Headcase

By Marc Rosenberg

A twisted thriller of loss, betrayal and violence.

Broken lives collide against a harsh cityscape in this haunting tale of duplicity. Detective Ash Aiken, a burned out cop, reinstated, tracks the bloody trail of a serial killer in the most controversial manhunt to hit his beat. Though dedicated to his work, he’s tormented over the wife and boy who ran out on him.

Saddled with a deceitful partner, Aiken looks to protect his turf by hiring a private investigator to help find his family. But the PI is caught in his own lethal web, targeted for death by a vengeful crime boss.

As the killer continues his deadly rampage, he falls for a woman tormented by her own bitter past, willing to destroy anyone who gets in the way of her wants and desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483402284

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Copyright © 2014 Marc Rosenberg .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-0229-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-0228-4 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 4/1/2014

CONTENTS

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2

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This is for Bernie Rosenberg,

who inspired individuality, creativity, and humor in all things.

1

Who’s there? the detective called, twisting in his seat. No answer. He looked down the dark corridor. Nothing. He thought he heard breathing, someone over his shoulder. No one. Footsteps, retreating. Silence. His own breathing. His own footsteps. His own thoughts.

Detective Ash Aiken stared at the pile of papers on his desk. His wristwatch read late, his eyes squeezed weary. The raw patch on his scalp itched and ached where hours earlier medics had stitched thirteen crosses along the curve of his scalp.

He had tripped into a liquor store robbery gone bad, stepping headlong into the shop’s front door as it crashed open, slicing him with shattering glass. Hearing gunshots, the detective had pulled his service revolver before entering. Dazed, he waved his weapon wildly while identifying himself as a police officer and pushing the door back toward his attacker, who bumper bounced from the steel frame to the pavement.

Stunned and bleeding, the fallen man swore, Fuck, I’m shot. Wincing up from the ground, he tried to grab the gun that had slid from his grip.

Aiken’s gash bled, the pain biting, and queasy swells were breaking over him. Barely holding it together, he kicked the short-barreled pistol from the robber’s reach. Don’t fucking move, he said while he manacled him.

Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. The thief spat. He was pale with pasty skin and wore faded jeans cinched with a twine belt, a gray City basketball sweatshirt riding up over his swollen belly. I’m fuckin’ shot, man, shot. You don’t give a shit about me. What am I supposed ta do? Know what I’m sayin’? Do ya? I’m shot, man. I’m dyin’. Shut the fuck up, Aiken roared, his words coming out in slow motion. Lips numb, tongue swollen, thunder raging in his head, he wanted to just slap the guy. Don’t you fucking move.

A sound came from the front of the store. Aiken swept his weapon toward the fractured door and scanned the room. The panicked, bruised, and battered face of an aging Asian peered out from behind the register. The man’s nose was bent flat against his cheek, his lips swollen and bloody. Gonna kill that mothafucka, the frantic man screamed.

Aiken shoved his badge up for the second time. Call 911 and get a goddamn ambulance before I pass out, he croaked. The wide-eyed shopkeeper just glared at the robber. And put that goddamn shooter away before I handcuff you too. Do it now, Aiken rasped.

Aiken fought to hold on as consciousness slipped askew. A crowd gathered. Screaming squad cars and ambulances arrived.

Aiken leaned back in his swivel chair, scratched his stubble, and pulled at the errant coarse threads—darned cowlicks—poking from his head.

That’s using your noggin’, his partner, Phelim Feeley Boyle, had chided. Everyone had snickered.

Fuckwit, Aiken thought.

Slumping back in his chair, the detective massaged his bloated gut, which gurgled back, angry at the late fried lunch and black coffee. Stress slowly laid claim to his aging body: newly etched crossroads at the crook of each eye, grizzled temples, expanding waistline. He let out a deep sigh.

The others had left, but he felt determined to stay and work his case, to fit one more piece of the homicidal puzzle that lay before him. Three killings. Two months. Only a handful of sad clues. The victims had all been women; all single, lonely spirits—killer bait. Black leather scraps were found under the fingernails of two of the dead. The third clenched a metal rivet in her pale fist. The killer had cut his prey viciously, stamping a bloody punch across their faces. The press had dubbed these killings as the work of the Slasher. Fuck, Aiken thought. Another Jack the Whack.

Strains of harp and drum music distracted him. Arabic rock bled in from the street. The detective stood wearily, heard his back pop, poured more coffee, and then placed the cup beside his typewriter and a framed photo. With a switch of a button, the Smith-Corona hummed to life. Pressing the return key, the carriage shot into place, launching his coffee and the photograph across the room.

Fuck me, he swore, shoving the machine to the floor. Eyes closed, he groaned. Aiken picked up the silver frame. The image of a young boy with a sweet smile and shining eyes looked back at him. He remembered the day the picture had been taken. The youth reached out, mouthed the word, Daddy.

Tears salted the detective’s face. Had it been so long ago? he wondered. His boy had been gone six months. Aiken had been betrayed by the woman he once called friend, partner, lover, wife. Where the fuck did they go? He had spun out his own web of inquiry, but heard nothing. It was as if the streets had eaten them.

Fuck, he swore. I want what’s mine. The detective buckled in his chair, drained, lost, his head pounding.

2

It was the first time he had gone out with an older woman. He hoped the enchanted evening would never end. It wasn’t just her age that took him in. She was an incredible creature, possessing a youthful sensitivity adorned with mature beauty. A woman’s woman. Fata morgana.

Leaning across the table, absorbed in her laughter, he felt whole and stable after being alone for so long. Huge, bright eyes drew him in; full, flushed lips provoked his desire. His gaze raked the bow of her neck and swept down to her milk white cleavage, soft, calling. Her scent left him buoyant, virile. He wanted to lick her perfect skin. She seemed to sense his thoughts and blushed.

They drove in silence, fingers entwined along the seat’s console. A breeze swept through the open window as he steered down the tree-lined lane. The white VW Rabbit came to a stop, bumping gently against the curb.

She stepped out, smiled, and then started gliding away down the sidewalk. Her snake skin heels seemed to hiss, disturbing the calm of the deserted street. He watched her. Primal motion. He felt himself grow hard.

An elevator took them to the top floor of a nearby building. The woman’s breath buzzed thick and warm on his neck. A dark, vaulted hallway led them to the last door. A hot wind swept down the corridor, rocking the crystal chandeliers that hung like huge glass bats. He craned up to look at them, curious.

Hey, she cooed, reclaiming his attention. He reached to touch her. She stepped back and smiled. Incisions sliced the smoothness of her skin, and onion-like layers peeled back. Her cheeks flapped in the brewing gale, exposing strawberry-colored cartilage and muscle. Manicured nails split into long, barbed spurs, stabbing recklessly. Dilating pupils, dark and feral, swirled like pinwheels. She spewed ribbons of saliva kisses. Her high screech pierced the air.

Ice tore at his back. He felt the warm spread of liquid down his thighs. Her cruel chatter wouldn’t cease. The sickly wet sound of slapping skin shrouded him. The ground gave way, and he found himself sinking, being swallowed by her grave eyes. He struggled, refusing to be interred. Screaming, splashing, swirling, he ripped his body free and swam to the edge of consciousness. Propelling himself from sleep, he knew fatigue had won again.

He spun around, hating this room for invoking nightmares and hating himself for weakness. Darkness had fallen. Moonlight, slit by jagged strips of metallic blinds, bathed the walls. Midnight waited only moments away.

The iron-post bed moaned when he sat up. He liked the sound. He pulled on jeans, slipped into a tee, and zipped up a pair of worn, black boots. He smirked. Time to groove, Mr. Smooth, he thought.

A naked bulb burned in the john as he washed, brushed, combed, and cologned. Rituals. Homegrown rites. He dry swallowed a swarm of bennies from the open vial, fervent for flight. From under the sink, he withdrew a stiletto. His freckled face winked back in the blade’s reflection. The knife slid into his boot. He slung his leather jacket over a shoulder, grabbed his cap, and flicked the light off behind him.

Outside he breathed the crisp night air, savoring the smell from the rank city river. His dark eyes scanned the empty street. Popping a piece of Bazooka into his mouth, he worked it into an imperfect, fleshy bubble. It broke, shrouding his face. Curling his lips, he sucked the wad back in while skipping down the few short steps. He mounted the Norton Commando parked at the curb. She was an ancient bike, but well groomed. Stroking the engine to a feverish pitch, he rode her into the night.

3

Zack Freeman stormed the great portals of the City University Union. What the hell was I thinking, he ranted. He knew he had to get here, but somehow he’d lost track of time. Doing what, he couldn’t remember. He flew for the bookstore before it closed. Buzzing through the main arcade, Zack observed the chronic setting: the familiar faces, the well-known concessions, the student market filled with leather goods, candles, rings, and bracelets of silver, brass, and gold. Help the homeless. Free the repressed. Give; give more; give most. Be all that you can be. Four years earlier, Zack might have stopped, shopped, gotten involved, but college life had become a drag. The dirge remained the same. Hair grew, beards sprouted. Clothes hung shabbier, funkier, tighter. He’d gone through it himself, masking insecurities while searching for self.

He weaved through the crowded hall down to a wall of lockers. Full. Full. Fucking Full, he muttered, checking each one before finally depositing his books on top of the metallic cubbies. In the store, he scanned the racks of daily rags and mags. The local papers read like B-movie marquees chronicling the latest of the gruesome killings that had rocked the campus. He passed them over, eyeballing the skin arsenal. It was the last week of the month, and the new porns had hit the stands. The chick behind the register—blonde, busty, frozen smile—asked if he wanted a bag. Zack scooped up the magazine and split.

On his way out of the main arcade, he stopped at the counter to buy some gum. He knew the girl working. Man, he thought, this babe is something. A year earlier he had put on the moves—a little hash, wine, good music, a backrub. But she wouldn’t bite. She attacked him, saying his bullshit moves were just to get laid. He couldn’t argue. She was right. Smart chick. Zack smiled. She smiled back. It wasn’t a pop over the left field fence, but hey, he scored with the gesture. Maybe some other time, he thought and then hit the road.

Spring had arrived, but the March chill refused to surrender. The crisp wind spun Zack’s long, black curls. He stopped under a street lamp. Using his shadow, fanned out the mess of magazines. He looked around to see if anyone noticed. He was alone.

Zach thought himself a good-looking kid. No glamour boy, but appealing, he thought. That evening, dressed in a white cotton oxford with the tails out, faded jeans, black boots, leather jacket dotted with slogan pins, and a lash of white scarf, Zack’s mind wrestled with the uncertainty of his future. He knew he was fucked. He had done poorly on his law boards and graduate record exams. Asshole, he scowled, you’re beyond hope. What kind of fucking idiot am I? he muttered. Now what? Graduate School? Who the fuck am I kidding. Journalism? Mass Communications? Sound Engineering? Hospital Admin? Private dick? He laughed. Nothing like having direction, eh, schmuck? I could become a pimp. He snickered. Seeing Eye dog? That’s it, a fucking Seeing Eye dog. The mentally blind blazing the trail for the physically impaired. Ha. Mom’s friend promised her, ‘One day he’ll bring home medals.’ Oh fuck you, bitch. She never knew how much I hated her.

Zack headed toward the dorms. It was his senior year so he could have taken an apartment with friends, but dorm living had a low-rent advantage. Outside the quad, a rusted water main had cracked; a frozen slick reflected the street. Zack stared into the icy mass, but it had nothing to share except its cold, bleak outlook. Beyond the buildings stood a landscaped pond—a man-made recess of stagnant water, also encumbered by the plummeting temperatures, surrounded by lifeless hedges meant to countrify city living.

A group of girls stood by the dorm’s entrance. Zack wondered if they were checking him out. He strolled by, eyes straight, disappearing into the building.

He lived in a three-bedroom suite with a bathroom, hot plate, and mini-fridge. Normally six students would occupy the space, but because of a paperwork screw up in the housing office, Zack had scammed the suite for himself and two friends. He loved his place and the solitude of having no roommate. A white shag rug covered the floor, a gift from a cousin who’d moved south. Double bed. Double your pleasure, double your fun. Shelves of books. Posters of Marilyn faced his bed. The walls, university green, were chipped and worn. A stereo system stood next to the bed on a low table. Leaning upright against the nightstand was a DiMaggio signed Louisville Slugger. Zack shook out an Allman’s CD and cued up In Memory of Elizabeth Reed. The stereo played low. Zack took off his jacket and grabbed a handful of tissues. He collapsed onto his bed and closed his eyes. Shit. He sighed and reached for the new magazine. Unzipping his pants, he dreamed of airbrushed cuties.

4

Aiken ducked into Captain Mueller’s office, a lukewarm cup of coffee in his hand. You wanted to see me?

Close the door, Ash, Mueller said, fishing for something in his wastebasket. Thanks for coming by. The captain looked up and said, Jesus, man! You look like you walked into a propeller.

Aiken winced, rubbed the raw swath of stitches across his head, and forced a laugh. It’s nothing, he lied.

Must hurt like a bitch, Mueller said waving a hand. Save the heroics. I heard what happened. Wanted to see that you were in one piece. Hell of a thing. And in fucking daylight. Jesus, man. Desperate times. What a bitch.

Yeah, well, we got lucky. No one died. Shop-keep took a beating, and the perp caught a bullet. But he’s stable under watch at City Hospital. Should get him in front of a judge by week’s end.

You call that good luck? Ha! More like hard knocks if you ask me, Mueller said.

The detective shrugged, waited. The captain turned pensive and looked him over. What? Aiken asked.

There’s been talk.

Yeah?

Probably bullshit.

Okay. So we done?

Word is you didn’t call for backup, man. And now I’m hearing this fuckhead is claiming police brutality and waffling over Miranda.

Well, he’s full of shit, Aiken said. I read him his rights. He’s lying.

I’m sure.

Come on, gimme a break. I did it by the book. There was no time for backup. Guy landed in my lap and tried to slice my fucking head off. I slammed the door back outta my face, knocked him on his ass. Guy was in shock. He couldn’t have even found his dick if he’d been holding it.

Okay, okay. Not doubting you. Take it easy. Was just putting it out there so it doesn’t come as a surprise if it goes anywhere.

Look, this is bullshit. I’m sure it’s Boyle stirring up trouble again. Another fucking asshole.

You know he’s a pushy cunt. Very pissed ’cause I brought you in to run the Slasher thing.

Yeah, well fuck him. I played this by the book. And I’d do it the same way again if I had to.

Okay, okay. Just wanted to hear it from you. I took a lot of heat for bringing you back. No regrets, but by the book is how you gotta play it with everything. Everything! No fuckups.

I know, I know. I got it. Appreciate what you did.

Do you? I hope so. Just want to know you’re okay and your head’s straight. We’re done with that other nonsense?

Yeah, yeah. Done. Movin’ on. Got it all covered.

Okay, Mueller said, pushing back in his seat. Get the hell out of here and bring me my killer.

5

The Blaze Club rocked with high-voltage intensity. Bodies writhed and pumped on the dance floor, driven by the endless rhythm of tribal congas and screaming guitars. The freckled man drank in the room, hoping to quench his thirst for destruction. He cruised the club and made eye contact with a platinum blonde at the far end of the bar. She took a long pull from a beer bottle, stuck her tongue out through ruby lips, and licked a dab of foam from the corner of her mouth. Smiling, she pinched her breast and then turned her attention to the dance floor. He came up behind her and rested his hand on her ass.

If you touch it, you buy it, she purred.

Meet me outside, he said. I don’t want my old lady to see me leave with you.

She held him tightly as the Norton Commando navigated the streets past traffic light blurs of yellow and green. One hand wrapped around his waist while the other stroked the piston between his thighs.

That’s world-class equipment, she whispered. His reply got lost in the snarl of the wind.

He drove them to a common at the edge of the city and parked near a chain link fence. The night was still. They kissed and wrestled and bit each other’s lips. She undid his fly and swallowed him whole. He grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and dragged her to the fence, where he handcuffed her to a zigzag of steel. He bit her neck and undid the laces of her vest. Her breasts were rock firm, the nipples off-center. Implants? he asked.

Tits, baby. Suck ’em.

He scratched and slapped them, growling low and primal. The stiletto burned against his calf. But he waited. He tore at the buttons of her 501s and pulled them below her buttocks, gasping at the male genitals he did not expect to see. What the fuck? he screamed.

Don’t stop now, cowboy, she cooed. Mount me.

Time slowed down. Only the beat of his heart filled the drawn-out vacuum. He buried his boot in her crotch. Her painted eyes bulged, fluttered. The stiletto found its way to his hand. He cut her throat and chest and genitals and watched her pogo against the steel links. His gloved hand bathed in the ruin, then impressed her face in a fury of fists. When he was finished, he straddled his bike and tore all hell loose.

6

The sullen morning swabbed the city with rain. Sanitation truck hydraulics ruptured the calm while ingesting the bloated plastic bags that lined the streets. Delivery corps rumbled, honking along the pockmarked streets. Urban traffickers swarmed from their nests with inherent determination to negotiate the natural order of things. A litany of sirens pierced the morning rush. The metropolis breathed alive.

Zack rolled and tumbled from his bed. Wide-eyed, he lay still trying to make sense of things. He struggled to his feet despite the blinding hangover that gripped his brain. Grabbing one of his blankets, he wrapped himself and went to look out the window. It was the kind of day to stay in bed. He took a cigarette from an open pack on the night table and placed it in his mouth unlit. He never indulged, but he liked how he looked with the dangling smoke. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror. The butt looked cool. He looked like shit. His hair screamed for order. His eyes, half-mast, topped an unshaven face the color of chalk. He heard a moan, which drew his attention to a naked backside sticking out from a rumbled cover. On its right cheek sprouted a purple welt crowned with a pale snowcap. Zack thought of an