The Reaper

By Rae Scott

Fear not those who are innocent, for I shall cause you no harm. I seek out only those who have yet to pay for their sins. Fear me if you have no remorse, for I am the Reaper. And I will ensure that you reap what you have sewn.

The serial killer known as The Reaper is loose on the streets of Norfolk. Its victims have two things in common: They have each hurt a child but served little to no time in jail for it, and none of them regret their actions.

Detective Mel Tanner is close to retirement when she is assigned to investigate a murder that leads her in a hunt for the serial killer known as The Reaper. As a seasoned homicide detective of fifteen years, she now finds herself jaded and unfeeling to the atrocities that she has had to witness every day.

When rookie, Detective Nat Petrov, lands her dream assignment, to work with the best Detective in Norfolk, she is thrown headfirst into The Reaper's perverse sense of justice. The detectives race against the clock as body after body turns up with the signature Grim Reaper tarot card, each life ended in a way specifically designed for the individual victim. Will the detectives be able to catch a twisted serial killer before time runs out, or will The Reaper's exact revenge in a way more personal than anyone could have ever fathomed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886544398

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The Reaper

Rae Scott

Copyright © 2022 Rea Scott

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-437-4 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-439-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

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

About the Author

Dedication

To Olivia.

My partner in crime.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost I would like to thank my family and friends who are a constant source of encouragement. To Kim and her red pen, thank you for your blunt honesty and elephant like memory for names and details. To my friend across the pond Ally, your feedback and excitement provided me, not only with a sense of accomplishment, but gave me the confidence boost I needed.

To my readers who chose to lose themselves in my storytelling I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Finally, to my wife. Thank you for reminding me when it was time to eat, take a break and especially when it was time to rejoin the real world. I would be lost without you.

Chapter 1

As he slowly regained consciousness, the first thing Michael Fitzpatrick became aware of was a throbbing pain radiating through the back of his head. He tried to roll over but found himself unable to move, straps around his ankles kept his legs spread apart and unmovable while each wrist was secured to the side of whatever he was on, holding him firmly in place. His eyes shot open in alarm, but he found himself enveloped in complete darkness. Confused and overcome with panic, he frantically pushed and pulled with his arms and legs once again, thrashing his body in every direction until the straps around his wrists and ankles began to chafe at his flesh.

Although confused at first on how he had gotten himself into this situation, it didn't take long before anger overtook him as he once again pulled in vain at his restraints in a futile attempt to get free. Michael screamed into the darkness, calling and then begging for help, and when no one answered his pleas, he screamed again, this time demanding his captor to show himself and release him. From somewhere behind him, he could hear the soft humming of a fan. It was the only sound that could be heard in between his arduous screams. Yanking and pulling with his arms while at the same time jerking and kicking with his legs, he used what little slack his bindings provided, stopping only after he had rubbed his skin raw and trickles of blood flowed down his skin both above and below his restraints. Where am I? Why am I tied down? How did I get here? he asked himself, wishing he knew the answers. The last thing he remembered was going to a local hole in the wall bar and having a few beers and then nothing.

Michael, a wealthy hedge fund accountant, donated to multiple charities and was well-liked by his friends and family. He was the popular guy at work and a handsome alpha male with perfectly tapered jet-black hair, a strong face that could have been chiseled from stone, and the physique of an athlete. He never imagined himself in a situation where he wasn't in complete control.

He screamed louder, causing his already throbbing headache to intensify. Blinding pain shot from Michael's temples into his eyes, but it still wasn't enough to stop his cries for help. Desperate, he lay unable to move, screaming until his voice became nothing more than a whisper, his throat raw and parched and his body exhausted from the strain. Finally, he quieted, closing his eyes and stilling his body against the pain and fear of his situation.

What felt like hours passed by, and still no one came. The throbbing in his head had subsided only to be replaced with a bruising pain resulting from his inability to move from the prone position he had been placed in. Whatever he was lying on was hard—his shoulder blades, lower back and elbows hurt from his inability to shift his weight properly. Tears ran down his cheeks when he finally asked himself the hard question, What's going to happen to me?

Michael laid there with his eyes closed. The burning pain in his wrists and ankles caused by the chafing restraints and the sweat that now soaked his entire body kept him still, unwilling to move lest it cause him more injuries. The bruising pain in his hips and shoulders from being stationary on the hard surface was becoming almost unbearable, but he didn't have the energy to scream or call out for help around his raw throat and dry cracked lips anymore. Please, someone help me, he thought as a single tear slid down his cheek.

Just as he was entering into a painless state of exhaustive sleep, a blinding light penetrated his closed eyelids, causing him to squeeze his lids tighter against the almost-unbearable brightness. Michael blinked rapidly as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the light in hopes he would finally be able to find out where he was, why he was there, and who his captor was. Hello? he called out, his voice raspy with strain. No one answered.

When his eyes had finally adjusted to the light, Michael looked around frantically, trying to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. The room was large, maybe fifteen by twenty feet. The walls and ceiling were covered with pieces of triangular black foam—the kind he had seen used in sound studios on TV. Above him, pointed down at his prone body, stood a set of construction lights shining bright enough to illuminate the entire room.

Turning his head to the right caused drops of sweat to trickle into his eyes, reflexively he shut them tight against the sudden sting from the salt. When he opened them again, he saw a single round metal stool standing just a few feet from where he was lying and a portable air conditioner to its right. That must be what I heard, he thought. His wrists were bound with leather restraints similar to the ones used in hospitals and attached to the stainless-steel table he was lying on next to his hips. Michael lifted his head the few inches his bindings allowed and saw a single doorknob, but if there was a door, he couldn't see it, black foam completely covered everything from the walls to the ceiling. His ankles were secured in the same way as his wrists with one tied down to each corner of the table, and although his clothes were still on, his boots and socks had been removed.

Looking to the left, a wooden table covered in plastic stood maybe ten feet away from where he was with several items lined up on top of it. Michael pulled harder against his bindings, no longer concerned with the pain it caused, as he attempted to identify the various items on the table. On the left corner sat a stack of what appeared to be laminated papers, next to them a hammer, then what he thought was a butane lighter, and although he couldn't make out the specifics, several other items were resting neatly in perfect rows.

Paralyzing fear engulfed him as the enormity of his situation finally hit. Oh shit, he thought. As afraid as he was before, the realization of his nightmarish circumstances filled him with abject terror. He screamed into the darkness, Help me! Somebody! Anybody! Get me out of here!

A masked figure soundlessly stepped up from where it had been standing behind his head so it could finally be seen, still and silent as a statue. Wearing a white skull mask and a black cloak with the hood pulled over its head, his captor looked down on him, slowly tilting its head from side to side as if it were studying him, trying to understand him. I'm going to die, Michael thought to himself. Too afraid to speak, he lay there silent and unmoving looking up into the face or to be more precise, the mask of death.

With each silent minute that passed, his fear escalated, and adrenaline flooded his system, causing his heart to race until he was panting, his face and body dripping with sweat and trembling with fear. Finally, when he couldn't take the silence any longer, he pulled at his restraints and screamed, What do you want, you sick fuck? Let me go or so help me god, I'll end you! His masked captor tilted its head one last time and then slowly walked over to the wooden table.

Michael watched with a sense of foreboding as the masked figure in the black cloak stood looking down at the various items on the table, fear of the unknown beginning to take hold of him. A thousand thoughts and images ran through his mind as he tried to work out the reason for why he was there on that table, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't come up with a single explanation for his circumstances. He tried to figure out who his captor might be, but the only name he could come up with was the Grim Reaper, because that's what his captor looked like.

The Reaper came back and held a card in front of his face with its left hand. It was a three-by-five-inch tarot card, and on it was a picture of the Grim Reaper. Michael felt the color drain from his face. The Reaper pulled the card away and, with its right hand, held up a laminated newspaper clipping for him to read. Michael Fitzpatrick received a six-month sentence for the beating death of his then girlfriends' six-year-old son. Questions on the mishandling of evidence dropping the charges from murder to child abuse.

His stomach dropped. I did my time for that, he said, his voice shaking with dread. Out of nowhere, his captor's fist came swinging down hitting him square on his nose. The sound of his nose breaking resonated loudly in his ears. Instantly his eyes began to water, and blood began flowing down his throat. He tried to turn his head so he could spit the coppery-tasting substance from his mouth, but the Reaper held him still, forcing Michael to swallow the thick fluid. The Reaper slowly shook its head from side to side. Fear of repercussions should he move kept him still and motionless even when his captor went back to the table again.

When the Reaper returned, he was shown another news article. This one detailing all fifty-three injuries the boy had sustained by him during a drunken rage. While he read the article, tears spilled from Michael's eyes in earnest as he finally realized that he wasn't going to get out of this room alive. Again, his captor went to the table, returned the news article, and came back to look down at him with its unblinking gaze. It held the Grim Reaper's card up to him again, only this time it showed him the message that had been written on the back of the card. Swallowing several times to clear the blood from throat, Michael read it out loud, Fear not those who are innocent, for I shall cause you no harm. I seek out only those who have yet to pay for their sins. Fear me if you have no remorse, for I am the Reaper, and I will ensure that you reap what you have sewn.

Michael looked from the card to the Reaper, tears flowing down his cheeks as he begged for his life. Please, no. I did my time for that. I would never have hurt him if I hadn't been drunk. It wasn't my fault. She knows how I am when I get drunk. She should have kept him quiet and away from me.

The Reaper placed the card on Michael's chest and shook its head. With its other hand, the Reaper slowly lifted up a ball-peen hammer, holding it in front of Michael's face so he could see it, the intention clear.

Please, no. I'm sorry, Michael sobbed, frantically pulling against his bindings as panic began to take over.

The Reaper slowly turned and walked around the table until it was standing next to Michael's right knee. As the hammer was steadily raised over its head, the Reaper looked down into Michael's eyes.

He didn't feel the wetness pooling around him as his bladder released nor the pain of the restraints as they cut into his already raw and bleeding skin. The only thing he felt was pure unadulterated terror. No, please! You don't understand!

The Reaper tilted its head, the hammer still hovering high in the air over Michael's knee and placed one black gloved finger to its mouth. Shhh. It said as the hammer came down hard, shattering his kneecap.

* * *

Detective Melissa Tanner sat in her unmarked unit, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel as she tried to mentally prepare herself for the latest crime scene that was awaiting her arrival. There were at least a half dozen marked patrol cars with their blindingly bright blue and red flashing lights covering the area in their oppressive glow. Crime scene tape isolated the side and backyard of a large brick two-story waterfront house with a forensics van parked in the driveway. It seemed that most of the neighborhood was gathered on the street in small groups looking on, shocked that something so horrendous could happen in their quiet upper-class neighborhood.

Taking a few calming breaths to center herself, Mel got out of her car and approached the scene, stopping just outside of the yellow crime scene tape. Looking around at the cacophony surrounding her, she sighed. Another day, another dead body, and inside she felt nothing. When she had first become a homicide detective, she had felt the pain of the family members when she'd notified them of the death of their loved ones. She had been sickened, saddened, and enraged when she investigated crime scenes, taking in every injury, wound, and brutal act taken against her victims until slowly, case after case, she felt less and less. Now, she had to remind herself that the bodies she was assigned to investigate were people and not just another case for her to solve.

Two months until retirement, she reminded herself, and then, hopefully, she could immerse herself in and with the living, instead of being constantly surrounded by dead bodies, pictures of mutilations, blood splatter, and murder weapons. She had been living the last fifteen years of her life submerged in the dark world of rage and immorality, accidents, and misfortune. It was time to enjoy the light before she lost the ability to see it for good.

Earlier in the day, Mel had been in court giving testimony on the mob assault of a young cashier who had been walking home from work one evening when ten members of the 757 Crips gang decided to beat him to death for the seventeen dollars he had in his pocket. Halfway through her testimony, however, the defendants had decided they would be better off taking the plea deal that the commonwealth's attorney had offered before the trial had started.

Listening to the conditions of the plea agreement, Mel sat in the front row of the courtroom, the section reserved for law enforcement only, and directly in front of the family members of the victim. Nine years in prison for each of the adult perpetrators with seven years suspended, equaled a total of twenty-one months of jail time when you subtract the automatic 15 percent of their sentence for good behavior. With the time they had already served waiting for trial, they would all be out of jail in less than seven months.

It didn't matter to the family that most of the people who killed their son were between sixteen and seventeen years old or the fact that the remaining three had just turned eighteen while waiting for trial. The simple fact was that their son would never be able to open another Christmas present again nor would he experience his first day of college, all because a group of kids had decided it would be fun to beat someone to death for seventeen dollars. She had no words of comfort for the family of the victim as they stood holding on to each other, crying, despondent over the lack of punishment handed out. The system was broken, and everyone knew it. If you were poor, you would receive a harsher sentence than someone with money and a team of lawyers. It was a sad but true fact.

Immediately after court, Mel had driven back to the precinct, filed her notes with the case files and evidence, and then went directly to the human resources department to put in her retirement request. She had two months until she was officially retired, and she couldn't wait.

"Two months," she told herself again. Sighing, she stepped under the tape.

Chapter 2

Nat stood in front of the full-length mirror positioned in the corner of her bedroom staring at her reflection. She had spent over an hour the night before ironing her new navy blue polo shirts and tan 511 pants and then another half hour putting polish on her black tactical boots, her