When Predators Become Prey: Book One of the Chronicles of the Ghost

By Nephi Nabrotzky

No one knew who he was or where he came from, but someone was doing what the police had tried in vain for over a year and finished the job within 24 hours. There was a new predator in town and he had a taste for killers. Having no clues except for the dead bodies left behind and being warned by their own experts that to hunt this ghost would be not only futile but extremely hazardous to their health, the police have no choice but to relent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 25, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449049652

Nephi Nabrotzky

Following his philosophy that you write what you know, Nephi Nabrotzky uses experiences from his own life to add some realism to this work of fiction. Growing up on a small farm in Midwestern Ontario, he learned the value of hard work from his German immigrant parents. Following his father's example Nephi was a scout master for several years passing his knowledge of the outdoors on to his troop. Encouraged by his parents, Nephi studied Judo under Canadian Heavy Weight champion Reiner Fischer and was an accomplished wrestler during his High School years. For more information about the author and upcoming titles visit: http://www.nephinabrotzky.com/

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© 2009 Nephi Nabrotzky. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/24/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4490-4965-2 (ebk)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-4964-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-4966-9 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009912138

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Cover art done by Shannon Fleury

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Dedicated to my children, Amanda, Leanne and Cody

Special thanks: to my siblings for all their help and moral support

My friends at Greenley’s Restaurant and Boomer’s Cosy Nook for keeping me fueled during writing

Michele Hayes and Jackie Macdonald for their friendship and inspiration

Chapter One 

The Swarm

Jenn woke up with a crushing headache, in a small room that had bright lights and white ceiling tiles. She tried to roll onto her side, only to find that each of her wrists was bound to the chrome railing on either side of her bed. The only sound she heard was the beep of a heart monitor. She smelled clean sheets. How long had it been since she had smelled, let alone slept on, clean sheets? She looked to either side at the bindings holding her down. Buckled leather restraints, lashed to the rails. There was no chance of reaching the buckles to free herself. She leaned back, sighed, and tried to remember how she got here. Search her memory as she might, she could not remember coming to the hospital or an ambulance ride. The last she remembered, she was in a dark room that all of a sudden became too bright to see—like that high-school dance once where the DJ had a strobe and control of the house lights—and the street bum they were following became a wraith who seemed to be everywhere at once. She remembered her posse members falling, one after another, lying on the ground twitching as the life left their bodies. She remembered the whistling the pipes made as they swung through the air, and the crunching noise they made when they connected—not with their intended victim, but with the person holding them. She heard the gurgling of two of her gang members as their throats were cut by the cheap utility knives they had brought to finish off their victim.

They were not new at this. A-Boy had taught them how to take down a victim and leave no witnesses to their hunting activities. It was known as swarming, even though it probably had more to do with the way a wolf pack hunted than how a hive of bees attacked. First to surround the quarry were the beaters. Six of them would completely surround the victim with pipes and clubs. Any outstretched hand or arm earned the prey a vicious swing—more often than not, with devastating contact between flesh, bone, and metal. But the real danger and damage came from behind. While the beaters in front kept the quarry’s attention, the ones behind were able to step in closer and deliver crippling blows to the head, neck, and back of their now doomed prey. They didn’t feel completely confident until their second or third victim, but they had started now to enjoy the look of terror in the eyes of their prey instead of feeling the fear gripping their own hearts. They believed that nothing could touch them. There was strength in numbers. They could take their time. They didn’t need rush to make certain that the victim died before harm could come to any of them. Once the beaters had clubbed their prey into near unconsciousness, the holders moved in, two of them holding each arm as the cutters came up from behind, grasping the victim’s hair, pulling the head back, and each delivering a diagonal slash across the throat, severing not only the windpipe but the arteries on each side of the neck that deliver blood and oxygen to the brain as well. The holders held their semiconscious victim until they felt the whole body go slack and the blood stopped gushing out of the X slashes in the throat. They then would pivot the body out of the blood and lay it down so that they could rifle through the pockets and claim the rewards of the whole exercise. Jenn remembered she was almost sick the first couple of times she had helped as a holder, and the incredible strength the victim seemed to gather just before the last gasp and final gurgle as the final vestiges of life left the body. There was also the smell of blood and, not much later, urine and feces as all of the muscles of the body relaxed. Luckily, most of their hunting happened at night when some of the details of their grisly work were not outlined in color or detail, as they would be in bright daylight. A-Boy had also taught them to make sure they left no evidence behind for the cops to find. They had to make sure that nothing was left to mark a trail back to them. Credit cards, cash, identification, keys—anything they could use was taken from the victim.

All of the major papers in the area had headlined the group’s exploits, adding that the police had no solid evidence as to who or how many people were involved with these crimes. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have suspicions about who was behind the murders. There had been seventeen such crimes in the city. Witnesses were either nonexistent or too afraid of retaliation to testify. Because of the number of cases thrown out of court in the city because of technicalities, cops wanted solid evidence, not only about who was involved in the murders, but also who was ordering them.

Chapter Two 

Protective Custody

A special task force had been set up to deal with gang-related crimes. Two of the cops who were part of the task force coordinating the investigation were standing outside Jenn’s hospital room at the time of her rise from unconsciousness. Jenn was a suspected gang member. She was too young to be a full-fledged member, but most gangs used kids, promising full membership if they fulfilled a probationary period. The cops weren’t sure which of the city’s gangs sponsored this group, and they couldn’t take the chance that the first lead in their investigation of the swarm killers would be snuffed out by full-fledged members of the gang. Orders were that everyone entering the secure room was to be searched, every time and thoroughly. The list of people allowed into the room was short, very short—four names, to be exact. One doctor, one nurse, and the two investigating officers, all known by sight to the guards, having been introduced by the lead investigator to each of the guards personally. Even the guards hadn’t been chosen at random. These were prescreened officers who had been with the force no less than five years and had impeccable records. The city had a history of losing key witnesses, especially in gang-related crimes, because of cops who had either been bribed by the very gangs they were trying to put away, or unknowingly let the wolves in the front door dressed as sheep. In an effort to curb this trend, even turn it around, the city instituted a program that screened protection and investigative officers in gang-related cases. This program was overseen by a small committee that included the mayor, the police chief, and the district attorney. Members of the Internal Affairs section of the police force had been given special investigative powers through a clause of the employment contract that each officer had to sign before receiving a badge and a gun, allowing Internal Affairs to look into the finances, extracurricular activities, and family ties of each officer.

After fifteen years on the force, Don Headle had seen his past come under intense scrutiny more than a few times. He had drawn his Glock 9mm six times while on duty, each time with deadly results. Most people don’t realize just what a police officer has to endure when a life is ended by a bullet fired from his gun. The paperwork is only part of the ordeal. Makes a guy wish that all of his perps were made of paper, clipped on a rack, back fifteen yards with circles and ovals drawn on it. At least those don’t have families or friends to sue, threaten, or revile you. Plus you can pump as many rounds into them as you want and not have to clean up a mess. Because of his arrest record and actual reluctance to draw his weapon unless absolutely necessary, Don’s name was at the top of the admittance list. Not only had he gone through the filing of complete and detailed reports after each of his clean shoots, but he had aced IA’s scrutiny for this task force as well. He was the city’s top investigator, and his specialty was gang-related crimes, an area that was given top priority by not only the chief but the mayor as well. As lead investigator, Don had been given the task of finding and rounding up the Cherry Picker gang, as the media had taken to calling them after their first victim’s cherry red Ford Mustang convertible had been taken for a joyride, smashed, and then abandoned. The victim had been only sixteen, driving the car—given to him by his father—for the first time. This only added to the cherry handle. The victim was found dead in the trunk of his own car, beaten, with his throat slashed.

Don’s partner on the case was Ethan Hirsch, a ten-year member of the force. His name was number two on the list, and they were both on the way to make sure their list was being adhered to, and to check on their first solid lead in six months. It was believed this particular gang was active. Both detectives were eager to finally put some closure to this case, since it seemed that someone else had already put the gang out of commission. Thanks to an alert subway driver who had seen the open door of the service room and radioed the subway office about it, they were able to arrive within half an hour of the gang’s demise. Last night had been a long one with a lot of questions answered, but just as many if not more new ones raised. Someone had not only found the gang, but had eliminated them without all the red tape and regulations that cops had to endure. There was no evidence left behind except dead bodies and the weapons the gang members brought themselves. It seemed that each gang member was killed with either the weapon or method they used on their own victims. The slashers had been slashed, the beaters had been beaten, and the holders had been held—mind you, a little too hard, and by the shoulder and chin. Crushed windpipes would have taken a while to kill these victims, but the broken necks sped up the process by a couple of minutes at least.

The killer must have been very fast and very strong, skilled in hand-to-hand and weapons combat, and just as deadly with either hand. Answers would obviously have to not only include information about the Cherry Picker gang and its sponsors, but this mysterious killer as well. Cops did not like gangs, but they detested vigilantes even more. It was not so much a matter of turf, but that there is a reason the police have to follow so many protocols when investigating a suspect. There was less chance of convicting the wrong person, and the punishment for the criminals was not decided by the investigator but by a judge or a jury. History is full of accounts of the wrong people being killed for crimes. So, tired as they were, there was an urgency and spring to the detectives’ steps as they walked down the hall to the protective custody room at the end of the hall. The room had been chosen to be on the end of a long dead-end hallway to give the officers on watch at the door as much time as possible to determine if the person or persons approaching were a threat to their charge or not.

In this case, it didn’t take long for Officers Stan Burns and Matt Rodman to recognize that the two guys in suits approaching were numero uno y dos on their list. This wasn’t their first time on witness guard duty, and the pair had taken to flipping to determine who got to frisk the police staff and who got to frisk the hospital staff. Stan had lost the last coin toss, so he was the one who had to frisk the detectives. No weapons of any sort were allowed in the room, and this included cops. They were taking no chances. Don and Ethan each handed over their 9mms.

As Matt kept one eye on the corridor and the other on first Ethan and then Don, Stan frisked and disarmed first Don and then Ethan.

They’re clean, announced Stan as he finished his weapon search.

The folder Don was carrying had no paper clips or staples in it, so it was passed as well. The photos inside were gruesome, as most murder scene pictures are. Stan knew better than to ask questions; his job was protection only and did not extend to investigating the case. Don and Ethan had each submitted to the frisking and disarming without protest. They had already had more than one case thrown out for lack of evidence when the key witness had been killed or silenced because of sloppy cops on guard duty. It actually pleased them that these two were taking their duties seriously, doing everything by the book and intelligently as well. Matt’s attention to the hall and the investigators while Stan was doing the hands-on duties did not go unnoticed by either detective. Both decided in their own heads that they should give the chief a heads-up about the diligence of these two officers. Both also silently congratulated Matt for winning the toss, knowing full well that he would be the one frisking Dr. Katt Howell and Nurse Julie Evans. Funny, the games cops play to pass the time and stay fresh when they have a boring duty to perform. This wasn’t a stakeout, so binoculars and a curtain-less bedroom window wasn’t going to help it here, but every once in a while the job had its perks.

Page Dr. Howell, Stan, please, requested Don. We need to make sure our patient is physically and mentally fit to answer some questions about her ordeal and how her friends met their end. This was the last thing Don said as he opened the door and slipped into the room.

Has she said anything or made any noises? asked Ethan as he prepared to widen the space left by Don and follow him into the room. They were not supposed to fling the door wide open to enter or leave, for the protection of both the witness and the hospital staff, but while Don did not show the effect of too many doughnuts and delivery pizzas, the same could not be said about Ethan.

Not a peep, answered Matt as he pulled the door closed behind Ethan.

Chapter Three  

The Interrogation

The room had a bed in the center of the far wall and two chairs off to one side. It also had one of those over the bed tables pushed up against the wall. This was the first time either of the detectives had seen Jenn cleaned up. When they last saw her, she was covered in blood, none of it hers. Her hair had been stringy and matted together not only from the blood but from lack of washing as well. The cause of her unconscious state was more evident now that the blood and hair had been cleaned off of her temple. Well, that could use some Vaseline, thought Ethan, the boxer of the partnership, remembering the old boxer’s trick for reducing swelling and bruising, as well as helping the leather of the glove slip off the skin instead of tearing it during a punch. Don and Ethan pulled the chairs to the bottom corners of the bed and sat down.

Jenn’s eyes were open, but not that well-focused as she looked from one detective to the other and back again. Her arms tested the restraints again. She looked like a trapped animal, and both officers could tell that they were the last people she wanted to be confronting at this time. While there was no growling or snapping going on, they weren’t sure that wouldn’t happen if either of them came too close or tried to touch her. Don spoke first, and Ethan knew that he would be the only one talking for a while since they wanted to calm Jenn down and build a rapport with her before the real interrogation began. They didn’t want her to be shifting her attention too much at first, which would only confuse and disorient her.

We have paged your doctor to make sure you are properly cared for and in no danger while you are here, and while we are here with you, said Don. "We want you to know that while you are here, you are safe. No one but us, your doctor, and your nurse are allowed in here. We have a few questions to ask you before your doctor gets here, though. Since you were found with no ID, your chart lists your name as Jane Doe, and it will stay that way until you leave. However, we are pretty