The Killing Death

By I.D. Russell

A madman stalks the streets of a quiet prairie city. Killing with impunity, he leaves a trail of bodies with missing parts. The police are powerless to stop him and a terrified metropolis cowers in fear as he continues on his gruesome rounds. But one man won’t just stand by while the monster butchers the innocent; Frank Malone, River City’s most famous cop, past his prime and forced to partner with hotshot rookie Jimmy Hooper, fresh from the academy. With each horrifying new discovery they close in on the killer. But what neither of them realize is that the murders are only the beginning of a ritual of pure EVIL!

• Language: English
• Publisher: I.D. Russell
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781988383156

I.D. Russell

When he’s not working full time, training in Hapkido and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, or looking after his kids, Ian likes to relax with a good book/board game/video game/movie/retro pro-wrestling match. Somewhere in there he finds time to write and make movies.Check out www.ringojones.com for links to his movies and follow him on Facebook, twitter, and youtube

Book preview

PROLOGUE

INTERROGATION ROOM

So tell us about your first kill, when you became the monster you are now.

He took a deep breath, the memory of that night still so vivid. He hadn’t planned on killing her, he’d just wanted to see her one more time. He needed some distance between what they’d once shared and all that had happened to him after it ended.

I parked my car outside her apartment. I didn’t know if she still lived there, honestly.

No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly where she lived. It hadn’t taken much work to find her online, even after she scrubbed him from her life and cut off all contact. He could still find her pictures, see her smiling face staring back at him on his computer screen. He’d stewed in the fact that all they’d shared had seemed so inconsequential to her, that she could just move on like he was nothing while he sat and wondered endlessly what he did wrong, what had turned their happiness to misery, what had made him a pariah.

I saw her park her car. It threw me for a bit because she didn’t know how to drive when we went out.

And how long ago was this? When you dated the first victim, one Juliette Harlowe?

I don’t know if you’d call it dating, what we had. It was so much more than that, you know? Like we were connected on a different level. At least, I thought so. She was my first.

The old man cleared his throat. And that’s why you killed her? Was it really that bad?

He sighed, thinking back to that night so many years ago. It had been in high school, grade eleven, the culmination of one of those teenage romances that was too naive to last. He’d seen her in the halls wearing a tight blue sweater, showing mysterious curves hidden away beneath the fabric. Right away he’d been smitten. He’d shut his locker and just stared, watching her laugh with her friends, playing the part of a dream coed without even knowing it. 

She had blonde hair, brushed away from her face, blue eyes, a slightly crooked nose. There was something about seeing that girl for the first time that he could never forget; the butterflies, the sweat on his palms. But he’d been terrified of approaching her. How do you just go up and talk to someone like that? How do you tell the girl of your dreams that you’ve seen her around and want to go out on a date? He’d felt small, scared, paralyzed. She held all the power, and the fear of rejection was too strong. He’d decided to just avoid her.

Somehow, one of her friends had seen the looks he’d been giving, put two and two together and told Juliette. She’d come to him in the halls at lunch with a note, telling him, This is from Juliette.

It was a two page letter asking if he liked her, with empty lines for him to fill in what he was into—movies, music, TV shows, favourite colour, dog or cat person, etc. She left a spot for him to put his email and chat ID and he gleefully did, wondering how he could have been so lucky. She was coming to him!

What followed was a whirlwind of instant messages, late night chatting, even a few Skype sessions. They seemed to hit it off so well. She laughed at his jokes, told him her plans for the future. He’d fallen hard. He couldn’t stop dreaming about her, just hearing her voice put him into a stupor of bliss. Then, one night, she said he could ask her to the summer carnival. So he did.

What a great idea! That sounds like so much fun! As if it had been his suggestion.

The ferris wheel, the tea cups, the roller coaster, hand holding, cotton candy, an innocent kiss when stuck in the Rock ‘N Roller; it was a magical night, despite the back country, pot smoking ride operator, garbage strewn field, summer fair reality.

Once they started, they couldn’t stop. It was like the floodgates had been opened and their hormones were the raging waters of the Danube. Kissing turned to heavy petting turned to his fingers plunging between her legs turned to her hands on him and he not able to control himself, spurting all over the back seat of her parents car. She screamed, Shit! My mom’s gonna see this! and he just said sorry over and over again.

Then, on Monday, he was out of her life. No more chatting, no more phone calls, no more smiles in the hall. Her friend passed him a note saying I think we need to break up, and he cried in his room with a Nine Inch Nails album on repeat.

He looked at the old man facing him in the room with cold eyes. He wanted to know if that night had been terrible. You’d have to ask her that question. 

The two police officers, sitting opposite him in the drab, concrete room, a pad of paper and open file folder on the table, shared a glance, neither wanting to follow that train of thought.

All right, the old man said, You guys laid the carpet one night and then you were given a one way ticket to the singles dining car. It’s a tale as old as time. You just weren’t her Romeo.

It wasn’t so much what the man was saying, it was his cocky smirk, that condescending tone. It bothered him that someone could be so quick to dismiss him.

No, it wasn’t like that, he protested. He’d waited until she walked up to the door of her apartment building before sliding out of his car, dashing up to catch the closing glass door just before it locked. He’d got in just in time to observe her walking down a flight of stairs to her basement suite.

She’d never given him the time of day after that night at the carnival, moved on to date Danny, gone to the prom with Matthew, slept with who knew how many others. She’d never given him the opportunity to prove he could do it as good as anyone else. Or maybe that night in the back seat was a test run and he’d failed. Either way, her life went on without him—she went to University, got a job as an admin assistant for a local charity, posted all her happy adventures online. . . . 

Did she ever think about that night? Did she laugh about it with her friends? 

Remember that guy you dated for a week in grade eleven? 

You mean the one who couldn’t hold it in for thirty seconds?

The laughing, the casual dismissal, the petty insults. That was what he couldn’t take. The cops were waiting for the rest.

So? You followed her inside and that’s where it all went down? the old man asked.

He nodded. In a way.

She hadn’t felt him sneak up behind her, hadn’t noticed him duck into the room at the same time she went in. She didn’t feel his eyes on her as she headed to the bathroom, didn’t wither under his lingering gaze as he watched her disrobe. She had large breasts with rosy red nipples, erect to the cold air. She had a birthmark on the side of her left butt cheek. God. Even now he could see her bending over to start the bath, revealing a faint line at the base of her that was the source of all this pain.

He’d taken out the knife slowly, crept up to the door. It was only as she looked one last time in the mirror that she caught sight of the gleaming blade.

She’d screamed, but not for long.

CHAPTER ONE

THE RECOVERY BLUES

Two weeks earlier

Detective Inspector Sargent Frank Malone of the River City Police Department was relaxing in his rock-hard hospital bed, eating some cool orange jello and watching Jeopardy, when the door to his room pushed open. A fresh-faced young man entered, carrying a potted plant and a shiny balloon on a string.

Howdy, partner! Jimmy Hooper smiled as he came in to the hospital room with more sunshine than a Texas afternoon.

Cram it, kid. I’m watching Trebek.

Jimmy looked over at the tiny television dangling down from the ceiling and his grin widened. What is, the Loevre?

A little man with glasses buzzed in and repeated Jimmy. Trebek nodded: Correct. The audience applauded.

Don’t tell me you’ve gone brain on me, Jimmy, Frank said in shock.

What can I say, they teach a lot of stuff at the academy these days.

Frank shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed. His bare ass was rubbing into the itchy sheets, and the bandage around his temple felt like a vice. He’d only been here a day, for observation, they told him, after getting conked on the head during a routine investigation at a break-in site. He hadn’t seen the man that did it, didn’t have a description for the sketch artist, didn’t even have much of a memory of the attack. The next thing he knew he was in the ambulance being driven downtown with a couple of medics shining a light in his eyes. He’d swatted away their prodding hands with a I’m not blind, asshole. 

Soon, he was stripped and sent away for test after test before winding up here, in this little room with only the twelve channels of shitty TV the hospital allowed you to access, for a fee, as companionship.

Jimmy put the plant down on the small night stand next to Frank’s bed, the balloon attached bobbing towards the ceiling. So how you feeling? Head all right?

Frank looked at the green and yellow plant, smelled a faint floral wisp of summer and scowled. My head is just fine, but where the hell is yours at?

What do you mean?

Yellow? Really? I’m an autumn, kid, you should know that.

Errr, right. Sorry Frank.

Frank took another spoonful of jello and turned back to the television. At least the hospital gave him an endless supply of his favourite snack, and he could get Jeopardy. He might not have made it without either. The little man on screen buzzed in and again, Jimmy shouted out the answer over his voice.

What was the battle of Waterloo!

"Jumping beans, again?" Frank dropped his spoon.

Jimmy just shrugged, and called out, I’ll take Potent Potables for five hundred, Alex.

Somehow, Trebek heard him and complied, reading off a clue: C2H50H.

Frank leaned back in bed, good luck with that gibberish. This time the kid would be stuck and the universe would be back as it should be.

What is the formula for Alcohol, Alex.

Correct! Trebek responded.

Frank nearly leapt out of bed, what in blazes is going on here?

But before Jimmy could respond, a balding doctor in a white lab coat walked in to the room. So how is the fifth floor’s favourite head case doing this afternoon?

I’ve got an itch in my crack I can’t reach, and my head feels like churned butter, but none of that means spit, Doc. This kid here is some kind of magical genius!

The doctor looked over at Jimmy who gave a sheepish grin and pointed to the television screen. The doc nodded and as Trebek read out another question. He looked up from his chart and called out to the screen, What is Drambuie Alex.

Correct! Trebek responded again, this time somehow hearing the doctor’s answer.

Great Gatsby, another one. Just what in the hell is going on here? Frank asked.

I saw this one last night, rerun, the doctor replied.

Doc, better call in for some morphine because I’m about to kick this kid around the block. Frank started to lean up out of bed but the steady hand of the man in white pressed him back down.

Easy now Mr. Malone, you’re not ready for any kicking at the moment. You suffered a concussion and need to take it easy for another day or so. We wouldn’t want your eggs to get all scrambled, now would we?

Fine. I’ll play ball, for now. But what I want to know is, what’s the prognosis here? And give it to me straight Doc, none of that medical mumbo jumbo. Am I a goner? Will I ever walk again?

The man flipped through the pages on Frank’s chart a few times. I don’t see anything here about loss of motor control?

You’re taking my license, too? You might as well just pull the plug now.

You’re not on life support, Mr. Malone.

I’m not? Shit, it’s all going black, I can see the angels. I’m-a-coming, mommy!

Frank don’t be absurd, you just got hit on the head, Jimmy said.

The doctor scanned through the chart, then shut the folder. And as far as I can tell, you’re free to leave at any time, Mr. Malone. We just wanted to keep you under observation for twenty-four hours. He looked at his watch. And while it’s only been twenty-two, I think we can all agree that you leaving the hospital is for the best.

Frank swung his legs off the bed and stepped to the cold tiled floor of his room. There was a breeze down his back where the gown hung open. He took a few tentative steps, and headed to the door.

That’s the best news I’ve had all day, Patch Adams. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a city to protect.

Frank turned and walked out the door, leaving Jimmy and the doctor behind.

Jimmy sighed and watched Frank’s bare ass disappear down the hall. He could just hear the distant sounds of the man shouting something to the duty nurses before one of them screamed in shock.

And he’s a police officer? the doctor asked him.

My partner.

I’m so sorry, the doctor said in his most calming voice. I could write you a prescription for Valium, if you want? Xanax? Tylenol three?

Jimmy just waved him off. It’s not that bad. I had worse assignments in training.

He reached over and picked up the potted plant and dangling balloon, and followed after Frank.

CHAPTER TWO

BLOODY MURDER

God Frank, I really wish you’d put on pants first.

Frank slammed the door of the patrol car and bent down to Jimmy at the driver’s side window, his eyes burning with his patented inner fire. 

Crime doesn’t wait for you to put on pants, kid. Sometimes it catches you with them around your ankles while you’re trying to take a shit, or while you’re enjoying the company of a gentlemen’s magazine. But it’s the good cops, the ones who make a difference in this messed up world, that kick their feet out and do what has to be done. Remember that. It’ll be on the test later.

Frank stormed off in to the night, his bare ass a bright white spot beneath the streetlights lining the quiet street where they’d stopped to respond to a homicide call in an apartment.

I’ve already passed the test! Jimmy tried to shout after him, but the old man was gone, marching right up to the two officers at the door to the building and gesticulating wildly to try to get inside. That was the thing with Frank—once he got going, he didn’t slow down for anything; rules, regulations, or the putting on of pants.

Jimmy sighed and unbuckled his seatbelt, sliding out of the car to follow after his partner. 

Frank had driven them there still in his hospital gown, with bandages dangling from his head, despite Jimmy’s protests. He’d had a glow the whole drive over.

I’ve missed this, kid; the smell of a city in need, the feel of leather under my ass, the intoxicating knowledge that you’re about to make a difference in the world. It’s been too long.

Frank, it’s barely been twenty-four hours.

A lot of shit can go down in a day.

He was staring intently at the road in front of him, the buildings of the bustling downtown metropolis that was River City passing by at sixty kilometres an hour. 

Slow down, partner, Jimmy had said, hands gripping the door handle as Frank weaved in and out of traffic. "The place didn’t fall apart overnight. See? The buildings are still here, the roads are still full