Detective Jesus #1: Thou Shalt Not Kill

By Jack Kimble

Crackling with more pulse-pounding adrenaline-fueled action than the first two testaments combined!!

In the New Testament, he called himself the good shepherd, but now he's back and Heaven help the wolves who prey on his sheep. When an alderman's daughter is murdered, Jesus has to take on city hall to get her justice with only a by-the-book lieutenant descended from Pilate himself and a tough-as-nails lady partner in his corner. He's a detective for a new generation--part Serpico, part Bullitt and all divine.

Excerpt:

"You know Clarence," I said dancing away from a clumsy roundhouse. "There are going to be times when you face an obstacle in your way that you can't just hit straight on, You're a powerful man, but not everything is going to come right at you."

"Truth," said Clarence sending two more jabs harmlessly off my shoulder.

"So when the bell is ringing for the 10th round and you're totally spent, where does the strength come to finish the fight? Where do find that something extra to knock out your foe."

"I dig deep. I always dig deep."

"That's right Clarence," I said. "It comes from deep inside. It's within you. That's where you'll find righteousness and peace."

"I don't want to hit you anymore. You're deep," he said dropping his arms.

This was the opportunity I had been looking for. I hit him with an uppercut to the jaw and knocked him off his feet.

"Holy Crap! Kenny Loggins just knocked out Statue," said the older man.

I went into a neutral corner, while his obnoxious friend climbed into the ring and counted to ten. When Clarence was counted out, I rushed over to help him up just the gym exploded in cheering.

"Hey man," complained Clarence. "I had dropped my guard."

"It all happens so fast," said Healy. "You know how it is."

"Well, I still like what you said, Sandals," said Clarence patting my back with his massive hands still encased in his boxing gloves.

"Get back to work!" yelled Mazilli as cheerful as ever. "You don't pay me so you can stand around gawking."

"He's right," said Healy. "We'll let you all get back to work, but we're investigating a homicide and there was a towel that may have been from this gym found at the crime scene. On the odd chance that somebody here knows something please contact us. I'll leave you a business card."

"I'll put it up in the locker room," said the smart ass who had a whole new respect for me now.

"If you see anybody in the gym who doesn't belong here or anything suspicious just drop us a line."

"Anybody who doesn't belong here? Like you two?" asked a boxer in the back.

"Exactly like us," I said. "We'll take any help we can get."

"We got your back," said Clarence with his deep baritone. "That wasn't a request, it was a promise."

"Thanks," said Healy. "Have a good workout."

"Hey man," said the old guy cheering. "You're not really Kenny Loggins, are you?"

"I am who you say I am," I replied trying to keep things ambiguous.

"I know you're not Kenny Loggins," said the old guy. "Nobody famous comes in here anymore, but you're alright."

"No need to worry about me," I replied smiling as I shook his hand.

"Holy--."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Kimble
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201859367

Book preview

For Carl, Tom, and the All-American crew, 

Thirty-five years was not nearly enough for me.

Thanks to Dave, Ed, Tim, and the beta readers who

made this so book much better than the original draft.

Thou Shalt Not Kill

Jack Kimble

It was about 8:15 on that kind of morning where the chilling wind off Lake Michigan seems to rip the flesh from your bones. I was wearing a dark off the rack sports coat and khaki pants. My tie had a minuscule red wine spot on the left bottom corner or maybe it was blood. By now, they were sort of one and the same to me. On my feet I had a pair of well-worn brown leather sandals. I couldn’t get used to heavy modern footwear and I sure had no use for socks. The cold wasn’t that bad if you didn’t think about it. Maybe I didn’t look like some European fashion model, but at least when I sat at my desk and nobody could see my feet I blended in with the other working stiffs on the job.

The south side of Chicago was a carnival of smells that morning. The aroma of fortifying cups of coffee met the intoxicating scents of warm baked onion bagels and spicy chorizo.  In vain they fought to wash away the lingering stench of a night of sin in the city. I’d had my bagels, lox, and coffee before I left my third floor walkup this morning. Breakfast was fine at least as well as bread and fish go, but I still never mastered making coffee that wasn’t thin as water or didn’t taste like the bottom of the Sea of Galilee.

Chicago’s gleaming skyscrapers and magnificent lakefront gave it the glamorous allure of a movie star, but underneath the stainless steel couture of its skyline was a tough old broad who still remembered growing up on the mean streets of Bridgeport or Canaryville and didn’t take crap from nobody. If you wanted to play Devil’s advocate here, then join the chorus. There was always room for one more.

The Bureau of Detectives shared space with the Circuit Court. It was tucked away on a patch of grass with art in front and had a certain of air of suburbia from the outside. Inside, we were looking at some of the most heinous crimes committed by man since my father had gone and given them free will.

It’s still weird to think of myself as a detective. When I came back everybody just assumed that I’d bring about the end of the world and poof we’re roller skating with Olivia Newton John in Xanadu.  Well it’s not 1979 and your burgundy slacks aren’t coming back either. In fact, don’t call it a comeback. Frankly, I got bored. I always loved Thor comic books because it was like the one book that I could relate to. Honestly, Lee and Kirby were way more relatable to me than John Milton ever was. There was something about a god fighting crime that was both sublime and ridiculous. You throw in The Melter, The Wrecker, and his colorful rogues gallery and I couldn’t help thinking I knew how to work a hammer as well as he did. My dad was a carpenter, after all.

When I made detective, they paired me up with Colleen Healy. She was thirty or so, small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She had a penchant for wearing black slacks that fit her the way pants should fit a woman. She always walked as if she was in a hurry. Her hair seemed out of place in the district, it was almost pretty. Her eyes were slate-gray, and had no expression when they looked at me. She came over near me and smiled her mouth filled with sharp predatory teeth as shiny as porcelain. They glistened between her thin too taut lips. Her face lacked color and looked way too pale to be healthy. Maybe I just wasn’t used to Irish girls. She was a good cop though, third generation from what she told me.

He’s out for blood today, she said smiling as she saw me approach. I was told to grab you and bring you to his office as soon as you got in.

Then let’s go, I said. No time like the present.

Anthony Pilate was fit for a man in his mid-forties. I always assumed it was from all the time he spent nervously fidgeting at his desk or pacing anxiously around the office. If his name seems familiar, it’s because he’s a descendant of that Pilate; the one who gave the order crucifying me. Family rivalries aside, he was a good man, but he was more a bureaucrat than a leader and having a long-haired, sandal-wearing, freak like me in his station grated on him. Every single day I walked into the district he wanted to wash his hands of me, but he also knew that I got results and he was all about his clearance rate.

Pilate looked up over the frames of his glasses. His thinning mahogany brown hair revealed its bald spots from this angle like little bunnies popping out of their burrows after a rainstorm. Good morning, glad you could show up.

It’s not even nine yet, I said. You know I put in the hours, sir.

I suppose you do, but this time it’s my keister on the line, said Pilate. The body of Dan Nowak’s daughter Carrie Ann was found last night. She was murdered. Someone did a number on her and we need to bring them in quickly and quietly.

Wait, Dan Nowak the alderman? asked Colleen.

No, Dan Nowak the ballerina, replied Pilate. Yeah, the alderman and close personal friend and political ally of the mayor.

We’ll get on it, I said. This city can be a cold and brutal place, but we won’t leave any stones unturned.

Just so we get this straight, said Pilate, you’re going to do this one by the book. No miracles, no parables, no breaking suspects’ arms.

They literally call him the prince of peace, replied Colleen defending me.

That last one was about you, said Pilate. The last thing I need is the mayor breathing down my neck waiting to crucify me if I make one—-. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was in bad taste.

Don’t worry about it, sir. We get your drift and we will do this strictly by the book, I replied. One thing about Pilate, he put his foot in his mouth so often he had a permanent footprint from his loafers on his tongue, but he was also quick to seek forgiveness and that goes a long way with me. It always has.

Okay, said Pilate. You’re going to go talk to her family. They have a press conference in two hours, but they can squeeze you in before that. Remember, treat them with kid gloves.

We walked out together refraining from saying anything in front of Pilate. Pontius Pilate was always by the book and his descendant had definitely inherited the trait from him. He liked things orderly and I couldn’t fault him that, but big cities aren’t orderly even in the best cases and Chicago was far from a best case. This city could crucify a good man, but you don’t go down easy. Each year in the filth drives the spikes in a little further until you’re a human corkscrew and all your wine is blood. It makes what happened to me look like a colorful misadventure.

I would have asked for an address, but I figured you’d know where we’re going, said Healy half in jest.

Of course, I replied. We’re going to the Gold Coast.

I hate the Gold Coast.

You know, it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than—.

For a rich man to get into Heaven, yeah I know, she said. I guess sometimes I could get a bit preachy.

I knew a bit about Alderman Nowak. His ward in Old Town was trendy and it was close enough to the heart of the city that its current building boom involved boutique hotels and other big budget construction. Of course, as alderman this made Nowak a very powerful man. He could make it difficult to get the proper permits or he could turn on the spigot and get the TIF money flowing right to thirsty developers who had been smart enough to grease the right palm.

Nowak technically didn’t even live in the ward that he represented. Old Town was an old ill-defined neighborhood whose boundaries were usually whoever could hear the church bells on Saint Michael’s. There were plenty of elegant Victorian era mansions in the ward, but that wasn’t quite good enough for Nowak. He lived about two blocks outside the ward’s boundaries in a ten million dollar recently restored 19th century manor that was over 9,000 square feet and had six bedrooms and a large rooftop deck. Nowak had been alderman long enough that nobody in his ward questioned him living outside its boundaries.

Healy pulled the Chevy Tahoe into the circular drive outside of Nowak’s home. She was clearly impressed. Why are we here?

Pilate sent us here, Remember?

No, I mean there is a crime scene. Why are we here and not there?

I’m sure we’re going to find that out, I said ringing the doorbell. I doubt we’ll like the reason.

With a house like this we had expected a servant, but the door was answered by Nowak’s wife who went by K.T. She couldn’t have been a trophy wife. I made her to be at least fifty. You don’t get that condescending without years of practice. She wore a simple black dress that probably would have cost a month of my salary and she’d been crying the kind of tears that only come from losing a child. She stood leaning there for a minute, the sort of a woman who moves when she stands still.

You must be the detectives, she said breaking the silence.

Yeah, does it show? I asked.

Sorry, we don’t want visitors right now. Present company obviously accepted, explained K.T. My husband is in the living room.

The sound of her heels echoing off the marble floor would alert anybody that we were coming the way that a drop of rain on your wrist tells you a storm is brewing without having to look up at the sky. We entered the well-appointed room to see Nowak sinking deeper and deeper into a white sofa. He gripped a cigarette with delicate fingers that belied his hulking frame. He had to have heard the thundering clip clop of his wife and the two detectives approaching, but he paused for a moment steeling himself before looking up from the couch. Thank you for coming. We’re all a bit shaken this morning.

I’m sorry for your loss, I said. If it’s any consolation, she’s in a much better place.

Nice sentiment, he said looking right through me. Did you ever lose a child? Did you ever have your own flesh and blood torn apart and killed?

No, but my father did, I said.

Then you know at least some of what I’m going through, replied Nowak still barely acknowledging me.

Sir, the first forty-eight hours are crucial in finding a killer, said Healy. I feel like our time could be better spent elsewhere.

"I