A Slice of Death

By Patricia D. Perry

About the Book
Detective Jack Pirrone still loves his estranged wife, Cynthia, and now that she’s returned to Cape Cod as Medical Examiner, perhaps they could rekindle some of that old passion between them. However, Jack’s personal life must take a back seat to the murders of several young, beautiful women in the area.
A Slice of Death follows Jack as he and his team try to identify and stop a serial killer who assaults, mutilates, and dresses up his victims, including applying makeup and posing them to be discovered in the most gruesome way possible, while leaving no forensic evidence. An approaching hurricane, influx of holiday tourists, and pressure from the community and press add to Jack’s struggle, a struggle that intensifies when the killer gets too close to Jack’s loved ones. Will he solve the mystery in time?
About the Author
Patricia D. Perry is presently residing at Traditions at Christiana, a fifty-five plus Community in Delaware. She grew up in the Bethesda, Maryland area and attended the University of Maryland majoring in Business Administration and Nursing. Patricia has always had a passion for reading mystery and true crime. Her hobbies are crossword puzzles, enjoying Oldies, Rock and Roll music, new genres, playing cards, cruises to the Bahamas, and going to the Jersey shore in the summer with friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890275813

Book preview

PROLOGUE – Spring

One year ago

The road ahead was like a dark black ribbon, narrow and winding. Large pine trees, sprinkled with shining drops of water, grew close on either side and their long, thin branches reached down like fingers scratching the roof of the old 2009 Ford pickup.

Arriving at a state park, the man, lean in body, rugged and muscular, stepped out of the truck, a shabby, brown duffle bag clutched in his left hand.

His weathered face looked tired, yet despite the heavy lines of fatigue, there was a softened, savory look about him. A swatch of cold, black hair fell casually on his forehead and reflected light glimmered over his handsome face, like beams of icy radiance. He adjusted the black Stetson cowboy hat, and with his head thrown back, listened to the silence.

He gazed across the road and looked in both direction, at the stark white lines on the vacant parking lot, laid row on slanting row like the bleaching scales of large fish.

The four hundred and eighteen campsites were set in old pine trees and oak forests that sloped down to the banks of crystal clear freshwater ponds. The campsites had fireplaces, picnic tables, and paved bicycle trails were deserted. It was a cold night in April. There were only the marshes, the ponds, and the woods. He pulled his burgundy lined jacket closer to his body.

As a gentle fine misty rain fell, the man sauntered to the rear of the truck and pulled the tarpaulin back, thereby lifting the worn-out carpet. He slung it across his shoulder like a slab of beef, cussing silently and hung on to his duffle bag.

He stopped and listened intently, hearing the sounds of the wind, birds, insects, and small creatures stirring in the marsh. They were wrapped in a silence eerie in its depth.

Reaching the water’s edge, spears of green grass stuck up through the bog and the dead brown wires of old spears of grass bent under the burden of a moderate breeze. Shrews and moles tunneled in the damp soil at the edge of the marsh, eating their weight in insects, while fireflies flashed their lights.

As the man waded across, he noticed a Black-crowned night heron. The bird paused in its feeding, watched the intrusion of its normally private nightly domain, then flapped its heavy broad wings and took off with deliberate speed as the man drew near.

Under the pitiless glare of night creatures, the man came out of the salt marsh and walked farther into the darkness of the forest. He was immersed in the woods that were spattered with ponds. He had read pamphlets about how they had been formed as glaciers over eight to ten thousand year ago, and that the majority of the ponds were stocked with plenty of trout. It was unearthly, stifled in unnatural darkness, quivering with sound.

The sudden chill raised gooseflesh on his arms, and the sudden quiet gloom created a feeling of awe. The murmuring of insects had gone and the silence engulfed him.

The pine trees stood straight and tall, menacingly aloof, and appeared like watchful sentinels who passed and repassed each other in the distance as he moved between them. On each side of the patch, honey-suckle hung low, and the sweetness of its perfume blended with the moist fragrance of wet earth and green moss.

Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia swept over him. It was nostalgia for some former time, some former place, when or where, he could not recall. The sweetness of a young woman’s wild perfume stirred into his life, emotions too deep for conscious thought and too remote for memory.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and finally reached a small clearing. Numb limbs and weariness were forgotten as he dropped the wrapped corpse on the moist ground. He shifted his weight onto the forward foot and leaned toward the rug.

There was a distinct hardening of his eyes as he unrolled the carpet and an older woman’s body came into view. Her vacant brown eyes stared up at the trees, and her gray hair was disheveled. A pair of silver earrings dangled from earlobes and the black satin nightgown was spattered in blood. An unpleasant sweet odor came from her skinny body.

The bereavement of life rather than grief for death chilled his bones, as he started humming a happy tune, then removed one of the dangling earrings from her lobe. He slipped it into his pants pocket.

Reaching into his duffle bag, he grabbed a shade of lipstick and applied it to her pale lips. He also placed a touch of rouge on her cheeks. A picture is worth a thousand words. Of course, we cannot forget the rose. He then snapped a picture of his masterpiece.

Removing a tri-fold shovel out of his duffle bag, the man worked the hard ground; packed the dirt over her, and smoothed the leaves and pine needles. With all his strength, he hauled a nearby rotting log and laid it over the grave. He thought, No one will find your ugly, old bones until Summer of next year. Thank goodness I didn’t have to make a reservation. He laughed at his own joke.

Proud of his accomplishment, he pushed and shoved, jamming the worn carpet under the heavy log and made sure everything was completely covered, then hurried out of the woods and across the marsh.

Quietly, closing the truck door, his mind retraced the events of the night. He had stood in the kitchen and listened to the older woman’s drunken, crude and ugly words many times before, always hurtful and degrading.

Bastard… you’ve been nothing but trouble since the day I had to take you and your sister in with me. Her words trailed off, and her face was pale except for two small red spots of anger high on both cheeks.

Then, she started singing, a little off key, but the young man clapped encouraging her to sing louder. He poured her another drink of his cheap whiskey. The more she drank, the more she became intoxicated.

The woman’s unkempt gray hair hung loosely on her shoulders, as she danced around the kitchen, spilling most of her drink. She laughed and giggled, then swayed back and forth to her favorite song playing on the CD.

Placing her hand on her hips, she shouted, Hey, don’t turn your back on me, you… you worthless piece of garbage and almost fell backwards. Catching herself, she repeated and remarked, I took you and your sister in after your parents died.

When he turned and faced her, his fingers were wrapped around the handle of a kitchen knife, its blade was stainless steel, six inches of razor-sharp pain. The cold metal glimmered in the soft light of the beach cottage.

Intense astonishment touched her pasty face as he lunged forward and drove the blade into her stomach and then slit her throat. He withdrew the knife, and stabbed again. It took a few moments to catch his breath.

He rolled the older woman’s body up in the worn-out rug, and took another sharp breath. The hardest part came when he hauled her body out to the truck, thanking himself that the majority of rambling old cottages, that had been occupied by fishermen, were closed until the summer season.

Smiling, he shifted his mind to the present, and drove cautiously out of the state park. The clock on the dashboard reminded him that it was after three o’clock in the morning. He tapped the steering wheel and whistled his favorite song.

In thirty minutes, he was on Nauset Beach spit. The smell of salt water, wet grass, and sea flats filled the misty night air.

Parking the four-wheel drive, he headed down to the water. In the dark of the moon, he watched the ribbons of light play across the sand and beach plums. The tide had fallen three feet, but the breakers were still leaping up against the sand bars, the larger one splashing over sheets of vanishing foam.

Along the shoreline, waves washed up green coils of sea grass and far off a single fishing vessel groaned its way along the shoals, it’s bright deck lights burning. There was light on the tops of the solitary dunes, and on the lower beach to the south the man saw Chatham Light winking its familiar double flash.

Grabbing his black cowboy hat, he walked back to the cottage. His heart rate was nearly back to normal. He gazed at the little gray house, with its drab blue curtains, and where flowers tumbled untidily out of dark-blue window boxes.

Inside the humble dwelling, a large rectangular room with a low six-foot ceiling and wide-board pegged flooring served as a kitchen, workshop, and living area. Overhead, huge exposed beams ran across the ceiling to the opposite wall.

He hastily scrubbed the stained pine floors and caught the fresh lemon scent of Pine Sol. Most of all, he had enjoyed the ultimate ecstasy of her splattered blood on the greasy counters and splattered amounts on the wall.

Tossing his cowboy hat onto the sofa, he headed into the bathroom. Slipping off his wet clothes, he showered, and changed. He was home, gulping down cheap whiskey and shaking off the uncomfortably penetrating coldness of nerves.

He moved uneasily around the small room, rumpling his jet-black hair. Going to the farthest corner, he sank onto a mildewed sofa, and looked at the room: small, austere and cold. He grabbed his cowboy hat and placed it on his head, smiling at his accomplishment.

He looked upon the room. The window panes were dirty and cobwebs stretched like chiffon across the top corners of several. The oatmeal walls were neglected over the years, and the baseboards were scuff marked. Above a dry sink hung a cracked mirror, its trim showing the nicks of time.

The man thought of her scrawny corpse buried in the woods, and about the flies, beetles, maggots and other creatures rushing in and feasting on her carcass.

Raising the bottle, he gulped down another mouthful and said, "Your Garden of Eden awaits you… Eve. He laughed and danced to his favorite song.

CHAPTER ONE

One Year Later

It seemed Cape Cod, Massachusetts never slept. As June approached, the summer vacationers had arrived in Provincetown, as well as all the other seashore towns, crowding its antique shops. ice cream parlors, restaurants, bars, and fishing docks.

By the close of business, shop owners gathered up their skirts and ambled off to night spots of almost every kind. It was a Saturday evening on Cape Cod and people were out in full roaming the quaint town for a place to dine, dance, and party.

Jack Pirrone, the son of Italian immigrants, was born in New Bedford. After college he attended the Massachusetts State Police Academy in New Braintree. It is a state-of-the art facility, consisting of over seven hundred acres of land.

Fifteen years later Jack became Detective Lieutenant of the Homicide Division in his town on the Cape. Nearing his forty-eighth birthday, he was considered stubborn and opinionated by his peers. He had that dry sense of humor that some of the old Cape Codders wore. The Cape’s harsh winters had weathered Jack’s bronze features and his hair remained jet black, although he still maintained a boyish, yet commanding posture about his trim, five foot, eleven inch frame. His detectives knew his skills as a dedicated person established through the years of successfully closing cases.

Leaving the barracks, Jack drove onto the highway and turned north. Saturday night traffic was heavy as he made his way along Route 6. He wet his lips and whistled, pleased with the idea and his mind played with it. One thing after another floated through his head. They were glimpses that worried and at the same time tantalized him. Thoughts of his ex-wife were vivid in his mind. Sweet memories of days gone by.

Shifting his brain back into gear, he glanced out his car window, and noticed outrageous, gay, and carefree people going from one night spot to the next. Some gay couples were holding hands or had an arm linked through each other’s. Summer families stood in long lines anxiously waiting for their ice cream waffle cones or hot fudge sundaes.

Jack passed single and two-story houses, their wooden clapboards and weathered shingles burnished by the salty winds. Windows down, he inhaled the mixture of salt air and the pitch pine along the streets shaded by old English elms.

Jack rolled through Commercial Street of Provincetown and turned into a tight alleyway, scouting for a parking space. He observed the tourists and flocks of other individuals attracted to the town’s freewheeling, good-times atmosphere.

Patiently, Jack eased into an empty space as a local resident was pulling out. There was a sweet smell to the Cape’s air and the fresh fragrance of a rain-washed world as he locked his cruiser. He liked the streets in the evening and the strange look of familiar places in the changing light.

Hurrying down the back streets, Jack’s gaze was directed to the Crashin’ Dunes Bar and Grille, a popular box-sided restaurant with large booths, red leather cushions, checkered tablecloths. A pleasant bar where people laughed and had a good time. A regular hangout for some of the police officers and his cronies, as well as the local fishermen. The summer crowd had also arrived.

Jack hastened his pace a little and weaved between the throngs of people reaching the establishment. It took several seconds for his brown eyes to adjust to the dim lights. He spotted the familiar paintings of old schooners and whaling captains on the walls, as his feet touched the wide plank flooring sprinkled with sand, giving him a feeling for ships and the old-time ways of seafaring people.

At eight o’clock, the lounge was jumping as the crowd shuffled and gyrated to the music blaring from the rock band on a sizable platform stage. The deep-voiced singer repeated chorus after chorus, linking the crowd into a multitude of waving arms.

Jack grabbed a nearby booth and signaled to a waitress he had known for many years. Just bring me the usual, Gina. He took off his black Stetson hat and placed it on the seat next to him.

Listening to the music, his present thoughts came back to his ex-wife, Cynthia Cosner Pirrone, Medical Examiner. She had worked on the Cape while they were married, but after their separation, she transferred to the Boston area.

As he remembered, the tall, slender woman of five foot nine, had long, shapely legs. Her eyes were blue as the sky and her short brown hair showed blonde highlights that reflected off the sun. She had gone back to her maiden name after their split.

This was the one woman he still loved and cared about even though they had not seen each other for five years since she had moved away with the kids, but always kept in touch during these years. She had given him the nickname, The Cowboy because of the hat she had bought him when they were first married, and the name had stuck with him over the years.

Jack reflected on what things were like during those years together. Cynthia was something that escaped clear definition. Even after years of marriage, she had a mystery about her. Her beauty surprised his senses, and certainly confused his thinking. Everything about that woman was different, entirely different. He smiled, remembering the reason why he loved and hated his ex-wife.

His waitress returned and placed the scotch and water in front of Jack. I need to discuss something with you, whenever I get a break. It’s a personal matter.

Jack told Gina that there was a solution that she could probably work out for herself, if she tried hard enough. And he chuckled, clearing his throat.

She explained that it was serious and not to take her message lightly. In the meantime, customers were barking at her for more drinks and food. She excused herself and strutted away from Jack’s booth. An hour passed as Jack strummed to the rock music and the band’s singer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a slender woman coming toward his booth.

Well, I’ll be … and how did you know I was here? I thought you were still with the ME office in Boston, said Jack.

This was always your hangout, along with your buddies. Anyway, I’m back, exclaimed Cynthia. Been here a few weeks, and guess what… the job has not changed one bit. I am overworked, underpaid, understaffed and at the moment, still four autopsies behind. I have one assistant and both of us are dragging our buns. Is that too much to ask? requested Cynthia, as she puckered her lips and gave a low moan of exhaustion.

You fussed even when you did have extra help, because it was never completed exactly the way you wanted the autopsies done. As you said, ‘C.C. will do it her way,’ concluded Jack.

I need more help. Barnstable County promised me before I left the Boston area to have another medical examiner here when I arrived. So far, nothing has happened. I am still waiting. I guess I won’t hold my breath, said Cynthia.

Jack waved to a waitress to bring a round of drinks for him and Cynthia. About that time, another waitress arrived at the table and informed Jack that Gina rushed out of the restaurant upset and in a hurry, not saying a word to anyone.

Jack shrugged it off, thinking that Gina forgot all about their talk. He turned his attention back to Cynthia. The band had finished their song, and the young woman started singing a slow romantic tune.

In the meantime, how about a spin around the dance floor, Cowboy, for old times’ sake? I think they’re playing our song, Cynthia said, giving Jack a tug on his arm, coaxing him out of the booth. Come on. She tugged harder on his sleeve.

CHAPTER TWO

The spotlights flickered off a mirrored ball dancing on a slim wire over the tightly packed room. As Jack and Cynthia embraced, a shiver raced from her breasts to her thighs as his hand trailed down the small of her back and pressed her against him. The slim, beauty reached up, lightly touched his lips, and whispered into his ear. Drowned out by the loud music, words silent to anyone else passed between them as Jack kissed her tenderly on the neck.

Cynthia thought how her husband still radiated a gentle, but very impressive commanding authority. She studied his smooth face and gazed into his brown eyes, noticing a tiny scar across the bridge of his nose. There was a strained look about him. Inclining his frame forward, Jack held her tight against him and smoothly kept rhythm to the music.

While dancing, he told her the best thing that came out of their relationship were the twins, John and Jacqueline. John had finished his courses at the academy in Braintree as a State Trooper Trainee. His amazing daughter, Jacqueline, now a nurse at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. His wife had done a wonderful job in their upbringing.

Cynthia thanked him and related how hard she had tried her best in keeping a work schedule while raising the children. She had wanted Jack to put more effort into the marriage, but understood him being involved out on the streets when they were first married. She was sad and hurt that he was not around when needed. She studied his smooth face and gazed into his eyes, Still have that scar, she remarked.

Of course, you put it there, laughed Jack, remembering the time she threw the curling iron at him in the heat of an argument. They got into the silliest spats, mostly over something important or nothing at all. Their marriage lasted ten years, then it was time to move on without him.

The music had stopped and both returned to the booth. While holding her hand, Jack said, We could still try again, it’s never too late. For old times’ sake, said Jack. I still love you, Cynthia, considering all we went through.

Jack, love was never the problem. We just could not live in the same house together as husband and wife, she concluded. Her cell phone buzzed and she looked down at a text message. Explaining to Jack she was needed at a fatal car accident between North Truro and Wellfleet, she leaned over and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

After Cynthia’s hurried departure, Jack ordered another scotch and water, gazing at the crowd and smiling faces. He tried to think back to all the good times with Cynthia.

Just the thought of her brought up memories of years past and he remembered coming around the side of their little bungalow and seeing his new bride bent over the ground in the vegetable garden, her white cotton dress clinging against his hips and shapely thighs.

Then the clouds gathering overhead, burst open in a hasty summer shower, pinning her dress even more tightly against her body, revealing firm buttocks and small breasts. Peering over her shoulder, the mystery in Cynthia’s eyes beckoned him.

The invitation had been a passionate challenge, hard to resist and Jack’s whole being seemed to be filled with waiting and the prolonged anticipation was almost unbearable. Pressing against her body with relentless enjoyment, he felt the sexual magnetism and was as eager and electric as the summer storm.

She turned and cooed soft words in his ears. Laughing, they ran to their small bungalow and hastily took off their wet clothes.

After the passionate lovemaking, they lay in silence wrapped in each other’s arms. He knew at that time, the twins had been conceived. If only he could recapture that moment again, things would be different, he thought to himself.

A knot rose in his throat thinking back to those once-pleasant memories… memories that somehow had died in the intervening years.

Jack shifted his attention to the dance floor and ordered another scotch and water. As spotlights swept across the dance floor, a woman dressed in a scarlet dress spun out from the crowd of dancers and retracted into the arms of a ruggedly striking young man.

Inclining his frame forward, the man gripped her wrist tightly, then released it. He thought to himself, That’s right, give me that innocent smile of yours. You can’t fool me. His eyes sent her a private message, as he turned on his heels and left the dance floor.

The woman nudged her way out of the sweating bodies on the dance floor. As she retraced her steps to one of the nearby booths crowding the large room, the woman stared wordlessly across at Jack. He recognized her as a Police Dispatcher in one of the Cape towns and was known to most of the regulars at the Crashin’ Dunes Bar and Grille.

Jack nodded to the lady, then tossed down the last few drops of