Bloodhound

By Henning Brazer

The murderer dubbed the Twin Killer strikes again and the police are at a loss. They cannot find any clues that would lead to his capture. Enter the genetic oddity that is Dixie Bannerman - a freak of nature that is both blessed and cursed by his overdeveloped sense of smell akin to that of a bloodhound. Now he uses his ability to track this elusive killer while guarding a dangerous secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Henning Brazer
• Release date: Nov 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452345895

Henning Brazer

I am an illustrator and writer who works on Books like the Dixie Bannerman series and Digital Comic Books like Brave New World and Macabre Squad

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Lucy wanted to be famous.

When she was younger, around eleven or twelve, she would put on shows for her family in their living room. Grandiose dance numbers followed by stretched out singing performances and poetry recitals. They were filled with all the passion an attention staved teenager could muster, and after each act her shy twin sister Gretchen and their parents would give her loud applause and sometimes even call for encores if it wasn’t too late in the evening or anything of marginal interest showed on television.

Most of all she loved to act, and in all her self-written plays she eagerly emulated the fainting movement she saw the damsels in distress do so many times in the old movies grandpa could not stop watching. This was the only action that in her mind adequately conveyed a true sense of despair, anguish and agony.

As she was lying in the alley, blood everywhere, she finally knew differently. This was despair. This was anguish. This was agony. The sweat was streaming from her forehead and formed cool little puddles in the crook of her neck. Thankfully the shock to her system has helped the pain subside somewhat. There was a stench in the air and Lucy hoped it was not her. She would love to go out of this mortal plain with a little bit of dignity.

The man was now pacing up and down. He was getting something ready in her peripheral vision, but she could not see what it was. All the strength has left her body and she could not muster the will to turn her head.

Lucy thought about the moment that she knew was soon to come on many occasions, as all people normally do. She imagined that she would die at the ripe old age of ninety, an accomplished actress who just divorced her sixth husband because he was getting too old and her life motto was to never date anyone over forty. The funeral would have been the news affair of the decade, countless fans gathering in the streets to pay their respects. Rose petals strewn on the road as the coffin made its march to a final resting place under peach trees and beside a lily garden.

But now, strangely, and uncharacteristically, as the moment drew closer she did not think about herself at all. About the missed opportunities and adventures that she will never have. The movies that she will never star in, the true love she would never find. All she thought about was Gretchen. Dear, shy Gretchen.

Who will care for her? Who will listen to her going on and on about her boss who she is secretly in love with? Who will visit Wednesday evenings and look through her endless supply of scrapbooks? Who will watch old Mel Gibson movies with her and giggle at the funny hairstyles that were a trademark of the eighties?

Lucy’s time to wonder about these things was now over. She wished she had just a minute more to ponder over life, love and everything in between, but she realized this was not to be as he approached her again. His massive form blocked out the streetlight as he grabbed her roughly by the hair. The knife slid over her throat in one smooth motion. She didn’t even feel it. The man turned her over and placed her head in a bucket filled with water. She actually felt relieved as the water was quite cool and this was an unusually warm evening.

And as he was drowning her, she could hear him scream: Give back what you have stolen! Give it back!!

Mercifully she did not hear anything after that.

Chapter 2

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On a sunny Friday afternoon in 1939 with the picturesque Simontown as the backdrop, Just Nuisance was formally enlisted into the Royal South African Navy to a great amount of pomp and ceremony. With a Christian name like Just and the trade of Bone Crusher on his enlistment form it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that this was no ordinary seaman.

Just Nuisance was a beautiful brown Great Dane and was officially the first dog that was ever enlisted and classified as an able seaman of the Navy. His love for sailors, boats and trains earned him a free pass to go from train station to train station all around the Cape Coast, sleep in the sailor cabins and have all the navy rations he could eat - and he could eat a great deal.

It was down the main street of Simonstown that Just Nuisance led his drunken brethren safely home after a night of heavy drinking, and it was also here in Simonstown that Dixie Bannerman decided to create a new home for himself by opening a diner.

It was one week after the brutal murder of Lucy Masters and Police Captain Greg Smalls and his subordinate Detective Henry Khumalo stood nervously outside the aforementioned place of business in St Georges Street. Henry uneasily eyed the big sign above the door that spectacularly reflected the mid-morning sun. A mixture of purples and black, in the ominous shape of a coffin, with chrome letters boldly proclaiming in an Arial Black font: The Grease Coffin.

As a bead of salty sweat rolled into Henry’s eye, he blinked and turned to Greg: "I am not comfortable with this sir. I think we should at least give our guys on the ground another week before we go to... extremes. We’ll all pull double time to find this bastard."

Greg calmly eyed detective Khumalo up and down. He remembered a time when he was that young; willing to take on life and all the challenges it may present. But this was not up to them. "Sorry Henry. You know we cannot postpone this any longer. The Mayor; your boss AND mine, wants us to wrap this up as quickly as possible. Multiple serial murders in a tourist destination like Cape Town are not the sort of headlines we need.

Now, don’t worry too much, the Mayor's old friend Gus Bridle recommends this guy very highly. They worked together on some high profile case in London a couple of years ago. You, me and the whole team will just have to live with this Dixie Bannerman's reported... eccentricities and make the best of a bad situation."

Henry looked beseechingly at his Captain to see if sanity would prevail, but he knew the old warhorse for too long and he has never seen him back down from a course that was already set. So, with a sigh and a slouch he followed him inside.

The Grease Coffin was sparsely but finely decorated with pink padded chairs and dark red counter tops. In the corner, from a classic jukebox, you could hear a faint Pixies tune playing. The music was a haunting choice this early in the morning. One lone patron sat and poked at his whole-wheat toast with a butter knife. George Dent lived in Simontown his whole life. For fun he took long strolls down the beach with his poodle Sissy or spent time with his guilty pleasure; an extensive collection of underground 1940’s Adult comics he kept stashed in a secret drawer under his tool bench in the garage. A place his burly wife would never look, he was sure.

George was also proud to be a founding member and chairman of the illustrious Picture Perfect Simontown Society, or the P.P.S.S as it was more commonly known. A grand old organization that has with a certain amount of zeal made it their mission to tear down all billboards or other unseemly advertisements, signs and logo’s that detracts from the serene skyline of their picturesque little beach town.

Currently he has been in an ongoing, bitter and almost bloody feud with the owner and chief fry cook of the Grease Coffin, Dixie Bannerman, about the ludicrous name and sign he chose for his Diner. George would sometimes ask himself as he eagerly paged through one of his collectables in the tool shed, what was wrong with a nice normal name like Family Fries, Happy Burgers or his personal favourite Yummy cove - all suggestions that were submitted to Dixie in at least fifty lengthy lawyer letters in the last two or so years. In fact, George would consider eating his breakfast somewhere else entirely if the food here wasn’t just so damn good.

Nowadays George has resorted to getting his revenge via a new paintball gun he purchased off a kid with bad acne. He got it from him at a steal, and a bargain always brightened George’s day immensely.

He sometimes giggles like a little girl when he sees Dixie and that immense idiot Dusty staring at the neon bright hues sprayed all over that awful sign every morning. He reminded himself as he took a bite from his toast that next time he should get paintballs that do not wash off so easily. Maybe some green ones. Yes, green is good.

Greg and Henry surveyed the scene and just as they were about to approach George an angelic face popped out of the kitchen. Myra smiled a broad, inviting smile and her bright emerald eyes made Henry's knees buckle immediately.

Oh! Dixie said two people came in. Have a seat and let me get you some menus. Greg was quick to interrupt as he flashed his badge: We are not here for breakfast miss; we are here to have a word with Mr. Bannerman. Is he in the kitchen? Can we go through? Myra gave Greg a friendly nod and led the way through the large swinging kitchen doors.

Henry worked part-time as a waiter while he was studying for his police exams and thus he has seen many a restaurant kitchen, but nothing could prepare him for what he saw now. Not only was it triple the size of most restaurant kitchens, but it had all the finest cooking tools and utensils money could buy. Everything, from top to bottom, was extremely clean - just as if all the utensils, ovens and counters were just unpacked, freshly installed and promptly disinfected with a certain amount is gusto.

At the double wash basin on the left hand side, a young, well built man whistled the same Pixies tune that was playing over the jukebox. He had jet black, shortly cropped hair and was wearing a tight fitting, white Calvin Kline t-shirt tucked into a stone washed pair of Levi jeans which was rounded off by a black leather belt with matching chic