Heartless

By Danny Falcone

A serial killer is on the loose in New York City. He frequents busy night clubs and undermines his female victims using a soft, unassuming approach that allows them to drop their guard, where he lures them to his killing field. After cutting their throats, he removes their hearts as a personal keepsake.

Detective JOHN PATRICK R

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arthur Ave Publishing
• Release date: Jun 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955243377

Danny Falcone

Danny is a sober active member of Alcoholics Anonymous & Cocaine Anonymous since 11/21/91. He is a well-known circuit speaker and has traveled all over the world for the past 20 years. Danny speaks at conventions and does workshops for thousands of people each year. His passion for recovery and the Big Book is well known throughout the AA world. Danny is also a published author of four fiction novels. His books are available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

The normal city clatter was absent—the still of night screamed its quietness. He wondered if The Voice had gone. Just as he doubted the possibility…it came back…strong and soothing…calm and collected. It reassured him. It comforted him.

He whispered to no one, I’m ready! and turned his attention back to the bar.

The chilly night air mingled with darkness. Black clouds hung heavily, veiling any sight of stars. The wind played a soft tune as it whistled its way up through empty alleys and down deserted streets. He sat in his van watching—waiting. His eyes took in the surrounding area and settled on the entrance of the bar. He knew which one he wanted. He waited. She would be coming out soon enough and she would be alone. The Voice assured him of that.

It amazed him how he could scan the thoughts of his victims in a crowded room. How he could zero in on one calling to him. It happened for the first time eleven months ago. The first time confused him but then he understood the expectation that was put on him. Each time The Voice came back, it sounded clearer than before. How fortunate he felt, the feeling of being chosen to be especially blessed empowered him and fed the drive. He smiled.

He watched her exit the bar and turn left, walking toward Second Avenue. Pulling her sweater tight across her bosom, she buttoned it up against the chill of the cool breeze.

She hoped there would be cabs at the corner so she did not have to wait. What a wasted night; nothing but obnoxious men in there. Except for one good-looking man she met who then vanished without a trail. She was tired of waiting for the right man to pop up out of nowhere.

She almost made it to the corner and looked shocked when he appeared out of the shadows and surprised her.

Hey, you! I was trying to rush back so we could finish our talk.

Oh hi! She smiled. Her entire attitude changed. Maybe this wouldn’t be a wasted night after all.

Sorry it took me so long. Can I give you a ride? We can talk on the way.

That would be great. They crossed the street to his parked van. She felt happy and hopeful. Maybe this was it.

Now he heard The Voice distinctly, begging him to take her.

He opened the sliding door and helped her into the van and looked around his surroundings. Not a soul in sight. Jumping in behind her, he slid the door closed and sealed her fate.

Before she had time to react, he attacked her. Grabbing her hair, he violently pulled her head back toward him. In one smooth motion, he ran his serrated knife just below her chin and slit her throat from ear to ear. Blood spurted out with each beat of her heart. He needed to watch her and feel the blood splatter on his face. It happened. He liked the slippery spray and warm, pungent aroma. He licked his lip where a drop of blood had landed. He loved its taste.

The female did not resist death and her struggle ended quickly. He laid her lifeless body on the plastic sheet laid out earlier in the back. He admired her silk blouse, and with his serrated knife, he carefully popped each button off, one by one, exposing her bare chest. He looked at her, cocked his head to the side and grinned. He was now the surgeon, staring at his newest patient. He plunged the knife into her pinky flesh and cut out her heart.

Reaching into his pocket, he removed a baggie and placed the still-warm heart inside. Grabbing a towel from the center console, he wiped off his face and hands. Her blood was

everywhere and he reveled in it. After cleaning the seats, he removed the splatter off the windows and peeked around to ensure no one saw him or the horrific, delicious events that just occurred.

Getting behind the wheel, he drove the van down the dark alley where he dumped her body. The van took off unnoticed by a city of millions, a city where the Voice rendered him invisible amongst the crowd. He drove home and showered. Tomorrow, he would give the inside of the van an even better cleaning. Tonight, he planned to enjoy the excitement running through his body and renewing his power to want more blood—more of the kill. He nourished the awakening of the dormant beast.

Nearly a year ago, he carried out his first kill in an almost trance-like state. As it happened, he wasn’t fully aware of the situation. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience. That changed. By his third victim, he became fully conscious and yet it did not seem as if he did the deed himself. He felt more like a spectator and not the one actually doing it. His body definitely stayed active but not his mind …It’s as if another had taken over his physical movements to pull the strings and he only watched.

Gazing in the mirror, he realizes he is sick. He understands the truth: he is the Heartless serial killer who had the great City of New York gripped in sheer terror. Only he could not understand—How was he a serial killer?

He always considered himself a normal kind of guy. Well, almost anyway. He could not fathom doing this on his own without the Voice leading him to the notion of hurting another person physically, much less dismembering a human being! He didn’t know why he did it, but the bit of remaining sanity fought the devil in him. Bottom line—somewhere inside of him—he is the Heartless Maniac—and he cannot stop himself.

An even more frightening revelation… Did he really want to stop? He thought not. The Voice seemed to come more frequently these days. Death is the wooer, eradicating the crying souls and freeing the aching hearts. The Voice remained Master-of-All. It chose him to carry the message. It beckoned him with sublime divinity. Who was he not to answer such a power?

* * *

Homicide Detective John Patrick Ryan slept lightly most of the time. When the call came, he heard a bell ringing somewhere off in the distance while he ran through a tunnel chasing it in his dream. He kept running through tunnels chasing after the ringing noise when his eyes snapped open realizing the ringing sound to be his phone. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table noting the time—3:15 in the morning. He instinctively knew the news would be about the killer. Hello, he grumbled.

Detective? It’s Patrolman Waters. They told me to call you on this one. We got a body here on Eleventh Street, right off Second Avenue. Looks like that crazy Heartless guy again. Sorry to wake you.

Now wide awake, Ryan began barking orders at Waters. Okay, listen up. I don’t want anyone to touch or even go near the Vic. Waters, I’m holding you responsible. You keep that area clear. No forensics and no city morgue guys, got it? Don’t get pushed around by that coroner-owns-the-scene crap either. Got that? Okay, good. I’ll be right there. He jumped out of bed and dressed in under three minutes. After twelve years on the homicide squad, the late-night calls were quite normal.

While John Ryan stood of average height and weight, nothing else about him did. He was an exceptionally good-looking man and an extremely tough fighter. His salt and pepper hair gave him a sophisticated elder look, while his brilliant blue eyes had a youthfulness about them. Born and raised on the lower west side of Manhattan, in a neighborhood referred to as Hell’s Kitchen, John learned how to fight and survive the everyday horrors of the ghetto. It is a place where poverty named the laws of the street and oppression the wild cry of the man-made jungle. The forest of brick and concrete where pimps, gangsters and drug dealers roamed like hungry lions and preyed upon the innocent flock of humanity we righteously called civilization.

Growing up, John ran with a gang, most of whom are now dead or in prison. The infamous Irish Mafia commonly known as ‘The Westies’ were a bunch of the kids in John’s gang-days

as a youth. The only difference is he grew up and went straight and these guys did not; that is the thin line between good and evil, as John Patrick Ryan knows it today.

During the drive across town from his West Village studio apartment on Bleecker Street, John found himself consumed by this crazed killer. He believed this to be another of his murders. The count would now be six female bodies. Same M.O. on all the victims: throat slit open and heart cut out.

Ryan had been assigned to this case right after victim number three. Now, three bodies later, he wasn’t any closer to solving it than before. The truth was, he did not have a clue or even a lead to follow up. He needed a break in these cases—but something told him he would not get it with this victim either. He knew eventually a break would come, but he dreaded how many victims would surface before they could stop the psychopath. One thing was for sure, this maniac was not finished. In fact, Ryan believed he had just gotten started. And so with great apprehension, he drove towards Eleventh Street and the horrific aftermath of a demented mind that awaited him.

When he arrived, he parked and headed to the crime scene. Four patrol cars had already arrived. One look at the victim and he knew she was indeed number six. Ryan did a thorough search of the victim and the surrounding area. They found no clues. The forensic boys took the usual pictures and collected evidence. Maybe they could turn up something, but he did not have high hopes for them either.

Since he could be of no more help at the scene, he drove to headquarters at One Police Plaza. When he got to his desk, a message from Lieutenant Faulks waited for him. His commander wanted to see him in his office at 8:00 a.m. He looked at his watch. 4:45. Shit! Three hours… No sense in going back home. He figured he would go downstairs to lock-up, find an empty holding cell and stretch out on one of the benches for an hour so he still had plenty of time to prepare.

Sergeant Ryan believed in the law. The process of democracy works, and he was an advocate of letting it run its course. He tried never to get emotionally involved, though over the years a few cases did get the better of him. This was starting to be one of those cases.

Reflecting on this Heartless Maniac, he had mixed feelings. Bad thoughts were more like it. Ryan understood the system well enough to know when they caught the guy some sharp lawyer looking to make a name for himself or herself would land him in the nuthouse. He did not think he could swallow that ending with this maniac.

Having been close to a lot of murderers over the years working in homicide, this nut job without a doubt had to be the sickest individual he ever came across. The nuthouse is not a good answer but he did not want to become judge, jury, and executioner. He had to remember his role in this sad scenario. Stay professional and do his job, though the thought of taking out the sick bastard was quite appealing.

Ryan found an open cell and stretched out on the bench, but his mind stayed wide awake. No use trying to sleep when he was up for the day. He gave up the nap idea and went back to his desk to prepare his report for the lieutenant. What a joke that was going to be.

Eight o’clock came and went, but he did not get to see the lieutenant yet. By 9:30, Ryan had grown aggravated. He had more important things to do than wait for the lieutenant to call. Going back to check, they told him the lieutenant was still with the captain. Lieutenant Faulks had left word for him, once again, to wait at his desk. Now even more aggravated than before, Ryan walked back to his desk.

Finally, at 9:45, he was summoned. Lieutenant Raymond Faulks was an old warrior who had walked a beat in Brooklyn’s worst neighborhood for ten years. Vandalia and Van Siclen Avenues are where Raymond Faulks got his training. Working hard, he was rewarded with a nice office job to finish out his career. That was just the way he liked it. Being an enormous man, the Lieutenant topped off at six-foot-four. His legs, arms and hands violated normal size due to how huge they were. A crop of brilliant silver hair donned an above normal-sized head, accented by his bright blue eyes.

The Lieutenant wasted no time with apologies for the delay; instead, he got right to the business at hand.

John, we’re getting a lot of heat on this case. The captain has been on the phone all morning with the commissioner. We’re gonna assign twenty more men.

Thanks! That’ll give me twenty-five! Ryan responded sarcastically.

Now that you have twenty-five, make good use of them. We need to put a stop to all this craziness. We’re counting on you, John. Fill me in on where you’re at with this thing.

Lieutenant, I don’t have anything. Now that I have the manpower, I’m sure we’ll make some headway. When do I get my men?

Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, John. Take over the large conference room on the fourth floor as your command post. You can also use the entire south wing of offices on that floor. Whatever else you need just ask and you got it. I’ll be at your office at eight o’clock. I’m assuming you’ll be briefing the men at that time?

Yes, sir, I definitely will.

Thank you, John. You have a lot to do. I won’t keep you any longer.                      

Ryan put together what little data he had on the Heartless Maniac.

The next morning at eight a.m. sharp, the conference room was full and Ryan was ready to brief the troops. Looking around the room he saw only a few familiar faces; most of the officers he did not know. Here sat twenty-five men and women all dedicated to capturing this crazed killer. At this particular moment, with the same common bond, there seemed nothing much left except to get down and get busy.

Ryan ran his fingers through his graying hair which had turned color on him at an early age. He learned to live with it though he did not particularly like the grey. He just was never the superficial kind of guy who felt he needed to dye it. He shook his head as he remembered he needed to focus on what he was going to say next. He then cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. "Good morning. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Detective John Patrick Ryan. I will be heading this special task force. The evidence we have to this point adds up to a big fat zip. We do have DNA but no match for it.

"We have six murdered and dismembered females. Each one with their throat slit and hearts cut completely out of their bodies. We haven’t found any of the hearts, which seems to

imply he still has them. No need for me to add …we are dealing with a very sick mind—not a stupid one. Do you understand that? But extremely sick. He is a disturbed human being, to say the least. In every incident thus far, he has left not so much as a candy wrapper behind, let alone a fingerprint. We have no witnesses but we do have physical evidence I already mentioned, yet the DNA shows no matches on any of our search engines or the national engines."

So what are we going to do? asked a concerned voice from somewhere among the crowd of anxious officers.

We’ll go over what we do have and move on from there. Some good old-fashioned police work. Also, the department’s shrink, Dr. Bellagould, will give us a look at the mind of serial killers and answer your questions.

The first victim: Mary Turner, age twenty-five, occupation, secretary. Ryan looked up to see if he had everyone’s attention. They were taking notes and into the hunt. She was found on Sixty-First Street and York Avenue. From what we were able to gather, she had been in Chippendale’s nightclub shortly before her demise. Her credit card receipt found in her purse showed she paid for her own drinks. That was in February—eleven months ago.

He systematically listed the victims up to the latest two nights ago. "There are common denominators we’ll go over. Number one: every victim has been female. Two: their ages range between twenty-three and thirty-five. Three: the victims met up with the murderer at a nightclub either in Manhattan, Queens, or the Bronx.

Four: they were all attractive women so we assume the killer is an attractive man. The doctor will better explain that theory.

Let me remind you when I say the women were attractive, I do not mean they were similar. They were not the same height. They did not have the same color hair nor were they of the same skin color for that matter. They were just attractive, each in their own way. That’s about it for the common denominators.

He paused and shuffled through his papers. In two of the cases, a red or dark van was seen leaving or parked around the immediate area. May mean something or may not.

A voice from the group called out, Yeah, there’s only eight hundred thousand or so dark vans in the city. Shouldn’t be hard to catch this guy!

Ryan smiled. "That’s correct, but we’ll keep the thought just the same, thank you. Look, here is the breakdown as to vicinity. Four of the victims were murdered in Manhattan. The first, second, third, and sixth. Number four was in Queens and number five happened in the Bronx. Before we hear from the good doctor, I want everyone to know we’ll be working days and nights on this case. If that presents a personal problem, speak up. You won’t be seeing much family till this is