Harvey Havoc: The Shifting Slayer

By Avery A Bell

As Detective Harvey Havoc and his partner, Shay Smith, are adjusting to their new relationship, a misguided Motor City resident is heading down a path of darkness and death, After a rash of seemingly unrelated deaths are linked together, their focus shifts. Could one person be responsible for all of these killings? Or are they just the sad toll

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laughing Skull Media
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578347486

Book preview

Harvey Havoc

The Shifting Slayer

By

Avery A. Bell

2021

Laughing Skull Media

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

______

Text by Avery A. Bell

Graphics by Clare Bohning

2021

ISBN: 978-0-578-34748-6

Edited by Lara Milton of Spectrum Editing

Consultant, Kirsten Anthony: Drug savant, connoisseur of the profane, and oldest odd friend from low places

All rights reserved.

______

Averybellsgarage.com

Dedication

For the victims of malice. May you find your justice.

Harvey Havoc  The Shifting Slayer

Chapter 1 Askew View

Chapter 2 Blue Anew

Chapter 3 Inconvenience Store

Chapter 4 Becoming

Chapter 5 Death Head

Chapter 6 Fluke

Chapter 7 Delirium

Chapter 8 In the Eyes

Chapter 9 Partners

Chapter 10 Ravenous

Chapter 11 Nudge

Chapter 12 Backlash

Chapter 13 Up All Night

Chapter 14 Samaritans

Chapter 15 Account

Chapter 16 Motor City International

Chapter 17 Gods

Chapter 18 Reward

Chapter 19 Transcendence

Chapter 20 Fallen Angel

Chapter 21 Free Ride

Chapter 22 PBX Live

Chapter 23 Close to Justice

Chapter 24 Effigy

The Havoc Will Continue With  Blue Orchid

Chapter 1 Askew View

I’ve always considered hate to be a vulgar word. People use it with such blatant disregard for its truly cruel meaning. I feel guilty just thinking about hating something or someone. Sadly, I do feel hate for Monday mornings as of late. I know I shouldn’t, but I still do. Could it be this wretched city’s fault I find myself hating so often? This city, full of criminals and degenerates; a volatile stew of sinners and nonbelievers, almost constantly highlighted with the vivid color of freshly spilled blood. If only they would embrace the love of God instead of ignoring it! Then I wouldn’t have to hate anymore.

I suppose that I shouldn’t cast blame on others, though. If I’m to be honest with myself, it’s my choice alone that led me here. It was my decision to host these Monday morning group meetings. I know it’s my chance to do God’s work. Sometimes I think helping the homeless or teaching children to read would’ve been so much more enjoyable than dealing with these adult problems. It’s not that the other members are beneath me or anything. I just don’t want to know their dark secrets. Secrets are personal things. They aren’t meant to be shared openly with strangers.

I guess that doesn’t really matter in the big picture, either. Those poor souls look up to me for guidance, and I provide it. I’m leading their dark hearts toward something better with my wealth of wisdom. I truly am God’s gift to this wretched city. I let a mildly gleeful smile cross my lips at the thought and give myself a well-earned pat on the back for my good work in these trying times.

As I turn the corner onto main street, my moment of bliss wanes.

Darn it.

The words escape before I can stop myself. I let the palms of my hands hit the steering wheel with some force. Gridlock traffic. This always seems to happen after group. Another reason to dislike Mondays! Being stuck in traffic gives me more time to think, unfortunately. The others in group are such sad souls. Most of them have taken that horrid Tech stuff I’m always hearing about in the news. I appreciate that they’ve been victimized, but it’s so hard to relate to their perspective. How can anyone stoop so low in God’s eyes?

Maybe another swig of my coffee from the Super K kiosk will calm my mind. I grab the warm cup from the holder and sip its contents, savoring the mild flavor of the blond coffee and hemp milk with just a hint of sugar. Absolute perfection! It’s one of the reasons I go to the Super K, which has an actual person behind the window instead of a machine. A real barista can make coffee so much better. On placing the cup back in the holder, however, I remember the reason I get frustrated with the Super K sometimes.

It’s Davidson, not Davison! I exclaim. How can they always get that wrong?

At least they can’t mess up Dorine. I’ll be sure to get that barista’s name next time I go in. If they ever come into the DMV and I’m on duty, I’ll put them through a whole lineup of paperwork. That’ll show them not to call me Davison again. I slip the cardboard heat sleeve over the misspelling, unwilling to look at the egregious mistake. The barista is suddenly becoming less important, though. I’m starting to feel rather ill, actually. Overheated and uncomfortable, in fact. AC might be good for this. I press the button on the dash, but the air that comes out of the vents isn’t cool after a few seconds as it should be.

Darn it again!

The AC must be broken. There’s another thing I hate about this city, this era. You can’t get a decent new car anymore. Here I am, stuck with a twenty-year-old pile of junk sedan with a sometimes functional air conditioner. I’ll have to take it to the refab shop tomorrow and risk a ride on that filthy Fastrack to and from work. The feeling in my gut could be nerves. Maybe some music will calm me while I wait. I select my playlist from the dash screen. It takes a moment for it to load, and then the first song starts to play. I have another sip of my blond latte.

The soothing sounds of the grand orchestra help to drown out the constant honking and occasional expletive. To think that people talk to themselves and each other in such a foul manner makes me feel more nauseated. Maybe if they took the time to go to confession instead of cuss each other out, this city could clean itself up. If I didn’t have confession and the Sunday morning sermon to look forward to, I don’t know how I’d ever get through the week.

I sip some more of the coffee. The discomfort in my gut isn’t waning. And now I can’t help but feel like there’s something I’m forgetting. Or maybe something I need to do? Perhaps that milk I had at the group meeting with those little wafer cookies was off after all. That has to be it. It was probably spoiled, just like those whiny members in group. If they spent time in confession, I wouldn’t have to waste my Monday mornings on them. I wouldn’t be stuck here in gridlock with a gut full of rotten milk. This is their fault!

When the traffic begins to break up, I’m so disoriented that I don’t notice the movement until the inconsiderate individual behind me honks their horn. I don’t feel right at all now. Maybe I should go get some help? They’ll probably mess everything up at the DMV without me.

Darn!

They’ll have to wait. If I get sick, they’ll be in much worse shape than if I miss an hour or so to see my doctor. At the next light, I turn toward help. At least this takes me away from traffic and the seedier part of town I was stuck in.

I wish I knew what’s wrong with me. I haven’t felt this bad in a long time, if ever. It has to be the milk. Although the cookies were homemade by that ex-druggie from the meeting. This might be all her fault. Probably didn’t bother to wash her hands before baking. That would make sense. I’ve had food poisoning before. This feeling does remind me of that experience at the buffet last year. I’ll know soon enough. My doctor is excellent at expedient diagnosis. She’ll know what to do. She always knows. I go a bit faster than I should. God will be with me, though. He will elevate me through this mucky Monday!

Chapter 2 Blue Anew

I’ve woken at least once to every manner of terror and discomfort Motor City has to offer. When I was a kid, this city made it challenging to go to sleep at night without a light on to keep the darkness at bay. Eventually, I got used to the mayhem and grew to expect the unexpected. As an officer, I guess I didn’t really have a choice but to grow a thick skin. It was either that or die trying. But none of the Motor City Police Department hospital stays or Tech-deranged killers could ever have prepared me properly for this moment: waking up to happiness. I genuinely don’t know what to do with the recent mornings like this one. Since Shay and I started seeing each other beyond work hours, this foreign happiness feeling has become an almost daily occurrence.

Lying in bed next to her, watching the sheet over her gently rise and fall, is by far the strangest feeling I’ve ever known. I’m both elated to be so fortunate and terrified that something or someone might take her away from me at any given second. Yet her electric-blue hair jutting erratically out from under the blanket somehow manages to calm me. It’s almost as if its color is some kind of sign of her invincibility. A shield made from the hottest fire. Maybe this is all real. We do deserve to be happy, don’t we? A glance at my transponder tells me there are still several minutes left before our alarms go off to signify the start of the workweek. I scoot toward her underneath the sheets, attempting not to wake her. I merely want to be closer when she wakes up.

You’re doing that thing again, Shay mumbles groggily.

I reply as softly as I can, What thing?

Hovering over me while I wake up.

Oh, sorry.

Shay rolls over, opening her eyes and directing their gaze into mine. You don’t need to be sorry. If you want to hold me, just do it.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in for a kiss. I begin to forget my worries. Why do they matter, anyway? There are more invigorating things to do with our small window of time before we have to go trudge through another day of crime and murder. Soon after we embrace, the coming alarm is the furthest thing from both of our minds. Her nightshirt and underwear come off; I lose my boxers. Our bodies are hopelessly entangled when the annoying buzzers from our transponders sound off. Their incessant ringing is easily drowned out by our brief and glorious romp. Afterward, we shower quickly and get dressed in a half-assed attempt to appear presentable.

So far, we’ve been taking quite a few precautions to make it seem as if there’s nothing between us. I know Shay does this entirely on my account. She knows the implications of our relationship weigh heavily on my mind. I realize there isn’t much the MCPD can do to stop relationships among officers. That doesn’t stop me from being an annoyingly good worrier. Not to mention that we’re still partners at the head of the Homicide Division. How would it look if the public caught on? is a constant refrain in my head. So at work, we continue the charade for the sake of appearances, even though we don’t worry as much about our off hours anymore. I’m still not even sure what we’re doing. A relationship like ours has about a thousand possible reasons to fail at any given moment. Probably the most likely reason for it to end is simply because we do seem to actually love each other.

By the time we pile into the old hearse, we’re at least fifteen minutes late. I put on the lights and sirens to make some headway through traffic and maybe make up for some lost time. About halfway to the station, something unexpected puts an end to my worries about being late. Just off the main road, I see a squad car pulled up along the curb with its lights on. From a distance, it looks like there’s been some sort of car accident. Procedure is to aid all officers in the field, regardless of your rank. Our morning duties in the Homicide Division will have to wait.

Ominous gray clouds linger in the sky as I pull into a tight space for the old hearse. I shut down the siren but leave on the lights. We climb out and head over to investigate. One of the Street Division cops walks over to meet us. I’ve seen him around before. He’s a cocky young officer named Symon Krane. It’s hardly surprising that the first statement out of his mouth is an obnoxious one.

Nothing like a little vehicular manslaughter to get the morning started off right in Motor City, he quips.

Unimpressed by his shallow statement, I reply curtly, There’re better ways to start the morning than death, Krane.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Shay raising one eyebrow. Clearly, she agrees with my statement, though the reason will remain our little inside joke. Deflated, Krane walks off in the direction of the scene, and we follow him. Ahead of us, a dark blue, early 2050s Chrysler sedan rests halfway up the sidewalk. Its largely composite plastic structure represents the last of the full-production-era vehicles. That’s probably for the best. A refurbished car from an earlier time would’ve turned the victim to mincemeat. The person it hit didn’t stop the car, but a large lamppost kept the vehicle from crashing into the pawn shop in front of it. The victim’s body has not yet been removed. There’s a river of blood soaking into the sidewalk.

As we come closer to the vehicle, I notice a middle-aged woman in the back seat of Krane’s dilapidated squad car. Her eyes look distant, and her expression is almost blank. This must be our killer; an unassuming and rather average-looking civilian. Shay’s quick to raise a question that’s already on my mind because of the lack of skid marks on the asphalt.

If this is a case of accidental manslaughter, Krane, why’ve you got that woman locked up in the back of your squad car? she asks.

You two are always working on the odd shit, right? I’d say this is something odd, Krane says. I’m glad the two of you happened by, actually. This mess could really use someone smarter than me to figure it out.

This is the most humble thing I’ve ever heard Krane utter. Even more bizarre than that, his tone seems to be genuine. I respond, trying to hide my surprise, What makes this so odd, then?

There’s no reason for any of it, he says, looking troubled. I had to chase that woman three blocks. She saw me and ran. That’s why I had to cuff her and put her in the squad car. I did a background check on her, name’s Dorine Davidson. Haven’t found out who the victim is yet, no ID on him. I can’t see why she hit him, why she ran. And it seems to me she’s on Tech. But she refuses to admit that. Says she’s just feeling ill.

So you’re saying that this is completely random? That does sound possible, but… Shay trails off, her tone skeptical. I’m inclined to agree with her. There are quite a few things in this dark city that remain unconnected to anything else. It does feel like there’s something different with this, though. Maybe changing the topic will yield some more useful insight.

Were there any witnesses? I ask.

Yeah. Krane points. The old lady over there on the bench. She saw the whole damn thing happen. Said her name was Aria.

We’ll start with her then. Thanks, Krane, Shay says dismissively.

Krane shrugs, and we head over to have a few words with the witness. So far, the most promising aspect of this situation is the fact that it’s provided me an excuse to miss this morning’s meeting with the division. I’ll still have to look over my detectives’ cases, but at least I won’t have to deliver some heartwarming or inspiring speech. It can be difficult to focus when your mind is full of sex and murder.

Aria is dressed warmly for a spring morning such as this. The wrinkles of her face form a seemingly permanent scowl. Our approach to her perch on the tarnished bench seems to be of little interest to her, judging by the distant look in her eyes. They’re a deep brown, matching her skin tone perfectly. I read an immediate and, considering the history of policing in this country, justified distrust of the authorities in her gaze as she directs it toward us. She speaks before either of us has the chance to.

Just when I thought this morning couldn’t get any stranger, now I got a blue-haired freak and a token white man tryin’ to come to the rescue? Shit, I’d ask where the camera is, but there’s probably five watching us already. Safe City, my ass. The older, I get the further this shitball rolls downhill.

I’m used to being verbally put down. Here in Motor City, white guys such as myself are the minority. I don’t much mind it. It’s not as if our bad reputation hasn’t been well earned. Throw in being an officer, and I become the lowest form of human in most people’s eyes. I’m not, however, used to the idea of people putting down Shay. What I see in her as beauty, others see as a flaw. I lost control and punched out a suspect just last week for calling her a freak. Shay had to talk me down and point out that they’re only words. Trying to keep my anger in check, I wait for Shay to reply to the old woman.

I realize you’ve already gone over this with the other officer, she says. If it isn’t too much trouble, could you run through it one more time? We’ll be out of your hair after that.

The confidence and conviction of her responses are always amazing to me. Moving forward, I would do well to learn from them. At the least, it would help to lower my blood pressure. Aria smiles at Shay’s words, though she still hits back with more shade. "You might be out of my hair, but your hair won’t be leaving my mind anytime soon. But fine, I’ll go over this mess one more time."

Aria pauses and takes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I notice Shay’s expression and posture tense up. Aria’s words may not have fazed Shay, but her action prompts a response. Shay’s hand dives deep into her jacket pocket in search of a sucker. The old woman smirks at Shay’s nervous habit as she lights up, but to my surprise, she doesn’t use it as another jab in Shay’s direction.

I always come out here in the morning to have a couple smokes, the first little joy in my day. That and watching the fine folks of Motor City such as yourselves.

She takes another long draw and pauses. When she exhales, she is careful to direct the smoke cloud toward Shay. Shay holds her ground and doesn’t respond, and I follow suit.

"I saw that woman come ’round the corner in the old Chrysler, same faraway look in her eyes she’s got now. Just seemed like another random person in a car. Then that fellow came jogging ’round the corner, and everything went weird. Damn fool to