Crazed Control: A Mike and Myra Novel

By John M. Garzone

This third volume of Mike and Myras continuing adventures begins with a client searching for a missing daughter but leads our daring detectives into situations in which more than one crazed individual play out their insidious plans and put everyone involved in mortal danger. Readers already familiar with our duo will recognize old friends from previous encounters and feel right at home navigating familiar Berkshire venues.
As always, suspense, vengeance and plot twists and turns keep the reader on the edge of his seat!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469110868

John M. Garzone

John M. Garzone lives most of the year in southwest Florida but maintains deep roots and family connections with western Massachusetts. He enjoys spending time with other writers who share their current projects at weekly meetings on the Bradenton campus of the State College of Florida. He is fan of the detective genre in print, on television and in film. He has fun crafting plots and characters for his short stories as well as the Mike and Myra series, including the previously published Crowd Control and Covert Control. All three volumes reflect Mr. Garzone’s deep roots in the Berkshires.

Book preview

CHAPTER #1

The howling wind and pelting snow of the cold December night laid siege upon her rundown apartment. The cold air rushed in beneath and between the unprotected cracks of the poorly insulated structure. Kathy Williams sipped her Captain Morgan and paced the floor; her emotions teetered on mild frustration and gleeful anticipation. Her current lover Ned was forty-five minutes late. She peered out the moistened window but the inclement weather hindered her sight. The rum was giving her a slight buzz. She’d be primed when Ned arrived.

Four months had passed since she left Springfield. She’d arrived in Pittsfield two months ago and was living on a side street just off Lincoln; a busy street with a dubious reputation. She’d not encountered any problems, and enjoyed the fact that her apartment was the only one occupied on the first floor. She didn’t want nosey neighbors. The only company she desired was Ned and the captain. She sat cross-legged on the cool floor, sipping the drink from a plastic cup. When she heard the knock, her small frame bolted to the door. A faint flush and broad smile embellished her attractive face as she flung open the door. In a flash, her smile disappeared as she saw the knife raised high. There wasn’t time to scream. The knife slammed into her throat ripping her larynx, slicing downward, tearing through her trachea and vocal cords. She fell backwards, emitting gurgling noises as the knife was viciously withdrawn from her mangled throat. Tiny gasps escaped from her open mouth as the quick flowing blood gushed from the massive wound onto her fallen body, forming a large red puddle on the barren floor. Her head flopped to one side. Her sightless eyes locked in a dead stare with the bottle of Captain Morgan in the far corner of the shoddy living room.

Ned Black pulled hard on the roach, wanting to be high when he got to Kathy’s place. He couldn’t understand why she never smoked pot with him. All she wanted was the captain; she loved that rum, straight or with coke. It buzzed her. But that was okay. She was hot, with long blonde hair almost reaching her small shapely butt, long thin legs and sparkling blue eyes. Yeah, she was a fox. Plus, she loved sex. Ned was excited as he knocked at her door. There was no answer. He could see the light underneath the door and knew she was home. Where would she go? She didn’t have a car. He yelled, but still nothing. He turned the doorknob and walked into the room.

Kath, where the hell—, he stopped in mid sentence, put his hand to his mouth and gagged. His boot settled into the sticky red liquid that had pooled next to her bloodied torso. Hesitantly he gazed at her lifeless body. Her head and neck connected scantily by shredded flesh; her arms folded neatly across her bloody chest. The long white sweatshirt she wore had turned two toned, maroon being the dominant color. Her hands were positioned upward, the fingers pulsating blood. Once again his stomach churned violently when he realized there were no fingers, just bloodied little nubs. Choking back a scream, he ran out the door. His beat-up Ford fishtailed on the snow-covered street as it sped away, rapidly becoming a blur in the falling snow.

Two days passed before the lifeless body of Kathy Williams was discovered. The owner of the building was in the process of showing the vacant apartment across the hall when he noticed the door partially ajar. According to the local newspaper, the Berkshire Eagle, the police were withholding information per notification of next of kin. There were few details about the death. The brief article reported the police had discovered a young woman’s body at her home and an investigation was under way.

Detective Sam Bates shuffled through the photos of the dead woman. He guessed her age to be between twenty and twenty-five, an attractive young woman, notwithstanding the unflattering photos. Any picture of a corpse, especially one minus most of her throat and fingers wasn’t pleasant to look at. Her deep blue eyes and slightly upturned nose were nestled softly within the pert face and strawberry blonde hair. Her lips a bit too thin, a characteristic he associated with having a short temper. Bates read the autopsy report. The official cause of death listed as suffocation. It could have also read severe trauma or bled to death. The contents in her stomach revealed a large amount of alcohol, no trace of drugs. Bates put the report and his bifocals on the desk. He rubbed tired gray eyes and pushed his hand through his snowy white hair. Already this case was starting to wear on him. Why would someone want to brutally maim and kill this young woman? The body showed no signs of sexual assault, drug activity or forced entry. And, without fingers, there were no fingerprints. According to the seedy landlord, she paid in cash. Her name was Kathy Jones. End of conversation. But he did have something; a neighbor across the street had often seen a car parked late at night in front of the dead girl’s apartment and had jotted down the license plate number. She wasn’t home the night of the killing, but it was the only lead he had. He picked up the uncomplimentary photo of Kathy Jones and said, Who are you, Blondie? Who hated you so, to do this?

Ned Black hadn’t left his furnished room in two days. The sight of Kathy’s dead body a constant image in his troubled mind. He should have called the police right away. But he’d panicked, his first impulse being to get away from the horrific scene as fast as possible. He lit a smoke and puffed rapidly. What if someone saw him at Kathy’s apartment? Would they blame him? What should he do? He felt nauseous and scurried to the bathroom. Just as he came from the bathroom, a loud knocking at his door stimulated the queasiness in his stomach.

He took a deep breath and asked, Who’s there?

Ned Black? This is Detective Sam Bates, Pittsfield police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.

Ned started to sweat profusely. About what?

Detective Bates spoke in a calm deliberate voice. I’m sure we could speak more comfortably if you opened the door and let me in.

Ned began to tremble. He snatched the door open and blurted. I didn’t know what to do! I never saw a dead person close up! And there was so much blood. She looked terrible. I knew she was dead. I panicked and ran.

Detective Bates closed the door behind him. Now calm down, son. Go slow and easy.

Ned paced the floor. I was going to her apartment to see her. We met about two weeks ago and have been spending a lot of time together. When I got there, I knocked on her door but no one answered. I could see the light on in her apartment. I called out and tried the door. It was open and I let myself in. That’s when I saw her. I can still see her, every time I close my eyes. It was horrible. Ned went to the sink, and got some water. His trembling hands lifted the glass to his mouth. The glass clanged against his teeth. Half of the water evaded his mouth and dribbled down his chin onto his neck.

Detective Bates talked and looked older than his 55 years of age. He said slowly, Well, son, your finger prints are all over the apartment. For your sake, I hope you can prove you’ve been there before.

Ned clanged the glass again. I don’t know. Most of the time I was there, it was dark. You don’t think I did that! Some animal killed her. I couldn’t do it. I’m strictly non-violent. Ask anyone. I mean we had a good thing going. Mostly all we did was get high and have sex. I loved our situation.

The slouched detective took a set of handcuffs from his belt and moved close to Ned. Son, you’re going to have to come with me to the station. You’re under arrest for the murder of Kathy Jones. He took a card from his pocket and read him his rights.

CHAPTER #2

Mike Farley had become a successful private investigator. Over the past 12 years, he’d built a respected and profitable business. Crime was always plentiful in his home base city of Springfield. The third most populous city in the commonwealth behind Boston and Worcester, his clientele were many. His connections reached as far west as the Berkshires and east to Worcester. Mike’s dark eyes surveyed his capable staff milling about the office for the start of the week, Myra Lane his faithful cohort and soul mate had just finished stuffing her face with a Twinkie. Paul Stewart the six foot five ex-basketball player from Boston College was noisily downing a pint of milk and his portly office manager, Rick Jansen, was busy preparing the Monday morning caseload. Mike swigged his decaf and said, All right people let’s get started. Rick, what’s first on the agenda?

Actually, we have a light schedule this week.

Hey, that’s a welcomed change, said Myra, popping a stick of Dentyne in her mouth; her saucy face sporting a sardonic grin.

Rick brushed his blonde hair from his forehead. We cleared up the Jenkins case Friday and will be receiving payment imminently. Mrs. Harper wants someone to accompany her to her husband’s office when she confronts him with the photos we gave her.

Mike smoothed his moustache with his thumb and fingers. Paul, you escort Mrs. Harper.

Will do, Mike, replied Paul. "Where and what time do I meet her?

Rick answered quickly. In about a half hour in front of Maggie’s Restaurant downtown. Do you know where it’s located?

Yeah, no problem, I’ve eaten there before. It’ll take me fifteen minutes to get there.

What about the Williams case, Rick? Did any of our leads pan out? Mike asked.

Rick shuffled through his notes. I thought we had a shot with the woman found in Northampton. The age matched, but she was African American. I haven’t had a chance to check the wires for anything that might have happened over the weekend. I’ll do that as soon as we’re finished here. He paused for a moment. A Mrs. Rhymes called late Friday afternoon about a suspected prowler. I called the police dept. and was told she reports something new every day. They have investigated several times and come up empty. They wished us luck.

Did you make a commitment to her? asked Mike.

No. I said we’d get back to her.

Don’t.

Well, Okay then. Rick gathered his papers. That’s where we are as of now.

Paul Stewart stood first, stretching his lanky frame to the max. Time to leave. It might be tough finding a parking place.

Myra had a glimmer in her eye as she walked over to Mike. Well, what have you got planned for me?

Mike looked up at Myra. If this were yesterday, they’d be back in his apartment making passionate love. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, their thoughts were as one. Mike broke the contact and said, Bring me the files on Kathy Williams. We have to come up with something quick. I promised the parents we’d have something by the end of this week.

OK, Boss. Myra went to the file cabinet and caroused through the folders. She was a small attractive woman with an impish demeanor, short brown hair, sparkling brown eyes and a lithe figure. She looked to be in her mid thirties. Actually, she was a few years past Jack Benny’s mainstay. She gathered the file and pulled up a chair next to Mike’s and spread the file on his desk.

He studied the pretty face in the photo staring back at him. Her sparkling blue eyes and long blondish hair reached out to him. "What was our last known sighting of her?

We confirmed she’d stayed at a room on Springfield Street in Agawam.

That’s not far from here. How long ago was she there?

Two months. No trace of her since.

Mike stood and walked to the water cooler. He carried his six feet, one eighty frame well. He returned to his desk, crumpling the paper cup in frustration. What do we know about her habits? Any sign of drugs? Who’d she hang out with?

Myra snapped the Dentyne. She liked to hang with boys and was sexually active. Her other habit was booze. According to her friends, sex and rum were at the top of her agenda… no specific order. The clerk from the motel she stayed at mentioned the room was full of empty bottles of Captain Morgan Rum.

Mike pushed back his white speckled brown hair. I don’t think she’s in the area. She could be anywhere. It’s the same as trying to find a mouse in a woodpile. We need a break.

Did someone say we needed a break? said Rick, scurrying over to Mike and Myra. How about this?

Mike snatched the paper from Rick’s hands and read aloud. Unidentified woman, eighteen-twenty five slain in apartment; Pittsfield, Ma. Mike stared into Myra’s eyes. When was the last we heard from Grasso?

Myra paused. Let me think. It was about two months after our last trip to the Berkshires. He was crying in his beer. He’d lost his seniority and was on the outs with his chief and getting all the lowly crap assignments.

Yeah, I remember. But, after we talked, he admitted he was lucky to still have a job. We thought he did the right thing with Marty’s kidnapping. However, we were in the minority. After all, he did withhold information of a kidnapping involving a fatality.

Myra inhaled a long breath; her small shapely breast strained outward against her stylish Marsh Landing sweater. He was very instrumental in the rescue of Marty and the eventual demise of the kidnappers. I know he was technically in the wrong. You’ve said a hundred times. Sometimes you just have to wing it and hope for the best.

I agree, Myra. But, we don’t sign his checks. AS you recall I offered him a job and he refused. And I certainly don’t begrudge him that. He’s lived in Pittsfield all his life and has roots there. That was his choice and he decided to take his chances. Who knows? Could be he’s back in good standings with the department. It’s been a while.

Well, asked Myra, continuing to give the Dentyne a thorough workout. Are we going to call him?

Hold on a minute. He put his hands behind his neck and leaned back. His taut body pushed against the fabric of his clothes. Maybe, he said, with a sly smile, we can just surprise our trusted cohort. Besides, we may want to keep a low profile. I’m sure you remember we weren’t on the best terms with some of Pittsfield’s finest.

You really think they still hold a grudge? asked Myra replacing her Dentyne. Let’s face it, Mike. We accomplished some pretty good results on the cases we worked in the Berkshires.

No doubt, but I know there are still some hard-asses who remember detective Larry Hand in a different perspective than we do. Sure, we were instrumental in solving the Overway case and Marty’s kidnapping. But old memories are hard to change.

Myra threw up her hands in exasperation. Instrumental! We solved the freaking cases and risked our lives doing it and you have scars to prove it. Don’t get me wrong, Grasso was instrumental but we solved the cases.

Mike smiled, Of course you’re right, Myra. He stood; "Get all the stuff together on Kathy Williams and pack your Twinkies. We’re going to the beautiful Berkshires.

CHAPTER #3

She felt the tightness as lines of anxiety creased her face. Paula Crenshaw parked in front of the Medical Office Building and kept the Explorer running. Sonny would be coming out shortly. She felt apprehensive about today’s session. He’d been doing so well until the last week or so, seemingly regressing back to his troubled times. Sonny would be fine for a period of weeks or months, and suddenly he’d go into his isolation mode, refusing to stay with the program… a program that had a positive effect on him. Paula turned the heat down in her Ford SUV. She tilted the mirror and applied a soft coating of lipstick to her full lips. Briefly, she studied the face in the mirror. At twenty-nine, she’d retained her youthful good looks. Long natural eyelashes accented her misty hazel eyes. A slightly upturned nose and perfect teeth complemented her sensual mouth. She pushed her auburn hair back to the side and returned the mirror to its original position. Paula gazed at the serene setting of the Campus. It had snowed last night and a light covering blanketed the grounds of the Austin Riggs Center.

Over a period of four years, Sonny had been a patient of this open psychiatric and addictions hospital located in the small town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. The center, founded in 1919, offered a spectrum of short-term and long-term programs in an interconnected therapeutic community. Various levels of treatment and living arrangements, from hospital to residential to supervised and unsupervised apartment living were available. Sonny Crenshaw had experienced all of them and was now on the voluntary self-release schedule. In laymen’s terms, he could come and go as he pleased.

Paula gave a short beep on the horn as the door of the building opened and Sonny appeared. He walked quickly to the Explorer, shoulders hunched and head down. He got into the SUV and said nothing. Paula smiled wanly and pulled out of the campus. She drove the Explorer through the center of town past the Red Lion Inn and its piquantly wrap-around porch. A few hearty patrons bundled in colorful quilts took advantage of the sunny December afternoon. At a different time of the year, the porch would be packed with chatty tourists. Quickly the SUV turned left out of town and headed north on route seven. Paula took a deep breath and asked, How was the session today, Sonny?

Okay, replied Sonny, fumbling with his shirt pocket.

Paula raised her voice a cheerful octave. Just OK? What did you discuss?

Garbage as usual, that’s all we talk about.

Come on. You know that’s not true. The sessions are good for you. It’s part of the healing process; we’ve talked about this before. Don’t get down. Give it a chance.

Yeah, he mumbled and extracted a bent Marlboro from his crumpled pack of smokes. He flicked his Bic throwaway lighter and a small flame licked at the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and blew a long stream of smoke at the windshield.

Paula opened her window and was thankful for the cold air rushing at her face, neutralizing the obnoxious cigarette smoke bouncing off the glass. She had a strong distaste for the life threatening cancer sticks. But according to a staff person at the center, it was a crutch he needed. She crinkled her nose and absorbed the tainted air. She would do anything for her only sibling. Paula sighed; she so much wanted the kid brother she’d known before his mental breakdown. Although he’d come a long way in the past four years, she wondered if there was a light at the end of the tunnel. He’d become a bitter person. His troubled mind, in constant conflict with reality, was an ongoing battle of futility. She glanced sideways at him. His physiognomy had changed, and not for the better. His strong handsome face had become gaunt and expressionless. The boyish brown eyes now carried sullen darkness, and uncomplimentary luggage sat beneath them. His warm frequent smile had been replaced with tight closed lips. A once hard compact body now bore semblance to an undersized teenager. Sonny opened his window and discarded his cigarette much to his sister’s delight. Their conversation was minimum at best, as the ride to Pittsfield seemed to drag on endlessly. Sonny leaned back and closed his eyes. Strange thoughts clouded his mind as he clutched the sharp object in his coat pocket.

Detective Tony Grasso had finally made it back. Two years of troubled times under a superior who’d busted him to patrolman and lowly assignments. He’d survived. And although low on seniority, he’d become a detective again. But, according to his new boss, he’d have to take baby steps before being assigned a high profile case. His old boss had retired, but Grasso’s failure to follow proper police procedure in the kidnapping case lived on. It was a blemish, in his other than stellar career, that wouldn’t disappear. Grasso walked to the window of the second floor of the Pittsfield Police Department. He was a big man over six-feet and a firm 215 pounds. He pushed his wavy dark hair back and admired the light snow fluttering aimlessly to the road below. Although he’d been away for a while, he still remained friendly with the other detectives, enabling him to finagle the use of his old desk. It was good to be back. Grasso felt like his old self once more. He would be doing what he did best.

Mike pushed his new jet-black Honda Accord; the first opportunity to see what it could do. He wasn’t disappointed. The short trip from Springfield to Lee seemed extra quick by Mike’s lead foot, thanks to then Governor Jane Swift, the toll still free at this end of the Mass Pike. Mike eased the Honda into the small familiar town and slowly drove through the narrow main street. He drove past Joe’s Diner across the railroad tracks and bore right on route seven heading for the Lenox bypass. Once on the divided highway, the ride was quick and smooth. Soon they were off the bypass heading towards Pittsfield.

Hey, said Myra, popping a stick of Dentyne into her mouth. You notice anything different on this drive?

Don’t jinx us. We’re not there yet.

Oh, Mike, admit it. The construction is over. It’s clear sailing. You have to like it.

Mike smiled, grateful for the lack of obstacles he’d navigated in their previous trips to Pittsfield. They drove past the Luau Hale, the Dakota restaurant and Aster’s. Route seven wasn’t lacking for fine eateries. Rather quickly, the large Berkshire Life Insurance building loomed boldly on the left and within seconds, they passed the stylish Pittsfield Country Club on the right. Mike eased into the left lane at the lights