Death & The Detective: Cathy Miller

#1

It’s hard to say what makes a good detective – especially a homicide one. What is that x-factor that gets a detective up every morning, especially after all he has seen? How is it he still finds a purpose for life?

Brett Connors had been a homicide detective for 25 years. It stopped being a job years ago – it simply was his life, who he was. It was mornings like this where he had to reach deep to find that purpose for life. The killing of a child never made sense. Why should he go on when one so small, so innocent, could not.

The trial was this morning. The courthouse sat next to the townhall, its shadows reflecting Brett’s own dark mood. Like most cops, Brett hated testifying – not that he didn’t want to nail the son of a bitch. No, it was the frustration from the many times the system made a mockery of what he called justice.

Settling in a seat at the back of the courtroom, Brett barely registered the parrot repetition of the bailiff’s instructions. His mind replayed the tragic scene as if he was standing there now, instead of all those months ago.

He saw it all – the silky, blonde hair, stiffened by blood, like the small body robbed of life – the baby smooth skin, drained of the innocence of youth. Why couldn’t he be at some ball game, with a glove on one hand, and a box of Cracker Jacks in the other? That’s what the life of a 7-year-old boy should be – not this caricature of evil. There should never be unions made of children and death.

As the crime scene technicians gathered evidence, Brett walked over to the computer sitting on a child’s desk. Shifting the mouse, Brett brought the monitor to life. If only he could do the same for a small boy. That is when he saw it – Google, shouting beneath its rainbow hue, THOU SHALT NOT KILL – OOPS – I DID.

It was all Brett could do to stop from smashing a fist through the vile words. At least when he touched the mouse, he used the sadly ironic birthday napkins lying on the desk – not that he expected prints. Brett prayed there really was a God, one that would banish the killer to eternal hell. He had no doubt he violated more than one of the 10 Commandments.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge James Angel.”

Pulled back to the present, Brett wondered if his thoughts of God had sent him Judge Angel. God, he hoped so. The city of San Francisco could use some divine help – otherwise, it was going to be a long, cold season of killing.

#2

“Finally, a win for the good guys,” Brett mused.

There was little satisfaction, however, hearing the “Guilty” conviction. No amount of the killer’s suffering could erase the horror of a murdered child, one not far removed from Winnie the Pooh tales and the Tooth Fairy.

You would think with a prior work history spanning 25 years as a homicide detective, Brett’s hardened heart would not ache quite so much. But a cop, unshaken by the death of a child, had better turn in his badge.

A weary, lined face stared back from the bathroom mirror. Lack of sleep and eyes that saw too much did that. Try as he might to shut it out, the song kept playing over and over in his head.

Well, You know you make me want to shout

Kick my heals up and shout

Throw my hands up and shout

Throw my head back and shout

He had no idea what put it in his head. All he knew was that he wanted to do a whole lot more than shout. A head-shot blast aimed at the killer had a much better ring to it. But, then the authorities frowned on that kind of thing, especially in today’s world of lawsuits, targeted at those who serve and protect.

Those who pushed the propaganda that all cops were heartless bastards never saw the things that Brett had. If they experienced even a third of what he had, they might recognize his hard exterior as the defense mechanism against a crippling world of hurt.

Stepping into the shower, Brett let the cold, hard spray reduce the song to the distant twitter of sound. Routine was his salvation – a cold shower, a hit of orange juice, and he was ready to face another day.

#3

Brett Connors had been a homicide detective for 25 years. He couldn’t remember doing anything else, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had a day off.

His lieutenant had given him no choice – take the week off or cover the precinct’s front desk for the scheduled school tours.

Although he resisted, Brett decided to get the hell out of Dodge – or more accurately, San Francisco. He hopped on a plane and found himself sitting on a beach in Encinitas, California. Located in the north county of San Diego, Brett considered it as one of the few true beach towns left in southern California.

“Sawubona,” came the whispered voice.

Looking up from a book he wasn’t really reading, Brett responded, “Excuse me?”

“Sawubona. It is from my native Zulu language.” Her accent was slight, but her beauty knew no bounds. Standing nearly 6 feet tall, the soft-spoken woman appeared in her mid-20s with skin as soft and smooth as rich, dark chocolate.

Trying not to stare, Brett asked, “What does it mean?”

“It means I see you. I recognize you as the worthy person before me.”

“And how would you know that?”

She only smiled. “Do you mind?”  she asked, gesturing to the blanket he sat on.

“Knock yourself out. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Arranging her long, flowing skirt around her ankles, she raised kohl-lined eyes to gaze into what felt like his very soul.

“You have yet to discover it.”

“Okay, Mystery Lady, what have I ‘yet to discover’?”

“If I tell you, it is my discovery, and not yours.”

“Look, I don’t know what your game is but I am not big in the patience department right now. So why don’t you tell me what you want or take your pretty little ass off my blanket and move down the concrete path to the exit.”

Adjusting her legs in a yoga-like position, Mystery Lady reached out a long-fingered hand, covering Brett’s in a cupped shell of velvet warmth.

“Search your heart and you shall discover it.”

Captured in her hypnotic stare, any words he had froze in a throat gone dry. Slowly rising with the grace of a dancer, she smiled that sweet, knowing smile.

“Sawubona, Brett. Look to your heart.”

And then she was gone. How had she known his name?

“I’ve got to stop hitting those after hours bars.”

Shaken more than he cared to admit, Brett rose and shook out the blanket. Packing it, and the little he brought with him, Brett worked his way to his home away from home. Home alone – again.

A landslide of emotions crowded his mind. Had he imagined the encounter on the beach? Maybe his lieutenant knew how on edge Brett was, how much he needed the time away.

Leaving Moonlight Bay, Brett walked past Old Highway 101 and the library, tucked across from Viewpoint Park. Brett had grown up in Encinitas and it always felt like home. Maybe that was why he chose this place to heal.

Unlocking the door of his rented studio, Brett tossed the blanket across a chair. Puzzling over thoughts of his Mystery Lady, Brett decided it was time to shut it down. Like a kid in need of nap time, he stretched out on a bed designed for something smaller than his 6 foot 4 inch frame.

Closing his eyes, the whispered sound soothed him off to sleep – Sawubona, Brett.

#4

Only time will tell if he made the right decision. It wasn’t exactly what his lieutenant had in mind when he ordered homicide detective, Brett Connors, to take some time off. Standing before the lieutenant was his best detective, telling him he wanted to quit.

“Hell, Brett. If I’d known you’d come back from Encinitas with this in mind, I would have handcuffed you to your desk.”

“You’re not my type, LT. I prefer the ladies – experience preferred.”

“Funny, Connors. Why don’t you give it some time? Think it over.”

“I have thought it over. I need out while I’m still known as a decent cop.”

Try as he might, the lieutenant could not talk Brett out of it. Assured his job would always be there in San Francisco, Brett sold most everything he owned. If he could figure out a way to nail plywood over the pain, he would have done that, too.

His last case left major scars. It was always like that with the murder of a child. But, this one really got to him. Maybe he was having his own mid-life crisis. Now 46, he married young and divorced not long after – a common casualty of cops.

So here he was, flying down the coast – a coastal ride to turn the tide. “Maybe my new career will be a goddamn poet,” he smirked. Brett floored the pedal of his vintage Mustang, the one he nicknamed Gold Rush.

He didn’t know what his new life scenario would be. He had a healthy nest egg, thanks to his grandmother, Nana Connors. She raised Brett when his mother died from an overdose. He had no idea who is father was, and could care less about his identity. He promised himself he would never throw away his kid – if he ever had one.

With that thought, the image he could not erase appeared once again. With cruel, Technicolor recall, the crimson canvass painted all the intricate detail of a lifeless, 7-year-old child. The image brought its usual influx of rage and pain.

Abruptly jerking the steering wheel, Brett pulled Gold Rush to a halt on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Winter was coming. The once velvet touch of the ocean air slapped against the door, serving as a road block, preventing escape. Escape. Now there’s a thought.

#5

Brett’s search for his new home had not taken long. It was as if the small bungalow had his name written all over it. Built in 1955, it was a short block from the beach, in the Leucadia community of Encinitas, California – in the north county of San Diego. Thanks, in part, to the small fortune his grandmother left him, Brett made the realtor’s day by paying cash.

Sitting in a beach chair, not far from a danger zone for crashing waves, Brett monitored the kids building sandcastles. Wondering where the heck the parents were, his protective mode was on full throttle. With sun rays bouncing off his Ray-Bans and a five-day growth of beard, Brett had the dangerous look of a gunslinger bent on trouble. He wore the look naturally, like a second skin or a shield of armor.

The faint hint of a smile broke through as he watched the small boy run over to him and ask, “You want to play with my Buzz Lightyear?”

“That is a pretty cool astronaut.”

“He’s not an astronaut,” the boy bristled, “He’s a space ranger.”

“Ah, a space ranger. That’s much cooler than an astronaut.”

“Damn straight,” the boy responded.

That brought a burst of laughter from Brett. It had been a long time when he could laugh so easily.

“Michael James, get over here right this second!”

Rolling his eyes in a male conspiratorial expression, the boy whispered, “That’s my Mom.”

“Michael James…”

With an audible sigh, he turned his head and yelled, “Coming, Mom.”

Turning back with a mischievous grin, the boy raised his hand in the universal high-five and said, “See ya’.”

Slapping the small hand, Brett chuckled, “See ya’, buddy.”

He watched the boy join his Mom and the little girl he assumed was the boy’s sister. Prancing up and down, next to Mom, was a white poodle – definitely a chick dog. He’d bet cold hard cash, it wasn’t the boy’s choice.

As if in retaliation, the poodle lifted its leg on Brett’s blanket as the family parade made their way across the beach. Roaring in laughter, Brett warmed at the sound of the little boy’s giggle.

With a quick jerk on the boy’s arm, his mother pulled the boy along to a waiting limousine. “Welcome to southern California,” Brett laughed.

Slowly the smile faded as he was transported back to the dark recesses of his mind. He saw the murdered child, who was only slightly older than the boy on the beach. Headlines of journalism trash screamed the ugly truth, if only in his head – THOU SHALT NOT KILL – OOPS – I DID.

#8

One thing leads to another and suddenly you have a new job. Not entirely sure if that was a good thing, Brett Connors returned to the only thing he really knew – being a cop. Once more, Brett held the shield for a homicide detective.

Shedding the ruffian look he’d worn for the last six months, his return was like an old pair of jeans – worn around the edges but more comfortable than anything else.

He spent 25 years as a detective in San Francisco, a city always controversial, like the extrovert sibling caught between tranquility and chaos.

Too much isolation with unlimited access to the ugly side of life was the perfect recipe for collapse. That had been Brett’s life. It all came crashing around him with the death of an innocent child.

He left San Francisco. He left the force, and he nearly left his life. He moved back to the place of his childhood home, back to Encinitas, California. He regretted the changes, especially the loss of his grandmother, Nana Connors. He really could use the comfort of one who always loved him.

Nana had been his lantern in the dark feelings of an abandoned child. He never knew his father. His mother’s drug-filled world barely slowed to give him birth and she paid the ultimate price of abuse.

“God, get over yourself,” Brett grumbled.

His slide down the dark corridors of despair had kicked Brett into action. He made the call back to his life. The Encinitas homicide division was glad to have him and Brett hoped it was the right thing to do. So far, he skirted any suggestions of a meeting with the precinct’s shrink.

Placing his beer mug in the top rack, Brett pressed the On button, releasing the soft, and strangely comforting sound of the dishwasher. Peering out the kitchen window, he watched the stealthy movement of a slinking cat. Crouching, waiting, the cat pounced. With a wild flap of wings, the bird barely escaped the coffin trap of the feline felon.

“Another win for the good guys,” Brett reflected.

Maybe it was a sign. God had removed the barrier, as if to say, “Read between the lines.” Life goes on.

#9

Homicide detective, Brett Connors, had never been much of a daydreamer. Long before he collected his shield, Brett knew the harsh reality of life. He’d seen a mother trapped by the ugly silkworms of drugs, spinning their lying silken threads of promise.

People were always looking for painkillers. If you got lucky, you found someone special to help you through the pain. For Brett, that had been his grandmother. If not for her, he probably would have ended up on the other side of the shield.

Crouching over the body of one of the beach’s homeless, Brett hoped she was finally home, in a better place. The catcall of a senseless soul, tugged at Brett’s need for justice. The arrogance of murder offended him. When no one else would take up the cause, Brett made it his mission to bring dignity to life.

The sun slept beneath the ocean floor. Murder didn’t wear a wristwatch.

“Do you have a phobia about sleeping?” yawned Mark Johnson, the precinct’s top criminal technician.

“It’s overrated. What do you have?”

“Besides the iron-ore rock with dried blood and hair?” Mark smirked.

“Yeah, I think you could say we are on the same wavelength on that,” Brett countered. “Besides the obvious, what else do we have?”

“She was hit several times with a closed fist and was probably the desire of a perverted killer.”

“Mark, I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

#10

After 25 years on the force, homicide detective, Brett Connors, had seen more than his share of depravity. It never ceased to amaze him how cruel humans could be to other human beings. Maybe that was a good thing. Brett hoped he never got used to the likes of the latest sick fucker terrorizing the quiet beach town of Encinitas.

Called the Birdcage Bandit by the local media, the serial killer once again left his calling card – a gilded birdcage ornament, dangling from the victim’s big toe. The killer’s propensity for dumping the body on one of Encinitas’ 11 beaches kept little of his M.O. from the public eye. It added to Brett’s problems in solving the crimes.

What started as an isolated case a year ago, had hit every form of media with the culmination of threats that “heads would roll” if the killer was not found. As the lead investigator, Brett became the scapegoat. Little by little, his private world ended and soon his image was on news shows nationwide. Us Weekly dubbed him “Maverick” from a photo taken of him on horseback. The paparazzi had invaded Brett’s final means of escape. And it pissed him off.

But, murder pissed him off more. There had been seven murders within the last year – a birdcage ornament hanging from each victim’s big toe. The killer, however, had secret messages hidden on each victim. Recently, he addressed them Dear Detective Maverick. Each time Brett found one, the rage inside him built. The latest message was written on an ammonia-soaked cloth, crammed in the victim’s mouth and secured with bubble wrap circling her head. The cloth was now laid flat on the coroner’s table.

Dear Detective Maverick: What have we here? As I dragged my knife across this poor girl’s lovely breasts, I could feel her heart beat right through my knife and up my arm. It seems I may have been a tad overzealous in my attempt to revive this poor girl from her irregular heartbeat. I didn’t have any smelling salts so I used the ammonia. Alas, her heart beats no more. It’s what a whore deserves! Until next time…happy trails.

P.S. I left you a sweet treat for all your hard work.

“Brett,” the coroner murmured. “I think I found your sweet treat.” He held out his forceps that held a cherry red gumdrop.

“Where did you find that?” Brett questioned.

“Don’t ask.”

#11

It was sheer stupidity for the Birdcage Bandit to keep playing his game. With each murder, he became increasingly bold, taking deathtrap chances with his life. But, where was it written that murder followed rules?

Homicide detective, Brett Connors, had been working the case for a year. Each time he thought he had the killer, he found another woman, murdered in the name of love. Or was that a game, too? The killer had called them whores, and his one true love. So much of it felt like he was playing them.

The press had a field day, speculating on the meaning behind the birdcage ornament, hanging from each victim’s toe. Now, homicide had something new – something they kept from the press. Lying beside the bloodstained bed of the latest victim was a switchblade.

The Gray Titan with the gunpowder-colored handle was sold as “double edge, double action.” The coroner’s office confirmed this blade had seen a lot more than “double action.”

“Getting sloppy, asshole,” Brett murmured. Or had they gotten that close? At times, Brett swore he could feel the disturbed breath of the killer. What would they have found if they arrived five minutes sooner? Why didn’t he just clobber the doorman who stood in his way?

“Don’t go there – not yet,” Brett thought, but, it was hard not to. The latest victim was a kindergarten teacher, for God’s sake. What had she ever done but try to start a kid’s life out right? He could still hear the wails of her mother’s sorrow.

Witnesses saw someone running from the victim’s home. As was so often the case, the descriptions varied so much, you’d think an army of men had fled. He was bald – he had long hair. He had a goatee – he was clean-shaven. What they had in the description department was a whole lot of nothing. Ouija boards and insane asylum patients made more sense.

Somehow, Brett had to figure it out. It had gone on far too long. Far too many women had died. He couldn’t let it continue. He couldn’t destroy another family’s life.

#13

Brett wondered how he got involved in this world. He was pretty sure those who called San Diego, America’s Finest City, had not strolled through this neighborhood.

This wasn’t the home of high-priced coke dealers. Their clientele was up the coast, closer to where Brett worked as a homicide detective. It had been a long time since he had been to this part of San Diego, where cops were about as welcomed as a ship-bound glacier off the coast of Alaska.

He had the Birdcage Bandit to thank for his tour of this sad, cesspool life the city had thrown away. The serial killer had terrorized the north beach community of Encinitas for over a year now. There had been 12 women murdered – their bodies dumped on the beaches of Encinitas, like left-over trash from the Over-the-Line tournament.

The media, with all their irreverence, coined the Birdcage nickname. Derived from the discovery of a birdcage ornament left with each victim, Brett seethed at its dehumanizing mockery.

The case had earned Brett the 15 minutes of fame he never wanted, much to the delight of the killer. The media christened him Maverick, from a paparazzi shot of Brett riding a horse. He didn’t know what he hated more, the incessant hounding of the media or the taunting notes the killer left at the crime scenes. It was the latest note that led Brett to this part of town.

Dear Detective Maverick:

I find it so entertaining to see how famous you have become. You should thank me, you know. Before me, you were a nobody – a worthless hack of a detective with all the appeal of an aging, balding womanizer. You are such a loser!

I am growing weary of our game. There is simply no challenge anymore. So, I’m upping my stakes. Take yourself south from the ocean shores. Travel to the rancid side of life, where the toxic is laid to rest. You know it, don’t you, Detective Maverick – the place where you can see the concrete underbelly of broken dreams, where many leap from their pathetic lives. Go to the place, sliced by 5 and forgotten by most. There you will find the answer. But, hurry. I will not be so generous again.

“Barrio Logan,” was what popped into Brett’s mind. He’d bet his meager paycheck on it.

Interstate 5 cuts off the industrial and low-income community that is a couple of miles from downtown San Diego. All the clues were there. Barrio Logan became a dumping site for toxic waste in the early 1990s, and the Coronado Bay Bridge split the community in two. More than a few suicide jumpers took their final dive off that bridge.

“But, why here? Is he playing us again?”

Brett vowed it would end today. He would expose the killer as the imposter he was. The killer’s tablet-sized notes of arrogance were really just an illusion. He was not the cunning, invincible portrait of evil. His overconfidence would blind him to his certain fate. It would end now, or Brett would abandon his shield for good.

#14

Sitting on his deck with feet propped on the railing, Brett took another sip of his lite beer, wishing it was Simpatico instead. The velvet warmth of the summer night drifted with the fragrant scent of flowers he couldn’t name. He was weary deep into his soul. Twenty-five years as a homicide detective took its toll. He felt no joy in solving the Birdcage Bandit case. Too many had died before a judge sentenced the serial killer to life. He got life – more than you could say for his victims.

Shutting his eyes, Brett struggled to banish the visions from his mind – the cupid-shaped lips of the last victim frozen in a soundless scream.

Maybe because he was a cop, he felt the trespass of the shadow he did not see. Opening his eyes, he looked into the luminescent mirror of his soul. Had he found his doppelganger or had he finally lost his mind? Had some moment in time caused the butterfly effect that brought him here?  And what did it all mean?

#15

They were the eyes of a stranger, yet one he knew all his life. In the background was the rhythmic sound of Mumbo Gumbo. That was strange. He never knew the band to travel from their northern California gigs. What were they doing in San Diego’s north county city of Encinitas?

Vanishing like a street vendor’s contraband CD, the soulful sounds faded as if they were never there. Rising into view was a meadow of softly, swaying wheat. Kissed with the shimmer of sunlight, and bowing in silent reverence, it formed a radiant tunnel of invitation.

Brett blinked in disbelief –  the eyes of the stranger. The sweet, half smile did little to cover the nude loveliness, as she stretched her hand to his. Afraid to breathe, Brett whispered, “Who are you?”

“Let it go, Brett. Let it fall on me,” slowly she rose, and rose.

Bursting from the wheat of ocean blue, the dolphin danced on the crest of waves, to the sound of a wailing sax.

Sitting up in bed with the sheets twisted around his heated body, Brett shook off the absurdity of dreams. Maybe this was a message that he was just one more sidestep removed from death. If heaven looked like this, what was he waiting for?

#17

The tipped glass of red wine flowed over the purity of the white linen, forming single drops of escape. Swallowed by the pooling blood, the drops surrendered to the silent thirst.

Following the path, he dipped his finger across the mingled crimson and raised it to lips gone dry. A hurricane of emotion shook him, as it always did. From his early days when he learned scary monsters were more than a child’s imagination, he fought hard for control. Never again would he be the victim. If he had to kill them all, so be it.

Pulling the aging photograph from his inside pocket, he pressed it against the slow beating of his heart and began to cry. Why was there always so much drama? If only they wouldn’t make him so mad.

Brett received the call shortly before three a.m. At that hour, he knew someone else had died. That was his job. That was his life. There was no prophylactic cure for the atrocity of murder, and it never got easier. Making his way toward the morgue, Brett prayed it never did.

With Metallica blasting in hysterical, ear-splitting volume, Brett waved his hand in front of the face of the city’s coroner, Randy Watkins.

“Yo, Randy, how the hell can you hear yourself think?”

Picking up a remote, Randy silenced his ironic song selection, And Justice For All.

“We’re talking classic here,” Randy smiled, “Anyway, my guests don’t seem to mind.”

“Well, if any of them raise a hand in protest, let me know. What’s the word on my Jane Doe?”

Rolling his wheelchair over to an adjacent table, Randy pointed to her lower back.

“Here’s something that might interest you.”

Leaning close, Brett murmured, “What is that? A faded tattoo?

“More like a stain.”

“You mean a birthmark?”

“No, I mean a stain.”

“So, what is it?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s hair dye.”

“Funny place for hair dye.”

“Exactly.”

#18

After his last serial murder case, Detective Brett Connors took a much-needed break. He climbed into his fully restored 1965 Ford Mustang Coupe with the vintage pony seats, reveling in the power of more than 3000 Revolutions Per Minute. A vagrant traveler caught in a riptide of emotions, Brett discovered it’s hard to outrace your thoughts – even at lightning speed.

As he drove past hillsides lush from winter rains, his thoughts whispered, “do you hear me?” But, it wasn’t his voice he heard. It was the voice of a killer. The sound of one so evil, one so vile, his acts ranked their own brand of felony. In his gut, Brett knew the hollow pain of arriving too late. He knew no matter how far he traveled or how fast he drove, he could never turn back the clock. He would always arrive too late.

#19

Brett watched the fog roll in to swallow Morro Rock. It was surreal to watch a nearly 600-foot volcanic plug disappear. It was time travel without the machine.

“If I could turn back time,” Brett thought, “I’d get there before the first slaughter.”

That’s how he thought of his last murder case – senseless slaughter. His heart still ached with the residue of hopelessness he felt as he raced against lunacy. Brett would never forget that last day, the day the killer died.

Sobbing like a child as he mistook Brett for the tyrant of his past, he huddled in a corner with his arm wrapped around his latest victim. Brett arrived too late to save her. Like the others, she would never know the simple luxury of a caring touch, the warmth of a San Diego ocean breeze.

He was no foreigner to the macabre, but this killer took it to another level. Her vacant stare of death silently told the story of a madman. Drained of life, they took no relief in the vanishing of the horrific scene. Brett almost envied her loss.

Brett could still hear her scream as he pounded up the stairs. His heart racing like a cocaine hit, he had broken down the door. But he was too late. Her severed hand still held the glass of red wine as blood and wine mixed in a trail of no direction.

“Don’t touch me. Do you hear me? Don’t touch me,” sobbed the hysterical cry of a killer, trapped in the past.

“She made me do it. They always make me do it. Why? Why”

With a shriek of madness, he charged. The bullet of the police sniper spun him around and there he fell – his hand touching one of another – accepting a last glass of wine.

#21

Like most adults, Brett’s taste in music was stuck back in his teenage era. His collection of CDs was totally 80s, totally rock.

It was a miracle he survived those years. He kept the collection as a pounding reminder. It amused him that the younger guys at the precinct might think him a dinosaur, but appreciated the Boss, U2, Queen and the other legends of the time.

Propping his feet on his deck railing, Brett smiled at the memory of his grandmother, Nana Connors, warning a 17-year-old Brett of the dangers of getting a tattoo.

“You might think they look cool now but just wait until you get to be my age. There’s shrinkage and they’re not exactly reversible. Not to mention you wouldn’t live long afterwards, ‘cause I’d kill you for getting one.”

Brett chuckled, remembering it all started when he admired the knife and heart tattoo of Poison band member, Bret Michaels. God, he missed Nana. She was his rock, when no one else cared.

It was a rare day off from his job as a homicide detective in the north coastal community of Encinitas. His plan was to do absolutely nothing. From his deck, he watched some new construction going up, half a block from his beach bungalow.

He watched a worker lift the handles of a wheelbarrow, piled high with gallons of epoxy paint, his muscles straining with the load.

Brett loved the idea that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was a dreamland he had not visited in much too long.

#22

The dark, starless night sucked the very breath out of him. The only sound was his labored breathing as he fought to regain control. How did he let this happen? He had the killer in his sight and then he simply vanished. With his Glock 23 poised and ready, Brett strained to pick up something – anything –  through the blanket of darkness.

Then he heard it – a click right behind his left ear. “Don’t turn around,” the voice rasped. Complete rage enveloped him. How did he let this asshole sneak up on him? He wasn’t a candy-assed rookie. He knew how to play the game.

“Drop your gun on the ground – nice and easy.”

Brett’s mind raced as he weighed his options. He didn’t need a recap of what a cold-hearted bastard the Mischief Maker was. Every tabloid out there took perverse pleasure in front-page features of the killer that had circulation soaring.

“Don’t tell me – my cocked gun in your ear affected your hearing. I said drop your gun. Unless the next sound you want to hear is a harp, don’t get any crackpot notion that you have any other option. Do it –now!”

#23

It’s funny the places your mind goes when you have a cocked gun in your ear. Homicide detective, Brett Connors, sadly, was finding that out. Maybe he had lost his mind, or at least he was half way there.

Faced with the primitive need for survival, Brett had the crazy thought that he wished he worn a helmet from a spacesuit. Totally nuts.

Tracking him all night long, Brett had lost sight of the killer, dubbed the Mischief Maker. Now, here he was, a cocked gun in his ear, his own Glock 23 on the ground and Brett thinking about spacesuits.

The Mischief Maker’s last victim had been a single mom, working as a waitress to keep food on the table for two young boys. A high school dropout, she had worked hard to give her sons a better life. The senselessness is what drove Brett. He’d be damned if the killer would walk free. Unfortunately, him being damned looked a lot more likely at the moment.

Absently rubbing the St. Michael badge medallion his Nana had given him, Brett silently admonished, “Focus.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Relax. I’m unarmed. Take a tranquilizer. I’ll wait”

“You are in no position for jokes, Detective.”

“Who’s joking?” With a sudden thrust, Brett smashed the butt of his hand into the killer’s nose, driving it into his skull. With his other hand, he chopped across his throat. Flipping him to his stomach, Brett handcuffed his wrists.

Pressing his knee into his back, rasping for breath, the anguished cries of the killer fueled Brett’s need for revenge. He shook with the struggle for control.

“I hope they fry your ass. Plan on plenty of solitude in hell – and remember who sent you there.”

#25

What was he doing here? He was a homicide detective, not a frickin’ hostage negotiator.

“Come on, tell me what you want. You want a car? You want it? You got it! Is that what you want? You have the ransom money. Seems all you need is a car to drive away.”

“Shut up. I’m the one giving orders, Detective Connors. You better remember that.”

The mania of the moment threatened to overpower Brett. The kidnapper was inside with a 20-pound-plus bag of bills, and a knife held to the victim’s throat. Einstein hadn’t counted on the cops disabling his car. That’s when he started making demands.

His first was to bring Detective Brett Connors to the scene. Brett had no idea why.

“Okay, you’re in charge. What do you want?”

“I want you, Detective. I’ll let the girl go in exchange for you.”

Well that was an interesting request. At 46, Brett thought he was getting too old for this shit. But, he knew he’d do whatever he had to so the girl could go unharmed.

“You got it,” Brett replied.

“Don’t be a hero, Connors,” the task force leader growled.

“Look, if we don’t seize the moment, it’s gone – in a nanosecond. What, I should be a coward? What would Dirty Harry say?” Brett smirked.

“You ain’t no Dirty Harry. Throttle back until we figure something out.”

Brett was already surveying the surroundings. It was a quiet neighborhood –where kids had lemonade stands and shot hoops. Now, it had an invasion of cop cars, helicopters and media vans.

Taking a vault over the hood of his car, Brett walked towards the house.

“Connors, get your ass down!”

“Hey, I’m coming in. Then you let her go”

He was on robot control, moving and reacting to the showdown he created.

#27

Brett watched with fascination as the kidnapper approached him. His stance, deceivingly relaxed, Brett’s survival instincts tested the limits of patience.

“I’m here, like you asked. Now, let her go.”

The slender, young man tightened his chokehold on the trembling, pale girl, pressing the knife along her throat.

“I told you, I give the orders!”

Brett held up his hands in cult-like reverence.

“Easy, man. What do you propose?”

“I ‘propose’ that you die today,” he sneered. With that, he swept the knife across the girl’s throat, releasing a sound of misery, more wrenching than the cry of a lone wolf.

Shots rang out, dropping the young man to blanket the innocent victim. Brett stood frozen with the horror he had caused. Later he would wonder what he should have done. For now, all he could be was a cop.

“Be yourself. Do your job,” he thought, fighting to block any feeling. Police were running around him, but he did not see them. The shrieking disapproval of a seagull flying overhead went unheard. All faded, but for the youthful crumple of shattered hope.

As he bent down, the CD of his mind softly played,

If you see me getting by,
If you see me getting high,
Knock me down

#29

It was after midnight, a time for divine voices, offering charm and the relief of all sensation. Yes, it was departure, but it was a welcomed alternative to the domino tumble of troubled memories.

Brett dreamed of a simple life, somewhere in the Canary Islands or other far-off place. Instead, his mind locked like the shutter of a camera, captured the stark reality of death.

#30

With rain tracking down the window like damning tears from his soul, he wondered, “What have I done?” His thoughts could not silence the constant pinging of his triangle of doubt. “Would you change your mind, if you had a second chance?”

His life as a homicide detective brought many gut-wrenching decisions into his life – none more difficult than this one. With the out-of-order kaleidoscope of events tumbling before the back screen of his mind, the scenes went straight to the heart like a heat-seeking missile. The pain was an almost fantastic relief to the atomic pressure he felt from a picture playing over and over and over.

#31

He could scout for answers, but the questions would never stop. All Brett could do was take one day at a time – so far so good. Or was it? Most days, Brett questioned if he could go on. The thread was hair-thin.

The digital clock screamed 3 A.M. Surrendering all thought of sleep, Brett made his way to the kitchen. The room held the stink of neglected trash and unwashed dishes.

Bracing his against the sink, he waited for the unavoidable pain of nocturnal memories. Like unrelenting lyrics stuck in his head, the vision pounded against his mind. His pulse joined in a corresponding beat. It was an infection he could not cure.

#33

Homicide detective, Brett Connors, would rather be naked and strung across a sea of scorpions. Instead, he was sitting, cooling his heels in the office of the precinct’s shrink.

“If you leave now, you can come up with an excuse later,” he plotted.

Only his future as a cop was in jeopardy. He’d trade that right now for a place to hide. Fate had put him on this ride. He didn’t need a shrink to confirm that.

Besides he had an avalanche of paperwork he hadn’t touched. He could do without the relentless reminders of things best forgotten – the kind of things illuminated in the dark of night. It was time for a break away, one far away from his current view on life.

“Detective Connors, the doctor will see you now.”

#35

Brett couldn’t remember the last time he felt the tug of sexual attraction. His world had not allowed anything as simple as human need. So, what were the odds – one in a million? Long-forgotten lust zeroed in on the precinct’s shrink. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor?

It was tough enough trying to pretend that he spent the night sleeping, without slapping down Mr. Willy. Dr. Sweeney was a load of sensuality. Her auburn hair was sleeked back in a style that had Brett’s finger itching to release it. Her eyes were a shade of green best left to a fable artist. With or without the enhancement of make-up, the long lashes, he knew, were her own.

“Which victim haunts you, Detective?”

The squeeze on his heart worked better than a cold shower. Yet, even over the drumming in his ears, he heard the whispered slide of nylon as the lovely doctor crossed her excellent legs.

“How could I select only one from such a crowd?”

#37

Maggie Sweeney was born a mother. She nurtured the needy and loved the unloved.

She remembered telling her mother, “When I grow up, I’m going to have 7 children, one for each day of the week.”

Her mother had laughed and said, “Thank goodness you aren’t an annual thinker.”

Maggie hadn’t understood at the time, but she knew being a mother was her calling. Just one thing, God had not been on the same call. She felt the loss like a death in the family. At 42 and single, she let go of that dream long ago and created another.

She wasn’t brave enough to work with children, but focused her life on caring and healing. She loved her work in psychology. She felt she made a difference, but she needed challenge. Her recent appointment as the Encinitas North County police psychologist, gave her that challenge in spades.

Cops were an interesting, complex test of wills. Some would flirt, some would rant and rave, while others sat in stony silence. So many walls, built to survive. Few would sign on for her help. It was a slippery slope, trying to help.

She thought of Brett Connors, a 25-year homicide detective who had seen more than any man should. He was 6 feet 4 inches of burning sexuality, without the arrogance. His black hair, sprinkled with just a kiss of gray, defied his 46 years of life. But his startling blue eyes told the story. Often, his gaze wandered so far away, Maggie wondered if she could call him back.

The end of their first session left her frustrated.

“And a good portion of it sexual,” she confessed to her empty room. There was no use denying the hot spice of tingling waves the sexy detective stirred to life.

Okay, it was wrong – really wrong. Maggie would just have to douse those thoughts if she wanted to reach him. His troubled soul worried her. Her fear was she might be too late.

#39

Terror had been a part of his dreams for so long that skipping sleep was no problem. In dreams, killers never died and victims died over and over.

While he thought he was a little closer to hiding his life, Brett’s body betrayed him with the lines of sleepless nights. His casual style and dry humor was a mask he slipped on easily.

It helped him float by department shrinks, whenever protocol demanded a visit. He knew just how to respond to get a quick release back to the streets. But, that was before the precinct hired the lady shrink. Package that brain of hers with a whole lot of curves, and legs that went on forever, and Brett knew it spelled a whole lot of trouble.

In his line of work, Brett understood trouble, but he had no doubt, Dr. Margaret Mary Sweeney was going to be his biggest challenge yet.

#41

“So when are you giving me the green light, Doc?

Detective Brett Connors directed those ridiculously blue eyes at Maggie, the newly appointed psychologist for the North County police district.

“If I didn’t know better, Detective, I’d think you didn’t like talking to me.”

“Hey, I’ll talk all you’d like over drinks tonight – after I’m cleared to get back on the streets.”

“Is that what it takes – a couple of drinks? Or is it something else? Do you know?”

Brett slammed the chair down he had been leaning back on.

“Don’t push me, Doc, you wouldn’t like the result.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Pushing?”

“And stop that bullshit shrink-speak. Next, you’ll be asking me, ‘how does that make you feel?’”

Brett silently fumed at his loss of control. Brett’s quest for control was a life-long challenge. If not for his grandmother, he had no doubt he’d be in prison or dead.

Like most cops, Brett hated the department shrinks always looking for something more, with their phony platitudes and perfect diction. But, then most of the previous shrinks were pasty placards, easily dismissed.

The same couldn’t be said about Dr. Margaret Mary Sweeney. If he knew the lady shrink would visit his dreams, Brett might actually take up sleeping again. He’d do well to remember the devil wore many disguises – even if it had killer legs. It was really too bad this whole scene was such a waste of what he knew could be something explosive.

#43

Maggie Sweeney wanted a challenge when she signed on as San Diego’s North County Police psychologist, and she found one. The toughest part of her job was conducting a Psychological Fitness-for-Duty examination. Maggie understood what being a cop meant to the men and women she worked with.

She also understood the challenges. A cop wasn’t seen as the fireman hero who raced into a building filled with smoke and fire. More often than not, the public viewed a cop as an idiot bent on making their life miserable.

Looking at her notes, Maggie had to ponder her fortune – or misfortune – depending on her point of view at the time, the request for an FFD exam on Detective Brett Connors. A 25-year veteran, the detective, over the last few years, had been assigned to a series of horrific murders. It didn’t take much reflection on Maggie’s part to recognize a man in some serious pain.

Partly due to her profession, but more because of who she was as a person, the vortex of such agony sucked Maggie in. This is why she became a psychologist.

Now, if she could just get over this uncontrollable urge to jump the detective’s bones.

“Let’s just complicate the whole damn thing,” Maggie mused.

She remembered when she used to be a rational person. She needed to find a way to settle down before her next round with the sexy, troubled Detective Connors.

#46

Detective Brett Connors reached for his shirt while trying to gather his control. Slipping the Chargers t-shirt over his head, he was fighting a losing battle to the race of angry thoughts.

He had fought hard to overcome the compulsive urge to smash his fist into his lieutenant’s face when he was told he was on administrative leave for the next week. He did a slow burn while the lieutenant shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Look, Brett, be smart about this. Play the game and you’ll be back on the streets in a week. After all, we can’t have our star, Detective Maverick, on the sidelines. What would the press have to write about?”

Brett shifted a frigid, blue stare at his superior, his jaw clenched so tight, he felt the twitch of muscle snap against his temple.

“Okay, not funny, but you know this whole shrink-babble is nonsense. So, throttle back on that temper of yours and think about it. You visit the Doc a couple of times, dazzle her with that sharp mind of yours and kick back at the beach with a couple of Coronas for a few days.”

Visit the Doc. Oh yeah, he’d visit one Dr. Margaret Mary Sweeney, Brett vowed silently. But it would be on his terms. It was all about control, baby.

#48

Brett watched the sun seize the darkness with its strong fingers of light. Taking a swig of beer, he toasted the breaking dawn.

The popular beach where he had his home was clear of any human form – just how he liked it. His sour thoughts quieted, waiting for the birth of a new day, comforted by the promise of hope. Here he faced the truth and found the embracing gain of forgotten dreams.

For his part, Brett could never play the political fake just to save his job. He was a cop, and no mask of any form could overcome the pain of a troubled life.

#50

Maggie walked into D Street Café, searching the sports bar for her friends. The press of bodies in the place made for tough navigation. Feeling lucky, Maggie made a turn around the bar, and finally spotted her three friends. At the same time, five-foot-nothing, Penny, placed her fingers between her lips and let out with a shrill whistle.

“Hey, Maggie, over here.”

Blushing from her auburn roots to her toes, Maggie ignored the provocative stare of a guy in a Celtics jersey. She was a Lakers fan and this was finals night. He didn’t have a prayer – on a sports level or a personal one.

Giddy with excitement, Penny raced over to her friend and gave her a hug belying her diminutive size.

“What took you so long to get here?” Penny shouted.

“A consultation with my boss took longer than I thought,” Maggie replied.

“Well, that’s un-American. Doesn’t he know it’s Game 7 of the NBA Finals? What’s the matter with him? He needs to get a life,” Penny whined.

Squeezing into the booth, Maggie shared hugs with Jane, a tall, slender blonde with the toned body of the marathoner she was.

Reaching over Jane, Sue Morris, Maggie’s life-long friend, hugged Maggie, uttering a sardonic, “Glad you could join us, Doctor.”

“Oh stop it, Sue,” Maggie smiled, “You can’t hold it against me that I take my job seriously.”

“Yeah, too seriously, if you ask me,” Sue replied.

“Well I didn’t. Hey, I got here before tip-off.” Gazing around the packed bar, Maggie observed, “This place is nuts.”

“Is that anyway for a psychologist to talk,” Penny giggled.

“Har-har. I’m officially off duty.”

“Well, good thing,” Jane replied. “You have a lot of catching up to do. We’ve been here since 4:00.”

“I kind of guessed that by Penny’s red nose meter,” Maggie chuckled.

“Hey, hey, it was sunny today,” Penny countered, “and I took the ankle biters outside to run down their batteries.”

Penny was a daycare teacher. Her small-framed exterior fooled more than one toddler bent on mischief.

Like Maggie, Penny never had children. She and her husband, Mark, had tried it all. At age 40, Penny stopped trying and resolved to live out her mother fantasy with other people’s children. Maggie tried to talk to her about adopting, but Penny always changed the subject.

Maggie looked around the cozy table of friends and smiled. They were her anchor, her sanity in a bottle she kept wrapped in her arms. She cherished each and every one of them. Without them, her life was flatter than the failed joke it sometimes felt like. They helped heal her tender and battered heart.

“Whoa, if we could bottle that and sell it, we could all retire,” Penny stared.

Wondering if Penny was reading her thoughts, Maggie asked, “What are you talking about, Penny?”

“It’s not ‘what’ but ‘who’ I’d like to know,” Penny replied, cocking her eyes over the top of Maggie’s shoulders.

Maggie turned and felt the lightening slice of the familiar sexy, blue stare of Detective Brett Connors.

#52

Maggie knew all too well that a lot was riding on how she would react. As much as she would love to fill her arms with the sexy, Detective Connors, she had to divert those feelings behind the professional cloak of sanity.

Maggie felt the jolt of her heart as the loud cheer erupted over the Lakers’ comeback in a game that looked lost. She heard the collective curse of the Celtics’ fans who watched destiny slip through their fingers with the added ache of the club losing to their hated rivals.

Maggie smiled as her friends grabbed her in a group embrace. Over her best friend’s shoulder, she tracked the slow, troubled departure of a detective who had seen too much.

#54
Brett’s random sighting of the sexy Dr. Sweeney at the local sports bar had to shatter any thought he had of disinterest. Apart from her killer legs, her very un-doctor-like jeans cupped a really excellent ass.

Brett channeled much of his anger from his ordered leave, squarely on the shoulders of one Dr. Maggie Sweeney. He spent 25 years as a homicide detective and did not appreciate the resident shrink pulling the plug – even temporarily. Okay, sure, he had taken a six-month leave before, but that was on his terms.

Brett simply had no answer to what it was about the lady shrink that stirred up so much emotion.

“Yeah, no rhyme or reason, other than a figure that makes you want to drop her on the nearest flat surface.”

So, maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. “Well, yeah,” Brett thought, “I wouldn’t pass up a chance for a little floor-sweeping sex,” but that wasn’t what really bothered him about the Doc.

It started with those guided, green missiles of hers she called eyes. They bore through the walls surrounding his soul and dragged the buried pain to the surface light of day. No matter how he’d try to blank out the past, the lady Doc found a way around it.

Brett knew he could not ignore the challenge any longer. He would have to face it head-on or explain to himself why he chose to run.

#56

Maggie dreamed of one big shot – one she would smash past her friend, Sue, as she made a futile attempt at a return. This whole match, Maggie felt off – almost as if someone was staring at her. Every time she would make a move, the back of her neck tingled in a tension she could not describe.

Maggie felt the singing of the racquet’s strings as she put all her force behind her serve. It was her best serve yet – if she was aiming for the net.

“You know, I think we should just write this game off,” Sue hollered across the net. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

“I know – you couldn’t prove it by my game. Sorry, Sue, I guess my mind is just not in it,” Maggie apologized.

Sue walked up to the net. She lifted her sunglasses and Maggie’s and looked into Maggie’s troubled green gaze.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what it is,” Maggie replied. “I just have the sense that something very unusual is going to happen.”

“Unusual, exciting or unusual, weird?”

“I don’t know, maybe unusual scary.”

Sue felt a tremble up the back of her spine. She didn’t like this. She’d known Maggie most her life.

If Maggie was having strange vibes, something was going on. After all, they hadn’t nicknamed her Mystic Maggie as a child because of exotic, gypsy looks.  Freckle-faced, red-haired Maggie had an eerie way of sensing bad things before they happened.

“Let’s give this up and go grab a glass of wine,” Sue said.

“Now, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Maggie smiled.

The two friends gathered their gear and headed for the clubhouse while eyes devoid of light, followed in silent rage.

#58

In a place where the guilty look for solace, a silent figure moved through the shadows of the darkened church. As he tried to distract his mind from his racing heart, its relenting pounding hammered all sound of hope.

The church was empty, but for the accusing stares of religious symbols of all he was not. The pressure he felt was astronomical and he would tremble from the power they held.

Wrestling with the need to run, he knelt in defiance of his weakening state. It was always there – the elephant in the room – where he hid the portal to his blackened soul. The whispers shouted past his wall of evil, ripping an anguished cry through his tightened lips.

His league with the devil had no power in this holy place. His choked cries struggled past a larynx closed by a fist of remembered fright. Where was the magic? Where was the comfort of a forgiving heart?

~~~

#59

Tomorrow was the day. With the smooth, automated movements of someone who had done the task a million times, the killer laid out the tools of his trade.

Long, callused fingers stroked the SOG Seal Bowie blade, as if stroking the beast itself. His labored breathing broke the silence; his hands tingling in anticipation of the power that would soon be his.

Soon he would be a legend, a master of his trade, one better than all the rest. His narrow, hard gaze lifted to his walls, plastered with photos of his selected prey. He studied her. He knew her. She was his destiny.

Looking into the cracked dresser mirror, he admired the size of his body he had worked so hard to perfect. His strength and clever mind would inspire a combination of fear and respect. Respect. He smiled at the thought.

~~~

#61

Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, Detective Brett Connors returned to active duty.

He got the word from his lieutenant, and wondered why he had not heard from the precinct’s shrink, Dr. Maggie Sweeney. He pictured her in one of her fancy suits, with those long legs meant for wrapping around a man’s waist.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed as he nicked his chin with the razor. He’d best get off that line of thought until he was done shaving.

He felt an attack of anxiety he couldn’t quite place. He had been a homicide detective for 25 years. He had never known any other life. And though he had seen more than any man should, he knew he would never neglect his commitment to the job. So why was he feeling so unsettled. Maybe it was because he acted like such a fool with the lady shrink.

Brett took a nimble leap away from those thoughts. God, he was like a man obsessed. Why couldn’t he keep her out of his head – in more ways than one?

Maybe he was just wired about getting back to his shift – a routine to offer an escape. A job that definitely wasn’t for the squeamish, and in that department, Brett felt no threat, and yet, there was something.

~~~

#63

She opened her eyes in darkness. Was she sick? She felt so strange, so disconnected.

Feeling a rush of nausea, she retched at the sour taste of something slicing at her mouth. It did nothing to silence her fear as she suddenly struggled against her bound wrists and feet.

Where was she? Did someone abduct her? Why couldn’t she remember?

The gag mocked her muffled cries for help. Maybe this was a dream or a bad trip from the street drugs she used. It wouldn’t be the first time her addictive behavior had gotten her in trouble.

Here she was, a captive in the darkness, without any idea how she got here. She tried to slow her racing breath as she gasped for air. It was so dark. She strained to identify any kind of detail, praying the darkness was just a mimic of blindness, and not the real thing.

“Think, think, think,” she repeated.

What possible motive could anyone have for kidnapping her? God knew she didn’t have any money or anything else of any value. She hoped that was their reason. It was better than considering something far more frightening.

She ran her fingers across some pattern she couldn’t define. What was that? Again and again her fingers would return to trace over the pattern.

Suddenly, she gasped with recognition – they were letters.

Her less than steady fingers traced the sturdy carvings. She jumped, as if burned, when her mind read the silent message – D-I-E-W-H-O-R-E.

~~~

#65

Let the games begin. It was time to leave his first clue. The killer lifted his victim’s lifeless body, wrapping her in a final macabre dance without sound.

Driving in a race against dawn, the killer glanced at the illuminated dial of the clock.

“There’s time. So much time,” he muttered.

Hints of dawn created a divide between the secrets of darkness and the horror of a new day. A thick fog clung to the darkness in its final grasp of evil. The sad, lonely sound of a crying seagull pierced the early hour.

It took him to another day. Another horror. One he tried never to recall. But, it was always there – a constant reminder of what he never had.

The rough edges of memory sharpened into focus and silently he wept. This is what brought him here. This was his torch to bear.

Let the games begin.

~~~

#67

Brett could only imagine the agony this poor girl had gone through. The double binding had sliced through her wrists from a last, desperate struggle for freedom.

Her eyes, frozen in a sightless stare, brought an instant chill, no matter how many times Brett saw that same lifeless look. The eyes of the dead haunted him in his 25-years as a homicide detective. They all asked the same soundless question – why?

The waves from Mission Bay stretched long ocean fingers closer to where the body was half-buried.

“Hey Johnson, you’d best get your butt in motion before the Pacific swallows your evidence,” Brett chided.

“Genius doesn’t let a little thing like an ocean get in the way,” the technician smirked.

“Well, Genius, unless your middle name is Moses, kick it up a notch.”

Slipping under the oval confinement of the roped-off area, Brett walked over to the young man, shivering on the boardwalk’s wall. It was more than the early morning chill that had his body shaking in an uncontrollable dance.

A blanket of fog hid the royal blue of the ocean, covering it in shades of mourning. Brett waited as the early morning runner shifted his troubled gaze to his.

“Who could do such a thing?” His voice choked by a sense of horror.

“As a rule, I’d say far too many. I’m sorry, but I need to ask you some questions.”

The runner shifted his gaze to track the slow progress of the body, now wrapped in its plastic tomb.

“Catch the bastard,” he whispered.

“That’s the plan.”

~~~

#69

He told himself he was not anxious for a response. He was in control. It was his game, his rules. He did not need their validation. No, he would control the game. When he thought of the chain of events leading up to this moment, the emotion was almost too much to bear.

Looking over at the tall, slender woman, bound and gagged, he ran a long finger down the smooth surface of the Bowie blade. Smiling with coercive diplomacy, his heart quickened at the visible shaking of her body. And, such a fine body it was. Hers was not a conventional beauty, but indeed, she was beautiful.

Setting the knife aside, he slowly moved to her side. Reaching down, he grasped the dangling electrodes and attached them one by one. Muffled cries mixed with tears of torture, but this was his game. The anticipation of the agonizing current was almost as entertaining as the act itself. It brought such a sweet disposition to the game.

He loved the dynamic of each new player. Each brought her own style, her own inward fears, her own social grace.

He lifted the pure white lily from its glass embrace. Holding it by its thick, long stalk, he laid it across the trembling woman’s lap, and ran that same hand gently down her smooth, pale cheek.

“Let the games begin,” he whispered.

~~~

#71

Wasn’t it sweet irony how alive he felt? A soft wind stirred the dust surrounding the lifeless body into a dreary cloud of gloom. Many thought him mad. He thought he was God.

He felt the power surge through his body and closed his eyes to witness his own mirage of pleasure. He smiled to think how well he planned. While the cops bumbled along, trying to solve the puzzle piece he left with the first victim, he had moved on.

Soon he could sleep a blissful sleep. But first, he must tackle the task at hand. Opening his eyes, he slowly moved to the frozen relic of beauty left behind. His tendency was to move swiftly, but he took a moment.

“Welcome to the moment of truth, “ he whispered. “Too bad you won’t be witnessing my glory.”

~~~

#73

Maggie gasped awake in sudden awareness. What was that? She struggled for clarity through the depth of darkness surrounding her.

It sounded like a thud, like something dropped. But what? More than a little afraid to pop out of bed to investigate, Maggie waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The rhythmic ticking of her wall clock produced an ominous sound as its pendulum swung slowly back and forth.

Carefully placing one foot on the chilled linoleum floor, Maggie reached for her robe. She wasn’t fond of the idea of looking out, but knew she had to if she wanted any more sleep that night.

Maggie chided herself for being such a hysteric. She lived in a gated community and the balcony was on the second floor of her tri-level. It was probably just a dream – a very real-feeling dream.

And then she heard it. Okay, maybe a smidgen of hysteria was in order. It had the eerie sound of a madman’s giggle, followed by a strange intonation she could not define.

Scrambling away from the sliding glass door, Maggie’s body shook from the helpless feeling of one so alone. She jumped in fear at the sound of a car engine igniting and the slap of headlights across the darkened room.

She sat frozen in the middle of her bed, her breath rasping in search of air. Was he gone? Was the madman gone? Much later, she would wonder in retrospect how she had known he was mad.

~~~

#75

Maggie listened to the fading sound of the car driving away from the complex. She wouldn’t be having any sleepy dreams tonight. With her heart pounding, she slowly approached the sliding glass door on her bedroom’s balcony.

She didn’t know why she was so frightened. There was no way to ascend to the second floor without a long ladder. That’s what her brain told her, but the fear left an acidic, coppery taste in her mouth. Her pulse raced like her worse case of sugar high.

Reaching out trembling fingers, Maggie pushed one long slat of the blinds aside, desperately trying to retain some form of dignity as she grasped the front of her nightshirt. It was so dark. The light from the parking lot did little to illuminate the night. Bolstering her courage, Maggie felt her breath contract into a strangled hold.

She reached for the door, releasing the outdated latch. She’d have to replace that – soon. The door groaned in an agonizing comment on the early morning hour. Maggie’s best estimate was it was around 3 AM.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Maggie chided herself.

Why was she so frightened? She was a strong woman. Her friends called her the original Lone Ranger.

Sliding the heavy door along its track, Maggie shivered with the chill from the fall ocean air.

She stumbled back, gasping as her eyes landed on the sightless mass that was once a woman.

“Oh my God, oh my God.”

The blinds crashed through the opening, as if their long-fingered reach would pull the body in from the cold. With tears streaming, Maggie felt hysteria snatching at the vision captured in an eternal vault of horror, now pressed into the recesses of her soul.

“911. What is your emergency?”

~~~

#77

Death & the Detective Series
She was afraid to close her eyes. Maggie feared the grisly sight would do a slow crawl from its banished depth, once more taking center stage. But, she was so weary – mind, body and soul-weary.

The adrenaline rush of the last several hours had gone, leaving her feeling very vulnerable – definitely not what she needed when confronting Detective Brett Connors.

The chaos of the early morning had slowed to the silent beat of the red flashing lights of some of Encinitas’ finest. It was all so surreal.

Maggie’s body automatically tensed as she heard the familiar deep cadence of the detective’s voice that signaled his return. She raised troubled green eyes, desperately fighting fatigue and finding his blue answering response.

“Doc, let’s go over it one more time.”

“Just what good do you think that will do,” Maggie sighed, “the poor woman will not be any less dead, Detective.”

“You know how it works, Doc.  If you want us out of your hair, let’s go through it again.”

“If that’s what it takes. What do you want to know?”

“Start with what woke you up.”

Brett watched Maggie struggle to pull on her professional cloak of armor. He didn’t know why he found it so damn stimulating.

“I heard a loud noise – a thump. I wasn’t sure if it was a dream or if I actually heard something outside.”

“What did you do next?”

“I decided to wait to see if I heard it again. Then I saw the car lights flash across the bedroom.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know –my guess is maybe 2:30, 3:00. I couldn’t bring myself to turn on the light.”

Brett watched her brow wrinkle in concentration and had an almost irresistible urge to smooth it away with a soft kiss. Oh for God’s sake, this obsession had to stop.

“I walked over to the blinds and looked out. It was so dark. When my eyes adjusted, I saw, “ her voice hitched with a soft gasp. Brett watched her ribcage rise with her deep breath as she started again.

“I saw what I thought was a bag of trash. I thought it was kids, pulling some kind of prank by throwing junk on my balcony.”

Her eyes narrowed with wet remembrance of the total lack of dignity for the vessel that once held a precious life. Trying to emerge from misery’s strong hold, Maggie finished the story with the flat tone of a clinical report.

Her steep shift in tone had Brett admiring her ability to pull herself together – under the most trying of circumstances. After all, it’s not every day you get a corpse of a woman with no eyes dumped on your balcony.

“Anything else, Detective?”

~~~

#79

The killer began to wash the sticky traces of blood from his hands. Staring at the imagined stain, he washed again and again, uttering a soft admonition, “Wash your hands, William. You are such a dirty, little boy.”

When his hands began to bleed, he reached for a tube of ointment. Instead of remorse, he felt calm, as he slowly traced the river’s path of blood. He closed his eyes to escape to his castle of peace, where his bundle of conflict unraveled in the order of the truly mad.

He would not be ignored. Stone by stone, he would build his monument of glory. Body by body, he would get closer to his final reward. He would challenge fate and win.

“Notice me now, Dr. Sweeney?”

~~~

#81

Detective Brett Connors pushed on the door to the morgue. No matter how many times he had been there before, he was never ready for the slap of the strong, antiseptic smell – or the ear-splitting sound of Metallica blasting across the room.

Snatching the remote, Brett slammed the room into silence.

“Every time I come in here, I promise myself that I will not make a reference about the music being loud enough to wake up the dead.”

“Yet, every time, you do, Brett. You need a new line.”

“No, Randy, you need to get beyond your teenage years.”

Randy Watkins was the city’s coroner. Confined to a wheelchair from those teenage years did nothing to slow him down. Brett often wondered if his chosen career stemmed from the auto accident that crippled Randy and took the life of his friend. But, that one was best left to the lady shrink.

“That’s not my vic.”

“No, indeed. This corpulent fellow is far from the slender lady you brought me.”

Furrow after furrow of fat spread itself across the coroner’s table like the escaping layers of a baker’s unrolled dough. The layers deformed his back like an old lady’s dowager’s hump.

“Let me just don this gentleman in his opulent and resplendent cloak, and we’ll take a look at your lady,” Randy said while gently pulling the white sheet to the deceased’s chin.

That was something Brett always appreciated about Randy – the respect and dignity he gave to those who no longer felt.

Rolling over to another draped figure, Randy slowly pulled the sheet back on the latest victim. Brett could only feel relief that the poor woman no longer suffered.

Her body showed signs of severe abuse and her eyes had been carved away with a surgeon’s precision.

“What can you tell me, Randy?”

“Mark will have to confirm, but it appears she had several drugs in her body. The burn marks look like electrical shock, and the eyes were not taken by an amateur.”

Lifting her left arm, Randy showed Brett the marks.

“Intravenous, I’d say.”

“It’s ketamine, fed intravenously,” was the answer from crime tech, Mark Johnson, who just walked through the door.

“I just confirmed it. Vets mostly use it. Let me tell you, the dose this lady had, took her on a wild ride.”

“What kind of ride?” Brett questioned.

“One that ranks right up there with PCP – nasty.”

Brett felt himself vacillate between pity and rage. What had this girl ever done to anyone to deserve such a fate? He fantasized how he would terminate the killer’s life – in ways more painful than what he dealt out.

“That’s not all. I found traces of quinine. You know? The drug used to treat malaria.”

“What the hell?”

~~~

Murder is always personal. The latest even more so. Detective Brett Connors leaned back in his chair, eying his murder board.

The first murder victim was an unidentified Jane Doe who appeared to know her way around the drug scene. She was found in a coffin, the lid off and resting in Mission Bay sand, as if dropped by the sea’s trembling hand. A carved message of Die Whore in the side of the coffin was not the only macabre puzzle piece. The coroner made the grisly discovery that the victim’s tongue had been cut out.

Then there was Jane Doe #2– her sightless body dumped on Dr. Maggie Sweeney’s balcony. The openings that once held her eyes did little to erase the vacant stare of the dead from Brett’s mind. His own narrowed stare defied his body’s outward passivity. The tortuous journey to death of these two Jane Does brought them now to Brett.

Maggie Sweeney – the department’s resident shrink and Brett’s uncomfortable obsession. Instead of freaking out at having a murdered woman dumped on her balcony, the cool lady doc held it together. More than one stressed-out cop challenged that awesome control of hers – especially Brett.

Nibbling on a toothpick, a poor substitute for the cigarette he constantly craved, Brett picked up his phone to harass the crime tech, Mark Johnson.

“You got the time, we know the crime,” came the ebullient voice.

“Cute, Johnson. You ought to have that stitched on a pillow.”

“Detective Connors. I didn’t know you were into embroidery. I suppose you want to know something more on the vic that went plonk on the Doc’s door.”

“Well, as much as I hate to change the vivacious topic, yeah, I’d like to know about the victim – her identity would be a good start.”

“No can do, yet, but I’m working on it. There was something else I found out though.”

“So, when were you going to tell me?”

“Patience, Detective. I just got the information, no more than five minutes ago. Our little dynamo got a piece of this guy.”

“You have DNA?” Brett felt his adrenaline punching up.

“Looks like. I need to run it, but do your job and we’ll seal the deal.”

~~~

#85

Brett retrieved the newspaper from the bushes in front of his beach bungalow, cussing another errant toss by the paper boy.

“Kid better forget any dreams of pitching in the majors,” he grumbled.

Removing the rubber band from the ever-shrinking paper, Brett laid it on the counter by the brewing coffee. He glanced over at the headline as he poured his first cup of coffee.

BEACH TOWN IS MECCA FOR SERIAL MURDERERS

Brett cussed for the second time that morning as he scanned the story under the sensationalized headline. They made him out to be some damn, quixotic avenger of victims as they ran through a list of his solved murders.

Tossing the paper aside, Brett walked to the shower. Maybe he could drown the asinine piece from his mind. He should have known that wouldn’t last long. Walking towards his desk, several cops held up the morning’s paper.

“Detective, can I have you autograph?”

“I’m sure you’ll have this solved by the end of shift, don’t you worry.”

“Suck my…,” his voice trailed off as he saw the lady shrink leaning against his desk.

“Good morning, Detective,” the sexy voice seemed to leap under his skin with its own fluttering pulse. His gaze latched on the lone freckle that kissed her upper lip.

“Doc. You slumming?” he responded, trying for a vapid delivery.

“I wondered if you would have time to talk some time today.”

“What about?”

“I’d rather discuss it in my office,” Maggie said in her controlled, psychiatrist voice, as she looked at her Blackberry calendar. “Would 2:00 work?”

“Schedule all your time in there, Doc,” came the facetious reply.

Raising her annoyed green gaze, Maggie clipped, “Will 2:00 work, Detective?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar. You know, the paper kind.”

“Fine,” Maggie snapped, “You do that and call my secretary.”

There were hoots of laughter as Maggie stormed back to her office. Why did she always misfire with Detective Connors? He thought he could bedazzle her with his electric, blue stare and very male attitude. Problem was – he could.  Well, she would not skulk around him, feeding his massive ego, and offering the soft coo of affection he was probably used to from women.

Reaching her office, Maggie took a deep, soothing breath to pull on the professional cloak she wore so well – with everyone but the Detective. Under control, she walked through the door.

“Any messages, Autumn?”

And the doctor was in.

~~~

#87

Detective Brett Connors sat cooling his heels in the reception area of the precinct’s psychiatrist and profiler. He had no doubt it was payback for the hard time he gave her when she was on his turf, asking for a consult.

That he should feel any guilt was a travesty of justice, but that’s just what he felt – especially with the look the Doc shot his way as she stormed out of the department. One look like that could eviscerate the strongest of cops.

“The doctor will see you now,” the Cerebus secretary frowned at Brett.

“About damn time,” he muttered, trying to keep the furious tone to himself. He didn’t want to give the lady shrink the satisfaction.

Trying not to exacerbate the situation, Brett replaced the scowl on his face with what he hoped was boyish charm – yeah, right.

“So, what did you want to talk about, Doc?”

Maggie held her power position behind her desk as she gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.

“Have a seat, Detective.”

“I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”

Forcing a smile, he would not succeed with his own power play, she mused, “I’ll strain my neck if I have to keep looking up at you. Please.”

“Well, since you asked nice,” Brett smirked, easing his 6 foot 4 inch frame into a chair with slender arms no wider than the tip of antlers on a young buck. He’d be lucky if it held him – maybe that was her plan – to put him on his ass.

“We are both busy so let me get straight to the point.”

“By all means.”

“I want in on your investigation.”

“Which investigation is that?”

How did this man so easily snap her famous control? She fought hard to mask her vivacious nature of the cloak of professionalism, but oh, how the detective tested her.

It was difficult to temper her images of that squalor offering of a poor woman laying on her balcony.

“Please, Detective. I thought we agreed not to waste each other’s time. I want in on your investigation of the murdered woman, dumped on my doorstep.” Her look and tone would incinerate a lesser man.

Resisting the urge to make a bawdy remark about her use of the word “dump,” Brett tried reason instead of his usual protective, heathen humor.

“Look, Doc, I know you have more than a passing interest in the case, but you are as much of a victim as that poor girl. I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix the two.”

~~~

#89

The musty smell wrapped invisible fingers of pain around the brightly colored bottles that held an apothecary’s dream. Eyes brightened with the madness of remembering the trace of blood the minx had left behind. He loved when they struggled.

He mixed a puree of nature’s evil elixir of the gentle daffodil, the majestic Lily of the Valley, and wrapped it all with the reverent touch of foxglove. So common, so innocuous, yet few knew their deadly kiss of poison. He felt a shimmer of anticipation as his eyes moved to his wall of luscious victims. He felt the need to linger on his ultimate target. How would he play it?

The naked sound of silence awakened to his rasping breath as he grew more and more excited – excited where he’d been and where he had to go. He would show the world. The echoing sound of childhood rants drummed in a relentless beat, “Willy, Willy, bananas and nuts, lives in his mother’s house of sluts.”

“Stop it. Shut your face or I’ll cut out your tongue like the whore before you,” he sobbed like the slender, wand of a child lost so long ago. There was no treacle for the poison of memories burnt in the wheat field of forgotten dreams.

~~~

#91

In his own form of keyword search, Detective Brett Connors scribbled the words across the lined, yellow tablet with the curling pages.

Jane Doe #1
Brunette
5’9”
Slender build
Coffin
Die whore
Drug user
Mission Bay
Tongue cut out

Jane Doe #2
Blonde
5’9”
Slender build
Electrode burns
Drugs in system-user?
Doc’s balcony
Eyes cut out

“You know if you would reinvest your paycheck, you could probably get a second-hand laptop.”

“You’re a real card, McNeill. What do you want?”

“Aren’t we the cranky one,” his fellow detective, Pat McNeill, responded. “Have another run-in with the lady shrink?”

“McNeill, some of us are working here. So, unless you’ve got a sustainable reason for being here, don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

“You don’t have a door. Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in surrender at Brett’s curled lip. Tossing a folder on Brett’s desk, Pat remarked, “I think this will give me a preemptive pass to your undying gratitude.”

Moving the folder off his badge that lay on top of his desk, Brett flipped open the folder.

“We got a hit on the DNA.”

“Our killer finally made a mistake.”

“Well, maybe, maybe not.”

“What the hell does that mean? Are you purposely trying to obfuscate this discussion or does it just come naturally?”

“Obfuscate? Have you been reading again? I told you that was dangerous for your health. Okay, shit, you used to have a sense of humor. We got a hit on the DNA, but here’s the thing. It’s some dead guy’s.”

“Someone they just brought in?”

“No, someone who’s been dead for five years.”

“Have you been hitting the bourbon again, McNeill?”

“That is an unsubstantiated rumor. I would never relinquish my love affair with the King of Kings’ Beer for rot-gut whiskey. The rumor holds absolutely no credence.”

“%#& you, McNeill.”

“I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you,but thanks for the offer.”

~~~

#93

“Soon they will understand, ” the killer silently spoke to one no longer there.

He was tired of all the rhetoric in the news. Couldn’t they come up with something more creative than the “torturer of women”? Journalism was not what it used to be. So-called writers would embalm words in placid replication, whipping the public with the senseless flagellation of mediocrity.

“There is no sense of pride in one’s work, Robert,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Frustrated at the interruption, he calmed himself as Robert offered a soothing response in his ear.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Did you want another margarita or more guacomole?”

Battling for control, he wrapped his hand around the bougianvillia, surrounding the outside patio. Crushing it, he imagined it to be the skinny neck of the unattractive, annoying waitress.  She was not worthy of his passion.

“I’m fine. Just bring me the check please.”

“We should have dined at home with the fine bottle of pinot noir, Robert,” he mumbled, tracing the stigmata wounds left by the the sharp thorns of the bougianvillia, “instead of enduring the impudent behavior of someone so beneath us.”

Flicking his coat in disgust, he rose – the incident soon forgotten.

The waitress tracked his exit with a cautious look at the man who had dined alone.

“Freakin’ nut case.”

~~~

#95

Slamming the metal bars of the cage, the killer planned his final journey. He laid out the eclectic collection of torture and vowed he would not renege on his promise.

In a timewarp of madness, he was transported to another time. He played the puppet as a toddler until the time where he took the strands. He felt it was his right, his destiny, and not a misappropriated piece of time. But, then did the mad really understand?

He ran the blade over the leather strap, over and over, with the precision of a perfected task. No matter how guarded, the killer knew, his final victim would know the nightmare that was the past.

~~~

#97

Detective Brett Connors wasn’t a fan of the holidays. Nana Connors, his only family, in the truest sense of the word, had been gone a few years now. Yet, for some reason, he was uncharacteristically happy this year. He didn’t even mind that he was in a mall, just weeks before Christmas.

He smiled as he watched antsy kids, tugging on their Mom’s hands, as they rushed to get in line to see Santa. He passed a table where a young girl, her tongue caught between her teeth, was carefully creating Christmas origami designs. She had a snowflake, holly and a really cute penguin.

“Hey, those are really good.”

Blue eyes sparkled like twinkling lights on a Christmas tree as a dimpled smile reached out and grabbed his heart.

“Thank you, sir. Want to try it?”

He might as well write a book on Egyptology.

“Thanks, sweetheart, but I’d rather buy one from an expert. How much are they?”

“Oh, they don’t cost anything. I just like to share them. Which one do you want?”

When’s the last time you heard a kid at Christmas giving away the chance for some money?

“I’ll take the blue star. It’ll remind me of your pretty blue eyes.”

She giggled as she felt her heart balloon with her first crush. Brett would have laughed, had he known. He thought he was more likely to be thought of as the scary ogre, a product of a child’s worst nightmare.

“Merry Christmas.”

“It is now.” Brett bent over and gave the innocent cheek a kiss of thanks, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

Brett meandered along the mall. Stopping in front of the display at the bookstore, Brett looked at a copy of Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, a great example of the bildungsroman style Brett loved as a child.

The mall was decked out in all its aesthetically pleasing glitter, and Brett sighed with the memory of how much Nana’s eyes would brighten at Christmas time. He could almost smell the cookies cooling on their racks. She could have made a fortune on a franchise of those cookies. But, then she didn’t need the money.

“Merry Christmas, Nana. I love you,” Brett whispered.

He turned to walk down the slope into the food court. The cold, hard stare of evil damned him as he strolled along on his journey of another time.

~~~

#100

As Brett chowed down on his Food Court pizza, he wondered if the Lady Doc would consider his gift too extravagant. He wasn’t even sure why he bought the district’s shrink and profiler a gift.

The 1998 Clos des Goisses Brut champagne went for $250 a bottle. For most cops, calling the gift extravagant was an understatement. Thanks to a very generous inheritance from Nana Connors, Brett didn’t need to worry about money. Yet he still worked some of the most gruesome murders in the state. After 25 years as a homicide detective, Brett Connors didn’t know any other way. He simply accepted it as his life.

As if his thoughts conjured her up, Brett straightened in his chair, like a recalcitrant schoolboy, at the sight of the long-legged, Dr. Margaret Mary Sweeney across the mall. He silently cursed himself for the lasting effect the lady shrink had on him. She was trouble with a capital T.

He watched as a guy with unmitigated gall wrapped his arms around Maggie, lifting her off the floor in a huge embrace. Her face glowed with the joy of the season as she laughed and kissed the guy – on the lips, no less.

Brett watched as she grabbed the guy’s hand and dragged him over to an empty table. Removing her winter coat to reveal form-hugging jeans, Brett softly whistled between his teeth in admiration. Who knew what she had under that clinical white coat she always wore?

Deciding he had enough of this guy, Brett tossed the remains of his pizza, and took his 6 foot 4 inch frame over to their table.

“Hey, Doc, fancy meeting you here.”

Brett watched as the smile faded from Maggie’s lips and her green forest eyes blinked in surprise.

“Detective Connors, hello.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Brett all but sneered.

Maggie, uncharacteristically flustered, replied, “Oh, I’m sorry. This is my friend, Shane Arthur. Shane, this is Detective Brett Connors”

“Hey, buddy, nice to meet you. Why don’t you join us?”

Brett eased his tall body into the Food Court comedy for chairs and wondered if this guy was the yardstick the Doc used for what she found attractive.

“So, how do you know the Doc?”

“Oh, Maggie and I go way back. I guess you could say we met in a plethora of words,” he laughed, sharing a much too intimate glance with the Doc – at least to Brett’s way of thinking.

“Shane is an editing genius and the creator of the hot site, Creative Copy Challenge. Maybe you heard of it?”
Maggie smiled with an affectionate touch to Shane’s arm that had Brett’s eyes narrowing into blue ice chips of disdain.

“Never heard of it,” Brett grumbled.

“Maggie tends to exaggerate. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much. Look I promised the kids we would hit Sea World early. It was so good seeing you, Maggie.”

Brett watched the two exchange another hug and kiss. Kids? Married? Divorced?

“I am so glad I met you, Detective. Maggie has told me so much about you.”

Brett’s startled look caught Maggie’s quick blush.

“I hope to see you two again real soon. Happy holidays!”

Brett watched the swagger of a confident man as he walked away.

“Well, I hope you know that if it wasn’t for Shane, you wouldn’t even exist,” Maggie fumed, snapping her coat from the chair; she grabbed her belongings and stormed off in disgust.

“Now, what the hell does that mean?” Brett mused.

~~~

#106

Brett Connors wasn’t sure if he was glad the holidays were over. On the one hand, the precinct had been as quiet as Randy Watkin’s workplace. Randy was the city’s coroner. On the other hand, Brett was glad his fellow detective, Pat McNeill, was back from vacation. Now, maybe they could get back to the little things, like finding a serial killer.

Pat walked in with his hands shoved into his windbreaker’s pouch, looking like some kind of baby-carrying marsupial.

“I thought it never rained in southern California.”

“We bring in rain as a delusion tactic for tourists.”

“Yeah, well I find it pretty damn delusional.”

“That’s because you’re from the east coast.”

“And you are such a gnarly dude, Connors.”

Brett chuckled at the detective’s scowl. After 25 years of homicide, Brett was relieved he could still find the humor in life.

“Grab some coffee and let’s take a look at the coroner’s reports on our psycho,” Brett instructed while pulling together the corresponding files. This case had been going on so long he was surprised the pages had not turned yellow.

“I’m not sure what purpose it’ll serve. I swear we have gone over them until our eyes bled.”

“He’s still out there, even though we have DNA, so we are obviously missing something.”

“We have the DNA of a dead guy. So, unless he came back from the grave, how can he be our psycho killer?”

Good question, Brett thought. They thought they finally had a break in the case when the coroner made the grand announcement that the last victim had DNA under her fingernails. After months of investigation, the elation they justly felt, deflated like a New Year’s balloon in March.

Brett’s hatred of this sick M-F took on xenophobic proportions. The killer left one victim without a tongue and the other with no eyes. And that was just, pardon the pun, the visual of his sick torture. Then he made it personal by dumping the last victim on Dr. Maggie Sweeney’s balcony.

Brett had long ago recanted his feigned disinterest in the precinct’s sexy psychiatrist and profiler. In fact, the long-legged, green-eyed seductress had spoiled him for his typical type.

“Hello, Brett, anyone home?”

Brett blinked in surprise at the sound of his fellow detective. Obviously, he had been trying to get Brett’s attention for some time.

“Just thinking about the case.”

“Yeah, right, and I get all moon-eyed over the M-F killer, too.”

~~~

#111

This winter was one mudslide after another. And now it was really cold – okay, cold for San Diego. Wrapped in her warm, fuzzy coat, Maggie felt like a bad imitation of an Ewok, puffed up from lactose intolerance.

As she began to creep down Interstate 5 towards work, she hoped San Diego could kiss the rain good-bye. It had been an unusually rainy winter.

“So spoiled,” she smiled to herself.

Maggie’s thoughts drifted to her day ahead as the Encinitas police district psychiatrist and profiler. Capturing a serial killer had become the district’s obsession. The district funneled almost all its resources into finding the killer and his capture had become very personal – to Maggie and Detective Brett Connors.

Maggie wondered if her pusillanimous behavior stemmed more from having the killer dump a body on her balcony or from the threat of the very sexy detective getting past her defenses.

Okay, she wasn’t going down that path. Shaking off an anxious feeling, Maggie glanced at the clock. She had a 9 a.m. meeting with a colleague from Larkspur (in northern California) and she had some last-minute research she wanted to finish.

It was an interesting case, except for its victims. A serial killer in the small community had a very disturbing calling card. He, or perhaps more likely she, would castrate victims before dumping them alongside a deserted road.

“Come on, Poplolly,” she coaxed, using her nickname for her 1985 VW Bug, “let’s get off this highway to nowhere.”

With her mind on the meeting, Maggie didn’t notice the dark sedan following her down the frontage road.

~~~

#113

He flew under her radar and she did remember. Soon she would be singing with angels as the devil inside triumphed once more. He watched, though she did not see, as she entered the code into the door. It did not matter. He memorized the code.

His rage built through the tunnels of his mind as he knew he was an incognito form unrecognized by her and all the rest. This wasn’t about a quota. This was revenge, in its purest form. The rest meant nothing. But, she was different. She would regret how she kicked him to the curb like a recalcitrant dog.

His felt the memories war with his need to suppress them. They pounded at him like a nagging wife, in a kaleidoscope puzzle that was his life. He fought for control, as once more he became the hunter.

Detective Connors walked past the precinct’s front desk, greeting Angie, the volunteer receptionist.

“Detective Connors, have you seen Dr. Sweeney?”

Refraining from uttering the sarcastic response that rose to mind, the detective merely replied, “No, why?”

“She had an appointment with the profiler from Larkspur half an hour ago and she hasn’t shown up. That’s not like Dr. Sweeney.

No, it wasn’t – at all

~~~