Murder, Sex, Revenge, Poker, and Polygamy … and Trains: A Novel … Sort Of

By Stephen Seager

Cowboy Bob Smith is a famous poker player whose career is cut short when he’s murdered in a particularly grisly fashion. After a second poker player is killed in the identical manner, it seems as though a sick killer is on the hunt for
world champion players.

Noah Packard, a defrocked doctor-turned-detective, and his unlikely cohort a sharp-tongued ex-stripper, Jesica “One S”, are hired to find the suspected serial killer, but they don’t have much to go on.

To find answers, the pair wades through a mire of gambling, racism, violence, and revenge, injected with a dose of the supernatural. They descend into the slimy underbelly of Las Vegas and the horrors of polygamous cults in Southern Utah, all while struggling to stop a killer before he strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665722841

Stephen Seager

Stephen Seager is a board-certified psychiatrist, a former assistant professor of psychiatry at UCLA School of Medicine and a multiply published author. His work has been featured on national television and radio, including Oprah, GMA, NPR, and Larry King, among others.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Every writer worth a shit will say the same thing: you’re not in control of the story, the characters are. The characters will say and do what they’re supposed to say and do regardless of what you think, had planned, or want. You just write things down. Like a glorified stenographer.

This book is what everyone in my story said and did. I tried to reason with these people. Tried to talk sense to them, but no go. This is what they wanted. So here it is.

CHAPTER

ONE

Splintering his skull, the railroad spike was hammered directly into the center of the dead man’s open mouth and halfway into the wall behind him. Eyes deranged, limbs akimbo, the body hung like a shirt on a hook. Fresh blood dripped onto the floor.

A passing security guard lit the scene with his flashlight. Jesus God, he mumbled, lurched backwards and puked.

II

Yellow tinged pole lights bathed the exterior of a small office building and adjacent parking lot. A nondescript sedan pulled up. Three men emerged, breached the building’s front entrance and, a short distance down a hallway, swung open an office door. They flipped a light switch and stepped inside.

Search everything, Detective Harlan Eccles said. A second man began opening desk drawers. A third snapped photos.

Stepping around a pool of blood, Eccles collared the photographer. Get me the photos ASAP.

Will do, the photographer said, and continued clicking.

Eccles pulled on latex gloves and stood in front of the body appended to the wall.

He removed a playing card from the dead man’s shirt pocket - the ace of spades. Then he studied the dead man’s face. The photographer loomed over Eccles shoulder.

Cowboy Bob? the photographer said.

Yup, said Eccles.

We got a problem don’t we? the photographer said.

This can’t leak to the press, Eccles said.

Do we call Packard?

Rather get a root canal, Eccles said.

Got a better idea? the photographer said.

Wish to God I did, Eccles said as a phalanx of cops appeared in the doorway.

III

Noah Tecumseh Packard lay face down. He startled awake, turned his head and cracked open a bloodshot eye.

He took stock. He was lying flat. It was cold. And night. He was hungry, parched and in pain. He tasted blood on his upper lip and felt an egg-sized lump on his right cheek.

He was soaking wet. Cool water surged around his head before cascading into a black abyss as if he were teetering on the edge of a waterfall.

Turning, Packard drank deeply. Then choked. He pulled a wadded cocktail napkin from his throat and flung it away. What the fuck? Packard moaned, and pulled himself up onto the curb. Roiling gutter water encircled his feet then disappeared down the grate from which he’d just pulled his head. He read the embossed lettering: Las Vegas Municipal Sewer.

Packard stood. He slid hands into his pockets then patted his butt. Nothing.

He tried to get his bearings. It was black dark. Only a distant flashing Casino sign broke the spell. Then a bead of light sprouted and grew until the headlights of an approaching ebony limousine ensnared him. The limo eased to a stop, the back door opened and, wearing a clingy red dress and tall heels, Marilyn Monroe, emerged. She removed a cigarette from a silver case and lit it.

You crawling in or out of the sewer? Monroe asked.

Don’t know, Packard said.

You Noah Tecumseh Packard known as Chief? Monroe said. The famous detective?

Packard looked at Monroe.You a female impersonator who hassles drunks? he said.

Are you Chief Packard? Monroe asked again.

Packard held a hand above his eyes as if saluting.

Sure you’re not Marilyn Monroe? he said.

Plastic surgery, Monroe said. Are you Chief Packard?

Never heard of him, Packard said. Excuse me, I gotta go. He turned.

Offering half a million dollars, Monroe said. For a few weeks work.

Packard spun. You’re Marilyn Monroe to me, he said.

Monroe climbed back into the limousine. The back window rolled down. Go home. Sober up. See a doctor, Monroe said. Your office, tomorrow at 10:00. The limo pulled away.

Packard looked down and saw his dented iPhone on the pavement. He scooped it and the screen lit. He tapped. Hope Uber works for a sewer drain, he said

IV

Uncertain if he was still asleep, HE pushed a blanket aside and sat up. THE VOICE stood at the foot of the bed, an arm extended toward a stack of poker chips on a counter top.

Your stack’s shrinking, THE VOICE said.

Ran into some bad luck, HE replied. Had pocket jacks and…

THE VOICE pounded the counter top. Chips flew. There’s no bad luck! THE VOICE roared.Just bad players. THE VOICE turned and struck HE across the face.

Losing is not tolerated, THE VOICE said. "Other players are vermin. They’ll take your money. Then your soul. Will you let that happen?

HE shook his head. No.

Then you know what to do? THE VOICE said.

Yes, HE replied.

You want to be a winner don’t you? THE VOICE asked.

I do.

Like Stu Unger?

Just like Stu Unger.

Make me proud, THE VOICE said. Or else.

V

Packard leaned a rattle trap bike against the side of a slumped stucco building. A sun faded sign read N. Packard. Private Investigation. Packard wore a blue Nirvana T-shirt, Levis and cowboy boots. Pushing a glass door open, he stepped inside the defunct 7-11. Two rows of folding chairs stood where Twinkie’s and candy racks had been. Jesica, One S, sat behind the front counter.

Morning boss, Jesica said.

Morning, Packard replied, and dropped into a folding chair.

You lose a fight? Jesica said.

Shoulda seen the other guy, Packard said.

Get your act together, Jesica said. New client’s due any minute. And Detective Eccles wants to talk this afternoon.

Fuck Eccles.

Rent’s due in a week.

Love Eccles.

Jesica and Packard turned as the glass door opened and Monroe - pink dress and heels - walked in. She eyed Packard.

Took me forever to find you last night, Monroe said, and lit a cigarette. What the hell happened?

Money, Packard said. Owed it and didn’t have it. Some angry men explained my the need to get it.

Surprised you survived, Monroe said.

Surprised you’re real, Packard said. Thought I dreamed it.

I get that a lot, Monroe said, and took a drag.

Packard nodded to the cigarette. We don’t allow…

Monroe puffed smoke in his face.

In back, Packard said.

Packard sat behind a battered wooden desk. Monroe stood. Jesica entered, flipped a folding chair backwards and sat.

No kids allowed, Monroe said.

She’s my assistant. She stays.

Monroe strolled around the small room. At a bookcase, she fingered a huge tome.

Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine, she read, then ran a pink nail down the spine of another book. Kaplan and Sadock’s Comprehensive Textbook of Psychiatry. Weren’t you some kind of doctor once?

I was, Packard replied.

What happened?

Fucked up.

Good, Monroe said. Never trust anybody who hasn’t fucked up.

I’m your man, Packard said.

VI

Monroe crushed her cigarette. Packard clicked a pen above a notepad. "And…? he said

My husband’s been murdered, Monroe said. Vegas cops gave some lame story. You need to find out who did it.

Who was your husband?

Cowboy Bob Smith.

The poker player?

One of the best ever.

I’ve heard that, Packard said.

You play poker? Monroe asked.

I’m familiar with the pros from TV, Packard said. But I don’t actually play.

You’ll need to learn.

I don’t think…

You’ll need to learn.

Didn’t see anything in the news about your husband, Packard said.

Monroe lit another cigarette. That’s how Vegas works, she said. It used to be mob. Now it’s big corporate. Can’t have stories about famous gamblers getting killed. Bad for your stock price. Bad optics, as they say. She took a drag. I need to know what happened.

Last night you mentioned half a million dollars, Packard said. Hope that wasn’t a dream.

Offer still stands, Monroe said."You on board, Chief?

Hundred percent, Packard said.

Monroe dropped an envelope on the desk. Expense money, she said. I’ll be in touch. You need anything, send blondie. Monroe looked at Jesica, Baby girl, I gotta know who did your boobs.

Monroe walked to the doorway. You have two months, she said, and left.

Lunch time, Packard said.

VII

A crumpled Popeye’s Chicken bag and wads of greasy napkins cluttered Packard’s desk. Feet propped, chair canted, Packard slept. Jesica roused him.

Eccles just pulled up, she said.

Packard swung his legs around and rubbed his face. He tried to stand but listed badly. Leg’s asleep, he said, and dropped back into the chair. They heard the front door open.

I’ll stall, Jesica said, undoing the top button on her blouse. Comb your hair, she added.

VIII

No sign of lunch, Packard sat behind his desk, hands clasped on top. Hair in place, he smiled as the office door opened and the burly figure of Detective Harlan Eccles - 60’s, crew cut, jowly, ill fitting suit - filled the doorway. Testing his leg, one hand on the desk, Packard stood.

Detective Eccles, Packard said. Welcome. Sit down.

Cut the crap, asshole, Eccles barked, and strode in. He slapped a manila folder on the desk. And Nirvana sucks,