Be Myself: A Novel

By John Callahan

A wayward yacht came crashing into his secluded dock. Thomas Griffin, a retired tough and gritty New York City Homicide Detective, is faced with a challenging new mystery. His chosen new life is cast aside to prevent a local sheriff from arresting the wrong person.

Many entanglements along the way make this case far more engaging than Thomas could expect. Throughout his search for the killer Thomas moves forward in many directions before he is able to identify the motive for the murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546243946

John Callahan

John Callahan (1951–2010) was a nationally syndicated cartoonist known for his frank portrayals of challenging subjects, in particular disability. Callahan, who became a quadriplegic following a car accident at age twenty-one, drew cartoons that touched upon addiction, ableism, and the absurd. He was the creator of the Nickelodeon cartoon Pelswick.

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© 2018 John (Jack) Callahan. 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.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/31/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4395-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4393-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4394-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906354

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

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

Dedicated

with love…

To my wife, sons, and extended family

PROLOGUE

CREAK-CREAK. The wooden porch gave way under the heavy footsteps of the large man walking to his rocking chair on the front edge of the veranda. The creaking of the ancient porch pierced the quietness of the early morning dawn, while not disturbing the home-based pelicans and coastal birds living nearby on the rocky slopes of Lark’s Cove. They remained at rest. The first rays of dawn beckoned another hot muggy day for Thomas Griffin’s South Carolina cove and its surrounding shores.

This secluded cove with its serene quietness is what first attracted Thomas Griffin to lease this uninhabitable slice of the world. When he first viewed the cove property and the surrounding area he was immediately enthralled with its tranquil whereabouts. It was exactly what he was looking for— a place to be himself and away from people. As a former New York City homicide detective he’d seen enough of people and the misadventures their lives brought with them.

The long and difficult times Thomas spent solving crimes in his forty- some years on the force had taken its toll on his mind and body. During the long hours while in the midst of a violent crime investigation he couldn’t eat or sleep for untold hours— that is, until he found a partial solution to the crime he was investigating. As unimaginable as it may seem to most, his only answer to relieving his built-in tension was to keep a full coffee pot close by.

Now in his elder years, Thomas kept telling himself he was as good a man as he was in his prime, but it wasn’t so. Lately he needed to assure himself he was the man he used to be. Be Myself. He often repeated his adopted slogan to himself. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone except Thomas, but that didn’t matter in the least to him.

The real estate agent informed him of the many unfriendly varmints, creepy-crawling insects, snakes, mosquitos and friendly birds that made their home in and around the only livable shelter in the cove area. Also, the unrelenting heat in the summer months wouldn’t allow Thomas to reside in his new home site year around. Thomas was confident he would be able to handle the mischievous inhabitants of his newfound home as easily as he handled the misfits of crime in his previous life; however, the weather was something he had yet to experience. The long hot and humid summer months were something he was unsure about. During his long career he’d learned to take life in stride, and handle problems as they arose. This was his plan for his new surroundings.

In spite of the many drawbacks of his chosen home, it brought the one thing Thomas sought most— breathing room between him and any human contact. In his long career as the lead homicide detective he did what was expected of him, but it hadn’t satisfied his inner-self. Be Myself was something he always sought, but somehow during his long career as a homicide detective, he couldn’t always make it happen. Each crime the other detectives in the 42nd were unable to solve, he solved with ease. No matter what, he exerted his efforts for a life of perfection. Now, retired, he sought to make the best of his remaining life.

The one room wooden lean-to, veranda, and dock was built from a wrecked vessel nearly a century earlier by an elderly mariner. The lean-to provided little shelter against the elements, but Thomas especially enjoyed the veranda as it overlooked his newly found cove. The retired detective quickly cast aside all the negativity about why he shouldn’t live alone at this isolated cove. While making his decision to locate here, he didn’t care what other people thought about his desire for aloofness. It was the least of his concerns.

He’d left New York City behind to get away from people—get away from all human contact— no matter what. His leaving caused a major disruption in the 42nd homicide division, as his leadership was impossible to replace. When he left, Detective Riley, a longtime rival, rushed in to take his place as the lead homicide detective of the 42nd. This displeased Thomas greatly, but it wasn’t up to him to decide who would fill his coveted position. While considering his many good years of service, Captain Elliot was pleased to see him leave because of the continued disruption his presence caused within the ranks. During his tenure Thomas had broken every regulation possible in his quest to bring down the guilty ones, and generally Captain Elliot would pretend not to notice what his favorite detective was doing to get a conviction.

The real estate agent refused to offer him a yearly lease because all of his previous tenants walked away within weeks of signing the lease. Instead he offered Thomas a month-to-month lease package thinking he wouldn’t stay at this God-forsaken locale for more than a month or two at the very most. Regardless, Thomas accepted the lease while planning to reside at his newly acquired home for the rest of his life.

As the lead homicide detective of the 42nd, Thomas dealt daily with the low-life citizens of New York City for almost a half-century, and now with his forced retirement from the police force, and the loss of his beloved wife, he sought solitude from the many troublesome situations people brought with them.

The snakes and other crawling creatures that inhabited the lean-to and surrounding areas should be forewarned the tough and gritty New York City homicide detective had moved in to stay for a lifetime. No doubt an ongoing battle would ensue, and the winner would surely be Thomas Griffin.

The Coast Guard’s monthly visit on the 2nd of every month would be Thomas’s only living contact with the outside world, which suited him just fine. With their monthly visit they would bring Thomas all the supplies needed for the coming month. This was the new life Thomas chose for his future days. He took a sip of his coffee.

"Bah," he muttered as the bitterness of the brew passed his lips. A few grounds hung on his lips. He brushed them aside with the back of an agitated hand, followed with a well-phrased cuss word.

During his life-long career on the New York City police force he devoured enough coffee to make the Mississippi river overflow, and then some. Every hour spent as a detective, his right hand held a cup of coffee. It was his one and only way to help him think clearly and to make the decisions necessary to get through the many challenging days he faced as lead homicide detective. And upon returning home at the end of a tiring day Rebecca had a full pot ready for him.

And now, ranch coffee, as an Oklahoma cowboy tagged its name a century earlier, was the only way Thomas knew how to brew coffee on his own. A heaping scoopful or so of coffee (mostly unmeasured) drenched overnight in water, and then boiled until the brew turned black, was his total knowledge of making coffee. No matter how distasteful, Thomas drank it daily by the gallon.

CHAPTER ONE

THE WATERS OF LARK’S COVE LAY MIRROR-LIKE reflecting the coming rays of the rising sun in the morning sky. The noisy sea birds remained at rest, not ready to begin their day. Thomas looked over his recently acquired cove, and smiled. (A cove he considered to be his private sanctuary). At last, his favorite time of day had arrived once again.

Since his wife Rebecca passed a year earlier life hadn’t been kind to him. To lose a loved one after so many years of togetherness was difficult for anyone, but for Thomas it had been considerably more hellish for the tough cop to accept. While on the job he worked hard to hide his feelings, but when he was with his chosen partner, his feelings ran deep, unchecked, for his Rebecca, no matter what. The tragic end of their lifetime love affair was extremely difficult for Thomas to accept, and to put aside. As each day passed, it became more arduous for Thomas to move on without his chosen companion by his side.

The year Rebecca became seriously ill from cancer Thomas was forced to retire from the police force for missing too much time while taking care of his beloved mate. The multiple warnings about his absenteeism went unheeded by Thomas until finally Captain Elliot had enough, and told him it was time for him to retire.

Retire! Thomas bellowed at his Captain. There is no way I can retire—and continue to live. You should know this work is my life. Without it, I can’t imagine what I will turn into—possibly a dried up turnip.

His Captain and immediate superior had forged their history together, which dated back some forty years. Oddly enough, they both entered the 42nd Division the same week. Thomas, as the Chief Homicide Detective of the 42nd Division of the New York City Police, shared his daily ups and downs with his lovely wife Rebecca each evening he returned home. Listening to his frustrations about his work— day in day out—Rebecca remained patiently by his side to help him overcome his inability to close a case as quickly as he wanted. Somehow, she understood his frustrations, and was able to calm him for another day on the force. Each case he solved during his years on the force became most important to him.

Detective Riley was promoted to take Thomas’s place as lead detective when he left the force to care for his beloved Rebecca. Being forced to retire, and then being replaced by his archrival, was extremely grueling for him to accept and move on with the rest of his life. Feelings ran deep between the two detectives for years, and often ended up in a physical brawl between the two rivals.

Being replaced by someone who cared less about how justice was dispensed, but one who pursued a lifelong pattern of building up his own self-image was too difficult for Thomas to accept. Through the years, his job had become the core of his life. He knew when he went to sleep at the end of a tiring day he’d done his best to satisfy justice.

His last year in New York City was a nightmare. He was an imperfect caregiver, but he did the best he knew how because his true love for Rebecca ran deep within him. She was willing to go into a care facility to ease Thomas’s daily load, but Thomas would have no part of her leaving his side. Later, without a crime to solve and a beloved wife to care for, Thomas left New York City in deep despair. There was nothing left for him in New York City, and he traveled for weeks and weeks before finding his ideal home for life.

With his move to South Carolina, Thomas found his way to a home away from the big city, and a place where he could put those last stressful years behind him. The transition from solving some of the worst crimes in the largest city in the 48 States to caring for a sick wife was too much… too much… even for Thomas to accept. Leaving New York City behind to capture a new life without the everyday chaos became his one and only desire.

He sipped his coffee and frowned as the bitterness of the brew touched his tongue. He looked over his cove and beyond. He considered his cove to be his private haven, and intruders certainly were not welcome to enter.

The yachts from the northern waters of Chesapeake Bay and southern ports of Florida regularly passed by his cove entrance, but seldom entered it.

The cove had a small entrance because of overgrown underbrush, which discouraged most yachts from intruding. All of the coves on the South Carolina coast were uncharted waters, which discouraged most inexperienced yachtsmen from entering. And Thomas did not welcome visitors to his private cove, because during his service years he’d learned people brought their troubles with them. If a yacht chose to intrude, a blast or two from his shotgun was enough to make them turn around and flee his beloved cove.

He sipped his coffee while enjoying the peaceful surroundings of the early morning. The stillness of the air was a new and welcome beginning to another blistery day yet to arrive. He put down his cup when he saw an intruder at the entrance of his cove. He peered closer. Something different interrupted his usual view, but his tired eyes were unable to make out exactly what it could be.

He hastily rose to fetch a spyglass left by the previous tenant. He rushed back to the veranda and looked intensely toward the entrance of the cove. He saw a medium size yacht with a sail not fully deployed with its bow entering his cove entrance. He returned to the lean-to to get his shotgun. He looked through his spyglass once again, but saw nothing moving on the yacht. Odd, he thought, and knowing a half deployed sail could possibly mean something was amiss onboard the yacht.

Should I help in some way or not? If so— how should I? Came to mind.

He fired his shotgun, not once, but twice. The blast of his shotgun woke the sea birds and pelicans resting on the nearby shores. He watched as the disturbed pelicans rose and flew in a line eastward out of the cove, and the seagulls scattered about. Once again, he peered closer through his spyglass at the distressed yacht. He couldn’t see anyone moving on the yacht, and with its sail not fully deployed, he presumed the yacht was in distress of some kind.

His shotgun, only a threat, was his way to keep people from entering his coveted cove. In a month and a half he had only fired the shotgun twice and it had worked well each time. He watched the listless sailboat for a while until his eye watered too much. The yacht appeared to lay idle in the calmness of the waters at the entrance of the cove.

A fresh breeze arose. In a way, it felt like a warning of an oncoming rainstorm, but Thomas hadn’t heard anything on his air-sea radio about a change in the weather.

He sipped his coffee as he thought about Rebecca, which he often did in his leisure time. The thought of how to spend the rest of his life without her companionship invaded his thoughts. In his time of need his thoughts always turned to Rebecca. And now, alone, he found himself asking for her guidance.

After looking through his spyglass at the distressed yacht for some time his eye watered too much to continue. He laid it down and rubbed his eye. Cursing at his failing eyes he looked to his dock to help clear them. It didn’t help. He rubbed them harder. His eyes had been failing since the car crash he was involved in five years earlier where the flames of the wrecked car scorched the outer lens of his eyes. Since, his eyes were added to the other hurtful injuries he’d acquired over the years.

He would need to deal with the problem of the troubled yacht later if it intruded further into his private Shangri La. Putting his immediate concerns about the yacht aside, he went inside his lean-to to cook bacon and eggs for breakfast before the blistering heat of the day arrived.

Cooking eggs and bacon was the extent of his cooking knowledge. The lean-to was equipped with a propane stove and refrigerator. A single light bulb hung by its cord from the ceiling in the center of his lean-to. The Coast Guard would bring propane monthly to keep Thomas’s stove and refrigerator running.

After removing his four eggs and numerous slices of bacon from the oversize cast iron skillet he placed two frozen slices of bread in the bacon grease to thaw and cook at the same time. It was something Rebecca taught him to do when he came home in the middle of the night. Filling his coffee cup again, he sat and ate. The thought of the wayward yacht slipped unfettered from his thoughts.

This would be the only meal Thomas would cook for the day. His evening meal consisted of two tins of sardines, twelve saltine crackers, and a half-cup of bourbon. A diet Thomas never tired of having. The shelves inside his lean-to were filled with sardine tins. Sardines and saltines were the extent of his evening meals only sometimes he would refill his tin cup with bourbon once again.

He reached for a file from his well-worn file box— a file box that contained the unsolved cases of his lengthy career—cases the retired detective couldn’t let go.

Before opening his favorite file he thought, Be Myself. These few unsolved cases had followed Thomas from New York City to his newly acquired home on the cove.

His heart filled with regrets once again. The unsolved cases of his long distinguished career remained a tiresome reminder of his failures. When Rebecca was living she would tout his successes in an effort to get him to forget about the criminals he couldn’t convict, but deep down Thomas couldn’t find a way to put them behind him.

And now alone…he had time to review each unsolved case more thoroughly.

His hand shook as he searched for the unsolved case that bothered him the most.

Why can’t I put these cases behind me, and move on with my life? He questioned himself. I’ve solved so many cases other detectives have given up on, so why do I continue to question myself about these seven unsolved cases?

Thomas picked up his cup, took a sip, and sighed. Alone, by choice, his past life ran like a herd of buffalos through his thoughts. What can I do about these cases that continue to haunt me? He pleaded aloud.

Thomas sipped his coffee as he paged through his most haunting cases. One by one he reviewed his seven unsolved cases. Alone at his cove with only these failures to work on appeared to be the direction of his ongoing life.

CHAPTER TWO

AND SO WENT THE NEWFOUND LIFE of Thomas Griffin. Nearly a half-century of being the top homicide detective of the 42nd division of the finest police force in the country to now: facing a future life in an aging body, and living in foreign surroundings, Thomas was ready to accept the challenges his future would bring.

These challenges—Would it be too difficult for him, and if so, could it mean his short-lived downfall? Or would something happen in his life to resurrect the man he used to be? Only the future could determine his coming days.

Regardless of his present state of mind he must move forward in a most positive way. He had fought depression at times throughout his life. And now…alone with nothing of value to accomplish, he must find a way to move on with his life. He’d reviewed his seven unsolved cases over and over without a solution of any kind. So why, he asked himself, should I continue reading these cases over and over again?

Out of respect for his long and distinguished service, Captain Elliot had permitted Thomas to take a copy of those seven unsolved cases with him to study and to possibly find the missing clue to bring those criminals to justice. The pain of not being able to close those files during his active career had troubled him greatly, and each case remained a source of unrelenting anxiety for him to overcome, even stretching into his retirement years.

While active, Thomas’s daily assigned cases were more than three detectives could handle in a week. As lead detective he was given the most engaging and baffling cases. When the Mayor’s wife was brutally beaten and murdered he needed to learn to be a politician as well as a hard-nose homicide detective, but regardless of the challenges the dual role presented, the Chief of Detectives handled both tasks with ease, which amazed his Captain and the rest of the detectives of the 42nd.

During his active career, Thomas’s Captain would only allow him to revisit the cold cases on his own time. Since then, during his ongoing review of four of his most troubling unsolved cases, he felt satisfied with his conclusions, but the District Attorney’s office thought differently. They insisted more evidence was needed for a conviction. Those disturbing unsolved cases continued to trouble Thomas as he went about his daily routine at the cove.

A gust of wind slammed his dinghy against the pier. Thomas peered between the opening slats of the lean-to wall facing the cove, and cursed loudly.

If he had the strength he would have removed the dinghy from the water the night before. Bothersome as it must have been, Thomas shrugged his wide shoulders to relieve his pain and frustrations. For now, he had more important things to think about—solve— his unsolved cases.

While eating, he opened his file on the JFK airport case—the most puzzling of all the cases he worked as a detective. During his investigation he had identified the serial killer, but much to his dislike, the case never closed to his satisfaction. In fact, he came face-to-face with the killer, but didn’t have solid enough evidence for the District Attorney to bring him to trial. He closed his eyes to picture the man he knew killed eight people in four years inside the JFK airport terminal.

He shuddered with the thought of what the District Attorney had to say about his efforts to solve such a highly publicized case. Bring me solid evidence and we’ll put him away. So far, you have nothing. I need evidence to convict this man you’re convinced is a murderer, and only you can find that evidence. Go do it, and quit whining on my doorstep.

Thomas closed his eyes to picture the face of the killer. In his face-to-face encounter with the suspect he had grabbed the suspect by the throat while the killer continued laughing at him. He couldn’t shed the killer’s haunting laughter. The killer’s laughing face would pop into his mind, time and time again, regardless of what he was doing at the time.

Thomas didn’t have the four essentials necessary to take the serial killer off the streets of New York—motive, gun, witnesses, and proof the suspect was at the scene of the crime. The judge denied his request for a search warrant of the suspect’s house because Thomas didn’t have enough evidence to justify a search of this kind. However, Thomas had convinced himself the suspect had the guns hidden in his basement. The killer had used a different gun each time, and disposed of it, which made the case more puzzling. He’d reread the file more than a dozen times in an attempt to discover a new clue of any kind. The thought the killer would surely strike again bothered him the most, and if he did murder again, Thomas would blame himself. For some unknown reason the killer had stopped his senseless killings three years ago. Thomas sought the reason, but was never able to come up with an answer. This frustrated him all the more.

He took his cup in hand, and held it so tight his knuckles turned white as he grimaced with the thought he had identified the killer, came face-to-face with him, but couldn’t keep him behind bars for good. He sat back with a heavy sigh to bring the case more into focus.

The dinghy crashed into the pier again.

Damn It! He muttered, as the static of his air-sea radio rose to a bothersome pitch. Thomas pounded on the top of his radio in an effort to quell the static, however it continued to bother him, while the Weatherman continued with his prediction.

The Atlantic storm is twelve miles off the South Carolina shoreline, and should arrive in the vicinity of Lark’s Cove, early Sunday morning.

Thomas set his cup down to plan his coming hours, as he listened to the predicted rain totals and the fierceness of the storm. In his short stay at Lark’s Cove, rainstorms often came at night while Thomas was sleeping.

To date, he hadn’t experienced an extended rainstorm during the daylight hours, but the summer months would surely bring more storms with high humidity to follow.

The past mistakes of the Weatherman fueled Thomas’s distrust of his forecasting. He glanced at the calendar to see when the 2nd would arrive as his supplies were running low, especially the bourbon. He picked up his almost empty bottle of bourbon to check its level. Almost empty! He shrugged his broad shoulders in disbelief with the thought of it.

Disturbed with the thought his dinghy was being badly damaged, Thomas cursed loudly. He used his dinghy during the evening hours as he often paddled himself around the cove, and when he returned he would settle down with a cup of bourbon. After his usual evening on the water, he found it too difficult to drag the dinghy out of the water, and to pull it onto the pier. The bullet still lodged in his right shoulder and the injuries he’d suffered in the car wreck had left his left side severely disabled. As his aged shoulder became more hurtful, his upper arm remained a struggle to use, and his eyes tired easily because the lenses of his eyes were scorched from the flames erupting from his burning car.

He dismissed the dinghy from his mind as best as he could, and went back to studying the airport case. He thumbed through its nine pages before coming to the last page. The District Attorney’s ruling was stamped in broad black printing across the page. NOT ENOUGH EVIDENCE. THOMAS, DO YOUR JOB.

Do my job! Thomas repeated over and over to himself. His face reddened with the thought he had done everything possible to get the known criminal behind bars for life, but he hadn’t done enough to make it happen. Every time he read those bold printed words his blood pressure soared. Along with his daily assignments he would revisit this case several times a day. When the Captain told to move on to other unsolved cases, he found it hard to live with himself. Somehow, he was never able to rid his mind of the JFK airport case, and the killer he knew by name and sight.

CRASH… The noise —louder than his dinghy slamming against his pier again caught his attention. Thomas grabbed his shotgun and ran to the veranda. The yacht he’d seen a day earlier had crashed into his dock and had partially sunk his dinghy. He rushed to the dock. As he approached the yacht he saw a motionless young woman lying face down on the aft deck of the yacht.

What the hell! He exclaimed.

He hurriedly tied up the yacht while noting the damage it had done to his dock and dinghy. He picked up his shotgun and stepped aboard. Pausing, as he hadn’t stopped to put on a pair of gloves, as he normally did when approaching a crime scene, he shook his head in disbelief that he was entering a possible crime scene without his basic gloves on. What the hell, he muttered. This isn’t New York. I’m done with all of that. This may not be a crime scene at all, just another inexperienced sailor who doesn’t know how to steer a boat.

He approached the lifeless body of the young woman, and hesitated momentarily. Thomas searched the surrounding areas for any unseen danger. It was the normal way he always approached a murder scene. Not seeing anything unusual around the woman, he turned her over. He detected a slight pulse from her wrist. In a quick survey of her face he noted dried blood present on her forehead and on the deck where she was lying face down. He pushed hard on her chest and then breathed into her mouth. She followed his efforts with a shallow breath.

Aw good! Now I might find out what happened here. Thomas uttered.

He looked around for blood splatters. He followed one, and then two drops of blood near the starboard railing of the yacht. He returned to the wounded woman. He lifted her head to examine the wound, and to make sure she was still breathing.

Her scalp had been grazed by a bullet, and she had a large bruise on her right temple and her nose had been bloody. He exclaimed loudly. He knew from past experience what a grazed bullet wound looked like. He had seen enough of them during his long career.

His eyes came to rest on the opening to the lower deck and wheelhouse. His curiosity arose. He shifted the shotgun into his right hand and entered the opening below deck leading to the wheelhouse.

He immediately saw a man lying face down with a bullet wound to the back of his head with a pool of blood covering a large area of the wheelhouse deck. He checked his pulse.

Dead, he murmured.

He looked more closely at the wound. Strangely enough, the wound was similar to the Mafia killings he’d witnessed from his past service with the 42nd. In the Mafia killings he’d investigated Thomas noted the gun was held at an angle from the baseline of the back of the neck for the bullet to penetrate the entire brain. The hole in the front of his forehead verified his conclusions.

Thomas shook his head in disbelief of how this murder scene found him in this isolated cove in South Carolina. He’d put all of those gruesome years filled with murders behind him, but as unbelievable it was— another murder had crashed into his pier. His eyes surveyed the inside of the wheelhouse. The wires connecting the air-sea transmitter and radio were ripped away and lying scattered on the deck floor amongst the blood from the victim.

He recreated a struggle that had taken place over the use of the air-sea transmitter just prior to the victim receiving the fatal shot to the back of the head. He looked to the ceiling and saw splatters of the victim’s brain scattered about. He left the wheelhouse to gather his thoughts again.

In all of his years as a homicide detective he couldn’t get used to viewing the remains of a victim, and he remembered the hurt it would surely cause someone close to the slain victim.

How could this be? A Mafia style killing landing on my doorstep was too much to believe. Surely, I’m not imaging all of this, and is this really happening to me? Thomas questioned himself.

Thomas shook his head and muttered aloud.