The Easy Way Out: Detective McDaniel Thrillers, #2

By Axel Blackwell

This is Book 2 in the Detective McDaniel Thriller series.
The series is best read in order. Please consider reading Book 1, Hold Back the Night, before enjoying The Easy Way Out.

Still reeling from his encounter with a depraved child killer and a professional hitman on the city's waterfront, Homicide Detective Darren McDaniel is thrown back into the fray. A headless corpse washes up in a secluded cove near the industrial district. The body shows signs of extreme trauma – torture – prior to being tossed into the sea.

The brutal excess of violence disturbs McDaniel, pulling him into the investigation. But, with no head, no usable fingerprints, and advanced decomposition, the remains offer few clues to the identity of the victim, or the perpetrator.

McDaniel, and his partner, Brent Vanderwyk, begin investigating reports of missing persons, hoping to match an open case with their victim. A disturbing pattern soon emerges - multiple subjects on the fringes of society have disappeared over the past few years.

The case that started with a headless corpse on the beach quickly spins out of control, expanding to include at least five men, dead or missing. All of them are directly connected to a treacherously entangled trio – a petty drug-lord, a sheriff's detective, and a bombshell femme fatale.

McDaniel and Vanderwyk slowly unravel the tangled mess of lies, deception, trickery, and murder. As the pieces fall into place, they learn that a sixth victim has been taken.

The detectives formulate a plan to capture the killer and save his latest victim before it's too late. But as they race to the rescue, the mission quickly unravels, plunging the detectives into gunfights, car chases, mayhem on the high seas, and a nail-biting conclusion that will leave you on the edge of your seat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Axel Blackwell
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223666776

Book preview

All great and beautiful work has come of first gazing, without shrinking, into the darkness

– John Ruskin

The way of love is not a subtle argument.

The door there is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom.

How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling, they’re given wings.

– Rumi

Chapter 1

Brown glass exploded across the No Trespassing sign.

Fuck them, Tommy Stein thought. Fuck ’em all.

He staggered forward between the rails, fishing a fresh beer out of the cardboard box. Abandoned industrial structures from a past century crowded the skyline ahead. Random flecks of dim light flashed off the dark water to his right. The air smelled of creosote and seaweed and something rotting. He didn’t really know how he got here, or even where here was.

Wherever he was, he was going to trespass the fuck out of it.

He flung another bottle at the railroad’s No Trespassing sign. It missed, smashing instead onto the iron rails. This time, when it exploded, foam accompanied the glass.

Tommy burst out laughing, staggered back a step, then fell on his butt. He had forgotten to drink that one before throwing it. Thank God he’d bought an eighteen pack – still four left.

Down the line somewhere, a light appeared, a southbound locomotive.

It’s about fugging time! he shouted, then dragged himself to his feet. At least Hitler got the trains running on time!

He wasn’t really sure what that meant, but his uncle said it sometimes, so it was probably important. He raised his left hand, palm out and shouted, "Heil the pile!"

A brilliant idea percolated through the beer bubbles in his brain. Wouldn’t it be perfect to livestream his suicide? Fuck Shannon.

Fuck her twice! he muttered, pulling a phone from his back pocket. Cracks spiderwebbed across the screen, but the phone still worked. It showed fourteen missed calls and twenty-three text messages. Most were from Shannon. The rest were from his brother and their friends, the people who had been at the party with him before Shannon had her meltdown.

I’m gonna Facetime myself getting run over by a fucking train, bitch, he said as he struggled to punch in his iPhone code. "Put that in your spank bank."

The phone opened. He found the FaceTime app and dialed Shannon.

She answered immediately, her face filling his shattered iPhone screen. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Tommy, thank God! Are you okay? Where are you?

Her nose was red. Her makeup was smeared all over her face. It warmed Tommy’s heart. He wondered what her face would look like when the train got here.

Tommy, where are you? she said again.

Um, I don’t know…right here, he said, holding out the phone and turning in a slow circle. There’s the bay…smells like something died down there. There’s a smokestack. There’s that thing over there. Here’s the train tracks and, oh look, there’s the train.

"Tommy! What the hell!"

Casey Jones, man… he said, pulling a beer from the box, better watch that speed! It was another of his uncle’s sayings. He popped the cap off with his back teeth, making sure Shannon got a good look as he did – she hated that – then took a long drink.

Tommy, seriously, stop fucking around. Get off the tracks. Where the hell are you?

I can’t get off the tracks, there’s like, drop-off on one side and…steep hill on the other. All sticker bushes and shit. Can’t go that way. I’m just gonna sit here. You can do whatever you want, now. You don’t gotta worry about how I feel ever again.

Goddamnit, Tommy! This is so… I can’t believe you’re threatening to kill yourself over a dog!

It ain’t a threat, Tommy shouted. And it ain’t about the dog!

What do you mean it’s not about the dog? Shannon demanded. If it’s not about the dog…

You don’t even know what it’s about! That’s what it’s about. It’s about you not knowing what it’s about! You never know! You always think you know, but you never fucking know! You don’t even know that you don’t know!

The train whistle screamed. It drowned out all other sound. Tommy’s teeth rattled in their sockets. His eyes rattled. His brain rattled. He lost his balance and fell on his butt again. This time, the ground vibrated his bum as the glare of the train’s light fell over him.

Somewhere nearby, Shannon was yelling. She sounded shrill and desperate – exactly as he had hoped she would sound when he had fantasized about this moment. But he felt no satisfaction. All he felt was the sub-audible thunder of the onrushing train.

It was massive, its blazing eye burning a hole through the night.

He tried to get his feet under him, but the ground trembled and the world seemed to spin. Shannon was on the ground looking up at him. The beers in his stomach wanted out. When the train whistle blasted again, his bladder let loose, though he barely noticed. He managed a crouch, holding one hand up to the train. It was huge. He had never expected it to be that huge.

He flung the bottle. It was swallowed by the light. Suddenly, this no longer seemed like a good idea.

Shannon was gone. The beers were gone. His own voice was gone.

He stumbled backward, tripping over one rail. The rocks and gravel gave way under him and he slid downward. Somewhere below, he knew, the embankment dropped off steeply to the bay. He scrambled for purchase on the loose stones.

With all appendages spread out like a frog frozen in mid-leap, with his belly pressed flat against the slope, he managed to stop his descent. He rested a second to take stock. He hadn’t fallen off a cliff, so that was good. But had he just lost his shit, in front of Shannon, on livestream? He wasn’t sure, but if so…

He looked back up the embankment. From this perspective, the train appeared to slowly trundle along the tracks, not nearly the terrifying monster his mind had made it out to be. His throbbing head clouded with confusion, then embarrassment.

Color burned in his cheeks, anger and humiliation. He jumped to his feet, intent on scrambling back up and diving into the path of the train. Somewhere in the process, however, something went terribly wrong.

His head spun. The world spun around it. Vomit was involved. He found himself rolling down a gravelly slope, somersaulting backward over a wall of boulders, and finally stopping with a wet splutt as the cold, slimy mud of the bay slapped into his back.

He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. Someone had told him once, always turn your head to the side before you pass out. That way, if you puke, you won’t drown in it.

He knew he was going to pass out, and the smell of the mud made him feel like puking again. Why did the mud smell so bad? He wondered if he had shit himself. Maybe the other guy had— Then he wondered, what other guy? He opened his eyes.

The other guy lay in the mud beside him. He was a dingy white color, like an old undershirt, and he was missing a few parts.

Tommy thought, There you go, man, that’s how you cure a hangover. Can’t get a headache if you ain’t got no head. It was the funniest thought he’d had all night. He opened his mouth to laugh but puked instead.

Good thing I turned my head, he thought, then passed out.

Chapter 2

Detective Darren McDaniel sat at his kitchen table, early Saturday morning, staring into the darkness beyond the picture window. The coffee mug warmed his palms. It had been a gift from his daughter, Robyn, when she had been twelve.

If she were still that age, he would look in on her, to reassure himself that she was still alive. It had been only three months since a desperate fugitive had kidnapped her and detonated an explosive device under her chin.

In one version of events, the one McDaniel wanted to believe, the device had been a dud. Its primer had popped, leaving a painful welt on Robyn’s neck, but the main charge did not detonate.

In a different version, the one he dreamed at least three nights each week, the device had exploded, decapitating his daughter while he stood helplessly less than fifteen feet away.

As he sat now, he tried to force himself to remember seeing her last night. His mind alternated between two realities – one in which he had seen her, and one in which she had died and he had only dreamed her. He could go check her room, but if she were there, it would be a violation of her privacy, one he would not be able to explain. And if she were not there…McDaniel could not accept that possibility.

She had to be there. He had saved her.

But his mind rejected that thought before it even fully formed. He had not rescued her, not in either version of events. In the scenario that ended with him walking his uninjured daughter off the dock, her life had been saved, not by her father, but by a professional hitman in the employ of a child sex trafficking ring. If he did still have his daughter, he had not saved her. He did not deserve to have her.

McDaniel held fast to the mug. It was hand-turned clay with an artisan glaze, the colors blending through a spectrum of sky blue to dark maroon. Robyn had picked it out for him during a school field trip to Friday Harbor on the San Juan Islands. Had it been a flimsier mug, his grip might have crushed it. He could not look in on her now, to verify his belief that she had survived, so he clung to the mug and to his memories.

When the sun rose, when his wife and daughter awoke, the second memory – the one in which her headless body tottered, arms outstretched to him, before crumpling in a lifeless heap – would seem as empty and ephemeral as he knew it must be. But at this moment, in this darkness, it felt as real as the night.

The buzz of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He recognized the number of the incoming call as Bellingham Police Department’s desk officer.

McDaniel, he answered.

Sir, this is Denton. I just received a call from Mills requesting a detective at the south end of the Boulevard Cleanup Site on the waterfront.

McDaniel looked to the clock on the microwave. 4:23 a.m.

What have they got? he asked.

They believe they have a body, a floater. No head. He said it looks like it’s been in the water a long time, a few months, maybe.

McDaniel’s breath caught in his throat. The Boulevard Cleanup Site was less than two miles up the shoreline from Taylor Dock, where Robyn had certainly not been decapitated by an IED. He glanced up the darkened stairway leading to her room. He did not look to the living room wall where the cracks sometimes appeared.

He knew if he did, he would see them there now.

Male or female? he asked.

Excuse me? Denton said.

McDaniel swallowed, and concentrated on keeping the anxiety out of his voice. The body they found, is it male or female?

Well, Mills didn’t say. Denton’s tone suggested he heard more emotion in McDaniel’s voice than the detective had hoped. Based on what he did say, I’d guess it might not be easy to tell…no head, advanced decomp.

McDaniel tightened his grip on the mug, but no longer felt its warmth. Right, he said, okay, right…have you called Vanderwyk? Or the medical examiner?

The M. E. has been notified. Vanderwyk is my next call. The list is alphabetical, you know.

Got it. Do we have access to the cleanup site?

They tried to get one of the keyholders, but no one was answering their phones, so Mills used the bolt cutters. He was able to drive back there, almost to the body, but said there’s still a short hike involved. You probably ought to wear rough duty gear and good boots.

I can handle that, McDaniel said. Thanks, Denton.

McDaniel took a deep breath and settled back in his chair. He drew a long, slow sip of his coffee. He had been sitting in the dark long enough that it had cooled to room temperature, but he barely noticed.

He told himself, with absolute certainty, that there were no cracks in the wall. Then he turned to the living room and verified his assertion. He told himself, almost as assuredly, that Robyn was asleep in her bed, that she was not the headless body he had been dispatched to investigate.

The story did nothing to alleviate the cold ache in his chest, but it would have to be enough for now.

He returned his mug to the brew station, reloading it for a fresh cup. In the garage, he popped the trunk of his unmarked Crown Victoria. Along with the emergency equipment, the trunk held an overnight bag with McDaniel’s rough duty clothes.

He changed in the dark garage, so as not to disturb Katheryn, stripping off his black slacks, sport coat, and white button-up shirt, which he folded neatly on the back seat of the cruiser. Burn scars covered most of his back and legs. A giant octopus tattoo camouflaged most of the scars. These rippled with his sinewy musculature as he moved.

He quickly pulled on a pair of cargo pants, and a Carhartt work shirt. He transferred his gun and badge, laced up his boots, then punched the button on the garage door opener. The predawn sky hung low with grey-pink clouds as he pulled out into the damp morning.

Chapter 3

The call took McDaniel through the middle of downtown Bellingham, past the newspaper building with its giant glowing neon HERALD. The letters had alternated between red and green for the holidays, but now glowed blue.

The vinyl disc stores, hipster shops, and college hangouts were all still closed at this hour. He cruised past the Lighthouse Mission and several street dwellers who had not sought refuge there this night.

One of these stood on the corner, shouting and gesticulating with the voracity of a street preacher. His message was unclear, as it only consisted of three syllables repeated in random order, but he infused those syllables with such passion that McDaniel was inclined to believe.

After driving down into the industrial docks and shipyard area, McDaniel came to Glass Beach, a tiny fan of sand at the water’s edge, so named because the bits of broken bottles outnumbered the grains of sand. Much of the glass was from the early 1900s, when this stretch of beach had been used as the city dump, though a significant portion came from more modern contributions.

Shallow surf tinkled like wind chimes as it rolled in and out. Beyond Glass Beach was The Mound, a half-mile long, forty-foot-high heap of dirt, covered end-to-end in a white plastic tarp, designed to prevent contaminated groundwater from seeping into the bay.

Normally, this area was closed off by a high, chain-link fence, but the gate now hung wide. Officer Sean Hendry guarded the entrance. Hendry had been on the force long enough that he wouldn’t have been stuck on gate duty unless he chose it. McDaniel guessed that meant whatever was going on further up the road, a reasonable person would stay as far away as possible. Hendry directed McDaniel to a narrow gravel road that ran between the Mound and the bay.

Body’s going to be down at the far end, he explained. Kid that found it almost got hit by a train, fell off the embankment and damn near landed in dead guy.

Beyond the gate, the gravel road paralleled the mound until it turned shoreward and terminated at the railroad tracks. The Mound blocked McDaniel’s view of the response vehicles, but the soggy air throbbed with the refracted light from their emergency flashers.

Who all’s down there? McDaniel asked.

Oh, it’s a legit party. There are at least two injured kids, along with the body, so we’ve got a couple ambulances and a fire truck, plus a handful of officers. M.E.’s got a guy on the way. And your partner arrived just ahead of you, Hendry said. Good to see him back, by the way.

Thanks, Hendry. I’ll let him know you said so. McDaniel gave the officer a nod and Hendry waved him through.

McDaniel rolled past heaps of busted concrete and other debris left over from the factories that had once stood here. The Mound rose up on his left like a great white whale. To his right, Bellingham Bay rippled in the grey light of morning. Graffiti and garbage dotted the sides of the gravel drive, as did a few abandoned homeless camps. McDaniel assumed their residents had sought shelter elsewhere as soon as the first officers arrived.

He pulled in behind his partner, Brent Vanderwyk. The big man was just starting to unfold himself out of his own Crown Vic. Red and blue lights flashed through the early morning mist. The sky was a pale grey, tinged orange in the east. It hadn’t rained, but dew dripped from every surface. Stillness hung in the air, interrupted occasionally by chirping birds or chatter on the police radios.

Morning, Darren, Vanderwyk called, as he approached. He carried a large thermos in one hand, but relative to his size, it looked like a standard travel mug. It probably contained more creamer than coffee.

Yes, it is, McDaniel answered. What have we got?

Dead body, I guess. Why you asking me? I just showed up, Vanderwyk said. He stretched and yawned. He’s probably still going to be dead in another couple hours. Why couldn’t we get the call then?

Sounds like you need a few more weeks on light duty, McDaniel said. Or maybe all that downtime has turned you soft?

I was already soft, Vanderwyk said, patting his midsection. He could probably survive the loss of thirty pounds, but his six-foot-eight frame carried the extra weight well. Now, I’m just tired.

At least your eyebrows have grown back, McDaniel said.

Before he could respond, a female voice behind them asked, How can you tell?

Vanderwyk’s hair was pale blond, almost white, and usually very short on top. The explosion that had put him out of commission for the past three months had singed it all off, and there had been a running bet as to whether it would grow back at all. There was now quite a bit of contention as to whether the wispy, downy tufts above his eyes counted as true hair.

Conklin, Vanderwyk said, nice to see you again, too.

Beverly Conklin had six years on the force. She had been McDaniel’s trainee after graduating the academy, and they had remained close over the years. That morning, she had been assigned the unenviable task of logging all comings and goings from the scene.

Hey Bev, McDaniel said. It was good to see his partner and his former trainee, but he was felt too unsettled to enjoy the reunion. What have you got for us?

Kids found a corpse, she said, or most of one, anyway. The head and a few other bits are missing.

Kids these days, Vanderwyk muttered. Somebody needs to teach them to finish what they start. If you’re going to go finding bodies, find the whole thing, right?

Conklin looked at him for a long minute without saying anything, then turned and said to McDaniel. He…or, it washed up at the south end of the cleanup site. Looks like it’s been in the water a few weeks, at least.

Tell me about these kids who found it, McDaniel said.

A mixed group, it looks like. Some shipyard guys were partying with a group of Bellingham Tech students at a private home in Fairhaven. A guy named Tommy Stein got in a fight with his girlfriend and decided suicide-by-train was the best way to resolve it.

Took it kinda hard, huh? Vanderwyk asked.

He might not have been thinking too clearly, Conklin said. His friends estimate he had about a half-dozen shots before he left the party and about a gallon of beer after.

Impaired, McDaniel scoffed.

Conklin nodded, not noticing his impatience. Somehow, he made his way down here. The train comes. The kid either chickened out and jumped off the tracks, or just fell over, not real clear on that. At some point, he passed out, fell down the embankment. He was still unconscious at last report, so, we don’t really know what happened next. He ended up right beside this dead guy…or gal, not enough of it left to guess gender.

I thought we weren’t supposed to guess gender, Vanderwyk said.

Once they’re dead, it’s just a matter of plumbing, at least according to the M.E.’s office, Conklin said. But if my prior statement was insufficiently clear, Brent, this body has decomposed to the point that whatever obvious indicators there may have been have shriveled, or rotted, or been nibbled off by fishes. So, we don’t know if it was an inny or an outy. Got it?

Vanderwyk put his hands up and took a step back, Hey, take it easy Bev, I was just trying to make sure you’re staying current with the social climate.

No, Conklin said, I think you got bored and lonely at home and have been jonesing for a chance to make a nuisance of yourself.

Oh, I wasn’t lonely, Vanderwyk said, waggling a fluffy tuft that may or may not have been an eyebrow.

Conklin raised her own eyebrow.

Let’s stay on point, children, McDaniel said, trying to mask his internal agitation. He had hoped bantering with his old partner would help settle his troubled mind. It wasn’t working. You two can catch up after shift.

No thank you, Conklin said, quickly enough for Vanderwyk to pretend it hurt his feeling.

She ignored him, taking a quick glance at her notes, then continued her report. The short version is, drunk guy passes out and falls on the dead guy. His friends go looking for him and one of them ends up breaking his ankle. And then, to top it all off, the drunk guy pukes all over the dead guy, Conklin said, flipping her note pad closed. He’s still pretty gone, the drunk guy, that is. EMTs are working on him now. And his buddy with the broken ankle.

How many friends are we talking about? McDaniel asked.

It’s hard to say, exactly, Conklin said. They were all pretty wasted. None of them can give us accurate times. We’ve collected several cell phones, so you guys can go through the texts and calls to establish the timeline, but for now, I’d guess they’ve been searching most of the night.

McDaniel glanced toward the activity beyond Conklin. Hard to mount an effective search when everybody’s hammered. He knew the body could not be Robyn. Conklin and Vanderwyk wouldn’t be so flippant if there were any possibility of that. But still his heart raced.

Exactly, Conklin said. "Anyway, some of the kids were underage so they didn’t want to call us. When the group did eventually find Tommy and saw him lying right next to the body, they assumed he had been hit by a train.

Some of the kids panicked and split. Some of the kids tried to climb down to check on him. One of them got his leg stuck between two boulders, then fell, resulting in a fracture, and finally, somebody sobered up enough to call the paramedics. The paramedics were gracious enough to call us.

So, this whole group of kids saw the body? McDaniel asked. And we don’t know who all was in that group?

That’s correct, Conklin said. By the time we arrived, only four from the original group were still here.

How’d they find him? Vanderwyk asked.

"His girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, she had GPS activated on his phone, Conklin said, grinning. He was on her cell plan and she had an app that allowed her to track him. I get the impression he didn’t know about it. She didn’t think to use it until he had been missing for several hours, so I’m guessing she had that feature for some reason other than his safety."

And you wonder why I’ve been through three wives… Vanderwyk scoffed.

Did she stick around? McDaniel asked, his voice growing tighter.

Yeah, we have her, Conklin said, a tad defensively. "We’ve also got Tommy’s brother and his girlfriend, and the guy with the broken leg. They’ve given us a partial list of people who attended the party."

You got their phones? Vanderwyk asked. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down the others through social media, if we need them.

Conklin nodded. Yeah, Mills has them. He’s running the show back there.

Okay, sounds good, McDaniel said. Let’s go take a look.

Chapter 4

It was a short walk over scattered rocks and old masonry. The Burlington Northern rail line ran along the water’s edge, then turned inland where it met the Mound. At the south end of the Mound, the shoreline dipped inward, creating a tiny cove. It was onto the beach of this cove that the body had washed up, and Tommy had fallen.

By the time they reached the tracks, the scent of decomposition hung heavy in the air. It would only get worse as the day warmed. Six officers milled about on the flat area at the base of the Mound, about as far from the body as possible without losing sight of it.

Officer Mills stood watching over three of the witnesses Conklin had described. They sat huddled under yellow emergency blankets. The fourth witness was lying on a gurney with his splinted foot elevated, two EMTs packaging him for transport.

About twenty feet downslope from them, two more EMTs struggled to roll a slightly conscious male onto a backboard. The trouble was the ground they worked on was slick mud mixed with barnacle-studded stones and tangles of seaweed. Worse, their patient lay shoulder to shoulder with a ragged lump that had once been a person.

The moment he saw it, McDaniel knew the body was not Robyn. He was immediately washed in relief, followed by and intense sense of frustration at himself for being so overwhelmed. He felt relieved but not at all comforted.

This body wasn’t Robyn, and, that didn’t prove she was alive. It didn’t prove anything one way or the other. The logic was sound, but the whole question was idiotic. He knew she was alive, and, he couldn’t make himself believe it.

Seagulls wheeled overhead, cawing and shrieking, anxious to sample the carrion below. Enough light had crept into the day for McDaniel to see the scene clearly. Gentle waves lapped at the shoreline, slowly moving closer to the body and the EMTs.

McDaniel realized that, had the tide not been out when Tommy Stein stumbled down the slope, they might be fishing two bodies out of the bay rather than just the one. He radioed Conklin and asked if she had heard from the medical examiner’s crew.

Yeah, he just called, said he got tied up in traffic, she radioed back, but should be here any minute.

Ten-four, McDaniel said. Tell them if they don’t want to go swimming, they better move their asses. The tide is coming in.

Oh, Jeez, Conklin said. I’ll let them know.

Officer Mills waved them over. Good morning detectives! he called. He was a stocky black officer in his mid-thirties. His booming voice resounded with false cheer. Welcome to the party. We’re all having a ton of fun. By the time he hit the last three words, all joviality dropped from his voice and his affect went flat. The next line he delivered deadpan. Nothing like the smell of rotting dead guy to start your morning off right.

Officer, McDaniel started, intending to ask Mills for his take on the scene, but before he could speak, a subtle shift in the breeze wafted the stench up to their vantage. McDaniel gagged on his words. Vanderwyk’s face scrunched and he coughed. Mills grimaced and turned away. It took a few more breaths before the conversation could continue.

It’ll get better after you’ve been here for a few, Mills said, with only a hint of sarcasm. I think they call it ‘olfactory fatigue.’ You smell something long enough, your ability to smell it decreases.

Just take a big ol’ whiff, another officer added. Get it out of the way.

"This isn’t