Kill Dash Nine: Joshua Jones Mystery, #2

By Johnny Batch

Someone is killing the members of Joshua's gaming clan. The primary suspect is the newest member of the group, a beautiful game designer named Jo. There's just one problem, Joshua has fallen for her. The race is on to find out which member of the clan is the serial killer before Joshua becomes the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GB Press
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393700609

Book preview

Chapter 0

Teddy had taken the same route home through Freak Alley for months. There was nothing unusual about the night; it was a typically warm, early summer evening in the City of Trees. His friend Melina had painted her masterpiece on the alley walls and he loved to stare at it as he passed by to where he parked his car. Despite some of the ghoulish apparitions adorning the backs of buildings in the alley, he never felt unsafe during his walk. This was Boise after all, one of the safest capital cities in the country.

But this night was different from all the others. For one thing, he was nearly drunk which was unusual for him because he rarely drank on gaming nights. Pete had made a new lager and Teddy had tilted back one too many of them as the night wore on. It had affected his gameplay towards the end, resulting in him getting killed by a horde of raging, four armed bugs. Those damn bugs swarmed like ants and he didn’t have a chance after falling down. None of his fellow clan members had been able to reach him before he was overwhelmed.

Dizzy from the beer and feeling jaded by the game, he left Mashers and headed out into the night for his usual homeward trek through the heart of the city. Teddy was a big man and he was nowhere near being too drunk to drive, at least that's what he convinced himself. The others knew when he’d had too much to drink and they didn’t even try to stop him from leaving.

Maybe that beer was more toxic than Teddy had thought. He found his feet getting heavier and heavier as he stomped through the puddles in the alley. He stopped before Melina’s painting and waited patiently for it to stop moving as if it were animated. Could you animate a wall painting, he wondered. A song echoed down the alley, booming from a portable speaker. It was Roy Orbison's In Dreams. Teddy watched the colorful clowns dance around for a while and then realized he really was more shit-faced than he thought. He felt as if he were tripping on more than just beer.

Teddy lingered in the alley to check out more of the paintings to see how they looked in motion. His large frame lumbered along a few more steps before something tripped him and he fell flat on his belly. The pavement smacked his chin as his face bounced off of it. He felt something sharp enter his neck and realized too late that there was someone on top of him. The alcohol delayed his senses just long enough to make him wonder where all the blood was coming from. He realized that he could taste it now with his mouth pressed against the ground. More sharp stings around his waist convinced him he was under attack. Trying to roll himself over, he was kicked in the head and nearly passed out.

The last thing he heard was wet footsteps running down the alley. His vision faded like one of those old black and white movies that Tripp was always making him watch.

Chapter 1

Detective Bill Plait was well into REM sleep when his cell phone went off on the nightstand beside the bed. First it vibrated on the wooden surface, then it started buzzing, and finally, before he could reach for it, it started ringing with the sound of an old-fashioned rotary phone. His arm slapped at the clock radio for a moment until he realized it was not the alarm but the department phone. Bringing the smartphone to his ear he groggily answered, Plait.

The dispatcher ran through a short list of details that ended with an address. Plait sat up and looked back over at the sleeping form of his wife. Francine didn’t appear to be awake. She was a pretty deep sleeper and rarely stirred when his phone went off at all hours of the night. He got up and padded into the bathroom, closing the door before clicking on the light. Asking for the address again, he acknowledged the call and hung up. It was two AM in the morning on a Saturday. Plait relieved himself and then brushed his hair and teeth before throwing on Friday’s pants and shirt. He didn’t want to wake his wife by opening drawers and digging in his closet to find clean clothes.

After grabbing his badge and pistol he made his way through a dark home to the front door and unlocked it to leave. What he wanted most was a hot coffee but Starbucks wasn’t serving at this time of night. He unlocked his department sedan, sat down behind the wheel and sighed. Groggily, he remembered bringing home a thermos of coffee on Friday night and leaving it in the car. He patted the passenger seat until he found the thermos and opened it up. There were a few lukewarm swallows left and he polished it off. His phone buzzed with a text message and he brought the screen up to his face. It was Francine, telling him to be safe out there and that she loved him. He smiled and typed out a reply that he loved her back before he started the car and headed into town.

/*—————*/

Freak Alley was located in downtown Boise and had undergone a creative awakening of late with local artists decorating the back sides of area businesses with colorful paintings. Walking tours now regularly included the alley to show off the urban hipness. Plait could not recall ever having a murder there before, so that was new.

There were two squad cars parked at angles to block through traffic into the alley. Blue lights flashed off the freakish paintings adding to the eerie feeling Plait got as he stepped out of his car and gave his name and Ada County Agency number to the entrance control officer. The beat cop’s name was Davis and Plait only dimly recalled seeing him before. He pointed to an area near a dumpster and Plait walked over to the scene.

As the crime scene technician was snapping off images with his digital camera, Plait focused on the large male, dressed as if he were in his twenties laying face down in a puddle of blood. He waited for the photographer to step aside and then moved in to examine the body while pulling on plastic gloves.

Nice night for a stabbing, eh Detective? the photographer said with a degree of irony that all first responders seemed to wear like a badge of honor.

I’d rather be asleep, Plait responded.

The Photographer started putting his gear into a shoulder bag. I got what I need, he’s all yours, Plait.

Plait nodded and moved in to remove the victim’s wallet. It was a leather one not unlike his own. Driver’s license prominently displayed in the plastic window, about sixteen dollars in bills and a few miscellaneous receipts folded in with the cash. The usual assortment of credit cards and insurance cards. He found a set of keys in the kid’s front right jeans pocket.

His name was Theodore J. Buttle, born in 1995 and he lived on the north side of town. Plait dropped the wallet into an evidence bag held by another officer, then went about examining what the kid wore. Typical for men his age, he wore an old concert t-shirt and faded blue jeans with black Converse All Stars. He was not a small man. Plait guesstimated he was close to three hundred pounds and probably stood over six foot five. Bearded and dark brown hair.

Plait took out his mini flashlight and shined it on the dead man’s face. His eyes were still open and looked to be dark brown in color, but that was difficult to tell on a body. What a waste. He looked like he had probably been a nice kid. Nothing about his dress set off any warning signs for gangs, nothing on his body pointed to a harsh life of drug use. The fact that he still had his wallet indicated it could have been a random murder or perhaps he just witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe.

Hey Sarge, any signs of a robbery in this alley or nearby?

The ranking beat cop shook her head. I saw the body on a regular patrol of the area. Flashed my light down the alley and called it in.

Plait nodded. Hey, you have any coffee?

She grinned at him and headed back to her car to get a thermos. Plait forgot to look at her name tag and the whole time she was gone he tried to think what her damn name was. He really needed some caffeine. His phone went off, startling him.

Plait,

I’m almost there, said the voice of Robert Simms, the County Coroner. Plait raised an eyebrow. The Country Coroner himself was coming, not the Deputy as was pretty much de rigueur for night shift. Plait smiled to himself and wondered what he did to be so honored.

Looks like a stabbing. No weapon though and he didn’t put up much of a fight.

Okay, I’m there in five.

The phone hung up and Plait slid it into his pants pocket as the sergeant returned with a Styrofoam cup and poured him some hot coffee. He looked at her name tag. McReed. Shit, how do I forget an Irish name on a redhead?

Thanks, McReed. You’re a lifesaver.

She looked down at the dead man on the street. Wish I’d been by a few minutes sooner, maybe I could have stopped this.

Plait shook his head. Don’t think about it too much, we do what we can when we can, but we can’t save everyone.

She nodded while putting the lid on her thermos.

Plait worked on his coffee while examining the kid’s wallet closer. He found the insurance card and had Sergeant McReed search area lots for a 1992 gray Ford Taurus. She was relieved to have something else to do. As her squad car pulled away, Simms’ van took her place in the alley.

Simms was a thin man with a bushy, graying mustache on his gaunt face. He went through his routine of ensuring the kid was dead and then started counting entry wounds.

Stabbed nine times. That’s pretty particular.

Why do you say that?

The first cut looks like it was across his jugular. That alone would have killed him. All the other wounds were just for effect or spite. None of them appears to be to a vital area. I’ll know more when I get him back to the lab.

Plait considered the new information as he finished his coffee. Plait let Simms take care of the victim as he went back to his car. The radio sputtered with a call from Sergeant McReed,

Three Charles sixty, Sergeant McReed said over the radio.

One Kay ten, did you find it?

Yes, sir. Right over here to your left.

Plait looked out his side window across the street to a lot near the Ten Barrel Brewery building. He waved and started his car to head over.

The kid’s Ford had sun faded paint, worn tires and the upholstery was ripped in places from heavy use. There were lots of fast food wrappers and bags on the floor of the passenger seat, but nothing of obvious value was visible from outside.

Okay, call it in and have it towed back to the station. Let’s run it and see what we get.

Sergeant McReed nodded and keyed the mic of her radio from where it was clipped to her chest on her vest as they headed back to her cruiser to run the plates. Computers in squad cars always seemed to impress Plait more than they should. A child of the late seventies, he well remembered his dad’s squad car had nothing but a two-way radio inside. Cell phones hadn’t even been a pipe dream and his dad had a cigarette tray full of quarters for making calls.

The Vehicle Query came up empty; no warrants, no tickets, and no parking violations. The kid was pretty damn clean. Plait took out a notepad and a pencil and wrote down the address where mister Buttle lived. This seemed to amuse the sergeant. She held up her iPad and shook it at him with a smile.

When are you going to enter the 21st Century, sir?

Plait shrugged and got out of the car. I’m heading out to his home. I could use an assist.

I’ll call it in, she replied, keying her radio again to inform dispatch.

/*—————*/

Buttle lived in a single story house on the North End of Boise, popular with young professionals and artsy liberals. Plait parked in the street and had Sergeant McReed circle around towards the back alley and keep her eyes open just in case anyone tried to duck out the back after Plait ID’d himself at the front door.

Standing in front of the simple brownstone, there didn’t seem anything odd about the house from the outside. The grass was in need of watering and the paint was not as new as many of the neighbors. Plait was starting to get the picture that Buttle either lived with his parents or didn’t care much about housekeeping.

He rang the doorbell and waited for a light to come on or for someone to come to the door. When nothing happened, he rang it again, twice for emphasis. Finally, he heard someone stirring inside. The porch light flicked on and a woman in a nightgown with rollers in her hair opened the wooden door.

Yes?

She sounded annoyed at being awakened, yet unsure who the stranger in a dark suit was. Plait showed her his badge. Detective Bill Plait, Boise PD. May I come in, ma’am?

She nodded and opened the screen door for him. As he stepped in she tied up her robe and shut the door behind them. Is this about Teddy?

Plait’s solemn expression spoke volumes. The woman put her hands to her face in fear of what he would surely say next.

Is Theodore Buttle your son, ma’am?

She nodded and started to cry like she knew he was not there to deliver good news.

I’m sorry to inform you that he was found dead in the city tonight.

She broke down in tears and he helped her to a couch in the living room that faced the street. He let her cry for a moment until she started to collect herself.

What happened? she finally asked through tears.

A patrol car found him in Freak Alley about an hour and a half ago. I know this is difficult, Mrs. Buttle, but I need to ask you a few questions. She nodded with more tears.

Was your son into drugs or did he have any debts?

She shook her head and let out an amused laugh. God no. Everybody loved Teddy.

Plait had heard that line more than once. Parents were often the last to know their kids were doing drugs or owed large sums of money to bad people, especially adult children.

Did your son live here, with you?

She nodded. He rents the basement. She looked away from him as tears continued down her cheeks. She looked to be in her late sixties, silver hair and matronly.

Do you know where he was tonight, ma’am? She looked back at him and he could almost feel the pain in her tired eyes. He hated this part of his job. In twenty years on the force, he’d never gotten comfortable delivering bad news to parents. He was at Mashers, down by the high school.

Chapter 2

Mashers was located in an old, stone and clapboard home on a residential street behind Boise High School. The first floor of the house was converted into an arcade using game consoles and large panel displays. They only served energy drinks and French Fries to the mostly teenage clientele. The name didn’t refer to the potato spuds, but to the control mashing that gamers did while playing first-person shooters. It was only a happy coincidence that they served piping hot baskets of salty fries to the gamers.

Mashers was owned and operated by Nate, a hip young man in his late twenties with stringy long brown hair and a thin, wiry body. Nate had inherited the house from his dad ten years ago. It used to be a hamburger joint and a popular after-school hangout for local kids. Nate hated flipping burgers and dealing with all the aspects of running a restaurant, so he closed it down and used what money his dad had saved to remodel the main floor into a gamer’s paradise.

There were ten individual cubicles, each with a 27-inch flat panel display and an over-cranked PC with a cheap keyboard and mouse and the best controllers money could buy. The first rule of the house was that if you wanted to eat, you had to leave the cubical. There was a massive, round table in the center of the room with some cheap plastic chairs that he got from the school.

There were several spotlights above the table but the cubicles were dark spaces painted black with Turkish carpets on the floors. The front windows were painted black so that the arcade was always darker than the inside of a cow. The second house rule was no shoes in the gamer cubicles. To preserve the carpets and add a bit of quirkiness to the place, Nate was only a stickler for those two rules. A No Drugs sign on the front door with a red crossed circle over a silhouette of a marijuana plant was not enforced by Nate, who was often rolling joints in the kitchen out of sight from kids. He never sold or handed out what he smoked, but he didn’t run to the cops if someone was toking up in between levels either.

Most nights after he closed Nate transformed the arcade into an adults-only playroom for his friends and his gamer clan. Last night the clan had played a new space shooter into the early morning hours and everyone got smashed on some home brewed beer that Pete brought over. Pete wasn’t the best player but he could brew some damn fine beer and the others insisted he test his latest batch on them. As a result, more than one of them would crash at Mashers to sleep off their buzz.

When the doorbell rang at some ungodly early hour before noon, only Tripp managed to wake up enough to answer it. Joshua and Dancia were still snuggled under a blanket in one of the cubes and Tripp had fallen asleep on the back couch. Nate was nowhere to be found, but was probably upstairs in his own bed. Tripp bumped into a chair and waved his hands in front of him until he made it to the front door. He turned the handle and pulled the door but it was blocked by a chain. After fumbling with the chain while looking through squinting eyes he finally managed to open the door.

A well-dressed man stood there holding up a badge. Tripp’s eyes widened and he slammed shut the door. The noise woke the others.

Who is it? asked Dancia.

Tripp stepped away from the door. It’s that detective dude that worked on the Taggert case.

What? Joshua said, getting to his feet and