A Nasty Shade of Death

By David Benson

The unsolved murder of a reclusive Brooklyn woman whose badly beaten body was discovered in a windswept corner of Prospect Park.... A killer whose unique affliction calls up a blinding, crimson rage impossible to control....

Enter a Manhattan surgeon named Damon Fox, who walked away from medicine in his prime for the very different life of private detecting in South Florida, leaving a hospital's worth of baffled former colleagues in his wake. One of them is the dead woman's sister, who is unwilling to live with the open wound of losing her sibling in this way. And she believes that the methodical and analytic approach that made Fox great in his former role could make him the perfect person to unearth the killer that even experienced homicide detectives have failed to find.

Fox’s first breakthrough comes when he discovers that the killer has struck before, again and again over the years in cities across the United States. Knowing there is a string of similar cases allows him to enlist the aid of the detectives in several cities who have worked, and failed to solve, their own isolated cases. Among them is a beautiful Miami PD sleuth named Diana Suarez with who Fox’s relationship grows much deeper than merely working together to close a local cold case. But it is Fox’s own affliction, this one a potential danger only to himself, that enables him to develop the very unusual profile of the perpetrator. And Fox understands that the man's heinous acts will never end unless he is caught and that it will be up to Fox to figure out how to catch him.

From the Kirkus Award winning author of the Carina Quintana series of police procedurals now comes a hard-boiled whodunit featuring Damon Fox, a singular detective whose fledgling second career depends on unraveling a series of unexpected twists and turns, snaring a seemingly undetectable killer and bringing him to long-delayed justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Benson
• Release date: Oct 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733369206

David Benson

David Benson is a Senior Lecturer based in the Environment and Sustainability Institute (ESI) at the University of Exeter, Penryn, Cornwall. His research encompasses a range of issue areas at the interface between political and environmental sciences, most notably EU environmental and energy policy, comparative environmental governance and public participation in environmental decision-making

Book preview

Chapter One

Damon Fox shrugged and flashed a brief smile, his first of the evening.

Come on, he said, "it’s unusual but it’s not that strange."

Really? the woman seat next to him said. Can you name anyone else, ever, who’s done anything like it?

There’s a cancer surgeon up in Tampa, Fox told her, who became a jet charter company pilot when he retired from medicine a couple of years ago.

Just like that?

Well, he had owned his own airplane and flown privately for years, Fox said, but it took more training and he had to work his way up the ladder a bit before he could fly passengers for money.

The woman, who was a physician at the hospital where Fox had formerly worked, whose name was Claire Wagner, smiled.

Did he retire when he was 50? she asked.

Late 60s or 70 as I recall, Fox replied.

So what you’re telling me is that basically all he did was segue from one type of flying to another after his surgical career ran its normal course, Wagner said. As far as I know you never did any sleuthing on the side while you were a surgeon. In fact, I don’t think you even joined us at that murder mystery dinner theatre thing a few years ago.

Fox laughed.

In any case, you could say that all I did was segue from one to another way of getting inside someone’s head, he said. If you think about it that way the two jobs aren’t really that unrelated.

They were seated at the crowded lobby bar at the Fontainebleau hotel in Miami Beach on a Sunday night in early March and Wagner smiled again and slowly shook her head, then took a sip of her drink and turned to gaze straight at him.

I’d be more inclined to accept that really tenuous comparison, she said, if we were talking about practicing psychology instead of private detecting.

Fox shrugged.

Half or more of what I do involves psychology, he said.

I’m not so sure about that, but if you say so, she said. On the other hand, I am pretty sure that this is the only time I’ve ever heard a neurosurgeon—

Former neurosurgeon, Fox said, picking up his glass.

"Fine, former neurosurgeon, she went on. And I’m not just pretty sure, I’m absolutely certain that this is the only time I’ve ever heard a current, or former, neurosurgeon refer to what he or she does, or did, to earn an obscene salary, as a job."

Have you heard the old saying, Fox asked, where you stand depends on where you sit? Wagner nodded. Well, he continued, most of the kids I grew up with wanted to be airline pilots, race car drivers or astronauts. They thought that those weren’t jobs, like their fathers or mothers had, they were a license to do something cool all the time and get paid for it. But to an airline pilot, race car driver or astronaut, doing what they do is their job.

Even though they probably enjoy it God knows how many times more than, say, an accountant? Wagner asked.

What makes you think accountants aren’t happy doing what they do? was his reply. The fact is they have a lower suicide rate than doctors, who pretty much everyone thinks are the luckiest people alive, or used to be anyway. And most accountants don’t make as much money as most doctors and yet doctors still zap themselves more.

Be that as it may, Wagner said, the staff at the hospital is more or less equally divided between the people who wonder why on earth anybody would walk away from what you had at 50 years old and the people who are insanely jealous that you were able to walk away from what you had at 50 years old. Oh, and the first group is dying to know the reason you left. Actually, the second group would probably like to know, too. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of steady hands, she added, glancing at the motionless glass held in his right hand.

No, it wasn’t, he agreed.

Plus, you weren’t being sued and no one had made any complaints about you or your work, Wagner went on.

No, Fox said, and I was very good at what I did.

Well, whatever the reason, Wagner said, rumors abound.

Fox let out a breath, took the final swallow of his drink and signaled the bartender for another before responding.

As for those who are apparently still wondering why I walked away, he said, it’s been about three years since I left. You’d think they’d have found something better to wonder about by now. But I can assure you that whatever the rumors might be, none of them are true.

How can you be so sure? Wagner asked.

Let’s just say my reason for leaving was…arcane, Fox replied.

Arcane? Wagner said.

Fox let out a breath.

Fine, he said, "it’s literally true, but if that doesn’t work for you let’s just say it’s complicated and leave it at that."

Wagner raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, fished her iPhone out of her handbag and started tapping its keys.

I wanted to make sure I got this right, she said, looking up at Fox. Arcane means, she went on, glancing down at the phone, "understood by few or mysterious or secret. So, which is it?"

Fox flashed a smile but it was gone in an instant.

Understood by few, he said. Of course, as to my former colleagues at least, the reason for my departure has also appeared to be a bit of a mystery. And since I don’t plan to reveal the actual reason and no one’s stumbled across it, it looks like it will also continue to be mysterious or secret.

"So you weren’t kidding when you said it was arcane," Wagner said.

It’s not something I kid about, Fox said as the bartender put a fresh drink down in front of him. He picked up the glass and held it out in a toast. In any case, he went on, to everyone who’s happy in his or her job."

They each took a sip of their drinks and a moment passed before either said anything further.

I take it that includes you, Wagner said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence.

It does, Fox replied. And as far as the jealous ones go, they could do it, too, if they really wanted to, and if they haven’t put themselves in some kind of financial bind. And if, and here’s the real issue, they had something else they really wanted to do.

Most doctors can’t imagine that there is something else they’d rather be doing, she said, except maybe playing more golf.

Fox put his glass down on the bar and began to absently circle its rim with a forefinger.

Which would get old as soon as October arrived in New York, he said. "Here in Florida I’d still give it no more than four or five months, six at the most. The sad fact that is most doctors think of themselves as doctors, full stop, end of story. It’s their identity, dare I say their ego, and they couldn’t imagine life as something else."

I think you may be right about that, Wagner, who was a dozen years Fox’s junior, said. So you’re happy being a private investigator?

Happier than I was being a neurosurgeon, at least for the last few years I practiced, Fox replied.

There was another pause before Wagner asked whether he was as good at being a private investigator as he had been as a neurosurgeon and Fox smiled.

In eighteen years of private practice, he said, "I performed more or less two thousand operations, not all of them on peoples’ heads, by the way, so my earlier analogy about getting inside them wasn’t entirely accurate. But the majority of them were brain procedures where I did get inside peoples’ heads and the majority of those were difficult cases. Just under 60 of my patients died, none on the table, all but two during especially difficult procedures where the brain trauma was severe or there was an aneurism rupture or malignant tumor."

You kept score? she asked.

Fox turned to face her.

Don’t you? he asked.

Ophthalmologists don’t lose many patients, she replied.

Fox smiled.

Ah, of course, he said. Yes, I kept score. And losing patients isn’t what encouraged me to leave, by the way. On the other hand, so far I haven’t lost any clients, at least not because they died. So, Dr. Wagner—

Please call me Claire, she said.

Okay, Claire, Fox went on, since we were never particularly close when I was up at NYU Hospital I doubt you interrupted your hard earned vacation in Marco Island and drove two hours to Miami Beach so we could discuss my career choices. Not that I haven’t enjoyed talking about it with you.

Wagner shifted on her barstool and smoothed her hair, then looked down before turning her attention back to Fox.

My baby sister, Wagner began, she was only two years younger than me but that’s how I always thought of her. Anyway, she was…murdered…a little over a year ago, actually nearly 17 months now, and the case has recently gone cold.

I’m very sorry, he said.

She looked away and wrapped both hands around her glass before turning back to face him.

The police in New York have pretty much given up, she went on. I’d like you to try to find her killer.

Fox stared at her for a moment.

So this is a job interview, he said.

The pink in her cheeks deepened slightly and she inched a fingertip into her nearly empty glass and swirled the ice around.

Of sorts, I suppose, she said. "I had already decided to hire you. The job, as you put it, was already yours unless--"

Unless you didn’t like what you saw, or heard, when we talked? he asked.

That possibility never really occurred to me, Wagner said. The job was yours if you were willing to take it. I’d made my mind up before I left New York.

I see, he said, gazing back at her.

Are you refusing it? she asked, licking bourbon from her finger.

Fox let out a breath.

Don’t you want to know how much experience I have working on cases like that? he asked.

Given what you used to do for a living and what I know about the approach you took with each of your patients and the amount of focus you brought to bear, she replied, something I’ve tried to emulate ever since I was assigned to your service as a resident, by the way—

So you wanted to emulate an over-analytical nerd? he asked, smiling.

First of all, you’ve always been too good looking and too well dressed to be a nerd, she told him, and second of all, in certain lines of work, at least, there’s no such thing as being overly analytical. So unless you’ve completely changed your methodology…

Fox put his hands up in mock surrender.

Okay, but don’t you at least want to know how much I charge? he asked.

Wagner smiled.

Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a lot less than you used to charge, she replied.

Ah, but my services are no longer covered under by health insurance, Fox said.

Tell you what, Wagner said, finishing the little bit left in her glass. If you promise to spend full time on my sister’s case, I won’t ask for a friends and family discount, or your Medicare reimbursement rate.

Fox laughed.

Another thing that didn’t drive me out of my practice but that I don’t miss, he said. Look, I’m in the middle of three other cases at the moment. Only one of them is what I’d call major and even that one isn’t especially time consuming, at least not on an hour-by-hour basis. The other two of them should be wrapped up within a week or so. So how’s this? For the next few days I’ll spend all my in between time, which should be quite a bit of time, on your sister’s murder. If I think there’s a realistic opportunity for me to resolve it, I’ll take the case. And I won’t take on anything new, at least not anything that’s going to be time consuming, until I do resolve it. How does that sound?

Reasonable, Wagner replied, but how about some kind of special rate during the next few days, while you’re deciding.

How’s this, he said smiling, you pay for the drinks.

Sold, Wagner said, signaling the bartender for their check.

Fox eased off his barstool and stretched.

I don’t suppose you have a file I could take a look at, he said.

Chapter Two

A lengthy email from Claire Wagner containing several attachments reached Fox while he was still in the Uber on the short drive home to his condo in the South Pointe neighborhood of Miami Beach. He ignored it until he got upstairs, washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face and changed into his home alone uniform of basketball shorts and a tee shirt. He switched on the desk light in the bedroom he used as an office and turned on his laptop, then went to the kitchen to pour an inch of Michter’s rye into a lowball glass. He carried the drink and an open bag of pretzels back to his office, settled into his desk chair and steadied himself for the unpleasant task that awaited him.

The murder of Claire Wagner’s sister had taken place in October of 2018 in Brooklyn and turned out to have been a particularly brutal killing. By its nature it seemed personal, although the Brooklyn detectives who worked the case had unmasked no comrades, confreres or confidants among Dania Wagner’s varied alliances that lacked an alibi or possessed a motive.

Unusual name, Dania, Fox said, and took a sip of rye. There just happens to be a town up the road from here with that name.

He made a note to ask Claire Wagner about it later before turning back to the file.

Dania had first been beaten to what one of the detectives described as an inch of her life and another, less artfully, as to a pulp, and what the Kings County Medical Examiner termed senseless. Judged by the extent of crushing injuries to the more vulnerable portions of her face and the bruising around the more robust regions to which the blows had been delivered, apparently with gloved fists, based on the marks left on her body some time had passed between the beating and the ligature strangulation that had eventually ended Dania’s life. As noted by the detectives this suggested that the attack might have taken place either indoors in a private residence or office, or someplace secluded, where the attacker could be certain of remaining undisturbed for some period of time. Since there had turned out to be no blood and no sign of a struggle in the victim’s apartment, the site of the attack may well have been the secluded and heavily wooded corner of the borough’s 500 acre Prospect Park, in which her body was discovered, or some similar place nearby.

According to the police report, there was no blood on the ground near where the body was found or in the surrounding vegetation, which would ordinarily suggest that the beating occurred elsewhere. But surprisingly little of the victim’s blood had been spilled, although the post mortem revealed that a good deal of blood had been inhaled or ingested by the victim. Ultimately the police had been unable to determine for certain whether the attack had taken place elsewhere after which Dania had been transported to the spot where she had been discovered or whether it had occurred there.

Dania had weighed about 110 pounds so a killer having the strength this one apparently had would have been undaunted by the need to carry her to the spot where she was found, thereby avoiding the telltale signs of, and possible trace evidence of, dragging. And there had been nothing to suggest that a vehicle might have entered the scene and the nearest roadways had given up no clues. Adding to the uncertainty as to the site or sites at which the beating and strangulation had taken place, as well as delaying the discovery of the body by what the ME estimated had been as much as a day, was a scene fairly inundated with fallen and falling October leaves, where a brisk, swirling wind had blown the mostly maple foliage into calf-high piles.

Fox minimized the file containing the police report and went back to the medical examiner’s report. He had earlier skipped over the section of the ME’s report that addressed sexual assault but re-opened that file and braced himself for what was certain to be more unpleasantness. But he was pleasantly surprised for the first time since opening the file. Whatever the reason, there had been no sexual assault or rape.

The police report mentioned that neither Dania’s wrists nor ankles had been bound and the ME confirmed the lack of telltale bruising, although Fox had immediately gleaned that much from several of the crime scene photos. It left unexplained why there were no signs that Dania had attempted to fight back. It had led the cops, and now led Fox, to think that she might well have known her attacker or, at the very least, had not been wary of him. If so, it was possible that the first of the blows she sustained had rendered her unable to fight back in any way, especially if that blow had caused the crushing injury to her nose. That explanation, in turn, led back to the unwelcome conclusion that Dania’s attack was a case of massive overkill, with continuing blows landing on a helpless and already incapacitated victim. In any case, she had apparently been able at some point to scratch her attacker since the ME had been discovered small amounts of trace evidence in the form of skin cells under two of her fingernails. But subsequent searches of several DNA databases had failed to yield a match. And there had been no suspects to compare the DNA with.

Viewing the crime scene photos had triggered some unpleasant physical reactions in Fox but a transcript of the ME’s autopsy notes included one passage that Fox found particularly hard to take.

Assuming the likely conclusion that the beating had at some point rendered the deceased unconscious, the ferocity of the continuing onslaught may have been sufficient at some later stage to rouse her to semi-consciousness, although the extent of the injuries she sustained in the beating would have been sufficient to have prevented her from crying out.

As he read, a blunt pain and a tightening began to form in his gut and as it grew worse he lay down on the carpeted floor, on his back. It was fifteen minutes before the pain and tightness dissipated.

I think that will be quite enough for tonight, he said as he cleared his throat and brought himself slowly to his feet.

Early on Monday morning, after he showered and dressed in his usual ensemble