Serpentine

By Daryl Hemmerich

A seductive symphony of intellect and barbarism. Young, beautiful women are meeting their demise in the cruelest and most diabolical way. Meet Serpentine, the country’s most terrifying serial killer with an unorthodox propensity for violence. Enter Marlow and Chase, two ruthless homicide detectives with an avant-garde approach to working the streets. Serpentine perpetually outwits everyone, including Marlow and Chase, who are hell-bent on bringing this grisly killer to justice, dead or alive. The hunt is on, and the horror continues in this provocative race-against-time suspense thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665718530

Daryl Hemmerich

Daryl Hemmerich began writing fictional stories twenty years ago, which became the foundation for his literary work, both novels and screenplays. And only just recently has he made his collection of four novels available, including Johnny Rocket, Serpentine, Treasure Hunters, and Midnight. Admittedly, Daryl has a wild imagination that can’t be turned off, and he battles with insomnia, ultimately affording him more time writing. He is an avid swashbuckler and spends his time in California and Florida. Recently completed screenplays available upon request [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mercury’s rising as the hot midday sun beats down on a neighborhood just outside New York City. Here, brick houses with small, trimmed lawns squat in neat rows, the homes all looking similar in many ways. A quaint and quiet neighborhood—or at least it was until this day. In front of one particular residence, police cruisers line the street, some with lights flashing. An ambulance pulls into the driveway alongside the city coroner’s vehicle.

A growing crowd of neighbors and newly arriving reporters are gathering in front of the residence, trying to see what’s going on. A yellow police line holds the crowds back while police officers stand by, waiting for further instructions. The city coroner, accompanied by his assistant, walks out of the house shaking his head as if to suggest that none of the occupants have survived.

A dark sedan with a single red light burning on its roof pulls up through the crowd and comes to a stop alongside a black-and-white cruiser. A helicopter has arrived and hovers overhead.

Inside the sedan, the driver, Detective Vic Marlow, and his partner, Detective Phil Chase, take last drags from their cigarettes before extinguishing them in the ashtray. The two front doors swing open and both detectives, wearing dark sharkskin suits and black wingtip shoes, step out from the vehicle.

Christ, it’s hotter than hell. Detective Marlow leans on the roof of the car. In his thirties, Detective Marlow’s dark, scrappy handsomeness personifies the tough-guy, street-smart cop, hardened and rough around the edges. Internal affairs suggests Detective Marlow to be of high risk for taking risks.

So think about it, says Detective Chase, who mirrors his partner by leaning on the roof. Also in his thirties, Chase is an attractive man of average build and dirty-blond hair. Detective Chase has a slightly less abrasive personality than his partner. Nonetheless, he is a tough guy who is streetwise and likes to stay alive. He likes to think of himself as an entrepreneur rather than a risk-taker. Internal affairs suggests that Detective Chase has an attitude in need of adjustment.

We transfer downtown where there is more action and an increase in our salaries, Detective Chase continues while pulling a pack of cigarettes from out of his pocket.

I said I’d think about it. Christ, what’s the rush? Detective Marlow replies.

Would you stop using the Lord’s name every time you talk? Chase pulls a cigarette from the pack. Shit, it’s always ‘Christ this’ or ‘Christ that.’ You’re gonna go straight to hell.

Marlow reaches into his suit coat pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes, along with a chrome Zippo lighter. There’s a distinct click, a quick strike, and he’s got a light going on another cigarette. He reaches over the roof of the sedan to light his partner’s cigarette. Christ, shut the fuck up already.

And why can’t you give me a direct fucking answer? says Chase. You realize in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never once answered a question with a simple yes or no? It’s always, ‘Christ.’ Oh…or the longer version, ‘Jesus Christ.’ What a conversationalist. He takes a drag from his cigarette. I’m not sure I even want you for my fucking partner anymore. I need a partner I can talk to, someone I can have a civilized conversation with once in a while.

Like you can have a civilized conversation. Detective Marlow takes another drag from his cigarette and motions toward the residence. Jesus Christ, let’s go.

The detectives fight off the media as a barrage of questions are fired at them. Detective Chase addresses the reporters. Come on, we just got here. We don’t know any more than you do at this time. You’ll get a statement soon.

They continue up the walkway to the front door, where a uniformed officer meets them.

Homicide, states Detective Marlow.

The detectives flash their badges then slip latex gloves on their hands.

Inside the residence, Detectives Marlow and Chase are greeted by Detective Joe Styles, a good-looking African-American man in his forties with a solid build.

What do you have? asks Chase.

Detective Styles takes a drag from his cigarette. Sometime last night, a relative found both parents and their daughter dead. He takes another drag and exhales slowly as if to put off what he has to say.

It’s a grisly scene. The bodies are still in their beds. And get this: it was the son that killed them.

Marlow and Chase exchange looks.

Yeah, he’s only seventeen, continues Styles. Jesus Christ, says Marlow.

Chase glances over at his partner, shakes his head, then continues taking notes.

Hold on, says Chase. I’ve got to get everything. Vic, would you repeat that?

Marlow glances over at his partner with a wise-guy expression. Shifting his look back to Detective Styles, he continues to question him.

Where’s the kid now?

We’re holding him in the kitchen, replies Styles.

Show us the bodies, then we’d like to see the kid, directs Marlow.

Fine, but be prepared, warns Styles, taking another drag. In all my years with the department, I’ve never seen anything like this.

He stops to extinguish his cigarette in an ashtray. Imagine the grisliest scene you can, and still that won’t prepare you for what you’re about to see. The bodies look like they’ve been mauled by a wild animal.

C’mon, says Chase. You’re telling us the killer is seventeen years old, and we need to be prepared for what we’re about to see?

Chase glances over at Marlow then motions to Styles. Let’s go.

Follow me, says Detective Styles, leading them through the living room, where their attention is soon drawn to bloody paw prints tracked across the floor. Outside the sliding glass doors, a large German shepherd barks. The dog’s paws smear blood all over the glass doors.

The detectives continue on through the hallway, where the bloody paw prints originate. They approach a partially opened master bedroom door and push it open further. Two naked bodies lie face up in the bed, mauled and barely recognizable. Their arms and legs are tied to the bed frame. Their eyelids have been slashed from their faces.

Jesus Christ, says Marlow, so much blood.

You’re right—they look like they’ve been mauled by a lion, suggests Chase.

What’s with the goddamn eyes? Marlow asks.

Don’t know, maybe he wanted them to see what was coming, answers Styles. Could be they were closing their eyes in fear.

Marlow and Chase shake their heads in disbelief. Looks like the kid ate his parents, says Marlow.

Chase turns to Styles. Did the coroner say how long they’ve been dead?

Best he can tell at this time is twenty-four hours. And they lived almost as long.

Christ, he ate them alive, says Marlow.

Precisely, agrees Styles. They were alive until the last few hours.

Why? wonders Chase. What the hell is the kid’s motive?

Who the fuck knows? The kid don’t talk.

The kid don’t talk? says Marlow sarcastically. You don’t talk either. What the fuck kind of language is that? Ebonics? It’s ‘the kid doesn’t talk.’

Whatever, barks Detective Styles. What the fuck is this, speech class? The kid don’t fucking talk. He’s got some weird medical condition.

What about the third victim? asks Marlow. The daughter. She was sixteen, replies Styles.

Marlow walks over to the dresser and examines several photographs