Blood Children

By William Vitka

NYPD Detective Jamie Murrow has a lot of problems. The biggest one? He's losing his mind. If that wasn't enough, it's happening right in the middle of his strangest case.

Families are being murdered. Children are being brainwashed and bizarre stuffed animals are being left at the scene.

Unlikely connections lead Jamie to the sick underbelly of a shuttered mental institution and to the feet of an ancient cult—one that wants to appease its alien gods with the blood of New York's children.

Detective Murrow finds himself in a situation where what's real is anyone's guess, and he has no idea who, if anyone, he can save . . . including himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Jan 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781682612736

William Vitka

William Vitka is a journalist and writer and native New Yorker/Pennsylvanian. He's written for The New York Post, CBS News, Stuff Magazine, GameSpy, and On Spec Magazine to name a few. He is currently a writer for Permuted Press and Post Hill Press. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/VitkaWrites Twitter handle: Vitka Contact: [e-mail]

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CONTENTS

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

Epilogue

1.

From the desk of Detective Jamie Murrow

Badge number: Bite My Bag

Address: Fuck You, New York

My problems will make you shit teeth.

Yeah, you got problems too. I know, I know. Everyone has problems. In New York, you can’t go five feet without someone who wants to share their problems or, hey, hustle you depending on how convincing those problems might be. Same kind of thing happens across America. And there’re good reasons: We’re all broke. Can’t find jobs. Can’t rely on politicians or bureaucrats to do anything to help anyone but themselves.

But, I’m telling you, my problems will make you shit teeth. Like you’ve been knocked around the ring by a living refrigerator with legs. Had your face smashed in.

First one—just throwing this out there, no real order—is I like the gore and chaos of a good, weird murder. Reason that’s an issue is I’m supposed to be one of the good guys. A homicide detective. Except I’m not in this to help people. I’m in this to see what monstrous, insane violence we do to one another. I enjoy it and I have no problem admitting that.

Let me tell you, I am a shitty cop. Decent detective. Shitty cop. And my psychiatric evaluations are just... Well, I think they’re hilarious. I’m gonna put it that way.

Second problem, again, no order, is: I’m convinced now that an ancient and malignant alien force wants the world. Our world. Earth. In case that wasn’t clear. A widespread, dark cult appears to be helping. It ain’t beyond the veil, or anything supernatural. It’s something kept in check by physics and math—shit most folks way-back-when probably considered magic. All those formulae... It’s there on the other side of a thin wall between our reality and...something else. Dimensional barriers. Existences that’re next to one another.

It, or they, or whoever or whatever the fuck, they’re watching us all the time. Just waiting and plotting and influencing and... And I’m getting ahead of myself. The good news is that since I’m already kind of unhinged mentally, they haven’t driven me nuts yet.

I...wasn’t a good man. I’d never claim to be. I can’t ever claim to be. I’m simply trying.

So let me take you back and explain.

* * *

Chunks of flesh and skin wait in a cold dark house on a cold dark Wednesday morning before the sun’s had a chance to fully rise.

The home with the fresh horror is in the Bronx. A two-story, white-brick deal on Virgil Place, corner of Olmstead. The houses here have yards, because they’re not quite in the projects—they’re just next to them. But, hey, at least there’re those yards and those high fences to help block the view of tenements nearby that stand like silent sentinels of economic decay and disparity.

Fun.

A mother and father lay on a queen-size with floral sheets in the master bedroom on the second floor. Mr. Juan and Penelope Alvarez. Both on their backs. Eyelids gone. Lips removed. Teeth caught in an eternal smile. Their torsos are in worse shape. Slashed all to hell. Innards hung up around the otherwise-cheery room. Loops of intestine strung along bedposts. Horrid party favors. The pale blue walls are red in huge splotches.

It’s a beautiful kind of madness.

Granted, this’s just what I can see from the doorway. The end of this family. That’s all, folks. I lean against the frame. Can’t go in till the Crime Scene Unit detectives, Steve Carter and Joy Nguyen, are done collecting evidence and taking photos.

Both of them are in white coveralls for that chic astronaut look.

Nguyen sets up a Panoscan. Looks at me. Won’t be long, Jamie.

The Panoscan will take a nice, big, high-resolution panoramic of the whole scene, then the photo will be uploaded to the NYPD database so me and any other detectives can check it out.

Which I rarely do.

I’ve already got a mental blueprint of the room in my head. I nod to her. Yep, I know. I want to get in there and look at the bodies. Smell them. Sniff sniff. See the wounds for myself.

But, hey, rules are rules. They don’t make exceptions for mild sociopaths like me.

I dig under my fingernails while I watch. Make them click.

Carter pokes his head up. Could you quit staring? Shit’s creepier than these sliced-up people. He arches his eyebrows. "Least I know they’re dead and they ain’t Sherlock-ing me."

I pinch my thumb and forefingers together. Turn away.

Sherlock-ing.

He’s not wrong about that. I smelled them both chewing the same Wrigley’s spearmint gum when I got here. Presumably to cover the garlic on both their breath. A unique stink that sits at the back of the tongue. That shit suggests a late Italian dinner, but probably leftovers, given the weird hours involved with the job. Garlic and broccoli penne, maybe, which stays pretty well in Tupperware. Plus, Carter’s not wearing his wedding ring—no bump under those tight gloves—so...I’d guess they’re fuckin each other.

I don’t turn back to the room. How’s the wife, Carter?

There’s a pause. Carter and Nguyen eyeing one another, I figure.

I hear Nguyen: You have an off switch, Detective Murrow? She says it the same way an angry mother might when she’s not angry, just disappointed.

I smile to myself. Walk down the hall toward the stairs on the second floor. Tuck a hand into the front pocket of my grey Wrangler slacks.

Most of my clothes are Wrangler. Their stuff is simple and it lasts. Fuck fashion. That one industry causes more damage to developing minds than the military-industrial complex. There are two exceptions to my Wrangler rule: army-surplus Corcoran zipper boots and a long, tough pea coat. Both, again, because they’re simple and they last.

I don’t wear ties. I don’t wanna get hanged by one in a scuffle.

I’ve seen it happen.

I was working with another detective, interviewing some assholes at Rikers Island—New York’s most desperate and insane prison. The scumsuckers who inhabit that place aren’t all bad. Neither are the prisoners. But the bad ones are bad. Bad bad. All the bads.

We were trying to deal with a heroin boom in the city. Trace the flow. Some dipshit junkie bartender turned state’s evidence. Kieron Palmer was his name, I think. He fingered a Russian loon named Borovinsky as the source. Idea for our visit was to interrogate two of Borovinsky’s associates. Build up the pieces. Connect the dots. I’d take one and my pal, Ian Kong, would deal with the other.

Didn’t work out so well.

We walked into a trap. Borovinsky owned the guards in charge. The convicts. Owned, even, a goddamn police captain named Schaffer—who I later learned set all this up. He’s dead now, which is some consolation.

Fucker.

Kong and I got locked inside our separate interrogation rooms. Fine. Except the goons we were supposed to grill had been replaced by hardcore Rikers psychopaths. Real shitlords. Five per room. I survived because I’m a dirty nutbag myself. Got no qualms dumping rounds from my service pistol into some unarmed asshole’s face if I think they’re going to bend my ass around my head and give me a new pair of shoulders. See also: using chair legs and table legs to beat them to death. Stabbing them murderously with their own shivs.

Enjoying it.

Kong wasn’t wired the same way. Or maybe his guys were harder. Worse than mine.

I got out of my room when one of the guards opened the door once the commotion died down. Must have thought the job was done. That I was dead.

I stabbed him in the brain with an icepick one of the Rikers dropped. Stole his keys. His baton. I didn’t want to touch the gun—who knew how many crimes it was connected to?

When I got to Kong’s interrogation room, the Rikers inside were hooting. Hollering. Animals. They pounded on the door. When it opened, and I was standing there, they looked surprised. Of course. I started to giggle. Couldn’t help it. I giggled at their dumb animal faces. I giggled when I locked the door behind me.

I giggled when I beat their faces in with the baton. Giggled when I saw Kong’s body hanging by his tie from the ceiling. Giggled when I held the last Rikers down and slid the baton into his throat and made him choke on it. All blood and broken teeth like a gory water fountain.

Well, no. I wasn’t giggling then. I was cackling.

You didn’t read it in the papers because someone even higher up than the NYPD was on Borovinsky’s payroll. A politician.

Shocker there.

So we had ourselves a nice little cover-up. I kept my mouth shut since I didn’t particularly care—I have (or had) a nice moral...detachment to just about everything. Sociopathy has its perks—and the NYPD brass more or less said I’d be allowed to do what I want as long as I stayed quiet.

Which is why I get away with being a filthy asshole. And also not having a partner. They give me the grisly cases—which are the ones I’m interested in. And I float from precinct to precinct as needed. Person I report to, who farms me out, is Assistant Chief Angela Keating. Seems to be a decent human being, which puts us at odds most of the time.

A young black cop stops at the top of the stairs. Nameplate reads WILLIAMS. Can’t be older than twenty-three. A rookie with the 43rd Precinct. He points to me. Detective Murrow? Faint Brooklyn accent. His back is ramrod straight, but he strikes me as too young to be ex-military and a police academy graduate. Probably has family in the armed services, someone to tell him to sit straight all the time. The nails on his fingers are bitten way down. I’d say it’s a nervous reaction to the brutality of the murders, except the cuticles are inflamed and have obviously been damaged over time which suggests it’s a persistent tick.

I nod to him. Yeah. Were you first on the scene?

He nods back. Ernie Williams. Yessir.

Sir? Detectives don’t outrank anybody. Forget that shit you see on TV.

I offer Williams a smirk. Detective is a discretionary rank. You could tell me to go fuck myself and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it. Still, I’d rather you didn’t. What did dispatch tell you?

He relaxes a little. The girl. Keeps his eyes away from the scene in the bedroom. That nightmare of guts. Jasmine Alvarez. Eight. Called 911 at 3:34 a.m. and told em her parents were dead. Me and Sarno, Alessia Sarno, my partner, we were nearby on Castle Hill Avenue, checking some dipshit kids in front of the Sam Deli. We called in to the 43rd. Drove up. He raises his eyebrows. "She was sittin on the steps waiting for us. She waved. Happy. Had a stuffed dinosaur in her lap. No blood on her except her hands. The dinosaur was soaked red, though. I think it used to be green. She made a hell of a racket when CSU took it for evidence."

I purse my lips. Okay. Little girl. Maybe can’t wrap her head around what’s happened to her parents. She’s glad to see the cops, but the dino is her security blanket. I pinch my fingers together again. What’d you do?

Sarno radioed EMS. We secured the area. She kept watch out front with the girl. I checked the back. No sign of anyone. I went, room by room, cleared the house. There was nothing to indicate a break-in, no forced entry. When I got to the parents’ room, I backed off till forensics got here.

I’ve got no idea why beat cops are always made to look like stupid assholes in shows and movies. Kid and his partner did well. I look around at the lights in the upstairs hallway. Were these on when you got here?

Nah. House was dark. There was a stove light on in the kitchen, a night light in the girl’s room and a night light in the bathroom. That’s it.

You talk to the neighbors?

They didn’t hear anything. And there’s no sign of anybody other than the girl.

I nod again. Fucked, ain’t it?

Double-fucked.

Was it your dad or your granddad who served in the military?

Williams arches his eyebrows. Then snorts. Granddad Williams spent a tour in Korea.

Guess he was the one to tell you to keep your back straight.

Williams grins. Every damn day. Mostly over casserole. He furrows his brow at the memory. I’ll give you a shout when EMS is done with the girl.

Yeah, please do.

There’s a quick little prick in the small of my back. I turn. And it’s definitely a quick, little prick.

Carter gives me a tired stare. Scene’s yours until we gotta move the bodies.

I move into the parents’ bedroom without a word. Mindful of the blood.

Carter and Nguyen watch from the doorframe.

Now I’m under their combined glare.

Carter barks: Remember, don’t touch those bodies. Doc doesn’t like it when you play with her dead people.

I flap my hand at him. He’s talking about Dr. Sandra Kowalski, the Medical Examiner. I know the rules, Carter. NYPD owns the crime scene, ME owns the bodies.

Which is true as far as the law is concerned.

I slip on latex gloves. Wrap a surgical mask around my face—don’t wanna leave any more trace DNA around than necessary. I wiggle my fingers around in the air.

Aside from the wholesale slaughter, the room is cheerful. There are framed photos of the Alvarez family hung up. A couple paintings. Not professional. Homemade. The mirror on top of the dresser is packed with drawings that’re all signed Jasmine.

It would be hard to argue that these people didn’t get along, at least at first blush. A wad of petty cash next to one of the lamps also argues against this being a robbery that got messy.

The damage done to mom and dad is...insane. But, it’s also surgical. I lean over the mother and father. Both in their early thirties. Both would be attractive if they still had lips or eyelids. Nothing hints at sex being a factor. But the stomachs, shit, whoever or whatever went to town on these people tore through the clothing and shredded their lower torsos.

The manic attack left them both looking like empty, fleshy suitcases. Which itself is in stark contrast to the eyelids and the lips being so carefully removed.

I bite my own lip. Glance upward.

There’s blood on the ceiling, too. The splatter pattern suggests a thick spray.

It’s fascinating. To me, anyway.

Nifty.

Parents. Done at the same time, given the lack of blood anywhere else. They’re attacked at the same time by some brutal force. Then the innards become decorations...then someone changes pace and indulges in psycho surgery on their faces.

Our witness and possible suspect is a girl, age eight.

So strange. My heart is all aflutter.

I point to Carter. Am I seeing all the wounds? Doesn’t really make sense. Their positions, I mean. I don’t wanna touch your precious bodies, but not even fifteen percent of Americans sleep on their backs. If these two were caught by surprise, which they were, they wouldn’t be like this.

He steps around me. Was wondering when you were gonna start asking questions. Check this out. He pushes the mother over a little. The flaps of her open torso slap together.

There are three thin puncture wounds in her side. Matched on her other side by three exit wounds.

Carter’s got a smug kind of look on his face. "Three objects went up through mom and out the other side.