subtle juniper, a scent so delicate it was almost ephemeral, as if trying to sample it for too long would spoil the moment. As seductive as a lover’s perfume.

He thought of Ellen.

Here we go, said the bartender as he returned. Oh, you beat me to it. Well, let’s get a few of these bad boys in there for you. There we have it.

Lincoln watched as the two olives rolled against one another at the bottom of the glass, stirring up the faint oils in the drink, causing them to spin and then disappear like spirits dancing in the ether. He leaned back in, took the glass by its stem, and brought it to his upper lip. He took in the aroma, the glass’s edge tantalizingly close to his lips. Just a centimeter away from satisfaction – from melting away from the days and nights that plagued him.

The promise of forgetting, if just for a moment, what the real world had waiting outside those doors.

Depression. Loneliness. Fear. Cancer. All of them could be washed away, if only for a moment.

An image of Darcy flashed through his mind, bald and forcing a smile through teary eyes. Last week she’d shaved her head again for the first time since she was a teenager, and she swore it didn’t bother her. She always pretended to be strong, no matter what.

He set the glass back down on the bar without taking a drink.

Something the matter with the martini? asked the bartender when he saw his first customer of the day get up from the stool.

Just remembered something I need to get done. Lincoln slipped a twenty from his money clip and set it on the bar.

That’s an awful lot to pay for a splash of vermouth.

Lincoln smiled and nodded as he headed for the door.

Hey pal, you forgot your flask.

It’s yours. Put some whiskey in it.

Chapter Two

You’re back early, said Darcy when Lincoln returned to the office. She was busy hanging up pictures of teenagers involved in a Missing Persons case they’d been hired to look into. Ever since news got out about the Devin Harcourt murders, Lincoln’s burgeoning private detective business had been flooded with clients.

The attention wasn’t entirely welcome. Daniel Barr’s plan to turn the office into a money laundering scheme was foiled, which meant he still owed Clyde Pettigrew a great deal of money. There was a temporary respite for Dan, because Clyde chose to shrink from the spotlight until the fervor generated by the story died down. The Boulder Valley Mall, a central location in the Kline case, was quickly shuttered. It’d been dying a slow death already, but Pettigrew managed to get his friends in local government to push through his request for the mall be labeled ‘Blighted’, allowing tax dollars to be included in the sale price. The mall was scheduled for demolition, and the area cordoned off, restricting news crews from filming it.

Lincoln was spared the drama between Dan and Clyde, but had a feeling that wouldn’t last. Pettigrew didn’t strike him as the sort of man to forgive and forget.

Lincoln said, The reporter had to go to a press conference. They cut the interview short. What are you working on?

Marla, said Darcy.

Marla Taylor, a nineteen-year-old from Delaware who moved to Boulder for college. She’d been missing for three weeks. Her father insisted she wasn’t the type to just up and disappear, but if recent events had taught Lincoln anything, it was that parents don’t know as much about their children as they assumed.

Marla had been a model student in her first semester at college, but her grades and attendance slipped during the second half of her first year away from home. She chose to remain in Boulder over the summer instead of going home. She enrolled in her sophomore year as expected, but Darcy and Lincoln learned that Marla wasn’t performing as well as she had been. Her grades were bad, and her attendance worse. One of her professors said he had no idea who she was. She’d never been to his class.

Did her roommate call back? asked Lincoln.

No. Darcy sounded frustrated, almost angry. She was barely looking at her father, and it looked as if she’d been crying. Lincoln didn’t know if it was because of the case or if her upcoming chemo appointment was weighing on her.

I’d put good money on Marla being with Gary. That was her on-again off-again boyfriend. He was a well-known denizen of Pearl Street. One of a multitude of transient youth who earned a living begging or performing around the outdoor Pearl Street Mall. Gary’s picture was also on the board. He was scrawny, with a long face, wide chin, and squinting eyes.

No one’s seen him either. Darcy sat down at her desk, dejected. They both just disappeared.

Give them time. They’ll poke their heads out eventually.

Let’s hope so. Darcy took off her baseball cap and rubbed her freshly shaved head. The chemotherapy had already started to cause her hair to fall out, but she beat the cancer to the punch and shaved it herself.

Lincoln would never get used to seeing her bald.

There was a knock at the door. It was Deborah Kline, the baker whose son had been falsely accused of murdering his sister. Deborah’s arms were full, and she struggled to open the door. Lincoln hurried over to help, and then took the cake box from her as he said, Hi Deb. Thanks for this.

No problem. Anytime. Hi, Darcy. How’re you feeling?

Like I’ve got cancer. Whenever someone asked Darcy how she was doing, she answered the same way, with a smile as if it was meant as a joke. In truth, it was the best way she could think of to answer the question without lying, while also putting an end to the inquiry.

Deborah sensed Darcy’s pain and said, Give me a hug. She walked over to Darcy’s desk, arms outstretched, and the two embraced. Deb had become a familiar face at the office. She frequently brought care packages of baked goods, and doted on Darcy like a relative.

Lincoln flipped open the top of the cake box and inspected Deb’s handiwork. It was a chocolate fudge cake with vanilla buttercream frosting and chocolate ganache glaze that gleamed in the harsh office light. ‘Welcome Back Benny’ was piped on top in cursive.

It looks fantastic, said Lincoln as he took out his money clip. How much do I owe you?

Put that away, said Deb, waving off the payment. I don’t want your money.

Deb, you’ve got to let me pay for this.

I most certainly do not. She walked around Lincoln, avoiding the outstretched money as if it might harm her. Tell Bentley I said, ‘Hi.’ I’ve got to run.

Deb, please let me pay you for the cake.

She pushed the money away and said, I owe you a lot more than a cake. You brought my girl home. It’s because of you that we got to bury Betty. You’ve got a whole lifetime of free cakes to look forward to, Mr. Pierce.

After Deb left, Darcy inspected the cake and said, She does such good work. Darcy started to inch her finger towards the side of the cake.

Stop, said Lincoln as he slid the cake off the table and away from her before she had a chance to stick her finger into it. Ever since starting chemo, Darcy’s sweet tooth had become insatiable. She claimed that the therapy affected her taste buds, and that the only thing palatable to her was sugary food. She couldn’t tolerate spices anymore, and even the tiniest hint of pepper burned like a jalapeno. This is for Benny. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

I’m not going to be here tomorrow.

Lincoln was aware that she had a Cancer Resource meeting, but assumed she’d come to the office afterward to see Bentley on his first day back to work. Bentley was staying at his father’s house, and claimed to be ready to work already, but his doctor insisted that he take it easy. He was supposed to stay off his feet as much as