Kill All of Them

By Ivan Bering

A string of brutal home invasions terrorize the city. An Irish tune always accompanies the blood and chaos. There are no witnesses and no apparent motive; but, the families must be linked in some fashion. To isolate the killers, Charlie Taylor again lives up to his name: Crazy Charlie.
The death of the young teenage girl, in one of the homes, haunts the homicide detective. Is this the reason he refuses to consider a child and family life? No matter: his refusal means the love of his life is prepared to walk
The tension escalates when his best friend, a Roman Catholic priest, is charged with murder and faces the death penalty. Although the entire Homicide Squad can’t believe he is a killer, the evidence is overwhelming.
Number 3 in the series. READERS’ FAVORITE rated this a 5 star and stated:
It should be the best crime thriller of the year......Christian Sia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivan Bering
• Release date: Mar 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9780993710049

Ivan Bering

As an author, I call upon my degrees in Engineering and Education as well as my experience working for both the public and private sector. I have written numerous technical papers and recommendations. Kill Most of the Miscreants is my first novel in a series of four novels.My main diversion is landscape painting; if you follow the web site links you will see some of my work.I am certainly interested in hearing from all readers and welcome any [e-mail]

Book preview

KILL ALL OF THEM

By Ivan Bering

Copyright 2019 Ivan Bering

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

A Charlie Taylor Novel

ISBN 978-0-9937100-4-9

Acknowledgements

Although I am responsible for the quality of the work and the artistry, others have assisted and I am grateful.

My daughter Cathy as a ruthless beta tester

Susan O’Shea for the Irish connection

Other Charlie Taylor novels:

Kill most of the Miscreants: first in the series

Kill some of the Privileged: second in the series

Homegrown Killer: fourth in the series

Instructions from a Killer: fifth in the series

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is normally Charlie’s spot, but I had to recover all his notes and finish his work. When we conclude, you will understand why this happened. I have tried to stay with his style and follow his notes.

Wes Krause

Detective Homicide Division

PROLOGUE ONE

Their discipline and self-control slipped away as soon as they began mutilating the bodies, inch by inch the frenzy took over. Now their insanity was in full bloom, even without their blood-spattered coveralls, anyone would recognize their madness.

The older man, small with white curly hair, dropped his hatchet and knife on the hallway carpeting. Then he started a jig in the narrow space, alternating between howling and singing. A macabre version of a professional entertainer. Then he abruptly stopped and sang his version of: When Iris Eyes are Smiling; the quiet words filled the hallway.

The younger man, with a massive body, stood staring at the bodies, his breathing fast and loud, his eyes blank, his face a rock; he want more, but they had killed all the occupants.

Time was running out; soon the sun would rise; they had to go.

The giant’s breathing slowed, and he stared at the dead woman. She was naked, on her back, legs spread open. He was oblivious to the blood and other bodies; a more primordially force was driving him.

The smaller man, and older, recovered first and pulled him out of the bedroom. The mature killer possessed a strength that had surprised many opponents, but it took vigorous shaking and yelling to get the young man back into the hallway. It was time to leave, but first, they had to walk through the site and ensure they had not left any incriminating clues.

White hair was abrupt. Let’s go son. We are done.

When they finished the survey of each bedroom, they walked to the front door and stopped in the front porch; it was completely enclosed with screening on every side. The full moon and a nearby street lamp provided enough light to clearly see the men and equipment. They started by stripping off the overalls, then the shoes and masks; everything jammed into individual small cases, with all the killing tools divided between the bags.

The older man started the checklist process. Everything picked up and counted?

The brute swayed back and forth and blurted. Ya, ya, ya.

"Did you set the timer for the music?’

Ya, ya.

Listen you don’t have time for the wife!

Fuck off, just fuck off. And with that, the big guy when out the screen door and onto the front sidewalk.

As they walked to their concealed truck, the old man thought: was I ever that young and horny that I was ready to screw a corpse? Best buy the brute some female company.

PROLOGUE TWO

There was a random scattering of clothing on either side of the bed, obviously no one gave any consideration to the next wearing and associated appearance.

The man was so big there was little room for the woman who was resting on her stomach. The giant of a man was on his back, snoring, both arms flung out, making him look like a cross. One arm outside the bed, the other over top of the woman. She did not complain nor did it wake her. Unfortunately, she would never wake up, not this morning or any morning.

When he did wake up, the hangover headache would not help; but Monk would have some decisions to make.

CHAPTER 1: MUSIC FOR THE DEAD

Greed, unrequited love, anger and the rest of the motives were not relevant. When the lunatic fringe entered the picture, it was a unique genre, typically with senseless violence. Many of the public refused to acknowledge that this group derived from the same gene pool.

Senior homicide detective Charlie Taylor, as the man in charge, exercised his prerogative and hurried out of the house; the sedate bungalow had been turned into a slaughterhouse. The entire family butchered in their sleep, both parents and two youngsters, age to be determined. The smell, the walls smeared with blood, the disemboweled corpses, and the body parts scattered around the house were too much for the detective who had lost a young daughter and wife in a traffic accident. Although the crash happened a couple of years ago, the gory highway scene still haunted him.

This senior investigator was a tall well-muscled ex-athletic star, but his short cropped hair already showed a premature sprinkling of gray. However, now that he had curtailed the heavy drinking, his physical health no longer continued to be a problem. His impatience and the low setting on his bullshit detector were what he struggled to control; these traits coupled with his tendency to pitch the rule book led to the nickname: Crazy Charlie.

Wes Krause, his reliable second, came out and stood on the sidewalk beside him. Wes more closely resembled a 1960’s hippie than a homicide detective. He had an olive complexion, with a long dark brown ponytail, a beard which was occasionally trimmed, black plastic framed glasses because corrective surgery was not possible, a relaxed persona. As a long term partner, Wes endured as a good counter to Charlie’s impulsive personality. He asked, What do you make of the message from Judge Stephen on their answering machine? I know the Judge is lecturing at the University but not in the History department.

Leave it to me; I’m going to his place for an outdoor barbecue, and I’ll ask him. If it’s relevant, I’ll get an official statement from him. This is taking a long time. How much longer before Forensics leaves?

Not much longer, Charlie. Doc says he only needs a few more minutes. This is the worst I’ve ever seen……the blood, the kids, the damn smell and the messages written on the walls make a helluva combination.

The killing is hard enough to understand. But why slice them open and spread organs on the floor and throw them against the walls? Jesus. This a sick bunch.

You think it’s more than one?

Has to be. Too many people for one man to control. It doesn't look like a struggle took place.

The bright morning and the yellow police tape attracted a crowd, the entire scene an anomaly for this upper-middle-class sector of the city. A consistent theme dominated the neighborhood: trimmed and landscaped front and back yards, large trees and well-groomed bushes and beautiful flower beds.

Wes saw him first and whispered, Doc’s coming out.

A large middle age man shuffled down the sidewalk to his car and then waved for them to come. He spoke softly, Gentlemen this is the sickest goddamn scene I’ve ever done; it’s been a long time since I’ve been drunk and disorderly, so if your boys pick me up tonight, cut me some slack. He was serious, eyes red-rimmed, and his head shaking back and forth every few seconds, completely shaken.

I’ll tell you a little: this shit happened sometime after midnight; the messages on the walls were written in the victims’ blood and I………give me a second. He bowed his head and leaned on the car, struggling to gain his composure. Then he continued, "Last comment. As you know, some of the body organs were thrown against the wall, like someone throws a fucking tennis ball. But each of the hearts got special treatment…..a bite taken out of each of them!

I’m going. I don’t want to talk any more. But this carnage will certainly be my priority."

Charlie and Wes watched him maneuver his vehicle past all the cars and through the crowd. They started for the front door, procrastination no longer possible. The front entrance and front rooms looked very ordinary, nothing disturbed, some of the furniture well-worn but all a clean and ordered setting.

Wes asked, Have Terry and Manuel started the neighborhood canvas?

Yeah, I got them going as soon as they arrived. Let’s get to it.

They walked to the bedrooms; it was these rooms which drove everyone to the edge. Forensics had not removed the bodies. Each of the young bodies remained in his bed, lying on top of the blood soaked sheets. It appeared as if someone used a power saw and ripped them open from neck to crotch and then peeled back the skin, like a medical anatomy class when cadavers were opened for a show. Against the far wall, some organs rested on the floor; the wall was stained with blood where the internal body parts hit the wall and then slipped to the floor. In the youngsters’ room, a message smeared the wall:

Spoiled young bastards

It was not easy to read because some of the letters had dripped down the wall and lost their shape.

Wes, at least, it appears everyone was dead before this dissection happened. Someone working in the dark had to be fast because the parents were down the hall or they probably did the parents first. The bodies are staged, on their bed, both the same way. Let’s go to the master bedroom.

It was only a few steps down the carpeted hall and into the main bedroom, to an identical scene, drapes pulled shut and the windows closed. The furnishing looked a bit sparse, like any young couple starting out and managing a budget, not unusual. In the parents’ bedroom wall the message read:

Kill all of them

Again, the poorly formed letters and the blood stains made the words difficult to read.

Everyone had left the bungalow, and the two homicide detectives stood in the doorway and stared at the butchery. Wes speculated, I wonder if they knew the house…..the floor plan and where the bedrooms were located or if they just wander around looking for the bedrooms.

No Wes. This was well planned; they knew their target and what they were going to do. Who carries a power saw to a home burglary? No, they came prepared.

I understand, but they went from deliberate planning to complete rage once they got started. These bedrooms look like someone completely out of control, in a frenzy. Like a pack of wild dogs.

I know. I know the contradictions don’t make sense. Now…… who found the Wilsons’ bodies?

Wes has the man waiting for them. Over there is a man outside giving a statement. Let’s go talk to him.

They walked out at a brisk pace knowing they would have to spend more time in those bedrooms, but at the moment they needed relief. A tall, thin man was smoking a cigarette beside a patrol car. Wes handled the introductions. Mr. Weir this Charlie Taylor; he is in charge of the case.

There was a handshake, but Weir was silent. But Charlie was impatient. Sir, I understand you are shaken, but please walk us through your morning.

The witness took one last drag and then used his shoe to butt the cigarette on the sidewalk. He collected himself and delivered a comprehensive explanation. His early meeting with the patrolman had given him time to understand what was required and essential.

"I'm a professor in the History department at the University; Bill Wilson is a recent appointment to the department. Since I live close by, I regularly stop here, and we walk the few blocks to the University together. But Bill told me yesterday not to bother today because he’d committed to help his wife get the kids to their new school. However, as I was walking by, I saw the front door was open, and there was music blasting out onto the street. All very unusual. The music was deafening, and I thought I should make them aware of it.

I stood at the front door, which was ajar, and yelled inside but no one answered. I stepped inside and started to walk to the kitchen when I noticed the smell ……. I turned my head and saw one of the boys on his bed……..at first I thought it might be some sick kid’s joke but when I walked in and saw….. "

The man stopped and lit up another cigarette, his hand shaking, his head bowed, his muttering almost inaudible; the profanity was low and short-lived.

I walked down to the main bedroom and then right out of the house. It took a while for the shaking to stop….before I could dial 911…I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.

Charlie interrupted. "What music was blasting out the front door?’

"It was an old favorite: When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. And it never stopped; someone set it up on their computer to continue to repeat… a loop ..you know the Wilsons weren’t Irish."

###

Today it was unusual to hear the term Crazy Charlie––– except for a few of his enemies who would not let go, no matter how many homers the senior detective hit.

Wes remembered last year’s disastrous public explosion when Charlie insisted a former Board member control his beautiful young wife and stop her from going up to strange hotel rooms. He then punctuated the insult with a pantomime of how she should rinse her crotch when she got home. The entire scene had been captured on video; the only thing that saved Charlie was that Judge Stephen, still in charge of the Sector at that time, was his rabbi.

A recent change in Charlie’s life became a fortunate new beginning; he finally found a permanent house guest: Emma Collins. She stabilized the emotional man, and he stopped his heavy drinking and controlled his angry, emotional outbursts.

But today, late September 2022, things had changed: Judge Stephen retired, and his successor, Judge Doug Brewster, was not a fan of Charlie Taylor; this unfortunate appointment was compounded. Chief Stirling, head of the Investigative Division, accepted a position with private enterprise and the new chief waltzed in as a Brewster appointment.

The detectives in the Investigative Division soon recognized the flaws of the new man. Within a few short weeks, it became official, or unofficial depending on your point of view; they twisted his name, so Chief Kisashton became Chief Kissass. That was the culture of the station: insincerity, perceived or actual, got a rough ride.

A new lottery developed at the station. For a few bucks, you could submit your guess as to when Charlie would explode, either at the new Chief or the new Judge. The senior detective in charge of Homicide had no room to maneuver which was a shame because when allowed to roam, there were not many cases he couldn’t solve.

Now Wes was worried because this recent carnage, particularly the young kids, could trigger some bad memories for Charlie, who lost a young wife and daughter to a drunk driver. No one else noticed the tension Wes saw: Charlie’s walked with a slight forward tilt, right-hand clenching and unclenching and much of his speech limited to abrupt orders and sharp questions to the crew. Wes hoped it didn’t signal the start of another black period.

If things got ugly, he would team up with Monk, a Catholic priest, who was a very close friend of Charlie. Monk, a former professional football player, was well known and appreciated by the entire squad. Wes thought a group, Emma, Monk and himself, should be able to pull Charlie through any rough spots.

It didn’t occur to Wes that all members of the trio would not be able to form a support team.

###

The phone call temporarily halted the neighborhood canvas; Terry’s conversation was brief. He hung up and spoke to this partner.

Manuel, that was Sargent Morris; the head nurse from the fourth floor wants to file an official complaint about the idiot detectives who disturbed her patients and caused chaos on her hospital ward.

Damn it. I thought that nurse had a sense of humor. When Chief Kissass gets the complaint, the entire squad will be in deep shit.

Terry continued. Not to worry. The Sargent saved all of us. He told her there was no need to come down and put in an official complaint; he would do it for her. Told her both of us would be suspended for a week or more. Also, she was in a hurry and ready to go on a vacation. She’ll probably forget the incident by the time she gets back. So this one gets buried in a back desk drawer.

We owe Morris big time. He’s taking a helluva risk.

Damn it, Manuel, I hope you never have another son; I couldn’t take another celebration like the last one. But it was stupid to go to that damn hospital in our condition.

Not to worry that kind of wild celebration only occurs for the first son. Come on let’s move it. I want to get home and to bed.

Terry wasn’t worried, just tired and frustrated. Shit, these lots are large. And with all this space between houses, it’s very unlikely anyone saw a damn thing. On a dark night, it would be easy to sneak up to the bungalow without being seen. But at least, this canvas is better than spending time in those bedrooms.

Manuel wanted to finish. Come on move it. You know Charlie will want every house within a 100 yards checked. So ring the doorbell, and I’ll start the spiel.

The two weary detectives stood on the front porch of a large two story dwelling anticipating the same type of negative response which they’d encountered all morning.

Unfortunately, neither the Sargent nor the detectives were aware of the extensive video history which was an