Innocent Bones

By Marcus O'Brien

Some crimes are ordinary (e.g. robberies, assaults, embezzlement, and the like). And then there are crimes so horrific that they almost defy description. Innocent Bones relates two such crimes. Both involve perps who plan and execute with precision and patience. Both involve multiple victims who intrigued the killer for one specific reason, although the perp's motivations could not be more different in the two cases. Both involve an intelligent, moral, hardworking family man who serves his city as a rising and ultimately distinguished detective.

You may read Innocent Bones in one sitting. It's that hard to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662478185

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Innocent Bones

Marcus O'Brien

Copyright © 2022 Marcus O’Brien

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

No character or event described in this book bears any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or anyone who has ever lived, or anyone who might ever be born. So no luck here, lawyers.

ISBN 978-1-6624-7816-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7818-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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

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

About the Author

This book is dedicated to the victims of truly evil, perhaps even demonic, people.

Chapter 1

Harold Perkins tried to imagine what the woman's face would look like when he shot her.

He liked to shoot them in the mouth, because they always cooperated by making a nice round O when they saw the pistol. Usually, the bullet into the back of the throat resulted in a choking cough that sent a shower of blood spewing out. Harold always remembered to duck back behind the driver's window after that first shot so he wouldn't get splattered.

Then he shot them a second time through the left temple, whether they slumped over the wheel or fell onto the seat if they weren't belted in. Of course, a second shot wasn't really necessary, and Harold knew that. The first bullet had probably gone through the back of the throat and ripped up the cerebral cortex at the base of the brain. But it was good to put that second slug into the head just to be sure. Besides, he was fairly certain the second .22 slug wouldn't exit the skull on the back side, even at close range, and that would give the CSI techs and the medical examiner something to talk about. Harold liked to do his part to make life interesting for those whose self-sacrificing mission in life is to protect society.

He followed the Volvo the woman was driving at a distance close enough to see the license plate but back far enough to keep her from looking into the rearview mirror. Even though the rude bitch had pulled out right in front of him without so much as a glance to her left as he was driving north to Starbucks on Nicollet Avenue, he didn't want to arouse her suspicions.

VBE 906, he read aloud, peering carefully through his windshield to make absolutely sure. VBE 906. Minnesota plate. Okay, VBE, we'll be seeing you again in the very near future. He grinned and dropped back even further.

The woman approached East Franklin Avenue and accelerated into a left turn through the yellow arrow. It turned red as she entered the intersection. Harold pulled over to the curb on Nicollet and parked. He could see the top of a child seat as the Volvo dipped to the left to make the rapid turn. Moron! Harold thought disdainfully. That kid is going to grow up without his mother just because of her stupidity. Hope he got Daddy's brains. He shook his head and wrote the license plate number on a small pad he always carried on the passenger's seat of his fourteen-year-old Ford Pinto. He tore the sheet off the pad and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Before exiting, he checked the rearview mirror for traffic coming up behind him, found it clear, and stepped out of the car. The driver's door groaned as he swung it open. Harold pulled the paper out of his shirt pocket, held it on the top of the car, and scrawled a note to pick up lubricant. Details are important, he affirmed.

Harold reached through the left-side passenger window and pulled out his laptop in the blue vinyl case. Slipping the strap over his shoulder, he checked for traffic and crossed to the west side of Nicollet. Then he walked a half-block to the corner of Franklin, turned the corner, and stepped into the Starbucks. It was just past nine in the morning. Harold liked to get there about this time every day because the morning corporate types had normally cleared out, and the soccer moms hadn't yet begun to arrive. Almost always, there was a table where he could set up his laptop and get to work.

He was in luck. His favorite table, near the gas fireplace, was unoccupied. Harold preferred that table because he could hunker in with his back against the wall, and no one could see what was on his screen from any angle. Besides, the electrical outlet was right there, so he didn't have to use battery power. He put his laptop on the table and walked to the counter to order his usual medium dark roast. After he'd put five packets of sugar and two little plastic Mini Moo tubs of cream into it, he could nurse that drink for up to two hours before an employee came around to clear his table and make it obvious that management wanted more revenue or an empty table.

As his laptop was booting up, Harold caught a glimpse of his reflection on the screen. He hated when that happened, because it always caught him unaware. He had disliked looking into mirrors since he was fourteen and the acne started. His mother, short like him and likely the source of the rosacea that had made his face look deeply sunburned since puberty, had taken him to several doctors and skin specialists in his teen years in an unsuccessful effort to give him relief from the hideous, raging waves of pus-filled acne that tended to break out on his face overnight. Harold's memories of his teen years consisted of short agonizing scenes of a bulbous red nose and squinty pig eyes set in a face that shouted ugliness to all who gazed upon it. Bullies pushed him up against lockers and into toilet bowls, girls laughed at him or made faces of disgust and then laughed to one another, and teachers avoided looking at him when they addressed him. Harold endured the torture as long as he could and dropped out of school after his sophomore year.

Now the laptop's black screen showed a face that had considerably less active acne but still the rosacea and a landscape of pits from acne scars.

Like a blood moon, Harold always thought when he was forced to see his face. Or like getting blasted by a shotgun. He looked down and away as the screen changed to a matrix of colors.

When the computer was ready, Harold went online to his own website. The home page was a simple black screen with no writing or adornment. Harold preferred it that way. He wanted anyone who accidentally stumbled upon the page to think they'd gotten detoured into computer oblivion and would quickly back out. With practiced speed, he smoothly typed from memory a long series of code onto a search bar and hit Enter.

Another page came up, this time a white sheet with a single command: Begin. Harold's perpetually red and puffy lips formed a crooked grin as he imagined would-be users on that page. He'd programmed it both to use for his personal inquiries and to vex anyone who happened upon the page. If a user typed in a command like he would on a normal search bar, his computer would lock up and he'd have to reboot.

Bet that causes some Christians to sin! Harold thought with sardonic glee.

Harold rapidly typed in another series of commands and hit Enter. He repeated this four more times on four successive pages, concentrating so that he laid down the complex serial code commands without error. The screen continued to reflect blank white pages with a single box in the center. Each time, he typed a new command in the box. In this manner, he methodically worked through the sequence of code he'd created and which no one else in the world knew.

Eventually, the page he sought popped up. MnDOT, it read on the top line, and below that Minnesota Department of Transportation. The next line read Access by Secure Password Only. Harold typed in fifteen symbols followed by a hyphen and then six more symbols. He smiled and leaned back as a plain light-gray page with black lettering appeared. In the box provided, he typed VBE 906 and, below that, in another box, Minnesota.

The boxes vanished. In their place, black lettering spelling Searching and a spinning blue circle icon appeared.

In seconds, another box appeared with a description of the Volvo, listing year of manufacture, color, body style, and VIN number. Harold nodded in satisfaction, congratulating himself. He clicked the box calling for licensed drivers.

Less than five seconds later, the full-color image of a Minnesota driver's license filled the screen. The photo on the license was that of a fortyish Caucasian man. His name, address, and birth date were listed. Harold wrote down the address on the sheet of note paper and clicked the box that said Other Registered Drivers.

Another license quickly filled the screen.

Ah, there you are, Harold mused, smiling to himself. He compared the address to that of the man and sighed. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the photo and shaking his head reprovingly. You shouldn't have done that, he admonished the photo of the smiling woman with a wagging finger. You really, really shouldn't have done that to me.

Harold quickly exited the website. With a few clicks of the mouse, he pulled up Google Earth and entered the address. Just as he suspected, it was a single-family residence just seven blocks from his apartment building on the corner of South Stevens Avenue and East Twenty-Seventh Street. Harold studied the house from every angle the website afforded him, making notes on the sheet of paper. For twenty minutes, as he frowned and observed details of the dwelling that were evident from the photographs on the website, he left his coffee untouched. By the time he picked up the cup, the coffee was lukewarm, and his plan was coming together nicely.

Harold exited the site and began work on the video game software project that paid his living expenses.

Chapter 2

Marc Harrigan breathed rhythmically as he hit the halfway point around the three-mile paved path that circled Lake Nokomis. The path curved to his left under thick-leaved maples, creating stark pockets of deep shadow interspersed with early-morning sunlight. At just past six on an early summer morning, the sun was high enough to foreshadow the beautiful day that lay ahead. The air was still crisp, with just a hint of the humidity that would come.

Marc checked his body as the large pavilion came into view. He knew his pulse was high but steady, as fitting an athlete in good condition. He told himself to breathe in deeply every second right foot and expel a slow exhale on the next three steps, keeping his stride comfortable and strong. He resisted the urge to sprint, knowing that he still had a mile and a half to run on his morning circuit, plus the block and a half to his house after he left the lake path.

Steady now, Marcus, wait till the south curve, he reminded himself, restraining the urge to allow the racer within him to just kick and let it go.

Just after the pavilion, he passed the old couple walking toward him in the opposite direction. As usual, he veered off the path to the right and ran on the grass, waving and saying Good morning! to the smiling pair.

And to you, young man! called the old man in his ritual reply as Marc sped past.

Marc rejoined the path. As he approached the south end of the lake, he said aloud, "Okay, now!" He eased into a three-quarter sprint, relishing the feeling of intensity that characterized his body mechanics: arms pumping, mouth open and breathing in every right foot with quick exhalation to expel the accumulating carbon dioxide, knees rising higher, and feet pushing off with toe strength as he leaned slightly forward.

As he rounded the south curve and swept past the huge weeping willow that marked seven-eighths of his three-mile circuit, he increased his speed until he was almost at full sprint.

A lap and a half to go, he said inwardly, just like in college. Hit it with a lap and a half to go, and surprise the lead runner. No miler kicks until the last lap, so you'll catch him and already have the momentum before he knows what's happening. Then just keep your stride, remember to breathe, and take it on home strong. Images of his coach teaching that strategy and subsequent races he'd won with it flashed through his mind. For the next minute and a half as he gave it all he had, Marc saw the crowd in the stadium, standing and waving and yelling as he eased past the front-runner and took the lead. Finally, at the bench that marked the beginning and ending point of his daily circuit, he leaned forward to break the tape. As always when he won, he eased to a jog, raising his arms in triumph.

A boy straddled his bike and watched as Marc swept past the finish line. He shook his head and muttered. Marc waved at him and chuckled, gasping for breath.

With his hands on his hips and his breaths easing, Marc slowed to a light jog and then a brisk walk. His thoughts were filled with his family.

Poor Wren, he mused, lips pursed. She works so hard at maintaining a trim figure, and everything conspires against her: a slow metabolism, an overweight mother, daughters who clamor for junk food and the necessary self-discipline to stay away from the occasional treats she does buy for them, and little time to herself. Thank God I encouraged her to take up the four-times-a-week aerobic classes. She really seems to enjoy it, and the workouts help her to blow off steam. Plus they do have a positive effect on her weight and her figure.

Marc smiled, seeing the face of his wife in his mind. Still beautiful at forty-two after birthing four daughters, Wren was a head-turner with shoulder-length black hair, clear, unwrinkled skin, and stunning blue eyes. She was the only child of parents who had raised her the way parents should shepherd and discipline a child: maximum love and maximum limits. She'd been hugged and praised often, assured at least daily that she was loved, given every opportunity for personal development such as piano lessons that her working-class father could afford, yet kept on a short leash. Not for young Wren were the unsupervised sleepovers or alcohol-infested, dope-saturated parties her peers were allowed, often to their peril.

On the contrary, Wren was informed early and often that any dates prior to her seventeenth birthday were to be group dates, with strict time limits and heavy punishment for coming home late. Only once had Wren violated that rule, when the boy who was driving ran out of gas and Wren had to run a mile to get home. She was seven minutes late. Her parents stood in the living room, arms folded across their chest, as Wren burst through the door.

I'm sorry! I'm sorry! She gasped, relating the reason for her tardiness between hasty gulps of air. But it was to no avail. Wren Pleizac spent the next four weekends confined to the house. Thereafter, she always came home a half hour early.

On the occasion of her first date alone with a boy, the prom in the spring of her senior year, Mrs. Pleizac excitedly shopped with her now-quite lovely daughter and found a prom dress at a consignment store priced at less than a third of the original retail. With a couple of hours of alterations, which Wren's mother lovingly applied herself, the dress became an exquisite setting for a true gem. Wren slipped on the sleeveless tangerine creation and modeled it for her parents.

Oh, she'll be so beautiful with my grandmother's pearl necklace! Mrs. Pleizac exclaimed. And we'll get a special appointment for her hair, and lovely shoes, and…

Yes, she will, her father remarked. He nodded, absentmindedly massaging one sore, calloused hand with the other. Years of bricklaying in harsh, Minnesota weather had left him slightly stooped but strong as a wrestler. He exuded a quiet confidence and considerable inner strength, a demeanor which his wife and daughter adored.

Wren, he continued, "you are really quite beautiful. A rare flower. Listen, honey. Here's what I want you to do. When your date comes to the door, I'll answer it and tell him you'll be a few minutes late."

Oh, Daddy, what are you going to do? Wren replied worriedly. You aren't going to embarrass me, are you?

Dave Pleizac smiled softly and shook his head. Gray curls slid onto his forehead. No, sweetie, I'm not going to embarrass you. Trust me, and just do as I say.

Oh, Daddy, Wren despaired, but she knew there would be no debate on the subject.

On the night of the prom, a handsome young man rang the doorbell. When Dave Pleizac opened it, the tall young fellow stood smiling in a splendid black tuxedo, holding a white orchid corsage in its plastic box. Pleizac invited him in and informed him that his daughter was completing her preparations for the evening.

She won't be long, son, he said warmly, holding the door open. We can kill a few minutes. Actually, there's something I want to show you.

The young man nodded, confidently replying Thanks, and entered the house. Pleizac took the corsage and placed it on a coffee table. He led the teen to the garage, where he displayed a solidly-built workbench and an impressive set of power woodworking tools.

You do any work with wood? he asked. The young man, now wide-eyed in the presence of such a magnificent