Slow Kill: Murder is Legal

By P.M. Prior

It began with a brutal double murder. Now, it's forensic psychologist Fredrick Jacobi's job to trace the killer's descent into madness. 

 

Lyle Bergen languishes in the psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane, completely out of touch with reality. His success on Wall Street belies his horrific crime. Why on earth would he kill his parents?

 

As Jacobi begins to dig, his assumptions fall away.  Layers of betrayal, neglect and indifference paint a picture that leads to another death...another killing. Only this one wasn't so quick. 

 

It was a Slow Kill.

 

 

This is a novella of approximately 18,392 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Homunculus
• Release date: Sep 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393313304

Book preview

Also by P.M. Prior

The House - novella

The Basement - short story

Homunculus

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SLOW KILL. Copyright © 2020 by P.M. Prior. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Homunculus

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Editors: Homunculus Editing Services

Cover Design: Theo Prior Design

Cover Art: Ryan Loughlin

CHAPTER ONE

Officer Kenny Felton

Officer Kenny Felton: 7 November 2:19PM

Calling unit 5027, the dispatch operator said amid the crackle of static.

Officer Kenny Felton leaned forward to listen. His partner, Steven Lowe, turned up the volume. Code Two disturbance at 5311 Angela Drive.

"5027 responding. En route," Lowe answered.

Felton put the patrol car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

Probably another false alarm, Lowe said, scarfing the rest of his sandwich. These rich bastards always love to ‘accidentally’ set off their alarms at lunchtime just to see how fast we get there.

Hope so. I gotta take a piss, Felton said, rounding the corner onto Angela.

Dude, that’s three times in the past hour. Are you pregnant?

It’s the new meds for my kidney stones, I tell you.

Better you than—Holy fucking shit, Lowe said, grabbing the radio and pointing to the front steps of 5311. 5027. Code Eight. Emergency medical assistance requested.

A young man sat on the porch. He was covered in blood. Far too much for it to be his own. As they watched, he slashed a blade across his face. First one cheek, then the other.

Felton’s stomach tightened and he threw the car into park.

As they got out of the vehicle, Lowe spoke into his shoulder mic. We have a Caucasian male, early to mid-twenties, wielding a knife. Self-inflicted wounds. Possible other injured parties inside dwelling.

Copy that, dispatch replied. Backup and ambulance on the way, Code three.

Felton drew his firearm. Lowe did the same.

Copy, Felton said. Approaching subject. Code four, for now.

Copy that. Be careful, guys.

Felton and Lowe moved up the driveway.

The man smiled at them, but his eyes were blank. He put the knife-edge to his forehead and opened another gash.

Son, Lowe said, I can see you’re in trouble. Why don’t you put the knife down so we can help you?

Too late.

And why’s that? Felton said. His fingers tightened on the grip of his pistol as the smell of blood hit his nostrils. The guy was crazy or high. No telling what he’d do next.

The man turned his eyes to Felton. Go look inside.

First, we need you to put that knife down.

Sirens blared in the distance.

No. I have to keep cutting, the man said, lowering the blade to his cheek.

Why? Lowe asked, edging closer.

The man’s face twitched. Because I look like them. He slashed deep then began to wail. The knife clattered to the ground.

Lowe pounced, knocking the kid backwards, flipping and cuffing him in seconds. There wasn’t a fight.

5027. Subject secured, Felton said into his mic. Proceeding into the dwelling.

Copy that. Backup will be there in less than a minute.

Copy.

Felton took the steps in one go. At the top, he peered through the open door. Blood spattered the walls inside. Barrington Police. Anyone in here? he called out.

No response.

Edging through, Felton made his way into the living room, where a woman was crumpled on the floor. He choked back bile. Even dental records wouldn’t be enough for a positive ID on this one. Her head and face were smashed. Brain matter oozed onto the carpet. Her body exhibited multiple stab wounds. Felton grabbed his radio. His hand shook. 5027. One female deceased. Apparent homicide.

Copy.

Felton followed a trail of bloody footprints into the kitchen. Atop the counter lay two halves of a bloodied golf club. A knife rack sat next to it. One slot was empty.

Felton, where are you? a familiar voice called from the doorway.

In here.

Fuck me, Officer Sanchez said as she sidled up alongside him, Glock gripped in both hands.

Thought we were just good friends.

What happened?

Nothing good. Who’s with you?

Freeman. Acevedo and Lawson are on the way.

You take the rest of this floor, Felton said. Send Freeman downstairs. I’ll get the second floor.

Roger that.

Felton headed upstairs. Photographs adorned the wall. The guy from the front porch was in a few of them, some as a child and others more recent. He came to a landing with three rooms to the left and one on the right. He kicked the right door open onto an empty master bedroom. A quick sweep showed nothing.

Back in the hallway, the first door on the right was slightly ajar.

Leading with his gun, Felton nudged it open with his foot and swung inside.

Slumped over a desk was a man, the back of his head crushed from multiple blows. Blood pooled on the desktop papers and dripped from the ceiling. A dented lamp lay on the floor.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Felton muttered before speaking into the radio. 5027. Deceased male. Another apparent homicide.

Copy.

The remaining rooms were clear.

Felton came back downstairs, where at least half a dozen more officers were milling around, trying to preserve