Bloodied

By BC Chrestians

Jon Rio, with the help of his partner, two rookie cops and an FBI agent, must find the Chameleon before he reenacts one of history’s most horrendous unsolved crimes.

The breadcrumbs lead Jon and his team to an autistic man with buried clues, a cross-dressing hooker with a knowledge of the streets, a drug dealer who has seen the killer’s face, a reporter with an ax to grind with Jon Rio, an uncooperative wife of a dead serial killer, and they stare into the darkness that is Leroy Douglas an ex-con who fits the bill of these killings too well.

A hero falls, a protégé emerges, and Jon Rio is a reluctant idol. Why shouldn’t he be? All those he comes in contact with wind up just as damaged as he is or dead. These killings seem to have no reason, but Jon Rio will find out that the actions of his past are the reasons for all the violence. There is only one way Jon Rio can make it right, by finding his kidnapped partner before its too late.
Will Jon Rio continue to be the poison in the lives of so many, or will he finally do the right thing?

Everyone has a reason to hate Detective Jon Rio.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BC Chrestians
• Release date: Dec 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310236341

BC Chrestians

BC Chrestians is the writer of The Specials A Young Adult Serialized Sci-fi Thriller. BC has always been drawn to writing fun twisting accessible fiction. As a story teller, his goal is to keep the reader turning the page and guessing. His books all have one thing in common...you're in for a heck of a ride.

Book preview

Chapter 1 (First Time)

Jack

There she was, on the corner of Fifth and Main, standing with one leg flirtatiously facing the stopping car, and the other stabilizing her somewhat huskiness on the edge of the concrete. Though not skinny by any means, she was looking pretty sexy with the white fishnet top and bright orange bra underneath. Her extremely large breasts drew your attention away from her big hips. She seemed perfect for what I wanted.

I began to approach her from about a block away. She hadn’t seen me yet; I needed her to notice me before she left with someone else. I needed her—she was the only girl who would do. A car pulled to the curve, and a man held out a hundred dollar bill from the window of the driver’s side. I began to pick up the pace; hopefully, I’d intercept before she got in the car. I got a couple of yards away, and she looked right at me. Her eyes widened in fright, and she immediately pulled her hand away from the sedan and delved into her purse.

I was close enough to see the brunette roots of her bleached long hair and the deep dark bags under her eyes. She had a red mark across her cheek, as if she’d been slapped. That didn’t matter to me; she was still perfect for my first. I pulled out two one-hundred-dollar bills before she could pull out her mace. Her eyes went from fear to a jolt of relief. The man in the car, knowing he had lost, pulled away.

I wrapped my arm around her back and slipped the money into her purse. I began to guide her toward my truck, and being the gentleman I am, I opened the passenger door and helped her up to the seat. I drove about a mile and turned into an alley to park. This was where it was going to take place. I opened my ashtray. In the ashtray were a stub of a straw and enough coke for a few lines. Her hand twitched at the sight of it. I signaled to her that it was fine for her to dive right in. In all honesty, it wasn’t for me at all. It was especially for her; I knew what she craved.

We talked for a while, nothing too special, just crap like the weather, why she does this kind of work, and what sexual position I’d prefer. I was waiting for the drugs to take effect. As we conversed, I slipped on some leather gloves. She noticed the gloves and asked what they were for.

She seemed happy when I told her, For protection.

I reached under my seat and grabbed my knife. I brushed off some of the dirt against my pants leg and pressed the button to release the blade. She didn’t even notice. I kind of wished she had, so I could have seen the look on her face. I quickly stabbed the knife into her chest, but got mainly breast tissue. I stabbed again into her throat and then her forehead, chipping my blade.

I’ll have to sharpen it more next time.

I kept stabbing her until she stopped moving; then I started up again when her lifeless body went into spasms.

I never got her name; it would have made my first time more memorable if I had.

Friday

Chapter 2 (Coffee)

Detective Jon Rio

I examined the bulletin board at my precinct, like I did every morning. I mean what else can I do at 6 a.m.; most crimes that took place the night before didn’t make their way to my desk till about seven or eight anyway. I grabbed my favorite mug and poured some coffee from the carafe sitting on the table in front of me. I tore open four sugar packets and poured the sweet stuff into my cup. I needed to cover up the bitter lame taste of Diana’s coffee. On the bulletin board were pictures of known drug dealers and gangsters. Working on gang issues was a waste of time, I thought. There were some notes on meetings and work policies. I don’t normally read about those because Diana brings the important stuff to my attention. The missing children’s flyer had been updated. It mainly consisted of young teens, most of them runaways from abusive homes. I didn’t much care about those cases; I had enough on my plate as it is because I was Violent Crimes.

Violent Crimes was a special task force specifically created for me. It was known around the precincts as the serial killer unit, but the VC title made it so I could be given almost any crime in the city. My case load was usually light, but when I had a psycho in need of apprehension I worked 20 hour days. My obsession with catching the crazies was usually a good thing. Sure getting the worst of the worst cases would take its toll on anyone, but it had its benefits. The gig came with an office and a personal assistant, because I loathed paperwork.

I turned around to walk into my office, and Diana was at her desk talking on the phone, probably long distance. I walked by her; she hung up the phone abruptly and blurted, Good morning, Detective Rio.

I stopped outside my door, glared at her, and said, Call me, Jon.

I wasn’t a big fan of formality; I think Diana used the title just to tick me off. I forced down a sip of Diana’s coffee and let out a blah with the crinkled face to match. I whispered under my breath, God, this is awful.

Did you cut yourself shaving again? she asked, pointing to my chin.

She also brought up stupid stuff that wasn’t her business.

Yeah, I’ve got to buy a new brand, I said, touching the dried scar on my chin.

Thirty years old and I still cut myself shaving. I blame the sleepless nights. Five years of nightmares, and I was debating dyeing out the premature grey.

I shut my door, crossed to my desk, and sank into my chair. I waited for that first call of the day, and for my partner to show up.

Things have sure been slow lately, I said to myself.

Knock on wood, I thought.

I heard Diana say hello to Trevor before he slid into my office, shutting the door behind him. His unprofessionally long blonde hair hung in his eyes and he was wearing the usual perfectly ironed gray pants and trench coat. It must be lucky to be married to Nancy. As usual, he got in the first word, Did you try Diana’s coffee yet? Is she trying to poison us or something? This is worse than yesterday’s.

I think it is yesterday’s, I answered.

Yeah, I know that she’s a good secretary and that we need one, but making a decent cup of coffee is one of the main requirements of a secretary.

I know. I know. I keep telling her it’s awful, but I think she takes it as a joke.

Well, one of us needs to say something, I’m sick of sneaking in gourmet coffee every day. That shit gets expensive.

Ro-Sham-Bo, loser goes out there and tells her what’s up, I suggested and Trevor agreed. Though we were in our early thirties, we tried to stay as youthful as possible, even if they were lame attempts.

In these situations, Trevor always used rock, so I would counter with paper.

One... two... three, we said in unison. I showed my confident paper, ready to boot him out the door. I glanced at him, and he had a goofy grin on his face. I looked down and saw his scissors.

The motherfucker had picked scissors.

Dumb shit, you always choose paper, he said, as he opened the door for me.

Diana was on the phone again, so I decided to stand in front of her desk till she got the hint. She looked at me and held up one finger, a silent request for more time.

She hung up the phone, and before I could get a word in, she tossed me the keys to my precinct-issued sedan, There was a pretty gruesome murder on Main Street; better get there ASAP.

I kicked open my office door, Hey, Trevor, I said, wiggling my keys.

Let me guess, our Friday just started to suck.

Chapter 3 (The Truck)

Detective Jon Rio

We arrived at the scene at 6:25 a.m. A crowd had already gathered, people standing around wanting to see why there were so many cop cars clogging their streets. I don’t think they much liked the barricades and yellow tape blocking off a city block, either. Trevor and I fought through the crowd flashing our detective badges. As we crouched under the barricade, the patrolman on duty pointed us in the direction of the crime.

Fuck you pigs! A spic cop has no place here! someone in the crowd shouted. It still surprised me that in today’s diverse communities somebody could be dumb enough to yell racist remarks. Even if it was just to get a rise out of me.

My partner and I gave each other the glare, and we both pulled out our pistols. We twirled around and pointed our side arms toward the people. As the crowd dived on the ground, or just stood in horror, we spread our arms out and bowed for the people. The patrolman shook his head in embarrassment. We kept walking down the block toward the crime scene.

That sure shut them up, I said

It always does, Trevor said.

I wonder how much trouble we’re going to get into this time.

Trevor shrugged. Maybe no one will report it.

Did you see how many people were there? I highly doubt that no one’s going to bitch. Pull your head out. Maybe we’ll get famous on Youtube. I laughed, as we wrapped around the corner. Our laughter quickly turned into a gag reflex as we saw the blood-covered windows of a blue truck.

I ripped the handkerchief out of my breast pocket and covered my mouth. I glanced at Trevor who had done the same. We were expecting it to be messy and smelly, but it had been a while since I’d seen a crime scene like this.

Has anything been touched? I asked the rookie cop.

He looked to be no more than twenty years old and was extremely pale in the face.

Not a thing has been touched, sir. The man who found it didn’t touch anything, he said.

Now I knew he was a rookie; only they called me sir. Everybody else knew better. His face turned kind of a greenish hue, and I jumped back knowing what was coming. He jerked his hand to his mouth, knelt down, and vomited, mere inches from my nice leather shoes.

Did I see green beans? I swear I saw green beans in there, Trevor said snidely.

Don’t be an ass, Banks. Don’t you remember when you were a newbie, because I remember you puked our first murder case, I snapped back at him. He stood in silence, embarrassed.

What’s your name rookie? I asked, as I patted him on the back.

B... ill Werser.

Well, Billy, you can go and take a break. We got it from here.

No, no, no, I’m okay, plus it’s my job to make sure no civilians catch a look at this.

All right, that’s your choice, I said. I was happy to hear that; at least he wasn’t a complete pussy. He had some promise as a cop.

I turned to Trevor. You check the driver’s side; I’ll check the passenger.

How come I always get the shitty side? he whined.

Seniority.

The back window was caked with thick red blood. All I could think was, thank God, it’s all contained in the vehicle. I couldn’t see inside the truck from the back. It was like looking through a filter of red. I walked up to the side window and jumped back in gruesome horror. A woman’s decrepit scarred face was pressed up against the web-cracked glass. Just by looking at her face I could see several entrance wounds from a knife: neck, cheek, forehead. There was probably one in the top of the skull because of all the bloody blonde hair.

This chick’s been mangled to hell, Trevor yelled over the hood of the truck. There’s blood everywhere.

Since he could obviously see into the truck from his side, I decided to walk around the front of the truck to the driver’s side. As I made my way, I tried to look into the truck from the front windshield, no luck. I knelt down to write down the license plate number. It was an in-state plate: JRS-TRN. I continued to walk around looking at the ground. I found a thick pile of vomit on the ground. It looked like someone had stepped in it.

Hey, Billy, you didn’t happen to puke before we got here, did you? I yelled down the alley.

No, sir.

Hey, Banks, get over here, I said, still standing over the smelly pile.

Wait a minute, he said, as he took his sweet time.

What do you see here? I asked.

It looks like our weekend going down the shitter, he said.

I raised an eyebrow, and he sighed.

It looks like a pile of puke with a footprint in it.

Do you notice anything else about the footprint?

Yeah, it’s a huge foot, at least size fourteen.

This could have been left by the killer, because I highly doubt our rookie friend left a size fourteen footprint, I added.

We both followed where the footprint seemed to be pointing. There was a ladder with blood on it leading up to the top of the nearby seven-story apartment building.

Looks like we have our killer’s escape route. Maybe this’ll be an easy one, Trevor said gladly.

I was hoping he was right, because then this would have been a quick case. I knew deep down in my gut, however, that he was wrong and that this was going to get us nowhere.

Chapter 4 (Breadcrumbs)

Detective Jon Rio

We followed the blood up to the roof, where there was a trail leading to a door. The door led inside the building. This was too easy. This was sloppy. I didn’t like it. The way the girl had been murdered screamed out not a crime of passion, but something worse, much worse. I felt like we were being led, and we had no choice but to follow the breadcrumbs.

Banks and I drew our guns when we saw where the blood was taking us. We opened the heavy door, peeked in, and saw that the trail went down the stairs. It became hard to see the blood due to the fact it had been absorbed into the already dirty carpet. We made our way downstairs to the fifth floor, where the trail continued down the hallway. The blood led us to room 522.

Hey, Rio, it looks like he went in here, Banks told me in a sharp whisper.

I put my ear against the door.

I don’t hear anything, I whispered to my partner.

Good, he’s sleeping. I’m going to get the landlord, so he can let us in, and we can get this bag of shit without conflict.

As I waited for Banks to return, I continued to listen at the door of room 522, still nothing. I heard someone running down the stairs from which Banks and I had come. Was our murderer not even home? Of course, he’s not home; it’s never that easy. That would have explained why it was so quiet inside. I readied my gun and wiped the sweat from my forehead. The stomping footsteps were getting faster and closer with every second. I ran to the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him. I could catch the killer on his way back to his apartment; hopefully, he’d put up a fight, and I’d get to shoot this sicko. The stomping stopped right above me. I looked up and saw a man vaulting the railing and lunging right for me.

Chapter 5 (Room 522)

Detective Jon Rio

I’m so sorry, Detective Rio, Billy Werser the rookie said, as he had me pinned under him. He got off of me and helped me to my feet.

What the hell are you doing in here? I whispered harshly, still tense from my interceptive attitude just moments before.

Sir, I saw you and Detective Banks go up to the roof. You guys drew your guns so I figured I’d come help you. You know, cover your six.

Well, you’re here now, might as well stick around and help us get this guy.

Where’s Detective Banks? Werser asked.

He’s finding the landlord so we can sneak in, making this a less volatile takedown.

I looked down the hallway and saw Trevor walking down the hall with a short, fat man he’d obviously had to pull out of bed. He wore a wife beater and briefs. He was not a pretty sight. I felt like telling him to go back to his room and put some clothes on, but we didn’t have time for that.

Don’t you need a warrant for this? Billy asked me, as we moved toward Banks.

Did you see the blood as you came in? That’s probable cause, and plus we need to get him now.

What’s he doing here? Trevor asked, nodding toward the rookie.

He followed us in, like a lost puppy, thinking we needed back up, I joked.

The landlord unlocked the door and walked away without saying a word. It must be pretty common for him to have to unlock doors for the police; this was the slum of the city, after all.

I went in first because I was the best shot, then Trevor, and Billy brought up the rear. We stood quietly in the living room and looked at the blood that led to the only door off to our right. I put my ear against the door and listened for noise, again nothing. I opened the door and felt cool breeze brush up against me. I quickly entered, gun drawn, ready to shoot anything that moved. I relaxed my gun at the sight before us. A black man was nailed to the wall by a switchblade going through his left shoulder; his throat had been slit.

I glanced around the room. The blood trail had stopped at the door. The only other trace of blood was the pool of blood under our second victim. I looked out the open window. Our trail of breadcrumbs was over. We found what we were meant to find.

Chapter 6 (Autopsy)

Detective Jon Rio

She was stabbed what looks like sixty-seven times, but with that many they might have overlapped, Doctor Winston explained.

We are looking for one sick fuck, Jon, my partner said morbidly.

I know, Trevor. I don’t know why he was telling me that. I knew we were looking for a psychotic the moment I saw the blood-soaked truck.

What’s her name, Smokey? Banks asked.

We’d given the medical examiner the nickname years before. He’d been doing autopsies for us a long time. He didn’t actually smoke, but his last name was Winston. It only seemed appropriate.

I doubt anybody could make a positive ID until I clean her up. I found a license in her purse that says her name was Julianne Peterson.

From what I could tell, she had been wearing a white fishnet shirt, an orange bra, and a black leather miniskirt. I’d love to say it looked good on her, but I really wasn’t a fan of jigsaw puzzles, and I wasn’t going to put her back together. By her attire, I knew she was a hooker. If you were going to kill somebody, then a hooker was the way to go. They usually didn’t go by their real names, and a lot of times they were runaways so no one really knew them.

Anything else you can tell us about her? I asked.

"I found cocaine in her nasal passage, which means she imbibed probably right before she was killed, and I didn’t find any in her purse.

So the killer must have given her the coke. Why would someone give coke to a person they were just going to kill anyway? I thought out loud.

Maybe to get her to relax and lower her guard, Banks suggested.

Why was she murdered? Did she know something? Piss off her pimp? Bad drug deal?

Dr. Winston walked over to the other body and pulled the cloth off of his head.

His name was Henry Hollow, and I found quite a bit of drugs in his system, heroin and some acid. He has some abrasions on his chest and lower jaw. It looks like he took a punch in the chest and that broke his second and third ribs on his left side. If you look at the bruises under his chin, it appears he was picked up by the throat, and then it was slit. Then he was stabbed into the wall, Smokey said.

Well, this is going to be an easy profile. Really large man with at least size fourteen feet, and stronger than an ox, Banks said sarcastically.

Though I chuckled at Trevor’s funny yet eerie profile, I still couldn’t help but think about the fact that he was right. To be able to pick up a man with one hand and slit his throat with the other, then stab the body with enough force to pierce through a shoulder blade, you’d have to be very strong. With size fourteen feet, we were probably looking for an extremely tall man, at least six-three.

I also had something else on my mind that still had me stumped. Why was Julianne murdered so savagely, while Henry’s murder was much more precise and clean?

Were these murders done by the same guy? I asked, even though I knew the answer.

Most definitely, I found a piece of metal embedded in Julianne’s forehead, and it matched up with the blade stuck in Henry. And there’s another thing, I found some stomach excretion along the lips and inner mouth of Mr. Hollow.

So he’s the one who vomited outside the truck, Trevor said, beating me to the punch.

Henry was in the wrong place at the wrong time and witnessed Julianne being killed. The murderer must have seen him and chased him back to his apartment, I speculated. The hooker was a planned killing, and Mr. Hollow was killed out of necessity. That explains why the murders were so different—she was killed out of rage and passion, and he was killed because there couldn’t be a witness.

Banks and I both knew what we needed