Purge: Purge - Matt Johansen Crime, #1

By Rob Parnell

27 year old Matt Johansen is seriously frustrated. He's been a rookie cop with Boston PD for too long: he wants one chance to prove himself worthy of the rank of detective.

Newly separated from his wife and four-year-old son, Matt's living in a run-down furnished room in Chelsea. He's broke, has no gun license, no badge, and he's even lost his right to drive because of a recent DUI.

But things are about to change. Big time.

Forensic Pathologist Shyla Phelps, the beautiful woman he's been chasing for two months, has finally called him. He can't wait to see her. It's Saturday night: maybe he'll get lucky for once in his miserable life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a grizzly murder is taking place.

Lawyer Peter Mossberg, his wife Kate, and their two young boys are brutally slain. The Boston Police Department will log it as an unfortunate murder-suicide but Matt won't be so sure. Besides, to him it'll be personal. Kate Mossberg was his long lost sister.

Despite being officially warned off the case, Matt takes it upon himself to find out the truth. He may yet make a good detective - if he can just get past his issues. . .

Written by the author of over a dozen #1 bestselling Amazon Kindle books, Purge will take you on a thrill-ride of mystery, murder, corruption and the gritty realities of modern law enforcement while exploring the dark recesses of a young man's quest to do the right thing - and perhaps become a hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R&R Books Film Music
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223819189

Book preview

Prologue

The father was in the middle of the room, on his knees. A groan bubbled from deep in his throat. He couldn't speak. His tongue was located on the floor beside him, a pulpy mess. With each labored breath, blood oozed from between the forty-two-year-old man's gritted teeth. In his right hand, he held a large kitchen knife. It shook violently, though he couldn't let it go. The handle was secured to his palm by gray duct tape.

Three crimson-sheened bodies lay around the man in various states of undress. One adult, two children: boys, his own. Body parts littered the white pile carpet: ears, fingers, toes, unrecognizable fragments. A disemboweled woman - his once beautiful wife - lay spread-eagle beside him, her eyes blank. Her throat was open, slashed a half-dozen times. Ragged cuts punctured the rest of her slim, naked body. The woman's intestines protruded from her abdomen like sausage meal.

The man began to sob; voluminous tears mingling with the mass of blood and sweat on his tortured face.

The afternoon sun pushed translucent rays through cracks in the drawn curtains. Large original oil-paintings graced the white stucco walls. An Edwardian fireplace, imported from England, dominated one side of the lounge room. Plump white-leather sofas faced a seventy-inch Smart TV that played a silent animated show for kids. The entire space was airy and, on any other day, plush, comfortable, the epitome of a rich man's home.

The Mossbergs had returned from the Beth-Elohim Temple thirty-five minutes previously. The father's heart had softened during the service. The Rabbi had talked about shepherds guarding their flock. Peter wanted to do the right thing today. The family had been happy in the car on the way home, looking forward to the meal prepared by their new housekeeper, Beatrice. They would have to eat quickly, Mommy said, because they were visiting Morton Park: a treat for the boys. Daddy rarely had weekends off. He was away so often. Mommy told the twins that they had to make the most of their time with their father.

Kate was smiling as they approached the house. She wore the expression he'd craved for for a long while. The look that said she was happy, that he had done the right thing by staying home for once. To be honest, he, too, had been glad he'd remained in Wellesley this weekend. One more sojourn with Jim and his cronies wasn't a disaster, though of course he would miss the entertainment.

Peter was suspicious when the housekeeper hadn't appeared at the front door. After ringing the bell a couple of times, he used his key to unlock the door and made for the kitchen. Kate went to change. The boys ran into the front room. They wanted to watch SpongeBob cartoons until the meal was ready.

Peter frowned. The cocker-spaniel hadn't come running. There was no aroma of cooking in the air, only something acrid. Bleach maybe.

On the kitchen counter was a roll of gray duct tape. A dozen strips, each about two foot long, dangled from the counter-top. Next to them was a note from Beatrice. Peter took a moment to decipher the spidery scrawl. She'd been called away, the note informed him; an emergency, profuse apologies.

Behind, a voice said, Do as I say or I kill your dog.

Peter looked up.

Thirty minutes in hell later, Peter had brutally defiled his family, his life, his soul.

He felt no regret as he closed his eyes and plunged the knife deep into his abdomen, an inch below his sternum. The pain was intense, shocking, but almost a relief. He wanted so badly to die. He did not hesitate to push the knife toward his heart, twisting the blade, praying beyond hope that the end would come quick.

Chapter One

Matt, I need to be with you, right now. The girl I'd been pursuing for the past two months had finally called me. On a Saturday night too. Maybe my life wasn't a total pile of crap after all.

We should meet for a drink, I said, looking around at the one-room flea-pit I was currently holed-up in. Couldn't exactly call it an apartment. That word was far too grandiose for my divorcee bedsit. The kind of place a lot of men like me ended up after their wives kicked them out.

No way I can invite a girl here, especially a woman like Shyla Phelps.

She was way too hot, too special. Shyla was beautiful and sophisticated; wore expensive clothes; had hair appointments that cost half my monthly salary. Nothing like the usual girls I'd dated. Which made it seem all the more odd that she'd called me. I'd started to believe my advances were a waste of time. I'd decided she was way out of my league. I'd only ever tried it on with her because she was so goddamn sexy and I'd heard tall girls didn't get hit on as much as they liked. It was worth a shot, right?

"No, I want to see you, Shyla said. Give me your address." There was a fervid insistence in her tone I found erotic, I had to admit.

You sure? My place isn't exactly the Ritz.

Don't care. You want me or not?

Did I really need to think about that question?

Life had not gone well for me since my break up with Wendy. I was broke, a tad depressed most of the time, I drank too much - alone - and my job at the Boston Police Department was on the line. Shyla calling me out of the blue was a dream come true, sure, but, I had to ask myself, what would the most stunning woman I'd met recently want with me? I put the thought out of my mind. The prospect of getting laid, especially by Shyla, was too good to ignore. I gave her my address in Chelsea and pressed End Call.

Shyla didn't seem fazed by the fact that I lived in a borough with the highest crime rate in Boston. I wasn't exactly sure where she lived. Somewhere west of Harvard, I seemed to remember from my drunken attempts to seduce her at The Squealing Pig. Assuming she was leaving from home, that would give me twenty minutes or so to make my place look less like a pigsty. I rushed around, hiding dirty plates and bottles. I stuffed my papers and magazines into a cupboard behind the TV. The bed was a problem. The springs had broken and the mattress was lumpy, and I hadn't changed the linen in a while. I pulled everything off and took the dirty pile down to the laundry room on the first floor. I found clean sheets, two blankets and a comforter. Not sure who they belonged to. Not me anyway. Back inside my room I remade the bed and opened the window to get some fresh air inside. The place still looked dismal. The home of a squatter or a drifter, hardly a suave young man's seduction suite.

I sat on my only chair and pondered. I had to face it: I lived in a total crap hole. The carpet was threadbare, the walls had been painted perhaps twenty years ago and I hadn't had time to put up any pictures. The only ornaments were my Star Trek model ships. Jesus, was I going to look like a pitiful dork, or what?

I had an inspired idea.

I found an old scarf of Wendy's, draped it over the bedside lamp and turned off the ceiling light. Now the place was in semi-darkness. I found some candles and lit three, placing two on the mantel and one by the bed. I rifled in the bedside drawer until I found what I was looking for. I fired-up the musky incense and fanned the fumes into the air, then thought better of it. I didn't want the place to smell like a brothel. I dropped the incense stick into the sink by the window.

I considered going downstairs to the bar to get some wine. Would Shyla like wine? I remembered she drank bourbon on the rare occasions she'd agreed to meet after work. I could buy a bottle of Jack. There again, I wasn't exactly flush with cash. Maybe beer would do, perhaps some Stella. Yeah, that was classy.

I didn't have time to do anything because of the knock on the door. George must have let Shyla in at the ground floor entranceway. Darn him. Typical he'd want to know who was visiting. If Shyla was now outside the door, she'd have walked to the top floor. She'd have seen the rundown state of the place and maybe had second thoughts.

Shit, what is she going to think?

I slapped myself with Playboy aftershave and squirted a couple of drops down my pants. I dashed for the door and tried to appear relaxed as I opened it.

Shyla looked stunning. She was taller than me by a good four inches. Her broad shoulders were bare and she wore a fabulously inappropriate green satin dress that seemed glued to her body. Her face was flawlessly made-up, framed by night-dark hair, her lips a deep maroon, eyes almost turquoise-blue. I couldn't speak, seeing her there, looking like some Amazonian goddess.

Luckily, I didn't have to say anything. She pounced on me, kissed me full on the mouth and pushed me back into the room.

She must have kicked the door closed behind her because, for a moment, we were in darkness, locked in a feverish embrace. We pawed at each other, kissing hungrily. She wore nothing beneath her dress.

It smells like a brothel in here, Shyla said, her breathing heavy and husky. She guided me onto the bed, pushed me down. She leaned over and her tongue probed my mouth. My hands ran over her body. I wanted to remember everything about this interaction, each luscious curve, every inch of soft skin. Her hands made for my crotch and she growled at the realization I was ready for action. With one quick movement she pulled off her dress and her naked body straddled me on the single bed. She tugged at my belt while I frantically unbuttoned my shirt. She pushed down my pants. Her bulbous breasts bobbed deliciously in the candlelight. Within seconds I was inside her and she was riding me for all she was worth.

God, it had been a long time.

After, I was expecting we'd lay in each other's arms, chatting the way lovers do. I wanted to get to know her, find out more about the real Shyla Phelps. I mean, I had questions. Like what would a girl like Shyla want with a guy like me? I was at least five years her junior. She was a well-educated woman of the world, a forensic pathologist who managed an entire department. I was a twenty-seven-year-old trainee detective with few prospects, no money, a four-year-old son, and a dragon of an ex-wife in tow. What could I possibly offer her? Except maybe my undying devotion and a willingness to get screwed all the long day.

In the time I'd known her, I hadn't thought much beyond getting her into bed. Now, I needed more. Yes, I would have loved to have gotten to know Shyla a little better, perhaps a lot better. But clearly, at this moment, she had other ideas.

Look, I can't stay, Matt.

Okay. I was too sated to put up a fight. Lying back on my bed, I watched her slip into her dress, enjoying the view, wishing I could have begged her to stay and never leave me but not wanting to seem un-cool.

I'll see you, maybe at BPHQ, if I'm passing.

Sure. You don't want a drink or something?

No. Gotta run.

At the door she looked back, as if to assess me. I couldn't make out her expression in the half-light. Was it approving? Or was there a hint of judgment in her stare? She seemed far away, like a mirage, as if this whole encounter had been some kind of lucid dream. Truth be told, I was having trouble believing it had happened.

Why me? I thought. What is this about?

Then, she was gone, and I was alone again, just another single guy waiting on a messy divorce, in my grubby one-room crash-pad, surrounded by all that was left of my previous, pathetic life.

Sunday

Chapter Two

Murder made us ugly.

To be honest, I'd thought about killing people. I wondered what it was like, whether it was anything I could have done. Not so much the act of murdering someone, the reality of that seemed too seedy, nauseating, and barbaric for my taste. No, I'd asked myself many times whether I could accept the consequences of committing the ultimate sin. To accept, while I was still breathing, enjoying the privilege of life, that some poor bastard - an enemy or maybe an ex-wife - was stone-cold-dead by my hand?

Could I live with myself knowing I was a murderer? Would I feel good about killing, if I was driven to it? Would I ever feel pleased that I'd extinguished another human life: especially someone I loathed, or perhaps someone who'd done me serious wrong? Or, would I feel wretched and miserable from one day to the next? Would I hate myself for my arrogance and lack of human decency? Would I relive the act in my mind, over and over? Would the memory fade? Would I get over it and carry on living like a normal person?

Was that even possible?

See, I had this idea that after I'd hacked someone to pieces or maybe blown out their brain with a gun, my conscience would torment me, constantly. Probably until I died. I was convinced I'd never be able to deal with it. I'd never be able to sleep, or be happy, or do something innocent like walk on a beach with a lover or drink green tea in a rose garden or feel any kind of simple pleasure at anything, ever again. Perhaps I was deluding myself. In the time I'd been with the police department I'd met killers, criminals who appeared to have no remorse over the violence they'd inflicted. No regrets, certainly no sleepless nights. Could I be wrong? Was murderous rage like a broken heart, something that stopped hurting over time? Something that mended?

Maybe if you were the kind of person who could kill people then conscience didn't kick in like it did for the rest of us. Maybe. The murderers I'd met felt nothing or managed to hide their feelings. Or they lied to us, the cops. That went with the territory. My suspicion was that criminals lied to themselves first, almost justifying their crimes before they committed them. They were comfortable with their illicit intentions because their acts were an extension of who they were and always would be. There was little guilt because the deeds were often done for the right reasons at the right time, a consequence of a mindset that had more options because conscience didn't get in the way. Maybe it went deeper than that. Perhaps murderers lived out pre-programmed destinies that were always going to manifest. They killed, broke the first commandment, because they had, in a sense, no choice. Their minds rationalized the act long before the opportunity or the need arose. When it happened, it was reflex. The alternative wasn't conceivable. Murderers killed without conscience, then lived without it too.

But guilt and shame were different for the rest of us because it was not committing the crime, even when we might want to, that kept us in check, kept us decent and respectable, able to love and be loved like a normal person.

Murder made us less than human.

I knew this was true because I’d seen it in the eyes of the killers I'd arrested. Murder changed their faces, made them disfigured somehow, marked them forever. Homicide was treacherous, brutal, cowardly, and those base emotions showed in a killer's eyes. The arrogance of knowing you'd used the ultimate forbidden power made the face turn sour, darker, less wholesome, evil.

It was a fact. Murder made us ugly.

Thirteen months ago, after a fight, Wendy kicked me out of my house.

It started one Tuesday evening when I got home late. Things had been tough all day. There'd been a missing kid: BPHQ had put on extra staff to cope with the calls. I'd pulled a sixteen-hour shift, filling in because I needed the extra cash to pay for my dear Wendy's lifestyle: Don't work, spend.

True, I'd dropped in to Sevens for a few cleansing ales on the way home. I hadn't stayed for more than an hour, tops. I wanted something to take the edge off. Okay, if I was honest with myself, I was probably avoiding going home. I arrived back after nine-thirty, which meant Ben was in bed and Wendy had me to herself - to abuse, degrade, insult, whatever her choice was that night. I could tell she was pissed as soon as I entered the front door.

She grabbed the keys out of my hand. A new move.

You've forgotten, haven't you?

I trawled my brain. Our anniversary? Something I was supposed to buy on the way home? I stood mute, considering my response. I didn't want to anger her by getting the answer wrong.

The punch came out of nowhere, in the center of the chest, where she normally got me. I tried to grab her wrist but she was too quick. A rain of blows hit my head, face, and neck as she screamed something about having to cancel dinner with her sister. I held up my arms and tried to back away.

You're so drunk all the time, you don't know what's going on!

I tasted blood and my head tingled from the blows. But I didn't say anything. Kept silent. I knew from experience the slightest word from me fanned the flames. She needed responses to stoke her temper. When she was in one of her moods, there was nothing I could say that didn't make things worse.

You make me sick. You asshole! You're nothing! I hate you! Get out of my house! I mean it this time! Get out and don't ever come back!

I guessed it wasn’t the time to point out the house was, in fact, mine.

I turned and quickly opened the door, escaping into the night air. As I walked down the driveway, past the car Wendy still had the keys for, I shook my head. I smiled too. It sounded like she actually meant it this time.

Was I free?

Part of me imagined footsteps running after me. She'd done that before. In my mind I heard her profuse apologies. She begged me to come back. She was sorry, truly sorry. It wouldn’t happen again.

But this time, nothing. This time, it was for real.

Thank God.

I didn't know where I was headed. I didn't care. 

I hadn't felt so good in years.

Chapter Three

What's this, Daddy? Ben's jelly-smeared hand hovered over the miniature USS Enterprise on the table next to the sink.

Don't touch that, I said, taking another swig of Bud. The glue's not dry.

What is it, Daddy?

"It's a starship. From Star Trek. Ben's face showed no recognition. It's for traveling the universe. In space."

It's not very big.

It's a model. The real one's much bigger.

Ben frowned. I shook my head. He was only four but surely he would know about Star Trek. What was Wendy letting him watch at home? Probably got a diet of safe, suitable programming like My Little Pony, Alice in Wonderland or that surreal UK kids show, Teletubbies. No violence, no aliens, no conflict, nothing fun. I'd have let him watch one of my DVDs but I'd probably never have heard the end of it. I was tempted. I was running out of activities to keep Ben amused.

Looking after a kid was not my idea of fun, especially in my current situation. 

I was living in a top floor room in a communal house in Chelsea. It was on 5th Street above a sleazy Mexican bar called Los Hernandez. My room was squalid, depressing and small, but it was all I could afford. I'd been there for eight months, since my uptown bitch wife kicked me out of my house for being a drunken no-hoper. Her words.

Are these cartoons? Ben crossed the floor of my bedsit, even for him just a couple of short paces.

Don't touch them, I said. My son's finger ran across my sci-fi movie collection, leaving a thin line of strawberry jelly, shiny, like a slug-trail. I shook my head, resolving not to get angry. He was just a kid. I slid down off the bed to join him. Seeing me on his level, Ben lost interest in the DVDs and jumped at me, narrowly missing the bottle in my hand. His arms held my neck and he squeezed.

Ben loves Daddy, he shouted, grinding his head into my cheek, hard. I hugged him back, momentarily disarmed, not quite as bored as I had been for the last three hours. There were two more hours to go before Wendy came back from her self-esteem building class, or whatever the hell she was doing. I put down my beer and disentangled my son, sitting him on my lap.

Do you want to go to the park? I asked.

Can we get ice cream?

Maybe. Mommy doesn't like you eating ice cream, does she?

Ben shrugged then stood. I want ice cream.

As he pulled on his jacket, I downed the last of the beer and cracked open another. I figured I needed more alcohol to steel myself against the upcoming tedium of swings, see-saws and multi-colored climbing frames. There again, my bedsit was so hot and stuffy it was probably better to get out for a while. I stood and moved to the window.

Below, across the road, an old guy lounged in the doorway of the Bella Villa. He seemed furtive. Oddly, he looked up at me. I didn't recognize his face but, there again, I couldn't see him clearly. He wore a long coat, dirty gray, with its collar turned up. A faded baseball cap covered most of his head. Could have been anyone over forty. A homeless guy probably, looking for change. They'd most likely move him on when the staff opened the cafe. If not, maybe I'd have a word with him in a friendly, law-enforcement capacity.

Daddy? Can I see your badge?

Ben's voice reminded me I had more important duties indoors. I turned back to my son.

Actually, I don't have one. Not just now. I smiled at his trusting face. Long story. I got my ID. I fumbled for my wallet and showed him my Boston Police Department card. Ben looked unimpressed.

You need a silver badge to catch bad people, Daddy.

That's not true, Ben—

My cell rang. Maybe it was Wendy, back early, like that ever happened. I picked up my Samsung from the bedside table and sat on the comforter. The readout gave no clues. Could have been a sales call. But on a Sunday? If it was from the station, it was sure to be bad news.

Hello?

You sound like shit, mate.

Thanks, Lucy. My son chose that moment to leap onto the bed. He bounced against my back and pawed at my arms. My beer spilled as I tried to fend him off. Hey, Ben, take it easy. What's up, Luce?

You need to cover for me, Matt. I wouldn't ask but I got a bug.

I can't. My boy's over. It's my day with him.

Matt, this is important. There's a bucket-load of blood and four DOAs in some townhouse in Wellesley. Lieutenant called me and told me he wants you.

Donahue wants me?

Pause. Well, not exactly. He asked me to play guard duty but I said I can't get there. Not like this. Got some sort of virus. I said I'd send you.

Thanks.

No biggie. Come on, Matt, you owe me.

Really? Since when?

Don't be an ass. Just get yourself over there. It's number forty-one Berner Street.

Ben continued to bounce behind me, using my shoulders as a launch pad. I tried to ignore him.

How am I supposed to get there? I've had a few beers.

Jesus, Matt. It's Sunday afternoon.

And my day off.

"Come on, Matt. Call the station for