The Other Side of the Tracks: Uncollected Anthology: Conjuring Crimes

By David H. Hendrickson

Detective Jack McTavish takes every murder on his watch personally. Even the ones "upstanding citizens" consider a cleansing of the city's mean streets.

 

Tough as nails, he's seen it all. Nothing knocks him off his game.

 

Until the investigation into Katrina Stuart's savage murder shakes even McTavish to his core.

 

Another gripping tale by award-winning master of mystery, suspense, and fantasy, David H. Hendrickson.

 

"A fantastic writer, one of our best working right now."
   - Dean Wesley Smith, USA Today bestselling writer

 

"David H. Hendrickson is one of my favorite writers." 
   - Kristine Kathryn Rusch, USA Today bestselling writer

• Language: English
• Publisher: David H. Hendrickson
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201033378

Book preview

Detective Jack McTavish takes every murder on his watch personally. Even the ones upstanding citizens consider a cleansing of the city's mean streets.

Tough as nails, he's seen it all. Nothing knocks him off his game.

Until the investigation into Katrina Stuart's savage murder shakes even McTavish to his core.

Another gripping tale by award-winning master of mystery, suspense, and fantasy, David H. Hendrickson.

A fantastic writer, one of our best working right now.

- Dean Wesley Smith, USA Today bestselling writer

David H. Hendrickson is one of my favorite writers.

- Kristine Kathryn Rusch, USA Today bestselling writer

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About the Uncollected Anthology

About the Author

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Full Table of Contents

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The Other Side of the Tracks

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Patrol cars block off the empty street, their blue strobe lights pulsing through the midnight darkness, yellow crime scene tape cordoning off the two blocks to the train station. Overhead, streetlights cast their hazy, eerie orange glow. The sidewalk, stained with pigeon droppings and littered with crumpled paper bags and coffee cups, smells of urine, feces, and blood. A sour taste floods my mouth and the back of my throat. My knees pop and my suit jacket flares out as I crouch down for a closer look.

Pointing the beam of my heavy-duty flashlight on her face, I stare at the ghastly remains of Katrina Miller. In life, she was anything but pretty. She had the rotted teeth and acne-riddled face of a meth head. Distant, sad brown eyes. Tangled, black hair that hung limply to her shoulders. An emaciated figure, little more than skin and bones.

But now… ghastly.

I fight back the instinctive rumblings in my gut as I take pictures with my phone. Never in my two decades on the Bleektown Police Force—hard decades on our city’s mean streets that ended both of my marriages, turned my hair gray with streaks of premature white, and put me on high dosages of blood pressure medication despite my scrawny build—have I seen anything like this. And I’ve seen a lot in this fucking cesspool.

Katrina’s face, arms, and back have been shredded, carved into inch-wide ribbons. Fist-sized chunks of her neck and shoulders have been ripped out. Her blood has been sopped up somehow though it still stains