Harvey Havoc: The Pale Hearse

By Avery A Bell and Clare Bohning

A prejudice-driven serial killer is on the rampage in Motor City, and it's up to Detective Harvey Havoc and his new partner Lenard Graves to catch them before these hate crimes tear the city apart. Meanwhile, while on suspension, Detective Shay Smith is trying to solve a mystery of her own. But when martial law is declar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laughing Skull Media
• Release date: Dec 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218344115

Book preview

Harvey Havoc

The Pale Hearse

By

Avery A. Bell

2023

Laughing Skull Media

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

______

Text by Avery A. Bell

Graphics by Clare Bohning

2023

979-8-218-34411-5

Edited by Lara Milton of Spectrum Editing

Authenticity Reader: Josie Stanfield

Consultant: Kirsten Anthony, a true and crazy friend

All rights reserved.

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Averybellsgarage.com

Novels by Avery A. Bell

Harvey Havoc: The Future Is Havoc

Harvey Havoc: The Technician’s Game

Harvey Havoc: The Shifting Slayer

Harvey Havoc: Blue Orchid

Dedication

Countless souls have been lost to the hatred spawned by racism and other forms of prejudice. I know people who have lost loved ones to hate crimes; I have friends who have been targeted for simply being themselves. This story is fictional, but the violence it depicts is all too real. It is my solemn hope that this tale can give a voice to those whose words were forever taken from them. If you have been a victim of this type of vicious and unfounded hatred, know that you are loved and you are not alone.

Chapter 1

Therapy

So, tell me how you feel about your mother.

I chuckle at her cliché question. My therapist is a smart woman, but so am I. It’s doubtful I’m half the mental case most of her patients are. I like that she treats me like a regular person with simple problems, though—partly because it makes me feel more normal. But really, I know I’m not a normal person. I know how crazy my problems are. On the job, I’m a calculated detective and a callous killer. Socially, I’m a cold bitch with more than moderate anger issues. Sometimes I act like I have a death wish. And if that isn’t enough, my father’s a mob boss. While I’m at it, I also should admit that my mother was a drug addict. These days, I can cope better, because I spend most of my time with my lover and partner, who happens to drive around a hundred-year-old white hearse named Elli. Yeah, totally normal problems.

I pull my thoughts back to her question. OK, I guess. I wish I had a chance to say nicer things to her before she died.

Susan McCall responds with another question. How long ago was that?

About ten years, I lie.

Do you resent her for your hair? she asks.

Sometimes. Harvey loves it, though. I only really give a shit about his opinion these days. Aside from my own, that is.

She adjusts her glasses. Why do you think that is?

I don’t know, I pause. I guess I trust him.

McCall smiles. Trust is good. Is there anyone you trust besides your partner?

Her sharp, deep blue business suit and short, well-groomed grey-brown hair convey polish and confidence. The soft tone of her voice and her vibrant smile convey compassion. Her well-tanned skin suggests she spends a lot of time in nature. The bright green of her eyes is almost unsettling. It’s as if Susan McCall can see into your mind with one glance. I’m sure she wants me to feel I can trust her. Thing is, I hardly trust myself half the time.

No, not really.

Hm. McCall pauses, then asks, Would you like to trust more people?

I shrug. Sure, I guess.

She jots down a few notes with her finger on the screen of her smart desk. How do you feel about going back to work next week?

I can’t wait. All this sitting around drives me crazy.

What do you miss about your work?

The challenge? I think harder. Probably the excitement, actually.

Anything else? McCall prods.

I like spending more time with Harvey. He sort of grounds me. We seem to make a good team.

Her tone softens. Do you worry about anything happening to him? To you?

All the time. But I feel like what we do is important. We’re good at it. I know it sounds corny, but I feel like the city needs us.

There’s nothing corny about it. She folds her hands atop her desk screen. Everyone wants to have a purpose. You and your partner have done a lot of good for this city. You’re justified in being proud of it.

Thanks.

You’re welcome. McCall leans back. Before we conclude for the day, I have one more question for you, Smith.

Shoot.

How do you feel about Roger Paulson’s trial later this week?

I try not to think about Roger—although when I do, I’ll always think of him as Rodrigo. Fine. I shrug again. There’s no chance he’ll get off. He’ll get what he deserves.

You still won’t tell me why you hate him so much. McCall says. You do know everything we discuss remains between us.

I know. I hesitate. It’s like I said before: I just got angry.

She narrows her eyes at my lie. I imagine she hopes I’ll fess up and tell her the whole story one day. Maybe I will. I’m not ready for that right now, though. And our time is almost up. You clear me for service yet? I ask.

I really wish you’d consider taking the anxiety medication I prescribed, she says earnestly.

Is that a yes or a no?

She settles back in her chair with a not-quite sigh. I cleared you for service, but I would like to keep seeing you at least once a month.

Is that a wish or a requirement?

Both, she asserts.

Terrific. Right, well, I’m gonna hit the road, Doc. I’m supposed to snag some supplies for dinner tonight.

Dinner at Harvey’s again? She raises her eyebrows. Have you considered moving in with him?

Come on, Doc, we’re off the clock now. Maybe next time.

She shakes her head but concedes the point. Enjoy your meal.

Enjoy your six-thirty appointment, I say with a goodbye nod.

On my way out, I pass the officer who has the next session. I’ve seen him around the department several times. I think his name’s Leon or something. He’s thin and tall, with a complexion as pale as milk. His face is often contorted into a nervous expression, and his hands are seldom still. I wonder what he’s here for. Back outside, I unlock the Eldorado and slide in. The hot summer is transitioning into a breezy fall. I can’t wait to get back to work. I’ve been counting down the days.

I swing by a little grocery store a few blocks from McCall’s office, then, with a bag full of all the stew ingredients Harvey asked for, I head for his place. It’s strange to go to therapy. At first, I didn’t think I’d like it, but after I got to know McCall, my opinions changed. She really seems to listen. I might not trust her, but she does know how to ask the tough questions. Sometimes it makes me feel sick. Sometimes it makes me feel angry. But I’m starting to feel like a better person. Like I’m stepping out of my old life and into something more tolerable.

While things have been looking up for me lately, I can’t say the same for our rowdy city. Motor City has always been a diverse blend of cultures, and that comes with its share of friction, but racial tensions have been escalating significantly over the last week, ever since a young Black woman was found stabbed to death in an alley not far from downtown.

That alone is, sadly, not all that uncommon—the shameful truth is that people of color turn up dead far too often. The shocking component of this incident was the message written in her blood. A racial slur is bad enough; one written in blood for all to see is a time bomb. Once the awful truth made its way onto the news, the city justifiably lost its collective mind. It’s hard to say if the current civil unrest is being magnified by the stubborn heat of the waning summer or the anticipation of being trapped indoors for a long winter. Or worse, maybe it’s because of the unspoken, underlying fear that racism and prejudice are bleak parts of human nature that we just can’t kill.

Naturally, Harvey’s on the case, because he’s the Motor City Police Department’s lead detective. I’m not on the case, because of my suspension. Harvey’s been going through temporary partners like toilet paper—not a great situation even if the whole city wasn’t a flash point. Everyone with a bar code tattoo and badge is under the magnifying glass, and I’m stuck going to therapy. I don’t mind the protestors on nearly every street corner. Even as a freak with naturally blue hair, I know next to nothing about how it feels to be shunned or abused for my differences. I’m just another overprivileged white-passing cop. There’s nothing wrong with speaking out about injustice. The trouble comes from the opportunistic, violent little fucks hiding in the crowd of justice seekers.

It’s rarely the person of color with the handmade sign who lashes out. It’s usually some dickhead white boy who throws a chair through the window of the local convenience store so he can grab an armful of cigarette cartons while everyone is distracted by the protest or march or whatever. Next thing you know, cars are on fire and the MCPD is breaking out the riot gear and teargas. After a liquor store burned down two nights ago, Mayor Borden issued a citywide curfew. In a way, I’m glad to be off work right now. At the same time, I’d rather be with Harvey so I can watch his back.

I turn the corner and cruise toward a bigger street. There’s a large crowd of protestors gathering, enough people to block the road for normal traffic, in fact. It’s not much of a surprise. I plan extra time for most trips lately. Spending an hour in traffic to get a few blocks has become the new normal. I’m glad to have a car that doesn’t belong to the department. Since I haven’t been able to go to work, I’ve let my hair grow out enough to cover my MCPD bar code tattoo. I’m almost invisible to most people.

I roll the Eldorado to a stop in front of the overflowing crosswalk, honk the horn a couple of times, and wait impatiently for the crowd to disperse. I want to get home. I just thought of Harvey’s house as home. Maybe McCall’s right. Maybe I should get it over with and move in with Harvey. I know I love him. Why wait? The crowd begins to clear, and I ease on the gas.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a vehicle speeding toward the crowd from my left. There’s no time to react. I hear screams and the screeching of rubber, and the clash of metal on metal reverberates through my ears. Then I feel pain everywhere.

Chapter 2

Funeral

I hate funerals. It seems like a strange thing for someone who drives a hearse every day to hate. Or maybe that’s how morticians feel all the time. Who knows? All I know for sure is that I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to talk with the family left behind. I don’t want to feel the loss. The pain. I wish Shay was here with me.

Anteka is supposed to be here soon. It’ll be easier to go in with her than to make the trek alone. I attempt to distract myself from the events at hand by thinking over the case. It doesn’t really help. There isn’t much to go on: a young woman dead in an alley, the crime racially motivated and hatefully executed. Plus, there’s the fact that I can’t seem to keep a partner long enough to make any sort of headway. Shay would know what to do.

Not having her here with me to talk things over hurts. She always steered me in the right direction. She always took my mind off shit when I got too caught up in it. Solving this mess without her seems impossible. It’s hard to believe that one bad moment can take away so much of your life. I try to keep my mind from dwelling on dark thoughts and pat myself on the back for choosing to park a few blocks away from the church. Having too many hearses at the site of a single funeral seems like it would be in bad taste.

In my rearview mirror, I spot Anteka walking around the corner. I take in a long breath and slide out of the Cadillac. She greets me with a somber nod. We walk alongside each other for a few moments in silence. You ready for this? she finally asks.

No. Not really.

She directs her gaze upward to the massive Gothic-style church. Not really the sort of place I’d expect Shay to want to be.

I don’t think she had much of a choice in whether to be here or not, I say in a hollow tone.

We turn the corner and arrive at the main entrance. I don’t recognize most of the faces here. I’m desperate for this to be over, but I have no clue what to do after it’s done. Go back to the protest-filled streets, I guess. If things get much worse, I’ll be in a box and six feet deep myself before too long. On the bright side, at least that way I could get some rest for a change.

The sermon and the speeches have already concluded. I arrived on time but Tek was rather late, and I felt I had to wait for her to go in. I’m glad of it, though. Shay would’ve wanted me to say something, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I think Tek knew that. She’s a true friend. She came late because she knew I wouldn’t go in without her, and she knew I didn’t want to have to speak.

We take a seat in an open pew and endure several painfully long moments of silence, broken only by the sound of a few sniffles and the occasional cough. The priest at the lectern in front and off to one side of the casket speaks in a somber tone.

Thank you for those unifying moments of silence. I would like to conclude by asking you to come forward and pay your last respects if you wish to do so. In about an hour, we will commit the dearly departed to their final resting place at Hillside Cemetery. All are welcome there as well.

Tek and I wait until most people have already gone up, then make our way down the center aisle until we’re only a few feet from the open-lidded casket. Emotions are swimming around in my gut like boiling acid.

I think I feel sick, I whisper.

Well, don’t yack up or anything. Everyone’ll freak out, Tek hisses.

I might actually puke. I don’t want to be here.

Too bad. Shay requested that both of us be here to see this thing through.

I know. I take a deep breath. I just wish she was here instead of in a hospital bed.

Better a bed than a box like our boy Roger here. Tek makes a soft jab at the casket with her fist.

True. That crash was too close of a call. I look over Roger’s suited corpse. He looks dead enough to me. Let’s get the hell out of here.

I start to leave, but Tek’s hand wraps around my wrist like the claw of a hungry beast. Not before I get some proof, she says.

What?

That gold chain will do nicely, Teck grins.

No, I hiss. Hell no!

Oh, come on Harvey, it’s not like he’s using it anymore.

That’s not the point and you damn well know it, I scold.

She rolls her eyes and lets go of my wrist. Fiiiiine.

As she storms off, I decide to take advantage of the moment. I’ve had all I can take of this wretched white boy’s funeral. It makes me sick that this sexist, drug-dealing prick gets a five-star funeral when the parents of that poor young woman whose case I got last week can barely make their rent. I honestly don’t want to be the first one to find the person responsible for her death. I’d rather see the mob on the city streets get their hands on that racist little shit and tear them limb from limb. I bet he’s some entitled white prick, just like the corpse in the overpriced box in front of me. I hope that fucker gets as vicious an end.

Once I’m back outside, I feel better. There’s some relief in knowing that the bastard responsible for Shay’s mother’s untimely end got what he deserved. If I didn’t already have a suspicion as to who pulled the trigger on Rodrigo, I might be inclined to shake their hand. But some hands aren’t worth shaking.

Where are you off to? I ask Tek as we come alongside my hearse.

I was going to head over to the hospital and give Shay a full report.

Nice. I wish I was going with you.

That much fun, huh? Tek shakes her head.

Yeah. I sigh. The chief wants to have a chat.

Tek rolls her eyes. You still haven’t found a partner, have you?

Not yet.

Tek chuckles. Good luck with that.

Thanks.

She continues to shake her head as she walks off. I climb back into Elli and head for MCPD headquarters. On my drive over, I find my thoughts wandering back to the topic of who killed Roger Rodrigo Paulson. It probably was James Markot. The question is why?

Chapter 3

Recall

Another dark night. Another cramped unmarked sedan. Sometimes business really is hell. At least there’s some sport planned in this evening’s outing, a bit of fun to conclude a tumultuous relationship. I sent a message earlier in the day to Roger asking him to meet me down this dark alley for what I assured him would be a simple chat. Mother did always tell me not to toy with my friends. But where’s the fun in that? I hope her black heart rests in pieces.

Through the tinted glass, I see my dear friend Roger limping his way down the street, one hand holding up his overlarge, sagging pants. What a childish way to dress—though it fits his personality. He’s the epitome of white trash, a disgrace to the Aryan race. I open the door for him. Best to kill him with a little kindness.

Roger, so good to see you again! Please join me, would you? I say warmly.

Sure thing, boss. He slides in beside me.

Are you feeling close to your normal self again? I ask in a caring tone.

Close, sure. My leg’s still kinda fucked. Damn doctors.

They couldn’t get it right for you. I shake my head, the very picture of sympathy. That’s disappointing, considering how much I paid them to put you back together again.

Roger gives a pragmatic shrug. It ain’t your fault, boss. I really appreciate all your help with this. You got me walking and outta the pen. So what if I have kind of a limp?

That’s why I wanted you to work for me in the first place, Roger. You tend to look forward instead of back, I enthuse.

My friends always did call me an optimistic little fuck. He snickers. So, what did you wanna chat about?

I lean forward confidingly and pitch my voice lower. "Now, I know it’s still a bit of a sore spot for you, but we