The Bloody Incubus

By Sam Fluharty

Angel Vierra is a maverick who is too smart, too tough and too ethical for his own good. As the city of Detroit deteriorates around him, his mission of solving murders becomes impossible. When the Bible in Blood serial killer begins a spree of bizarre doubles, Vierra catches the case, but can he catch the killer?

As a Green Beret and a cop, Angel Vierra has stared into the eyes of the dead and their killers. However, his biggest problem is women ---the more gorgeous they are --- the bigger the problem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499060447

Sam Fluharty

Sam Fluharty flew a gunship in Vietnam and earned the DFC for Valor and the Purple Heart. He has made and squandered several fortunes in four diverse careers. Sam says, Ive always had a paperback in my jeans, flight suit, briefcase or on my Kindle, and a novel like Rite of Revenge in the back of my brain planning its escape. Mason Foxx is Archie Goodwin, Travis McGee, Lucas Davenport and of course, Sam Fluharty. Youll be pulling for him.

Book preview

N O T I C E

A s Mark Twain did so effectively in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn , the author has inserted the N word in the dialog of African-American characters in order to portray an accurate soundtrack of their colloquial street dialect. The ever popular F-word and the ubiquitous MF combination are incorporated in the dialog as nouns, verbs gerunds, adjectives and adverbs, as well as other commonly used non-grammatical idioms. The author presents this caveat and rationale at this point in the work, and states that no racial insult is intended.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodies in a critical article or review.

TWO PROFOUND TRUTHS

Thou shalt not murder.

Exodus 20:13 and Deuteronomy 5:17 [KJV]

. . . For premeditation the killer asks himself the question, Shall I kill him? The intent to kill aspect of the crime is found in the answer, Yes I shall. The deliberation part of the crime requires a thought like, Wait, what about the consequences? Well, I’ll do it anyway."

Wayne LaFave,

Professor of Law Emeritus

PART ONE

The Dead of Winter - 2013

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Mother, Mother there’s too many of you cryin’

Brother, Brother, brother there’s far too many of you dyin’

What’s goin’ on? What’s goin’ on?

Marvin Gaye

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CHAPTER ONE

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D etroit 911, is this an emergency?

Oh, god, yes!! This the biggest ’mergency I ever had!!! They bof’em dead!

The calm female dispatcher, who had heard everything in her career -— and believed little of what she heard -— said in a bored, monotone,

Name and location.

Sequins. I at Jomo the Mojo’s house… and they took it all! I need some shit bad. . .

The operator interrupted. Sequins? Need your real name and your last name.

Williams. Sequins my real name… You gotta get me some shit! They’s dead and the house is cleaned out!!!

The dispatcher checked her computer for the name Sequins Williams and got a hit. Sequins had an outstanding felony warrant. The quick thinking dispatcher also ran the name Jomo the Mojo and got two hits. Jomo Kenyatta Baker was a major crack dealer. The monitor also showed a GPS on the northeast side in the middle of Crack House Estates. Processing everything that she had heard from Sequins and the data on the monitor, the savvy operator put faux concern in her voice and said, Okay Ms. Williams I’m sending patrol officers to your location. Stay there until they arrive. They will help you.

Sequins took comfort in the woman’s words and emphasized her need. Tell’em hurry and bring me some shit!…Smokin’ this Spice I boosted outa the gas station. Ain’t doin’ it fo’ me. Jomo is dead!

The operator clicked and sent the three warrants to the FAX machine that propelled them digitally to an IRAT team.

Sergeant Angel Vierra had two months to go on his twenty. He was a member of the federally funded Immediate Response Apprehension Team (IRAT) of the Detroit PD. He drove through the ruts of the ice covered street that had no sign of life other than a pack of feral dogs that looked hungrily at the unmarked SUV as it rumbled down the blighted block. His partner, a rookie named Rafe Dixon, pointed to a home with barred windows and a new out-facing metal door standing somewhat straighter than its forlorn neighbors. No vehicles were parked in the front yard or in the snow drifted driveway.

Vierra stopped and called in his Ten-Twenty-Three saying wryly to Dixon, If we buy it here, at least they’ll know where to find our bodies. We have no back-up. You wanna do this?

Drawing his big Glock, Dixon yelled as he jumped out, No guts -— no glory! C’mon old man!

The two had taken risks before, without discussion. Dixon sprinted to check the back of the house as Vierra trudged through the snow, his eyes scanning the area, his own automatic at his side. He followed a single set of footprints careful not to disturb them. The front door opened exposing an emaciated woman with deep set eyes the color of her dirty red hoodie, who demanded, You got somethin’ fo’ me?

Sequins Williams? barked Vierra.

When she nodded, he ordered, Close the door! Step out here!

After the door closed, Vierra advised her of her rights, patted her down, and cuffed her. He was arresting a known felon. He could have used the arrest to justify a more thorough search of the woman, however, he found nothing in the pat down that was hard or sharp on the skin and bones woman that was likely to be a weapon. He took her iPhone out of the front slash pocket of her greasy hoodie. She cursed and sobbed, You gotta understan’! I’m crackin’ up here -— I need some crack!!!

Vierra guided her stick-figure body to the SUV. Before he got his prisoner into the back seat he heard the door of the crack house open and his partner retching on the front stoop. He shoved her in, threw the iPhone in the front seat and closed the door. He ran back to the porch.

Dixon, a very big and very black young man, looked pale. He blurted, Two of ’em dead. God, it stinks!

Angel Vierra, who had spent twelve years in homicide, felt a jolt of adrenaline. He asked, Is it clear?

Rafe Dixon choked out a laugh toward the open door and stated flatly, No threat from those dudes.

Vierra followed his nose to a bedroom where a propane space heater had warmed the small room to at least 90 degrees. The bodies of two black males, whose sphincter muscles had relaxed, were on a dirty double bed mattress that lay flat on the floor. Each had a visible bullet wound. One was shot in the temple. The other vic’s wound was perfectly centered between his wide-open brown eyes.

38s. Vierra thought.

The bodies were flat on their backs with arms at their sides. The shorter of the two was lying across the chest of the much taller man whose huge feet hung over the edge of the mattress by almost a foot. Vierra pondered the arrangement. Incredulous, he questioned the stifling stinking room. A cross?

Although Sequins had obviously rifled their pockets, she had not disturbed the macabre arrangement. On the dingy wall directly behind the bodies Vierra saw some dark reddish purple scribbling that appeared to be blood. He stepped around the corpses and examined the markings. Initially they made no sense because some of the symbols had run before drying, but after a minute he was able to read: Rom 6:23.

He took out his iPhone and shot several pix. Planning to return to the murder scene, Vierra went back out to the porch. Dixon looked better. However, the situation looked normal for the moribund Detroit Police Department. Angel Vierra with twenty years of history, and Rafe Dixon were part of a special federal grant program to get known criminals off the street. The funding demanded that they respond immediately as they had done to this bizarre scene. However, patrol officers and homicide detectives would not be so prompt.

Vierra ordered his young still bilious partner, Dix, take her down to the precinct. Warrant’s in the basket. I’ll stick until patrol can get here to secure the scene. Get your young ass back here as soon as you can. Bring me a large coffee.

A patrol car arrived two hours later. Dixon returned in three and the IRAT team was back in action. A solo homicide detective would arrive six hours later. After a cursory inspection -—cut short by the stench in the room– she would conclude that the two victims were dead by violence.

Angel Vierra, a recovering homicide detective, had time to examine and record the gory details.

The floor of the bedroom was littered and rustled with roaches -—both of the marijuana and insect varieties. Empty bottles and soggy condoms along with the remains of countless fast food meals and pizza feasts competed for space in the small room with the mattress. It would be impossible to trace any of the debris to anyone, thought Vierra, even if the Detroit PD still did such things as seen on CSI. Mud and ice tracks covered the floor. Vierra tried to identify the petite feet of Sequins Williams, whom he knew had just trod the scene, but was unable to do so.

The experienced former detective carefully tried to raise the arm of the top victim to determine if rigor mortis had set in. The joint worked without the telltale stiffness. But this proved nothing since the temperature in the room would make time of death by checking the body temperature impossible also. Fresh snow had fallen late last night and had covered all but the desperate tracks of Sequins Williams.

He looked at the putrefying remains of the two young men arrayed in the unmistakable formation of a cross, and at the obvious reference to a bible verse on the wall and shook his head.

As he left the room, Vierra stepped on a copy of a Gangsta Rap comic and felt something hard and small beneath it. He knelt and lifted the corner of the thin book. In the dim light, he saw a glint of silver. A spent cartridge. He used his Bic pen to slide it into a plastic evidence bag. A .380. he declared, content.

When he got home, Vierra had time to shower and toss a salad in time for the early 5:00 news. The official line from the Department was that Jomo Baker and a known associate had been shot in their east side crack emporium. The entire inventory of drugs and cash had been cleaned out. Conclusion: Turf battle between competing drug gangs.

Vierra punched the remote and proclaimed to the black screen and his empty condo, Bullshit!

He’d had to use the Internet to find what the writing on the wall meant, as his wife had taken the family Bible with her after the divorce. He read the text of Romans 6:23: The wages of sin is death.

An hour later, Vierra tuned in to the local NBC affiliate’s report. As he had expected the lead story was Jomo the Mojo’s execution. And, as he had hoped, the reporter on the scene was Crimson Sturdivant, the hottest thing on the tube. She was telling a different story: Detroit Police are going to do two things with this case: First, if they are looking at all, they are looking in the wrong places for people who didn’t do it -—other drug dealers. Second, after a haphazard walk through of the scene, they will wait in vain for someone to confess. If no fool comes forward, they will try to stack the file on a mountain of other unworked cases. Actually they are pleased to have Jomo the Mojo and his gang -—the Mau Maus–out of business and off the street. Believe me, channel four viewers, these murders are not part of the city’s epidemic of drug related violence. I will not, I assure you, ignore this case!

Vierra muted the sound and gazed at the screen. Crimson was notorious as a true under cover reporter. Every man in the city and suburbs had fantasies about her. She flaunted her statuesque body to the point that one reviewer had called her stories much anticipated soft porn. She had done under cover stories posing as an applicant for a job at Hooters and as talent for a porn producer. She received lucrative offers for both gigs, but more interesting were the tapes of both men who made their offers contingent on her performing certain acts in exchange. She had no compunction about using her sexuality to gain an exclusive. She admitted it after she uncovered corruption within the disgraced former mayor’s office. Her shameless confession of how she had gotten the scoop was a bigger story than the original one.

His cell phone rang. He plucked it off his belt and said, Hell.

Angel loved his first name. He pronounced it On-hell. In his younger days, he would say, I’m no angel. And then prove it to whoever had given it the Anglicized pronunciation. On the cops his sobriquet was, of course, Hell. Crimson purred, Ooooh, my angel from Hell! I so need a bike ride, she declared with obvious pleasure. Sturdivant was referring to a motorcycle trip and tryst they had taken last summer when she wanted and got a story on gross negligence in the Detroit PD’s crime lab. Vierra had justified his leak on two grounds. She had been worth it; and the lab was an unmitigated disaster. Crimson’s story had prompted the Michigan State Police to take over the lab. It had cost him his beloved slot on Homicide Squad One. He was transferred to IRAT as a punishment by the Department

He replied, thinking of her overpowering sexuality, You’ll have to wait ’til May, but I’m revving up for you!

Good man! Let’s talk about Jomo.

At 8:30 she whirled into his foyer with a blast of cold air. She shrugged off her long black leather coat and stood before him gloriously naked, except for her spike-heeled black boots. He hadn’t seen her in the flesh for seven months. As usual, he found it difficult to breathe or speak. Crimson was almost six feet tall with a luscious full figure covered by creamy pale skin and topped by jet black hair. She had anthracite gypsy’s eyes that had seen too much, that now saw all. However, they only reflected his face. Angel, a perceptive reader of his fellow beings, was never able to fathom those doll’s button eyes. Vierra always heard the Eagles accompanying her entrance:

"Raven hair and ruby lips,

Sparks fly from her fingertips.

Ooooo Hooooo Witchy woman,

See how high she flies,

Ooooo Hoooo Witchy woman,

She’s got the moon in her eyes!"

He caught his breath and challenged, You don’t even know what I’ve got. Maybe it’s not worth it, he taunted.

Oh Hell, you underestimate me. I talked to Dix. He told me that you were there for hours with your phone. I know what you’ve got. Do me right now -— right here!

Yes, ma’am!

After a fantasy fulfilling quickie, Angel delivered. As he showed her the pix on his flat screen, he explained.

If this were a gang hit, there’d be fifty holes in the walls and brass all over the floor. And Jomo and his Mau-Maus would have surely taken some of ’em down, so there’d be more blood.

Angel sat back in the swivel task chair and said out loud, How’d the shooter get in past all the weapons and security these assholes always have?

Crimson did not answer his question. Instead she asked, Did this Sequins person say anything about who. . .

Vierra interrupted, No. She was only interested in scoring some crack -— like the woman in Florida who called 911 when they didn’t have McNuggets at McDonalds.

You’re sure? Maybe she saw something or someone. Or, do you think the homicide people found anything -— you know, clues, evidence. He shook his handsome head, First of all the place was a sty. Second, -—as you reported -— they didn’t look. You’re not gonna solve this, Crim.

Crimson glared at his challenge. She took the flash drive and patted his muscular bronze shoulder. You’re the Man, Hell. Thanks for the frolic and the scoop. I must leave now. Edit and compose my story for the eleven o’clock report. She swirled out the door without looking back at him.

Crimson was born in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1982. She was thirteen when the Serbs began their ethnic cleansing of her homeland. She watched the animals murder her parents and four younger siblings before they raped her. Beaten and left for dead, she was found by a CNN stringer, Grace Sturdivant. Grace brought Crimson to the U.S. and gained legal custody of her.

Crimson took her guardian’s last name and followed her path to a career of journalism. Her first job after graduating from the Media School at Michigan State was for an ABC affiliate in Traverse City. She covered the cherry pit spitting contest and the ice fishing festival on the bays. Crimson moved up to Channel Four in Detroit with the expectation of the next step to LA, Washington, or New York. She had a plan that she was executing with frigid resolve.

The photos of Jomo and his homey, Milton the Stilt Harris, arranged like a cross and the blood writ of scripture along with Vierra’s expert analysis, was the lead story for two days. Crimson’s black eyes shone with fury over the atrocity and the department’s conscious failure to investigate the crime. No comment! said the spokesman for the Detroit PD.

Vierra caught the early local news on Channel Four before leaving for work. His cell phone photos had been enhanced digitally and were gory accurate representations of what he had seen. Crimson was spectacular and as he watched, he recalled with pleasure being with her just nine hours earlier. He never asked about the linguini like scars on her back and buttocks, or about the ugly craters left by cigarette burns. He was always gentle with her even though she was a wild and hungry handful.

By noon the shit had hit the fan. Although the station had received dozens of calls from viewers applauding Crimson’s story, the Detroit PD was screaming. How had she obtained the crime scene photos? Who was her source? And, where was the station’s decency and good taste?

Kevin Krause, the news director pulled the pix from the story that ran at noon. Crimson stormed into his office, leaving the door open to the newsroom so that her colleagues could hear them resume their ongoing debate over what was news. She was four inches taller than he was and with her spike heels she towered over him as she harangued, You are such a pussy Kevin!!! You jump whenever they complain. Don’t you realize that is when we’re doing it right?

Krause cowered and stumbled back into his executive chair. He knew that he couldn’t fire her. He had tried that last year when she broke the story on the crime lab. It had won a local Emmy for the station, and the owner loved her. As she continued to curse him, he did not regret that he had begun a campaign to have her hired by an out of town station. He fell back on his tired response, Crimson, we’re not a tabloid. She shot back with patent disdain for Kevin and his opinion. The hell we’re not! I’m the reason -—my stories– for our ratings -- number one in the market. And by the way, all of my stories are well sourced. I’m just shining the light on incompetence, hypocrisy and corruption!

We need to support the community, not tear it apart. Can’t you just tone it down? he whined in response.

Crimson glared and laughed at him. He took in a breath and blew it out, I’m warning you, Crimson. She laughed in his face and declared, You can’t fire me. Are you going to sic your fag husband on me?

Please leave! he stammered.

At the threshold of his corner office she turned, Kevin, short men with pot bellies should not wear low-rider skinny jeans!

Stifled laughter from the newsroom.

CHAPTER TWO

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V ierra paid close attention to the perky local weather gal as she jiggled through her report of the morning’s frigid temperatures and the even lower wind chills of five below. She smiled into the camera, displaying her predictable overbite, as she reported that the storm system had moved eastward and that the metro area would be covered with gray skies and only light flurries.

He punched the remote before the screen went back to New York and the TODAY show. December in Michigan! he pronounced to the dying screen as he thought about the sensuous warmth of Puerto Rico. He drained his mug and declared, Well, at least I’ve got the coffee, referring to the beans that his mother sent him. He loved the process of grinding and blending them into his morning brew. Each mug was a palpable memory of his roots.

As he pulled on the insulated long underwear, Vierra recalled the oppressive heat in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. He had joined the Army right out of high school with the dream of earning a green beret. He learned to move quietly and kill silently, completing the training just in time for the first Gulf War. Vierra and his special Forces’ comrades had been sent on clandestine missions beyond the limits and boundaries of the U. N. resolutions. In the very short war, he had seen more than his share of brutal combat. He had not been wounded, but Angel often wondered if he carried any psychological scars from his service. He had no regrets. He had enjoyed the challenge and loved his Brothers of the Beret. However, he knew that he had changed, perhaps too abruptly, from a happy-go-lucky kid to an intensely serious adult. Vierra left the Army when his four year hitch was up. He had decided that he did not wish to do it over again in still other lost causes. Although the political and strategic quicksand of Iraq and Afghanistan had proven him right, they brought him little comfort.

In January of 1993 he entered the Detroit Police Academy and the University of Michigan at the suburban Dearborn campus. He graduated number one in his class from the Academy and continued his college education at night for the next five years.

Angel completed his wardrobe with twill cargo pants and his O. C. field jacket. He adjusted his black watch cap to cover the tops of his ears and went into the garage where his F-250 idled smoothly as it warmed itself up. Angel looked out the open double door of his garage into the frigid dark morning and recalled his father’s lectures on the care of the internal combustion engine. His dad had been an engineer with Chrysler. As was his habit, he lovingly patted the saddle of his Harley Road King that sat waiting for the sun to come out.

Vierra was heading into the city later this morning because he knew that he would be called on the carpet for leaking the pix to Crimson. The IRAT cops usually came in for duty at about 6:00, in that the criminals always slept in. However, the management types came in to work at 9:00. He intended to complete some overdue paperwork while waiting for the ‘forthwith order’ to report to the department’s high command. He cruised down I-75 going with the flow of suburban commuters who wisely spent only the daylight hours in the dying city. An undulating column of shiny expensive SUVs and luxury sedans moved through the drab gray expressway, their drivers sipping coffee and listening to traffic reports, while ignoring the decaying despair on both sides of their route. Angel Vierra, with twenty years on The Job knew it all too well. The relentless rush hour traffic and gallons of thawing brine had completely dissolved the four inches of snow that had covered the tracks at Jomo’s house. The endless stream of headlights reflected off a depressing gray shimmering surface and illuminated the brindle brown spattered snow drifts on the shoulders of the expressway.

Vierra was midway between McNichols (Six Mile) and Fenkell (Five Mile) when he noticed that the column was slowing down. His preternatural instincts reacted to the subtle changes in the flow of traffic as he looked ahead. He could see a car pulled over to the right shoulder and a figure standing in front of it. Closing on it he saw that the car’s hood was up and that the person was a blond woman. He also noted that the car did not have a rear license plate. Although the other drivers, mainly male, decreased their speed and rubber-necked to see the woman and the disabled car, none stopped to assist her.

From about 200 yards off, he began to change lanes. He activated his right blinker and tapped his brakes to notify the drivers behind him that he planned to pull over. He could see the woman more clearly now. She was young and slim, shivering in a miniskirt and a light jacket. She was pulling hard on a cigarette and waving at the oncoming traffic. As he passed her, preparing to pull in front of the dead vehicle, Vierra noticed that although svelte, even skinny, she sported a very full bust line and that her jacket was unzipped to display a porn star’s cleavage. When he stopped the truck, Angel killed the engine and put the keys into his front thigh pocket. He took out his Ruger 380 automatic pistol and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He said into his hands free phone, Dial Rafe. His partner did not answer so he left a message detailing his location and the situation.

Exiting his truck, Vierra walked deliberately, appraising his footing on the asphalt shoulder. Angel’s Timberland Hikers crunched over a hard crust of snow that covered intermittent spots of ice. The traffic whizzed past loudly echoing off the massive wall of the concrete canyon. The frigid wind attacked the girl’s bleach blond tresses and her skimpy outfit. Vierra skidded on the ice then stopped about twelve feet from the woman who declared over the din, Oh, god, thanks! Wanna give me a jump? Considering her outfit and look, Vierra took what she had said as a double entendre. He chuckled as he moved back over the icy spot, found solid footing and made ready. He barked at her, Where’s your partner?

The girl glanced furtively to her right back toward the passenger side of the car, then replied, lying lamely, "I’m alone. I need