The Villain's Den: Detective Harry Sweet, #3

By david henningsen

A serial killer is on the loose in Boston… 

 

In this most intriguing third book of the Harry Sweet series, Harry has left the Boston Police Department and no one, including Private Investigator Shane McCurdy, seems to know where he's gone. 

 

When Shane's daughters' best friend, Margot O'Neill, turns up as the serial killer's latest victim, Shane knows he needs Harry's help to solve the case. 

 

Will Harry and Shane be able to work together to bring Margot's killer to justice? By the end, the chase for the killer will be the biggest personal and professional challenge of their lives. 

 

Will anyone survive The Villain's Den? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: david henningsen
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201845452

Book preview

Table of Contents

About The Villain’s Den

To Jane, my lovely wife of fifty years.

THE VILLAIN’S DEN

Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin. —Aesop.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

ALMOST TEN YEARS LATER

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

Did you enjoy this book? How to make a big difference!

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright Information

About The Villain’s Den

A serial killer is on the loose in Boston…

In this most intriguing third book of the Harry Sweet series, Harry has left the Boston Police Department and no one, including Private Investigator Shane McCurdy, seems to know where he’s gone.

When Shane’s daughters’ best friend, Margot O’Neill, turns up as the serial killer’s latest victim, Shane knows he needs Harry’s help to solve the case.

Will Harry and Shane be able to work together to bring Margot’s killer to justice? By the end, the chase for the killer will be the biggest personal and professional challenge of their lives.

Will anyone survive The Villain’s Den?

This is the third book in the Detective Harry Sweet series.

1.0: The Last Game

2.0: Sweet Justice

3.0: The Villain’s Den

…and more to come!

To Jane, my lovely wife of fifty years.

THE VILLAIN’S DEN

by

Dave Henningsen

Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin. —Aesop.

CHAPTER 1

Boston Globe, January 18, 1976, page four, Local Section:

Following an extensive investigation, the deaths of Francis and Patsy Doyle, owners of Doyle’s Stationery in the southside, have been ruled a murder/suicide by the Boston police. Homicide Detective Harry Sweet confirmed the report this morning…

Albert chuckled, snapped the newspaper shut and tossed it on the table in front of him. I fooled them. I fooled them all.

Albert’s parents had been married for over thirty years and had only one child, him. At the time he killed them Albert was twenty-four years old and still living at home.

The house he grew up in was in an older, run-down neighborhood just outside of Boston’s Chinatown. It backed up to an alley, across from which sat similar looking houses. The neighborhood was all the same, commercial enterprises facing the street with residences attached at the back.

It consisted of two bedrooms, a sewing room, one bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. Calling it modest was decidedly an overstatement. Directly attached to the front of the house was a stationery store which was the family’s only source of income, and that wasn’t much.

Albert’s father was the dourest of men. He rarely bathed or changed his clothes. He swore too much, drank too much, ate too little, and was angry most of the time. In essence, he was just a miserable human being.

And if that weren’t enough, his father’s constant abuse of Albert’s mother knew no bounds. It was not only verbal, it was also physical and sexual. And believe it or not, his treatment of Albert was no better.

Frank Doyle was not only a raving maniac, he was also extremely paranoid and convinced that his stationery store could be robbed at any moment.

In order to control his paranoia he had installed a cheap video camera to a corner wall, three separate locking devices on the front door and metal bars on all the windows. It was not a very welcoming storefront and it was a wonder that anyone bothered to patronize it. It looked more like a seedy pawn shop than a store selling greeting cards.

And as if all this protection weren’t enough, Frank had actually hid a Smith & Wesson handgun underneath the checkout counter just in case all these bells and whistles didn’t work. He also kept a twelve-gauge shotgun at the rear of the house.

Albert always had the feeling that his father didn't understand him. Worse yet, that he had never really tried.

In point of fact, Albert believed his dad saw him as a quintessential loser. Jesus H. Christ, he would yell. You have no friends to speak of and you've never even been out on a date. Hell, the only job you've ever had is here stocking shelves and waiting on customers.

At this point in his life Albert outweighed his father by at least forty pounds and he swore he was not going to take any more of his shit.

Because he had neglected his face when he was a young adult, Albert would admit that he had some pretty bad acne scars. However, his looks never really bothered him because he was always more concerned with his physique. Albert was constantly lifting weights to make himself stronger. That was how he compensated for his looks.

In 1976, Gerald Ford was President of the United States. Richard Nixon had resigned and had already been pardoned by Ford. The Watergate hearings had concluded and the report had been published. The war in Vietnam was over and the nation was no longer in turmoil.

But Albert never cared about any of that. His lottery number had been 324 which meant that he never had to concern himself with the draft. In fact, he had no interest in politics or current affairs. He readily admitted that except for his extensive collection of comic books, he had very few interests at all.

Albert couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t hate his parents. He hated his father for a lot of reasons. Too many to list. He hated his mother because she would never defend him when his father went after him.

No matter how badly his father treated him, Patsy always took Frank’s side. As a result, his mother remained oblivious to how much hate that brought out in her son.

His mother’s psychological issues were not only readily apparent but extremely serious. As a young adult she had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She talked about suicide all the time. Still, she never took any significant steps to deal with her illness other than taking numerous illegal drugs to mask the pain.

Recently, in another one of his drunken rages, Albert’s father had thrown his comic book collection into the fireplace. Although he was able to salvage some of the collection, the damage was done. It was at that very moment that he decided to kill his parents. He couldn’t stand it any longer. And he knew exactly how he was going to do it.

While it was logical to assume that he could have just as easily packed his bags and left home, that option was never really in the cards. To simply leave and never come back would have left him unfulfilled. At least that’s how he rationalized it. They just needed to die, both of them. After that, I can open a new store and buy and sell comic books, something I have always wanted to do. And I will use my dad’s life insurance to do it.

•

Normally on Sundays Albert would get up early and leave the house. On those days he would frequent the Boston Public Library or his favorite comic book store, Comics Galore. Over time, he had become a regular at these places and the workers knew him by name. They would provide his alibi.

The next Saturday when Albert closed the store, he grabbed the .38 Special from under the counter and hid it in his room. It was only then that it hit him. I’m really going to do it. I’m going to kill my fucking parents.

The following morning Albert jumped out of bed promptly at seven, went to the bathroom and took a shower. When he was dressed he returned to his bedroom, put on a pair of rubber gloves and waited.

He didn’t have long to wait. About fifteen minutes later he heard his father stir, and then his mother. Albert put his ear to the bedroom door and listened as they both entered the kitchen.

As was his custom, Frank went through the house and into the store to retrieve the Sunday edition of the Boston Globe, which was always partially pushed through the store’s mail slot in the front door. He then returned to the kitchen, sat down at the table and opened the newspaper. Albert could hear the kitchen chair being scraped across the floor as it was pulled out from the table.

As he crept out of his bedroom, he could see his mother already at the stove, her back to the table.

What’s for breakfast? Frank demanded. I’m hungry. Get a move on and start cooking.

Before Patsy could even answer, Albert sat down across from his father and raised the pistol. He then calmly shot Frank squarely in the middle of the forehead, knocking him and his chair onto the floor. The bullet went completely through his dad’s head and lodged in the wall behind him, leaving the wall splattered with blood and brain matter. Albert was thoroughly pleased at the surprised look on his father's face as he flew backwards and out of the chair. Pretty cool, was all he could think.

Naturally, his mom turned around when she heard the gunshot. She was already screaming as she scurried around the side of the table only to see her husband lying in a pool of blood. At that same instant, she saw Albert holding the pistol. Albert was not surprised by the quizzical look on her face.

Without hesitating, he put the gun on the table and punched her in the face. She went down hard. And just like that, she was out cold.

I can’t believe how good that felt, Albert thought as he calmly picked her up and sat her at the end of the table.

He then carefully wiped the gun clean and proceeded to wrap his mother’s hand around the stock. With a big smile on his face, Albert positioned the gun under her chin. As she started to lean over, he held her upright with his left hand and pulled the trigger.

His mother’s body was thrown backward and her head ended up resting on the top of the chair. Blood was splattered all over what was left of her face. The bullet went through the top of her mouth, exited through the frontal lobe and lodged in the ceiling above her.

If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was staring at the hole in the ceiling and wondering where it had come from.

The pistol was still wrapped in his mother’s hand as it lay on the table. You don’t look so good, whispered Albert as he took a hand towel and wiped the blood off his face.

Albert then walked gingerly over to his father’s body, leaned in, and whispered, Good riddance, you disgusting bag of shit.

After that, he slowly looked around the room making sure he wasn’t forgetting something. No way he was going to make a stupid mistake this late in the game, so he carefully retraced his steps until he was sure he hadn’t missed anything. Once he was satisfied, he went into the bathroom, showered and changed his clothes.

Albert was surprised there wasn’t more blood on his shirt and pants. Regardless, he washed them and the hand towel in cold water and then ran them all in the dryer. The gloves he soaked in acetone to remove any blood and possible traces of his DNA.

Albert then calmly left the house through the back door and got in his parents’ car. On his way to the library he got rid of his clothes at Goodwill and then dropped the gloves in the dumpster behind the library. Albert would then spend the rest of the day establishing his alibi.

At four in the afternoon, Albert left the library and took his sweet time driving home. Once there he opened the shed and parked the car, just like he always did. Albert even waved at one of the neighbors as he walked into the house.

Everything looked just as it had when he had left that morning. Nothing had changed. Albert then stood there for nearly ten minutes savoring the scene and enjoying the moment. It was only then that he called 911.

CHAPTER 2

It was about 6:30 on Sunday night when Harry Sweet got the call. There had been a report of a shooting behind a stationery store located on the outskirts of Chinatown. Apparently, a married couple had been found dead in their kitchen. The call had come in from their son, Albert Doyle.

Harry had been with the Boston police ever since the mid-1960s. He started out as a patrolman and worked his way up to detective first class. By 1976, Harry had been a homicide detective for about five years and had already investigated hundreds of murders.

He had always been a no-nonsense guy who was good at his job. It was like he had a sixth sense when it came to police work. The only problem was that no one wanted to be his partner. But Harry didn’t care. As he always said, They're all a pain in the ass and frankly, I don’t give a shit.

Harry currently lived alone in a modest apartment on the south side of Boston. He had been married at twenty-seven and divorced by the time he was twenty-nine. The marriage never seemed to work. To be honest, he was surprised that it had lasted so long. His wife never liked being married to a cop and what started out as a good thing ended up a disaster.

By the time Harry had received the call from the dispatcher, he had already downed two Jack Daniels and was all set to watch a rerun of All in the Family. Needless to say, he was not a very happy camper when he climbed into his car to make the trip across town.

Fifteen minutes later Harry arrived at Doyle’s Stationery and parked out front. After negotiating his way through the barred door, and with the help of Officer Randall Toms, he was escorted through the store and into a small living room at the front of the house.

There, sitting on the couch, was Albert Doyle. He was just staring into space. At that moment a second uniformed officer, Bruce Carmichael, came in from another room and nodded at Harry.

The bodies are in the kitchen, announced Carmichael. Their names are Frank and Patsy Doyle. That’s their son, Albert, on the couch. When he came home this evening he found them like this and called 911. I got here about ten minutes later with my partner and then we called it in. I guess that’s when you got the call.

Detective Harry Sweet. I don’t think we’ve met.

Actually, we have met, replied Officer Carmichael. Remember the Jennings case?

Oh, right, replied Harry. How’ve you been?

Pretty good. Same old crap, said Carmichael, glancing at Doyle.

I know what you mean, said Harry with a smile. Same old shit over and over again.

You got that right, said Officer Toms, jumping in.

What have we got, guys? asked Harry, in a more serious tone. Let’s take a look, shall we?

Before Harry started for the kitchen, he turned and looked at Albert. You just sit here for a minute. I’ll be back as soon as I can and we’ll talk. I know this must be rough, so I won’t take up much of your time tonight. We can talk more at a later date if we need to.

Albert remained silent and just nodded.

Harry and the two officers then walked into the kitchen. The male victim was lying on the floor, face up in a pool of blood. A chair was turned upside down and was lying next to the body. He had an obvious gunshot wound to his forehead and was staring at the ceiling with what appeared to be a confused look on his face. Surprisingly, there was not as much blood as Harry would have expected for this type of wound.

Frank Doyle looked about five foot nine and couldn’t have weighed more than 130 lbs. soaking wet. Not a big man by any stretch of the imagination. Harry noted that he was bald and was wearing a bathrobe with nothing on underneath. An old Boston Red Sox hat was lying on the floor next to the body.

At that point Harry turned his attention to the second body. The woman was sitting upright in a chair at the head of the kitchen table, directly across from her husband’s body.

The top of Patsy Doyle’s head had been blown off and there were parts of her skull and brain scattered about the room. It was difficult to be sure, but it looked like she had a fresh bruise on the left side of her face. Mrs. Doyle was in her nightgown and had been wearing an apron.

Harry walked over to the stove and noticed bacon in a frying pan and six eggs waiting to be cooked. That’s curious, he thought to himself.

Seems pretty clear, said officer Carmichael. The old man beat the wife up and she’d obviously had enough. So she shot him and then killed herself.

Yeah, at first glance it does look that way, replied Harry. But let’s not jump to any conclusions until the crime scene guys get here and do their work.

Whatever you say, Detective, said the officer. What do you want me to do with the son? You don’t want to leave him here, do you?

I want to talk to him first and then I’ll let you know what I decide, replied Harry, as he turned on his heels and left the room.

Harry went back into the other room and sat across from Albert. For the first time he noticed that Albert was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a slightly tattered red tee-shirt and a pair of black high-top converse tennis shoes. He appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties.

Mr. Doyle, Harry began. I know this must be unsettling and I’m really sorry for your loss, but I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions.

Albert did not immediately respond. What the hell? Harry thought to himself. Is this guy just acting or is he actually in shock?

Mr. Doyle, said Harry, raising his voice slightly.

Albert finally looked up. Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I’m just a little overwhelmed at the moment.

Of course. That’s understandable under these circumstances, replied Harry.

Before we get started I just want to let you know that you’re not going to be able to sleep here tonight. Until our investigation is over you’re going to have to stay somewhere else. Do you have some place you can go? Any relatives you can stay with for a few days?

Not really, Albert replied. I don’t have any place to go. No friends or family that I can stay with. So why can’t I just stay here? I won’t get in anybody’s way. I need to open the store in the morning.

No, said Harry. And it’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s just that we need to preserve the crime scene until the forensic team has done its job. I suggest you pack a bag for a couple of days. Officer Toms can drop you off at a hotel.

What am I supposed to do about the store? asked Albert.

I’m sorry but the store will just have to stay closed until we finish our investigation.

Albert nodded, seemingly resigned.

So now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let me ask you a few questions. What we don’t finish tonight we can finish tomorrow.

Sure. I want to cooperate as much as possible, replied Albert, looking away.

So what time did you leave the house this morning? asked Harry.

I left just after 7:30 and went straight to the Boston library.

Did you make any stops before you got there?

No, I went straight there and it was about eight o’clock when I arrived.

Were your parents up when you left the house?

No, they were still asleep so I snuck out, trying not to disturb them.

Do you know whether they had an argument the night before? asked Harry. You know, the kind of argument that you don’t forget?

They were always arguing, so that’s hard to answer. But as I recall, I could hear them arguing through the door. It was really bad.

Do you know what they were arguing about?

Something to do with money, but I’m not really sure.

So, to your knowledge, had your mom ever threatened your dad and said that she was gonna kill him?

Yeah. That happened all the time, especially when he hit her.

How often did that happen?

More times than I can count.

Do you know if your father hit her that night?

No, I couldn’t tell because they were in their bedroom.

Did she ever threaten him with a gun?

Yeah. Several times she said she was going to shoot him, but I never thought she would go through with it.

Do you know where the gun came from? asked Harry.

My dad kept it under the counter in the store. She must have gone out and grabbed it before she shot him.

I’m sorry, observed Harry. How do you know she shot him? I never said that.

Well, I guess I just assumed it from what I saw, replied Albert, somewhat nervously.

What time did you get home from the library? continued Harry, trying not to give Albert enough time to think.

I was out all day until just after 5:00. That’s when I found the bodies, replied Albert, sounding upset.

After you got here, did you touch or move anything once you’d found them?

I don’t think so, other than the phone when I called 911.

Harry glanced quickly at his notes and continued. It says here that 911 didn’t get the call until 5:36. Just out of curiosity, what did you do for 36 minutes?

Once I found them, I think I went into shock. I know I wandered from room to room and then went into the store to see if we were robbed. But most of it is a blank. I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight.

Well, we’ll see, said Harry, as he stood up. I think that’s all I have for right now. I know this has been a big shock for you, so let’s continue this tomorrow. And again, I am so sorry for your loss.

As Harry walked across the room he stopped suddenly and turned back to face Albert. Oh, one last question before I let you go. Do you know if your mom and dad were expecting someone for breakfast?

No, not that I know of. Why do you ask?

Just curious because your mom had six eggs sitting on the stove and a pan full of bacon. Seems like a lot of food for two people.

I don’t know. Maybe she hadn’t heard me sneak out and thought I would be here for breakfast.

Yeah, maybe, replied Harry.

As I said, go pack a bag, directed Harry. Officer Toms can get you situated and will let me know where you are staying. Once the forensic team completes its work, your mom and dad will be taken to the county coroner for an autopsy. Once the autopsy is completed, their bodies can be released to you. Why don’t we meet back here tomorrow at 10:00 AM and we’ll finish up. Okay?

Whatever you say, replied Albert. I think there’s a motel out by the highway that should work, continued Albert, as he got to his feet and retreated to his bedroom.

Five minutes later Albert returned with a small duffle bag and he and Officer Toms headed for the door.

As they were leaving, Harry grabbed Toms and pulled him aside.

After you follow him to the motel, make sure he checks in. Then get your ass back here and pick up your partner. And while I think about it, get a patrolman to drive by the house a few times during the night. I don’t want this guy coming back and screwing with the crime scene. Understood?

Understood, replied Toms. I'll take care of it.

After Doyle and Toms were gone, Officer Carmichael turned to Harry and asked, What do you think? Do you think the old lady did it?

It’s too early to tell. At this point all I can say is something smells. I just can’t put my finger on it. You know what Shakespeare said, ‘There’s something rotten in Holland.’

Sorry sir? queried Officer Carmichael. I don’t think that’s exactly what Shakespeare said. But if you ask me, I think it looks pretty straightforward. She killed him, and then offed herself.

I’m not so sure of that, replied Harry, as he walked back into the kitchen. I don’t think it’s that dried and cut just yet. And when it comes to Shakespeare, you obviously don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Didn’t you ever have to read Romeo and Juliet when you were in school?

Whatever. I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Carmichael quipped.

At that point, the forensic team arrived and Harry instructed them to take careful measurements of the trajectory of the bullet that had killed the husband. He then took out a small pocket knife and pried the bullet out of the wall. Placing it in an envelope, he gave it to Marcus Ryan, one of the forensic investigators on the scene, and had it marked as evidence. But before doing so he checked the caliber of the bullet to make sure it had come from the gun in question.

Next, Harry examined the husband’s hands for signs of bruising and found none. That doesn’t make any sense, thought Harry. If he had hit his wife, why no bruising?

Harry then spun around and turned his attention to the wife.

Marcus, can you come here for a minute? he asked.

What’s up, replied Marcus, as he walked over.

You see anything strange here? asked Harry.

No. Why?

Shouldn’t the gun have fallen out of her hand when she shot herself? Her hand is clearly resting on the table and she is still holding the gun securely. After she shot herself, wouldn’t her arm have fallen to her side causing her to drop the gun?

You would think, replied Marcus. But who the fuck knows? All I can do for now is make a note and look into it later.

After talking to Marcus, Harry proceeded to check every room looking for anything and everything that might be out of place. He watched the forensic team complete all of their measurements and then he took a few more photographs with his Instamatic camera. Nothing else stood out. His only hope was that the forensic team would find something more definitive, something he had missed.

Harry stayed at the house until the crime scene guys finished their work and didn’t get home until just after midnight. He opened the front door, turned on the light and poured himself a Jack Daniels. Something was not adding up.

•

As he walked out of the house with Officer Toms in tow, Albert glanced back at the detective standing in the doorway. It was at that point that Albert realized he shouldn’t lower his guard and underestimate this guy. He was not as dumb as he looked.

CHAPTER 3

The next morning, Harry was up and out of the house by 7:30. He had barely slept and felt like shit. He hated Monday mornings.

Harry was never concerned about looking good or taking care of himself. He was of average height, slightly overweight and had the beginnings of a paunch. Today he was wearing a checkered sport coat with a mustard stain on the sleeve. The stain had turned up all of a sudden after he had enjoyed a pastrami sandwich at Jimmy’s, the bar he frequented across the alley from his office.

The first thing Harry did when he arrived at the station was to visit the morgue where the bodies of Frank and Patsy Doyle had been taken early that morning. Harry was anxious to see what the coroner had to say.

He entered through the large double doors and scanned the room looking for a live body. The station’s morgue was painted a drab gray with a series of refrigerated vaults running along the side and rear. In the middle of the room sat four large stainless steel tables.

On two of the tables lay the bodies of Frank and Patsy Doyle, each one being probed and prodded by a lab technician. Neither technician looked up when Harry entered the room.

Sweet coughed in an attempt to draw their attention and at that, one man looked up, put his tool down and wiped his hands on a white towel.

What the hell are you doing in here?

At that point, the other technician looked up. Hey, Bruce, hold on. Let me introduce you to Harry Sweet. He’s a detective here, and you’ll find out soon enough that he’s one of the good guys.

Nice to meet ya, Harry. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’d shake your hand but I don’t want to get any blood on you or that nice checkered coat you’re wearing.

"Just what I need,