Stolen Pieces

By J.R. Mason

Lock your doors - The PIECE Keeper is watching...
This riveting, fast-paced psychological thriller reads like an epic crossover event of Criminal Minds and Law & Order: SVU.

 

Detective Claudia Martinez feels eyes on her - often. Though she tries to convince herself that the ominous presence she'd felt daily since solving her last homicide is simply grief manifesting itself... that no one is really in the shadows lurking… waiting… watching…

 

But once dismembered body parts are discovered on display in highly visible inner-city locations, Claudia begins to worry that someone is stalking her cases and murdering the individuals affiliated with them. As they inch closer to finding the killer, Claudia slowly realizes that she may be the object of their suspect's ire when the threats start hitting too close to home. As the killings quickly escalate, her squad must hunt down this vicious predator before the next stolen piece comes from… Claudia.

 

Content Warnings:
Though this book contains NO GRAPHIC VIOLENCE & NO VIVID DESCRIPTIONS of domestic violence, it does reference Sexual Assault, mentions of Domestic Violence, Strong Language, Child-Related Trauma, Bodily Dismemberment, Sexual Situations, Extramarital Affairs

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Rene Creative
• Release date: Jun 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223328100

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 J.R. Mason

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: J.Rene Creative

Printed in the United States of America

Title PNG blk.png

A Psychological Crime Thriller

To the man who gave me all the daddy issues that enabled me to successfully pen this completely dysfunctional novel. Thanks buddy! This one’s especially for you…

Content Warnings:

Believe it or not, there is NO GRAPHIC VIOLENCE and NO VIVID DESCRIPTIONS of domestic violence. However, this book does reference Sexual Assault, mentions of Domestic Violence, Strong Language, Child-Related Trauma, Bodily Dismemberment, Sexual Situations, Extramarital Affairs

prologue

A

top fifteen hardwood stairs, a stoic, glassy-eyed little girl stood in a trance-like state, staring blankly at the scene below. Squinting as the sound of static filled her ears, she could see the activity around her, but there was very little coherent sound other than the distinct but distant buzzing of a disconnected landline call.

As thick blood pooled around the base of her mother’s head, it began to travel across the landing and absorb into the once clean laundry being brought up the stairs. She watched as her favorite lavender jammies quickly turned a deep shade of red.

Continuing to stand motionless in what seemed like a bad dream, her father frantically pushed her aside, ran down the stairs, and scooped his wife into his arms. His blood-stained hand laid upon her stomach, full with child at just under thirty-two weeks.

The cordless phone at her feet, the little girl continued to stand immobile as she watched a female officer rush up to the second floor toward her in what felt like slow motion. The officer picked her up and carried her down the stairs, shielding her eyes as she stepped over her mother’s severely injured body. She watched emptily as EMTs rushed in and moved her father away so they could assess his wife’s condition.

In the officer’s arms, being swiftly removed from the scene, she could somewhat hear the seemingly confused cries of her father, but the static and ringing in her head overpowered them. Barely able to make out the words spoken around her, she simply watched through the open front door as the EMTs began to take life-saving measures, even though her mother appeared drained of any possible life.

Sweetheart, can you tell me your name? asked the female officer with the two long French braids.

Breathing slightly erratically, the trembling child offered no response but continued to stare toward the entryway of the house. She watched from the tail of the ambulance, hopeful that her mother would eventually join her.

Can you tell me how old you are? the officer pressed once more.

Another officer positioned himself to block the child’s view of the house, so she turned her head away and looked off in the other direction.

I think she’s in shock, the EMT said, placing a hefty but prickly navy blue blanket around her shoulders.

The officer nodded, turning her attention back to the child. So, your mommy… Did she fall?

The little girl slowly made direct eye contact with the officer for the first time, staring deep into her empathetic gray eyes and holding that gaze. The officer was silent in hopes that she would actually answer the question, but instead, she simply averted her eyes and stared vacantly out into the distance, shivering in the cold. People were asking questions all around her, but it sounded barely intelligible - like mumbling and dead air. The despondent child sat taking in the scene as red and blue flashing lights illuminated the entire block. Neighbors flooded the area around her home, only kept at bay by one lone officer and a piece of yellow tape.

She tried again, "Did someone hurt your mommy?"

Still gazing into the distance, the little girl barely nodded as the cool night wind blew her loose brunette curls across her angelic face. This was the first form of interaction from her the entire evening.

The officer placed her hand on top of the child’s to comfort her and asked softly, "Do you know who hurt your mommy?"

The trembling youngster surveyed the scene once more, her eyes slowly, intently assessing every person in her field of vision. When they stopped, the officer followed her line of sight, then looked back to the child as one solitary tear strolled down the left side of her lightly freckled face.

You are such a brave young lady to call us to help. Wait here, okay? I’ll be right back, I promise.

Just as they were rushing the mother to the ambulance on the gurney, officers approached the father who was swiftly tailing them with every intention of riding along to the hospital.

Miles Evans? We would like you to come with us, please.

I have to be with my wife, he panted frantically. I have to go to the hospital with her. And where’s my daughter? he asked, searching the crowd.

She’s safe with our EMTs, but we need you to come with us to answer some questions.

He stood conflicted and unsure of what to do.

Sir, the sooner we get some information regarding what happened here, the sooner you can get back to your wife, the male officer added.

The second ambulance had already pulled off with lights and the siren engaged, so feeling like he had no other choice, he voluntarily loaded his sweaty body into the back of the police cruiser.

*****

Impatiently pacing the small, gray, nondescript interrogation room, Miles kept watch of the clock. Each tick of every passing second echoed along with his footsteps in the hollow room. Unable to deal with the fact that he was visibly covered in blood, he did his best to avoid observing his 6’5" portly reflection in the enormous, wall-sized, two-way mirror. When he ran his fingers over his full salt and pepper beard, he realized wet blood still lingered throughout his facial hair, which he wiped from his hands onto his light denim jeans. It didn’t much matter; they were already ruined.

The two officers who brought him in finally entered the room. Oh man! How’s my wife? Miles asked desperately.

I’m sorry to inform you, she’s still in critical condition, the female officer replied.

Shit, I can’t do this. I need to get to her, he said as he lunged toward the door.

Blocking his egress, the thin male officer requested, "Mr. Evans, we would really like you to have a seat, please."

As his eyes danced back and forth between them, the pair appeared very serious, so Miles hesitantly complied. He slowly ambled over to the metal table while quickly tapping his blood stained fingers against his thigh.

Okay, so Mr. Evans, can you tell us who all was in your home this evening?

Uhhh… he stammered, seemingly confused by the question. Me, my wife, and the little one. Why?

She’s your daughter?

Yeah… well, my stepdaughter.

So, what happened there tonight?

What do you mean? I have no idea. The swift nervous tapping then moved from his thigh to the table. I heard some noise. I- I came ’round the corner... Janet. She... She was on the floor - bleeding. The officers looked at each other skeptically as Mr. Evans began to cry.

I ran down to her and tried to stop the bleeding but there was so much... I- I couldn’t tell where it was comin’ from- it was just... everywhere, he said between sobs. I don’t- I don’t even know who called! Y’all just showed up! I- I mean, she musta just slipped?

Interesting. We have the 9-1-1 call here if you’d like to hear it, the female officer offered, placing a tape recorder on the table in front of him. As she pressed play, Mr. Evans was still tapping his middle finger in rapid succession, anxiously awaiting the audio, staring at the device, then back to the officers.

9-1-1, what’s your emergency?

My mommy needs help.

He gasped in response to the small, innocent voice on the recording.

Okay sweetie, can you tell me your name?

Claudia.

What a beautiful name. How old are you, Claudia?

I’ll be seven tomorrow.

And do you know your address, sweetheart?

Eight. Oh. Two. One. Five... Kelley Dr.

Okay Claudia, I’m going to send you help but I need you to stay on the phone with me until they get there, okay?

Okaayyy.

Can you tell me what’s going on with your mommy?

She’s on the floor at the bottom... of the steps with daaaddy.

Is she awake?

Nooo… She’s bleeding.

So, your mommy fell down the steps?

Umm… I guess... But only when daddy pushed her.

You saw your daddy-

Fuck outta here! Miles screamed and threw the recorder across the room, loudly shattering against the mirror. "I ain’t push my wife down them steps! She’s havin’ my baby, man! She musta slipped, I told you!"

"You have quite the temper there, Mr. Evans. And it looks as though we’ve been to your home before on domestic calls," he said, flipping through the pages of his file.

"Are you serious!? That was a whole different… This is fuckin’ bullshit! Y’all made her say that! he screamed, huffing back and forth across the room, completely enraged. Wait! he exclaimed, stopping dead in his tracks. She said her daddy. Maybe her real daddy showed up!  I just know it wasn’t me!"

"She was in your home… with just your wife and you… by your own admission. Now you’re throwing in another father? the officer replied sarcastically, using air quotes. Though earlier you said she must’ve slipped, but you also said you weren’t there when she fell, so which is it? ‘Cause we all know if you hit her once, you’ll hit her again, right? Once an abuser, always an abuser?"

Miles leaned on the table and aggressively stared down at the seated male officer. "Look man, you got one more time to say somethin’ about me beatin’ on my wife."

Sir, please take a seat, the female officer requested in an effort to diffuse the situation. But her colleague was having none of that and continued to press his buttons.

You didn’t ask about the baby. Is it even yours? he asked, goading him.

Muthafucker, he muttered. Before anyone could blink twice, Miles had jumped over the metal table and firmly planted his thick meaty fist into the officer’s jaw, knocking him painfully to the floor. A second punch landed, but before he could get a third in, the room quickly filled with officers to physically detain the large man for assaulting one of their own. They may not have been able to arrest him right then for his wife, but that nice little felony charge would at least make sure he’d be held until they could charge him accordingly.

As three officers led him out of the interrogation room and down toward the holding cells, Miles noticed Claudia wrapped in that same blue blanket, seated beside the desk of one of the officers.

"You lyin’ little bitch!" he shouted as he shook his 300-pound frame free from the officers and took off toward Claudia. She shrieked and jumped into the woman’s arms as the other officers hurried to restrain him before he could reach her.

"Why would you say that!? Miles yelled angrily. Tell them! You know I ain’t do this, Claudia! Tell them she slipped!" he screamed while they worked to drag him away as he aggressively maneuvered against them, trying to get back to his stepdaughter.

Once Miles was out of sight and she was calmed down, Claudia remained seated quietly in that chair beside the officer with the French braids, her little legs dangling back and forth. She spent the early hours of her seventh birthday asleep on the station’s couch waiting for Children and Youth Services to arrive, only to inform her that her mother had passed away.

1

Present day

O

f course, the point of therapy was to open up and discuss her innermost feelings, but that wasn’t always the easiest thing to do, especially in her line of work where emotional expression could be more of a hindrance than a help. A hush filled the room between the two ladies until a blaring cell phone ring broke the silence, startling them both.

Knowing her phone was supposed to be turned off or on silent, Claudia glanced at the cell, took a deep breath then immediately powered it down.

Your stepfather again?

Miles actually, Claudia immediately corrected. Just Miles. And how could you possibly know it was him?

"I’m sorry. Miles. Because during the short time we’ve been working together, I’ve noticed the smallest micro expressions anytime he’s the topic of discussion. Your nose does this slight twitch every time he’s mentioned," she explained, imitating the twitch.

Dr. Sydney Pearce was so incredibly observant and could already point out many idiosyncrasies of which Claudia was strangely unaware. The ability to assess everyone else in a room was Claudia’s forté, however, her own self-reflection and assessment needed work. She felt as though many things about her could actually use some adjustment. The only plus side about feeling that way was that at least she was able to acknowledge those things and seek help. Dr. Pearce was just who she needed.

They became acquainted after a particularly difficult case a little over a month ago. Claudia and her partner were following up on a lead in a homicide investigation when on the way to the car, they heard fighting, glass breaking, and a little girl crying in one of the neighboring homes. Upon their arrival, the scene had quieted, but they knocked to do the welfare check anyway. The woman who answered the door appeared to be fine physically and said that she and her husband had been having a slight verbal disagreement. As they discussed the particulars, an adorable raven-haired child, who looked to be about four, clung to her mother’s leg as she ran her fingers through the child’s thick straight hair, seemingly out of habit and affection. That made Claudia smile, remembering how her mother used to play with her curls.

There were no charges to be pressed, so the detectives left the scene and wrote up the incident accordingly.

Less than 72 hours later, everyone was back at the residence to investigate the shooting deaths of that mother and daughter, while the father feigned ignorance and claimed innocence. When the victims were taken by the coroner, it was revealed that the mother’s body was covered in bruises, all in various stages of healing. She had been physically abused regularly for a length of time, which would’ve been obvious had she not been fully covered during Claudia’s first visit.

The idea that she looked into the eyes of that little girl and did not protect her crushed Claudia’s soul. She had half expected a gruesome scene, but what they found was the little girl in a princess-themed bedroom. She was lying peacefully in her bed with her mother beside her in a fetal position holding a book. She must’ve simply fallen asleep reading to her daughter, much like Claudia recalled her mother doing with her. No other scene had affected her in such a way that she had to step out.

Once she was far enough away from the crime scene, for the first time ever, Claudia broke down. Bent over with her hands on her knees for support, tears flowed more freely than they ever had in her entire adult life. Hyperventilating, barely able to catch her breath, a kind, curvy, dark-brown-skinned woman with shoulder-length curly dreadlocks hurried from her home to check on her. As Claudia straightened up, the woman took notice of the badge and gun on her hip, recognizing her as a detective. She didn’t know what specifically had happened, but for someone who saw violence and death on a daily basis to have such an emotionally painful reaction, it must have been pretty awful. She offered her comfort and a business card to come to see her if she ever needed to talk.

That weekend, when Claudia emptied her pants pockets to throw a load in the washer, she came across the card and called the next day to schedule the therapy appointment. It had been a while since she had seen a good mental health professional.

After her mother died tragically the night of her fall and her stepfather, the only other parent she’d ever known, was arrested and subsequently charged with aggravated assault and homicide, Claudia was placed in foster care. The Jacobs family was kind to her and she even got a big sister out of the deal when she was later adopted by them.