All in a Row (Book 2 in the John Keegan Mystery Series)

By John Misak

Someone's killing pretty young women in New York City. Each murder seems just like the last. The media is tagging it as the beginning of a 'Serial Summer'. Only one cop would have the bad luck to be assigned to the case.

Fresh from the case that nearly ended his career, NYPD Homicide detective John Keegan is thrust into a series of murders looking more and more like the workings of the serial killer that the media is talking about. Pressure comes from several areas. One of the victims is the granddaughter of a powerful Senator. The mayor fears the murders will affect his successful anti- crime initiative.

Keegan's boss, passed over for a promotion, is eager to put this case to rest and secure a position higher up in the department. On top of that, Keegan's partner seems troubled and has disengaged himself from the investigation, leaving Keegan to come to his own conclusions about the case and his partner. Before he solves the case, Keegan will be forced to analyze everything about his life and the people he he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Misak
• Release date: Oct 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463679289

Book preview

All in a Row

Book 2 in the John Keegan Mystery Series

by John Misak

All in a Row: A John Keegan Novel

An Empire Strikes Book / September 2022

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2014, 2020, 2022 by John Misak

BOOK DESIGN BY JOHN MISAK

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Empire Strikes Press.

This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, incidents, dialogue and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

ISBN: 0-974-99262-4

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

I’d like to dedicate this book to my three sisters: Lisa, Tina and Samantha. We didn’t pick each other as siblings but, if given the choice, I know I could never find better sisters anywhere. Thanks for always being there.

Prologue

It happened in a bar, of all places. This should not have surprised me. Still, I expected my great epiphany to happen somewhere a bit more substantial. Then, it might have had more impact. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Amidst the lingering smell of twenty or so colognes and perfumes I made my realization. The rhythmic tapping of a wedding band on the bar kept the beat. The epiphany hit me from the left side, striking downward and causing long-dormant synapses to fire in my skull.

I think we all look for them; sudden moments when life and our purpose become clear. Maybe most of us just turn oxygen into carbon dioxide. For some this would be a singular positive achievement drowning in a pool of failures. Others can’t accept that. I know I chased down greater meaning all my life until I finally realized ‘greater meaning’ was a lie. It all comes down to perception. Life is what you see not what it is. It is nothing until interpreted. Most people cannot be trusted to interpret on their own.

Hence, my epiphany. I’d spent way too much time unhappy because I’d thought I missed out on something important. I expected some crowning achievement would put my life into perspective. When two paths diverged in my woods, I always wanted to take both roads for fear that selecting one would forever leave me wondering about the other. That’s no way to live.

This all came to me while I occupied my one seat worth of space at Kasey’s, the local watering hole I’d come to know too well. Any time all the bartenders in an establishment know you by what you drink there is a problem. For me, the problem wasn’t alcohol, it was boredom. I thought I cured the boredom problem. Unfortunately, boredom never left me. We fought constantly and he never gave up, never once completely laid down and got out of my way. Yes, boredom is male. It’s time we stop blaming women for everything.

So, there I sat, sucking down my fifth Dewar’s of the night, once again trying in vain to grasp onto something that made me want to wake up in the morning. That’s when I realized it. There was no greater purpose for me. I wasn’t destined for amazing things like my mother and teachers had told me for so many years. I was destined to live, that was it. I’d die too, that was certain. Chasing a dream was just that, a chase. From the way I saw it, the dream had a head start and there was no chance for me to catch up. Let it go, I figured. Maybe I’d catch it when it lapped me.

It was the fortyish blonde woman next to me—the source of the wedding band tapping—who brought this all into focus. Watching her hit on every guy in the place, desperate for attention and recognition, made me see the uselessness of growing old without a purpose. Her not hitting on me indicated my own advancing age. I moved out of this woman’s target area and on to that nondescript age known as thirty-something. These were supposed to be the most productive years of my life. The problem was the only thing I produced was a good case of agita.

I had no one to blame for my discontent. The world could not be responsible for my not becoming the next great Yankee pitcher. I could blame my parents perhaps, for not giving me the superb genetics to pull something like that off. I don’t like blaming my parents for things. It gives them way too much credit and influence over my life and the course it has taken. So, no one was to blame for this dream being deferred. It didn’t dry up and it certainly didn’t explode; it just never happened. Sure, I was pissed. I was pissed when I was cut from the varsity baseball team for throwing the first baseman’s underwear in the shower. I was even more disheartened when I didn’t make the college team. The coach, a man with a belly so large it looked like he swallowed small children as a hobby, told me that I had a live arm but I needed to lose my tummy. He said tummy. What I couldn’t understand then was, if I killed him, I’d be the one who went to jail.

I wasn’t entitled to the realization of my dreams. I had to work for them and I had to be lucky at the same time. Of course, we aren’t taught this. We are taught that we can all sit atop the pyramid. We can all be CEOs or movie stars or baseball players. The vast majority of us never will get the chance. On some cosmic level perhaps there is a reason why some people’s dreams come true and some don’t. Converting the currency of dreams into reality is a tough task mainly because the conversion rate is heavily stacked. Effort certainly plays a big part in why some convert and some don’t but most of it involves luck. That was something I didn’t have too much of.

Okay, so I had this epiphany. I figured the next step was a change in my attitude. I thought beams of light would shine down upon me, uplifting my spirit and washing away the negativity I’d swam in for over a decade. It didn’t happen. As a matter of fact, nothing happened. I just sat there, like before, only more confused. I wanted to stop being angry. I wanted to feel contentment. I had all the pieces in place for it. I had a good job with the NYPD, a decent apartment, and a family who cared about me. It was time to move forward.

I pushed my drink away from me, instantly reminded that it cost me eight bucks. After some debate about whether I should finish that drink and start the new life the next day, I got up from the bar. I walked out the door, expecting to be hit with a fresh breeze of new opportunity. Much to my dismay, I was greeted with the same exhaust-laden New York City air. I already seemed to be choking on this new way of life. I remained undaunted, confident that with a little effort this new way of thinking would take hold and that my life, from that day forward, would be different.

I had no idea how right I was.

Chapter 1

People die. Of all humanity’s accomplishments, we die the best. Everyone can do it, from the homeless on the street to the CEO resting on a ten-thousand-dollar couch fifty floors above them. Eventually we all succeed at death. We kill each other and even ourselves. It’s not that difficult. You take a shotgun, point it at your head and use your big toe to pull the trigger. Wham, your conscience fades away as your brains splatter on the wall, staining the photo of you and your spouse that illustrates the time when you convinced yourself you were in love and happy.

And, fascinatingly, we are hard-wired to avoid death. Next to sex, survival is the greatest instinct in the human body. That’s right, sex comes first. So, it can be argued that a man would actually walk into a burning building to get laid. Unless it’s his wife in there. One would think we’d find a way to cheat death, but—thankfully—this is not the case. Oh, they are working on it.

What do we have to thank for this success? It’s simple really; each other. Human beings have only one real natural predator, humans. We shoot, stab, and beat each other over the head with bats. We run over each other with cars, bash our loved ones with a frozen lamb shank, push our spouses in front of trains, off cliffs, into roaring rapids. Don’t forget how we destroy the environment and spew cancer-causing chemicals into the air in order to help each other die. The list never ends.

Another interesting way we off each other is through the use of piano wire. It’s a nice, quiet way to tell someone you don’t want them around anymore. Step behind your target, pull out the wire and wrap it around their neck until they stop breathing. It’s clean, silent, and highly effective. Of course, you have the problem of leaving marks around the neck. Tough to hide those.

I thought about all of this as I stared down at the young woman recently murdered this very way. She had light brown hair, the sort that seemed to lighten with exposure to the sun. Her eyes, though glazed over with death, were a radiant blue. Minus the purple hue, her skin seemed soft, touchable. I can’t say how much this bothered me, looking down at a dead woman whom I probably would have considered pretty when alive. I tried not to think about it, forcing myself to focus on the evidence and circumstances of the murder itself, but this woman seemed to call to me from the other side. It wasn’t just her looks; she seemed nice. She might have entertained my advances if only because she didn’t want to be rude. I needed more women like this in my life and I needed them to be alive, God damn it.

Her yellow sundress, with white daisies for Christ’s sake, showed no indication of any sort of struggle. She appeared the random victim of a deranged individual seemingly hell-bent on destroying my dating life. Plenty of people worked hard on that already. I didn’t need a murderous psycho added to the mix.

I shook my head and tried to stick to the facts, prevent my mind from wandering. I looked at my partner, Rick Calhill. He seemed innately bothered about something with this girl. I hoped he saw what I did, that he found this dead woman attractive. It would have made me feel better. I didn’t know the progression of necrophilia. Did it start full blown right out of the gate or did it start like this, with a mild attraction to a dead body? I prayed it was the former and I willed Rick to say something about it. Of course, he didn’t.

Damn shame, I said, standing up and looking around. The body lay next to a dumpster between a card store and a deli about four blocks from my apartment. Normally this would frighten someone, a dead body found so close to home. I’d grown pretty used to seeing dead bodies so this didn’t affect me much, if at all. It was a pretty conspicuous place to leave a body—right on Broadway—but sometimes the last place people look is the most obvious. When assigned to a stiff I always try to examine all the minor details. You don’t solve cases by looking for the big clue. They are like relying on the grand slam to save you in the bottom of the ninth. Small ball works just as well, if not better.

What’s a damn shame? Rick asked. He still seemed bothered, a frown gracing his well-tanned and most likely Botoxed face. I always considered him too pretty for homicide. Shit, he was too pretty for just about everything.

Young girl buying it like this. I tried to speak in a flat, even tone to hide what really went on in my head. I found myself doing this often.

God Keegan, what’s next? That you would hit on her?

Of course, if she were alive. I kept saying that to myself, if she were alive. I don’t have enough faith in my own brain for it to stay away the deranged.

No, that’s not what I meant. I only said that she seems so young and now she’s dead. Makes you think, you know? The fragility of life and all that. I had to be careful. Rick rarely saw things the way I did.

She probably had a good life. Someone cut that short. That’s why we have a job though, right? Rick asked. Maybe he tried to make me feel better. Maybe the jerk in him prevented that. I couldn’t tell.

I guess so, I said. I needed something to grasp at, something to prevent my mind from continuing down this path. Not much came.

A uniform stood in front of the alley, preventing any passersby from getting in there. Past him, I saw two other uniforms, and the Medical Examiner. I waved the M.E. over. He walked slowly, without purpose, like he always did.

What’ve we got? I asked him. Bryan Coltrain was a middle-aged guy with a full head of salt and pepper hair. He was tall, but extremely frail looking. I could probably knock him out with a backhand. Not that I would. Coltrain got a pass in my book. That chapter doesn’t have many pages.

Strangled, between 12 and 3am. Looks like the killer used a thin metal wire, he said, pointing toward the lacerations on the victim’s neck, and stating what I already noticed. Of course, I asked for it, so I couldn’t complain about him playing Captain Obvious.

Any signs of sexual assault? Rick asked. I tried not to think about it. Tried not to bring any visions into my head. They came, and I chased them away.

None. It doesn’t seem like she’s had sex in quite some time, Coltrain said in a monotone voice, as if he completely missed the shame in this.

What about her belongings? I asked, kneeling alongside Coltrain to get a better look. I shouldn’t have, but I wanted to look like I did my job. The fact that this woman retained her sexuality in death really started to bother me. I wanted to believe I wasn’t this superficial. I failed.

No wallet, no purse. Can’t tell if she had one or not. I did find her car keys next to her body in the dumpster. It might have been a robbery, or not. Tough to tell, but that’s your job, isn’t it? Coltrain asked. I couldn’t tell if he had just attempted sarcasm.

I looked past the body and saw a uniform standing in front of two disheveled men, obviously homeless. I looked up at Rick, who still stared at the body. I wanted to know what went on inside that head of his but he didn’t say a thing.

You stay here, I said, I’ll see what those two know. I pointed at the homeless guys.

Go ahead, Rick said, not taking his eyes off the body.

I walked over to the two men, both wearing once-white t-shirts stained brown with dirt and grime. Luckily, a light breeze blew, or I would have been hit with the odor of the homeless. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but the smell can get damn near unbearable on a still day. One of the men, the one on the left, flashed me a mock salute when I walked over. He had curly brown/gray hair, with a beard to match. It seemed to me he had been on the street for a long time. The other one seemed younger, and newer to the lifestyle, if it can be called that. He lost all of his front teeth, and unlike the other one, definitely found the street via drugs.

What’ve you got? I asked the uniform standing in front them.

He got a dead lady, what he got, the older one said, revealing teeth stained worse than the shirt he wore. I did feel some pity for him. It’s tough getting old. To do so on the street had to be unbearable. I thanked fate for my luck and my family.

Thanks, I said.

These two are the ones that found the body, the uniform said.

When? I asked.

If you haven’t noticed, we don’t wear watches, the younger one said in a scratchy voice. He eyed me straight, the way someone who had something to prove would. I think he felt like he had to exert some sort of manhood. I struggled to feel remorse for him. He made his own choices. Still, I didn’t know his life.

I left my Movado home, the old guy said.

I usually don’t leave the house without my Rolex, but I taught tennis this morning and left it at the club. I can be so forgetful sometimes, you know?

Funny. About how long ago did you stumble on our new friend? I asked, ignoring the guy’s comment. I found it better not to give in to such things. Otherwise, I could end up there all day.

I’d say two hours ago, young one said. There a reward?

There’s only a reward for finding the one who did the killing, not the one who did the dying, the old man said. He was right. Best thing to do if you see a dead body is walk in the other direction. You’ve got nothing to gain by sticking around. Either the killer is going to add you to the list or you’ll have to file a report and sit around with a bunch of sweaty cops who stink of coffee and cheap cologne. The body won’t go anywhere. Let someone else find it. Just don’t tell anyone I said that.

Your friend’s right. I appreciate your taking the time to help out, I said.

Yeah, we’re busy people, young one said. He elbowed the old man. You call my secretary and tell her I’m gonna miss my 10 o’clock?

Sure did. I told her you’d harass her by eleven, the latest.

Mighty nice of you, young one said.

The uniform rolled his eyes. I did find these guys amusing but the uniform probably had to deal with this sort every day. One of the bonuses of sitting on the bottom rung on the NYPD ladder. There are others, for sure.

Did you sleep here? I asked. I thought about dancing around the issue so as not to offend them but couldn’t find a way to do so.

Are you trying to imply that we sleep on the street? young one said.

I didn’t imply anything. I asked a question.

Ralphie, he thinks were homeless, young one said.

Homeless? By God, what is he thinking? He tried to make a face to show offense. The younger did the same but with less effect minus the teeth. I saw so many young people end up like him. It’s always the drugs, and they devastate people in ways most don’t even consider.

He ain’t thinking. He judges us by our costumes.

He doesn’t know who we are? Ralphie asked.

Apparently not.

Amazing. The disrespect, Ralphie said.

Isn’t it?

Enough, I said, growing a bit weary of their banter. Were you guys here all night, or not?

No sir. We got here in the morning, young one said. He scratched at his chin. I didn’t know if that was a legitimate itch or a drug tick. Tough not to judge.

Was it dark or light? I asked.

"It was light. In the morning," the young one said slowly, as if I didn’t speak English.

Did you see anyone? I asked. Hear anything?

Yep, Ralphie said.

Like? I asked.

We saw lots of people. Men, women, children. Last time I heard, millions of people live in New York.

You didn’t see anyone suspicious, I said. No one unusual.

Saw some of them types too. Real suspicious sorts.

And—

The answer to your question, Mr. Detective, is no, we didn’t see nobody kill no one and throw them next to the dumpster. All we did was have the bad luck of finding the body. Can we go now?

I looked at the uniform, as if to ask if he had everything he needed, and he nodded.

Yeah, you can go, I said. I motioned to the uniform. Get them some coffee and rolls or something, I said. There was always coffee and food around a murder scene.

The homeless guys smiled.

Will you drop by our mansion for a game of squash when you get the time? the young one asked.

Of course.

I made my way back over to Rick, walking through a waft of dumpster odor that could only be compared to horseshit in intensity, but not character. This smell was a bit denser and seemed to be a combination of several types of rotting food and such. What a day.

Calhill still stared down at the woman, an odd look on his face. I usually read him well but this time he seemed locked on something so distant I had no chance to intercept it. I began to think I suffered this sort of day because threw away a perfectly good drink the night before.

Something bothering you about this? I asked.

Other than the fact that someone died?

I didn’t want to mention that all of us in Homicide got excited when someone died. It was, as he said earlier, our job.

Of course, I said.

Rick paused for a moment, sighing, as if he had to put extra emphasis on what he would say. He did this a lot, sort of the way a woman does. Derive whatever you want from that statement.

You’ll think I am crazy, he said, through a second exhale.

Already do.

You won’t understand.

Probably not. But entertain me by telling me anyway, I said. I had to slowly drag things out of him that he really wanted to tell me. I think he liked the game.

This woman here looks the way I would expect Chrissy to look when she gets older.

That explained Rick’s attitude. Chrissy was his four-year-old daughter, and though I couldn’t comprehend how he could know what his daughter would look like in twenty years, I did understand what he meant.

That’s gotta be weird for you, I said, patting him on the shoulder, I’m sorry.

No big deal. Just a strange experience.

For all the things I didn’t like about Rick, I fully respected him for his devotion to his kids. I think the kids were the reason he didn’t just leave his wife. She’d keep them from him. He suffered through his marriage. For all the bitching and complaining I did about my life I never dealt with something like that. Thinking about it, understanding the hopelessness of the situation, I instantly pitied Rick.

I can’t say I didn’t feel a little disappointed he didn’t suffer the fear of necrophilia. I wanted him to admit the woman was a scorcher. Depravity enjoys company. The least Rick could have done was share it with me.

Hear you. Come on, staring at her isn’t going to do anything but make you feel worse. I figured Rick went over every detail of her, trying to find something in her nose that was different from Chrissy’s, something in her eyes that would set his mind off the track. It wouldn’t work. Minds tend to work more efficiently in the negative than the positive.

We headed back over to Coltrain. Before we even got to him, he started speaking. He didn’t like us cops bothering him and always tried to control the situation.

I’ll have her down at the morgue later this afternoon. Come by then, or I can have the report sent over to you, Coltrain said, speaking through the side of his mouth like he always did. Sometimes, he mumbled and I had to strain to hear him.

We’ll come down, I said.

You can send us the report, Rick said at exactly the same time.

Yeah, send us the report, I said to Coltrain. He seemed happy with that decision. Well, I guess he seemed happy. It wasn’t like he whistled Dixie out his ass but he did smirk. Coltrain rarely, if ever, showed any sort of positive emotion. I can easily be accused of the same thing, but I was more of a sardonic sort of guy. Don’t ask me what sardonic means. Someone called me that not so long ago, and it stuck, so I now refer to myself that way. It sounds sophisticated and it works on the ladies I meet, most of whom wouldn’t know the difference between sardonic and sardine.

We walked back toward Rick’s car, a black Acura CL coupe. He claimed he loved it but everyone knew his wife picked it out. She ran his life.

Still, Rick treated the car like gold and never let me drive it or, worse, smoke in it. I hated when he drove for this very reason. I just couldn’t wait until the day came that poor Rick couldn’t take his wife anymore. He was going to drive that car through a building one day. I always made sure to wear my supplemental restraints whenever he drove. It would be one hell of a show.

Rick pulled away from the curb like an old lady and we headed down Broadway. There didn’t seem to be too much traffic. I felt good about that, about everything, it seemed. I couldn’t tell if my new way of thinking had actually taken hold. I decided to run with it.

Quiet today, Rick said.

Yeah. Thought it was just me.

Nope, definitely a lot quieter than normal. Today isn’t some sort of holiday, is it?

Don’t think so, but I’m not really the one to ask.

Well, you have the inside scoop on the Satanist holidays. Do they have holidays?

Who?

Satanists, Rick said, taking a left turn a bit too sharply and narrowly missing a parked car.

Careful, I said.

Do they?

What?

Do Satanists have holidays?

I have no idea, I said. I always figured Rick to be strange but he was really weird that morning. I can’t say I paid much attention to it.

All other religions do. I guess they do too.

Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t, I said, remembering a kid I grew up with who wasn’t allowed to celebrate his birthday, or any holiday. It is easy enough to become a cast out when you’re a kid. This kid had it doubly tough. I always felt bad for him. Not like I could buy him a birthday present or anything.

True, but can you consider them a religion?

Can you consider Satanists a religion?

I would think the Satanists would say so, Rick said.

So would the Jehovah’s.

With their emphasis on pleasure, the Satanists would have a lot of holidays.

I thought Satanists were all about inflicting pain, or having pain inflicted on them. Maybe that was a sort of pleasure. So, every day would be a holiday for the Satanists because every day is Hell, I said.

That’s sadists, Rick said, in that condescending voice he used when he tried to point out a fault in someone. I didn’t feel like verbally flattening him right then. This was the new John Keegan, the sort