Murder By Rites: An Alex Gershwin Novel

By MJ Marks

Book One of The Alex Gershwin Mysteries

 

Abruptly leaving the Baltimore Police Department after finding and arresting one of the city's most notorious murderers, Alex Gershwin begins a new life as a private detective. What Alex did not expect was a call from the mayor of a small Northern Arizona city 2,200 miles away asking for help in capturing a serial killer, whose calling card is to mutilate the bodies in a twisted ritual interpretation of the Bushido, the code of honor of samurai warriors. Racing against time, using instincts combined with 21st Century technology to locate and save the last four victims in a showdown against the most formidable foe of Alex's young career.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laughing Warrior Publishing
• Release date: Feb 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393432869

MJ Marks

MJ Marks lives in Northern Arizona among the majesty and clean air of the San Francisco Peaks enjoying hiking the many trails cutting through the forest of Ponderosa pine, golden aspen, and juniper trees. Graduating with a PhD in Social Psychology MJ interned at a large metropolitan police department learning the finer details of police work. [e-mail] Facebook MJMarks

Book preview

Chapter 1

We all make decisions , most are trivial. What clothes to wear, what to eat, what time to get up.  Some are perfunctory, based entirely on our personal habits or beliefs. What route to take to work, what politician to vote for, which god to pray to, what diet to follow, and what new purchases to acquire.  Then, there are the life changers. 

My assistant answered the call. Moving the cell phone away from his ear, holding a hand over the mouthpiece, Ted announced, The Mayor of Antelope Springs, Arizona, needs your help solving some murders.

The ‘Sushi Killer’? as the press was calling him.

Ted nodded, She’s waiting. Yes or no?

This was my first case since leaving the Baltimore Police Department. I loved seeing my name, Alex Gershwin, on the door of my office. Well, imagining my name on the door. I first had to get an office; we were working out of my apartment.

I had been following the case on the internet. Five murders so far; the dismembered bodies were found on hiking trails. Yes. Email her a contract. Ask her to send me copies of all the files. Also, let her know my rate of $500 per day plus expenses and a retainer of $2,500 if she agrees. Any amount not used will be refunded.  I briefly thought if I was charging too much. Then again, how many private detectives had a true crime book written about them? There was that TV series made from a book about the Baltimore Homicide Squad, but many of them had either retired or moved on. 

Ted went back to his call. I watched as he nodded his head and took some notes, then looked back at me. Hanging up, he said, No problem about the money.  There was a troubled look on his face.

What else? I asked.

You’ll have to fly.

Ted knew I hated flying. I know that. I’ll get over it.

Not this time, he sighed, filling in the details. I thought I would throw up.

Calling Ted Alis my assistant is a giant misnomer, but it is easier than saying my assistant-slash-data analyst-slash-friend-slash-adviser-slash-...etc. We met while I was with the BPD. Ted was a programmer developing an algorithm specifically for police work. Walking into the Detectives Division, he stated he could help us with the serial killer case terrifying the city. There were other programs like his, including the ones shared by the FBI’s VICAP division, but this would be focused more locally, geographic profiling much like the big board often seen in movies and TV shows. Other departments around the country had experimented with similar programs, but the older detectives preferred the old-fashioned way of catching criminals. 

He called his program ACA, Apprehension of Criminals Application. The detectives working the case talked to him for about fifteen minutes, at first believing he knew the perp, but dismissed him as too quirky to be useful. He had black hair pulled into a ponytail, rectangular, black-framed glasses, and a goatee. He was attractive in a geeky way with his shirt buttoned up to the collar and his loose-fitting jeans covering his lean, angular body. He had an earnest, honest look about him. 

I HATE FLYING. SITTING in a 747 or a DC-10 I can usually get over the feeling with a few drinks.  Reading the files on the fight from Baltimore to Phoenix helped me ignore the fact that I was in an airplane. But the turbulent 45-minute flight from Phoenix to Antelope Springs in a twin-jet engine puddle-jumper, a tin can with wings swaying in the wind as if connected by a thin string, rattled my nerves. It felt like one of those swing rides at the amusement park, the one that makes me nauseous.  Closing my eyes, I remembered why I was torturing myself. Something didn’t feel right, and it wasn’t my stomach doing somersaults. 

When we finally landed at Antelope Springs Municipal Airport, I unclasped my hands from the armrest and took my first real breath since boarding. This new experience did nothing to improve my distaste for flying.

I had never seen such a small airport. We landed on the tarmac and walked to the one and only gate. It reminded me of some of those old movies I watched as a kid. The line I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship popped into my head. The gate itself was a cramped, narrow, glass-enclosed walkway. If I wasn’t so cranky, I might’ve called it charming. 

As promised, an officer of the Antelope Springs Police Department was waiting in the main lobby. As I approached, his six feet two inches towered over my five-foot ten-inch frame. Around twenty-five years old, his powerful arms extended from the shirt sleeves of his neatly pressed uniform that accentuated an athletic body. Straight, sandy blonde hair covered his ears and tapered down to just above the collar.  Walking up to him, I introduced myself. Officer J. Baker was engraved on his chrome badge.

All I had was a carry-on bag. Ted arrived two days earlier, bringing my luggage and laptop with him so I could go directly to the police station when I landed. Officer Baker led me out the front doors to his waiting city police car parked in the No Parking Zone. 

The ride from the airport to the Antelope Springs Police Station was peaceful. Serenity crept back into my soul and body as we passed an abundance of pine trees and secluded neighborhoods.  Coming around a bend, the mountains rose in front of me looking as if they had been painted on a canvas of nearly perfect sky. The highway ended as we rolled into town. No exit, just a series of signs with decreasing speed limits.

Antelope Springs looked like any other city, minus the skyscrapers and smaller. We passed the Motor Vehicle Department along with a series of shopping centers with local and national stores and restaurants, fast food joints, coffee bars, and the University of Arizona–Antelope Springs a.k.a UAAS.  It was 7:49 am. Traffic was heavy, but not like Baltimore morning rush hour. It hadn’t sunk in that this seemingly unpretentious town was being ravished by a methodical, disciplined serial killer. 

The Antelope Springs Police Department was located behind a shopping center and on the edge of three neighborhoods. The L-shaped area had the Sheriff’s department and city jail to the left. The entrance to the Police Department, a two story, white marble building with Greek columns, was the intersection of the L. My guide led me to Captain Jane Wei’s office and explained that she was meeting with the Chief of Police and would be with me shortly. The officer left the room, leaving the door open. Looking around, I made mental notes of the photographs and the numerous commendations hanging on the walls. Pictures of the Captain’s family decorated her mahogany desk amongst the clutter of files and paperwork. Cream colored, cloth vertical blinds covered a floor-to-ceiling window looking out at the squad room. The blinds were open, allowing me to see the detectives, and for them to watch me. 

Captain Wei entered the office. She was around five feet, four inches, dressed in an expensive, tailored black pant suit with a white button-down shirt, a gold rope chain that hung in the space between her collarbone and breasts, and black, designer kitten heels. Her dark, black hair was coiffed in a bob with bangs accenting her olive-toned skin. I guessed her age to be mid-to-late thirties. 

Moving behind her desk, she stopped in front of a black leather executive chair. Her shoulders were slumped after the latest meeting with Chief of Police Lestrade. I gazed at her face. 

Holding out her hand, she said, I’m Captain Jane Wei. I returned the handshake. Thank you for coming. Are you familiar with the case? she asked, facing me so I could read her lips. 

I read the files on the flight. Have there been more murders?

Yes. Possibly from two nights ago. I’m still waiting on the ME’s report. Detectives Fleming and Benally are there now. How did you know? By the way, you speak very well.

I ignored the last comment. The killer is averaging one per week, all of them on Monday night.  I paused, letting the obvious clue hang in the air.  Another female found on a popular trail outside of town?

Looks like it. How’d you like the flight from Phoenix to Antelope Springs? I heard the new planes are more stable, especially coming over the mountains. 

I flashed the Captain a half-cocked ‘are you kidding me’ grin. When can I meet Lieutenant Fleming and Detective Benally?

Tomorrow.  I gave your assistant Detective Benally’s phone number. I haven’t told Lieutenant Fleming. He won’t be happy.

Thank you. Is there anything else? I’m pretty tired and I have to meet Ted.

Captain Wei was taken aback, obviously not used to such straightforwardness. Not really. I was hoping to show you -

Thank you, but another time. Until tomorrow then. I shook Captain Wei’s hand, turned, and paraded out the door. I felt the eyes of the detectives scrutinizing me as I purposely strut unaccompanied around desks and past stunned, open-mouthed officers. I didn’t mean to be pompous, and like most Captains, Jane Wei was proud of her command, but I was tired. To be truthful, if you’ve seen one police station, you’ve seen them all.

Chapter 2

The first time Bob Caroll met Inez Quintero, she served his espresso and a New York Reuben with a smile and a bounce in her step. Inez was the fifth victim of the Sushi Killer to appear on his coroner’s table over the past five weeks. Bob recognized the familiar scene. The murderer was getting better; the cuts separating the victim’s head, arms and legs from the torso were less jagged. Bob wondered if he or she was practicing on other bodies or started using a different knife. He was sure the autopsy would reveal the answer. Before he could finish, the door swung open with a thunderous bang.

You’re a little jumpy there, Bobby, laughed Lieutenant Detective Cooper Fleming. Looks like a little jalapeño coochie this time.

Bob ignored the bigoted comment. Being called Bobby irked his soul. I’m not finished, but it looks like the same MO as before.

I can’t believe he doesn’t have sex with them before he chops ’em up. Do you think our guy’s impotent or gay?

Or it’s a woman, replied Bob.

Lieutenant Fleming snorted. He certainly doesn’t have any preference about who he kills.  Indians, Mexicans, ni-.

Bob’s light caramel face turned beet red. His look drilled a hole between Cooper Fleming’s bushy eyebrows.

I ain’t never seen that before, said Cooper, pointing to Bob’s face.

Bob clenched his fist, against the back of his thigh out of sight.  He knew Fleming could easily beat him to a pulp, but if he could get in just one good shot...

Hi Bob, said Detective Benally, strolling up next to the table. Has my partner been more despicable than usual?

I don’t know how you put up with him, Layla. Bob’s face mellowed from anger to elation. 

Aww, he’s really just a pussycat. Isn’t that right Cooper?

Lieutenant Fleming’s attention centered on the area between Inez Quintero’s amputated legs.  His look was somewhere between, I’d have fucked her before and I’d still fuck her now. 

Huh? Oh hey. When’d you get here?  Cooper turned to the medical examiner, So, what’cha got for us? 

The time of death is inconclusive. The amount of rigor suggests she’s been out there for a couple of days. Looks like the killer is getting better. These cuts are less jagged than the others. And here, around the trachea to be exact. A mark like a wire or string cut into the skin before the head was severed. Same with the arms and legs.

You think he’s practicing? asked Layla.

Maybe, but not on humans. You might want to check if people have reported missing pets or if there has been a rise in reports of mutilated animals. The kerf marks suggest the killer has a new weapon, maybe chef’s knives. They also know anatomy, particularly the most accessible places to cut.  That would explain the cleaner lacerations and the marks on the neck and torso.

What the hell does anatomy have to with anything?  What we got here is a guy who can’t get it hard, then kills to cover up his impotence. He’s probably a fag that hasn’t come out of the closet. Plain and simple.

Layla and Bob looked at each other, trying to avoid any eye contact with Cooper. Anything else new? she asked.

Do you see these? Bob pointed to scrapes and scratches on the head and torso. The killer moved the victim before she was mutilated. These scratches are consistent with the exposed metal in the trunk of a car. No signs of a struggle or self-defense. There are bruises on the victim’s right hand and thigh that are consistent with a fireman’s carry, however it was done quickly since the victim was already dead. Most first responders don’t use that technique anymore, so I’d say you’re looking for someone with Army training.

Cooper turned toward the door. This is a fuckin’ waste of time. You comin’? We got work to do.

I’ll meet you back at the station. I have a couple more questions for Bob.

Hope you’re not waitin’ for him to ask you out. You’ll be an old maid by then. Bob and Layla heard fading laughter as Cooper marched down the hall.

Oh, come on Captain! We don’t need any outside help! Me and Benally, we’re close to wrapping this case up.

Is that true, Detective?

Layla froze. She had been his partner for ten years. Cooper could make her life a living hell. She knew as much about his personal life now as she did then. After all these years, he was barely tolerable. We have some good leads, she admitted reluctantly.

That’s what I thought. These orders came straight from the Mayor, said Captain Wei. You have a problem, take it up with her. As for the case, I received the ME’s report on Inez Quintero, including your weak ass theory. You’re not any closer to solving these murders than you are from being a bigoted asshole. Cooper took a step back. 

Who did Mayor Ratched call in? asked Layla.

Alex Gershwin.

Layla beamed. Reading all the newspaper articles and the true crime book written about the case, she felt as if her career would take off after working with someone as famous as Alex Gershwin. They were the same age, and Layla aspired to follow in her detective work footsteps. 

Who the hell is he? asked Cooper. I’ve never heard of him. Is he from Phoenix?

SHE is the one who solved that famous serial killer case in Baltimore two years ago, huffed Cooper’s superior.

A woman? shouted Cooper incredulously. It’s bad enough I have to- 

Captain Wei glared at Cooper, daring him to complete his thought. She had been waiting a long time to fire him. Cooper didn’t accept her invitation. She would have to wait a bit longer. 

Alex Gershwin is now the lead on this case. You will offer her every bit of courtesy and assistance as you would someone from the ASPD. Is that understood? 

Cooper and Layla nodded. Yes, Captain.

Leaving Captain Wei’s office, Cooper glanced around the squad room, wondering how many others knew about Alex Gershwin. Feigning anger, he picked up the rolling swivel chair behind his beat-up, gun metal gray, desk and slammed it down on the floor, careful not to break any of the wheels.  Some of the papers flew off the top of the desk. Cooper knew they needed help and was glad they were getting it. He had other things on his mind. 

Screw that! I don’t need no out-of-town bi-, private dick less to tell me my job.  What’s so great about her anyway? he asked when Layla sat down at her meticulously organized desk, facing Cooper.

Didn’t you read about that case in Baltimore she solved? It had most of the detective squad stumped for six months. Every time they thought they had it figured out, another murder went down.  They couldn’t find any pattern and went under the assumption the killer was doing it for the thrill.  Alex Gershwin studied the case files. Within two weeks the BPD arrested the killer.

Some low life, uh, black person living in the slums, I bet.

Nope. White guy, the son of one of the city council members. A computer geek who thought he calculated the perfect crime. He studied all the serial killers for the past twenty years and chose minute details that were often overlooked, and for the most part, had little to do with catching the criminals.  He erased all traces of his history of websites he visited but left his notes on his Cloud. Alex recognized those details and put them all together to trap him. Unfortunately, there was one more murder during the two-week period, but that that led Alex and the BPD to him. It’s a fascinating case. Some struggling author wrote a true crime book about it and won an Edgar Award. The book is in the library.

Fascinating. Yeah, right. What the hell is an Edgar Award?

The award presented by the Mystery Writers of America to honor the best in mystery fiction, non-fiction, television, film, and theater. You’re not very cultured in the arts, are you? What do you do in your spare time?

Humph! Cooper grunted.

Chapter 3

Entering the lobby , I texted Ted to meet me in front of the Antelope Springs Police Department. Ted had learned the name of the latest victim and where she worked. We drove ten minutes to The Gin Joint Cafe, a bistro located in the downtown shopping area. 

The bistro reminded me of the first time I met Ted. He was leaving the squad room. I quickly told my supervisor I was going to lunch and caught up with him as he waited for the elevator. As we rode down from the fourth floor, I asked him to join me for lunch. We talked for a while in a mom-and-pop deli across the street from the station. Apprehensive since he was just shunned by the detectives, I told him my story. I was a good cop, but rarely ever went out on calls. I often outperformed my male counterparts on the shooting range, written tests, and fitness course which made some people angry and others nervous. I even passed the detective’s exam with the second highest score in BPD history, but the higher ups didn’t think it was a good idea with my impairments, one real, one preconceived. I was almost 32 years old and wanted to be a detective, not just a desk cop. Like everyone else, I wanted to catch the serial killer and believed that we had to think outside-the-box. Ted thought the same way, my colleagues thought otherwise. I said I was interested and agreed to meet later at his apartment. 

The Gin Joint Cafe was a 1930’s movie-themed restaurant concentrating mostly on Casablanca and other Humphrey Bogart movies. Framed posters hung on brick walls. The dark, oak wood floor and bar were buffed to a high shine, accentuating the nicks and scuffs that had become part of the bistro’s charm. The square wood tables were covered with red and white checkerboard linen tablecloths with matching wood chars. An upright piano was against the left wall. We found a corner table which allowed us to watch the entire cafe without being too conspicuous, Ted sat facing the door. The current wave of nationalism made him proud of his African American heritage. The recent verbal attacks telling him to Go back to Africa and Get the hell out of the country, or else, taught him to grow eyes in the back of his head.

A waitress came over. Ted ordered a coffee and bialy. I ordered a coffee and a bagel with a schmear.  

Thank you. Did you know Inez Quintero? asked Ted when our food came a few minutes later.   

The waitress eyed Ted, then turned and fled. A few minutes later, a large, athletic man with clenched fists stood in front of us, blocking most of our view of the cafe. You got ten seconds to tell me who you are and why you asked about Inez. 

I looked him up and down, ogling his well-muscled body. What’s the problem? I asked.

The man responded. Ted translated in sign language. Showing my identification, the man unclenched his fists. 

I’ve already talked to the police, and so have all my employees.

We are invited guests of Mayor Ratched, Chief Lestrade, and the Antelope Springs Police Department to assist in the investigation of the murders, Ted translated as I signed my response. My name is Alex Gershwin, and this is my assistant and interpreter Ted Alis. Are you the owner?

Yes. I’m Jack Straw, he sighed. Sitting in an empty chair, he asked, How can I help you? 

I was sitting across from Ted and Jack.  Tears were beginning to form in the corner of Jack’s eyes.

How long did Ms. Quintero work here? 

About a year-and-a half.

Were you having a relationship with her?

Yes, it was in the open. The other employees knew.

How long? Did anyone else know?

We’d been seeing each other for a little over a year. She was going to move in with me next week, now that she graduated from UAAS with a Master’s in Applied Criminology and had a job lined up with ASPD. She had been interning with them for about two months. Neither of us told our families.  We felt it would be better to break it to them slowly.

Do you know which department?

‘She was going to be a Crime Analyst."

Do you know if she was working on the previous murders?

She never talked to me about her work. I didn’t want to know. I’m a bit squeamish about those things.

Was there any jealousy among your staff because of the relationship?

There were a few instances, but it always seemed to work itself out. I treat all the staff with respect and appreciation. I didn’t give Inez any special favors if that’s what you’re implying. There was only one time I had to fire someone over the situation.

Who was that?

Stag Lee. A former waiter.

Was he jealous of you or Inez?

Me.

Did you-?

No! I’m straight! Jack blushed. I stared him down, waiting for the truth.

Okay, okay. Christ, he blurted out. You do that better than my mother. Just once. I was curious. But we agreed that was it. I didn’t have issues with him until about six months later, when I started seeing Inez regularly. He found out and threatened to tell the rest of the staff. We decided to tell them first. Some of them quit and the others just shrugged it off.

Do you have Mr. Lee’s address?

I heard he moved. I only have his address from when he worked here. I can get that for you.

Do you make it a common practice to have sex with your staff? Have you ever threatened their jobs?

No. Nothing like that. Most of them come on to me, including Stag. Inez was one of the few that didn’t.

And you just give in? Jack blushed again. Do your families live out of town?

Jack nodded, exhaling deeply. He was grateful for the abrupt turn of questioning. Yes. I’m from Wichita. Inez is from Los Angeles.

Thank you, Mr. Straw. We’re going to need the names and phone numbers of all the friends that knew about your relationship with Inez. Also, please let your staff know we will be contacting them.

Jack left the table, returning a few minutes later with the list.

One last question, Mr. Straw. Are you the sole owner of this cafe?

Jack nodded in surprise. I have a secret partner that no one knows about. Not even Inez. 

Can you give us the name?

Liz. Elizabeth Reed.

We finished our breakfast and strolled out, arm-in-arm. Ted and I are not lovers. Our attraction goes beyond anything physical. I’ve wanted to bring the subject up, but I was afraid of losing our connection. Before Ted, I never had any use for soulmates, twin flames, or any of that higher plane, kindred spirit stuff.

I don’t know what I’d do without him. He takes care of all the IT and tangible elements, leaving me the time to do what I do best. Investigate and solve crimes. When we caught the Baltimore Serial Killer using his program, it caused quite the stir and widened the gap between me and the other officers, especially the Detectives. 

The sun was shining, but still nippy for the middle of June by the time we left The Gin Joint.  The first thing I noticed was the air was clean, even downtown. The sky was like polished sapphires with a few puffs of white marble clouds gallivanting in the breeze. The same mountains I had seen entering the city rose upward, the emerald green tree line giving way to gray peaks aspiring to kiss the sky.  I stopped, looking in awe at the panoramic vista around me. I wasn’t in Baltimore anymore. 

Wanting to get a feel for the city, we wandered in and out of the local shops. It was tourist season and I learned there were three types of tourists. People who came up from the southern part of the state, also known as the valley, to get out of the heat; people who came to Antelope Springs to camp either in their motor homes or in actual tents; and people who were cruising through on their way to the Grand Canyon or other natural attractions throughout northern Arizona. 

Different kinds of shops were busy getting ready for the day, unlocking their doors setting out their sandwich board signs or samples of their wares. Coffee bars, clothing shops, a crystal shop, art galleries offering everything from paintings and pottery to photography and little tchotchkes like key chains and animal carvings made of ironwood created by local or statewide artists. I was captivated by the Native American art. Ted mentioned there was a museum just north of town that featured Native American art. I wasn’t sure if we would have time, but I put it on my mental To Do list.

The shop owners looked excited, but worried at the same time. I noticed quite a few empty stores, fire sales, and Going Out of Business signs. The current economy under conservative rule had not been kind to small business owners, especially those in small towns like Antelope Springs where tourism was King. The front page of the local paper had articles about the weather, asking if the drought and higher than normal temperatures would continue, thus causing a higher probability of wildfires or if the monsoon season would bring the needed rain. Articles about global warming, both for and against, abounded on every page. I didn’t understand what monsoon season meant for the locals. I would have to research. The latest killing hadn’t made the papers, yet.

We wandered aimlessly for about an hour. Downtown Antelope Springs shopping district is four city blocks in each direction. I don’t think I would ever get used to the smallness or the absence of hustle and bustle, obliviousness, and disdain that corrupted souls in the bigger cities. 

Ted asked if I wanted to meet the medical examiner whose office was on the other side of town, about ten minutes away, even with the summer traffic. I shook my head, I wanted to go to the hotel and get settled. 

We were staying at the Twin Pines Hotel on historic Route 66. A lot had changed since The Mother Road opened in 1926. The modern lobby was decorated in vibrant greens and golds. The mahogany paneled front desk was topped with a green marble countertop. A young woman of Native American origin behind the desk was waiting on an elderly couple. A glass coffee table with a gold inlay base sat between a reddish-brown leather couch and two matching chairs. A Persian rug covered the green and white ceramic tiled floor.  A restaurant and gift shop were open to our left. We entered one of the four elevators beyond the lobby and pressed the button to go up.

Riding up to the second floor I felt the onset of case takes over my entire being. The murders.  The city. Ted says once I get locked in, it helps keep me focused and keep outside distractions at bay. Glancing at Ted, the ends of his lips were slightly upturned. He felt it also. 

We turned right as we left the elevator. Ted walked me down to my room and gave me the card