The Twister

Jim Malloy

Description

Dead women were popping up all over in a very strange way. They were left posed on their side, fully clothed, hands clasped in prayer, and legs bent as if kneeling. The weird part though, was their head was twisted clear around so they appeared to be looking backwards, which was impossible because their eyeballs were plucked out and stuffed in their mouths.
At the same time, a stiff was found hanging in the park. A ritual sacrifice complete with incense, a dead dog, and weird cult scratchings in the ground.
The special detective unit, dubbed the “Doom” squad, was stumped. The killer, described as a giant, a Goliath, should stick out like a sore thumb. And what the hell did three witches have to do with anything not counting a weird root called the “Mandrake”?
And how the hell did the bible legend of David slaying Goliath fit?
Their leader, Sgt. Jack Delaney, “Micky” for short, was ticked off over the whole mess and wanted answers.

Sujets

• Hard-Boiled
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 15 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669848912
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The Twister
 
A SGT. DELANEY “DOOM SQUAD” NOVEL
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Jim Malloy
 
Copyright © 2022 by Jim Malloy.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2022917871
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-4893-6

Softcover
978-1-6698-4892-9

eBook
978-1-6698-4891-2
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 11/14/2022
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
 
828791
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilog
 
To: Robert Smith . . . for finally figuring it out.
 
Although the actions of law enforcement in this book are fiction, at some level, I’m sure, those not in law enforcement believe that is the way it is and to those in law enforcement, at some level, I’m sure, wish that it was.
 
A special thanks to Paul and Martha Strifler for their advice and editing
to make the book look like I knew what I was doing.
 
BOOKS BY JIM MALLOY
 
Historical Adventure
Raptor’s Revenge
 
Hardboiled Detective
Lollipop Murders
Death Whispers
Die, Mother Goose, Die
The Twister
Snake Bite
 
Jimmalloy-author.com
 
DEATH
I fear the aloneness of life for
I reckon it with death.
My spirit afloat in an eternal void
with other flitting specks,
never to touch.
 
I envy those with their sureness
and dream I might be the same.
I pray with a tiny hope
of a joyous life with a fellow spirit.
But then, POOF, I feel dread and doubt
with anguish, I might stand alone.
 
My shell portrays indifference
but my essence soaks in terror,
for I forever need a caring soul.
For without, I am empty and afraid.
 
So, I battle furiously and curse my cowardice,
so that my life is not death
and my death not life.
For I have no faith.

CHAPTER 1
S HE FELT SOFT beneath him. He liked that. Her warm wetness hugging his member felt good. He liked that too. He cupped her face with his thick hands and looked at the fear in her eyes. He really liked that. Then, at the peak of his passion and sudden release, he snapped her head and listened to the crack of her neck. He liked that the very best.
After her body shuddered its last, he rested, just for a second on top of her still form, hating to leave the softness. But then, fear of discovery and what he had done flowed through him and he jumped to his feet, glancing around. The still night, black as sin, hid him like a blanket as he squinted against it, tuned for any sound. He smiled. Nothing but night crickets and moths attacking a distant lamp post broke the silence.
He bent down, gently twisting her limp body, posing her. He had to. It meant nothing if he didn’t. Without thought, he kneeled and pulled a yellow pencil from his pocket, snapped it in two, and jammed them in her ears. Then, he put the tip of his thumbs in the corner of her eyes by her nose and with a push and twist, popped her eye balls out.
Holding the spongy orbs, he smiled, forced her jaw open, and dropped the bloody balls in her mouth like fresh Maraschino cherries.
Standing, he checked to make sure she lay just right. Satisfied, he zipped up his pants and strolled away without a backward glance.

CHAPTER 2
A T ZERO SEVEN fifty hours, Sergeant Jack Delaney was plopped back in his swivel with his feet, one hooked over the other, propped up on the edge of the desk. He was enjoying some rare quiet time as he browsed through the Post-Dispatch. He took note that Cynthia, the paper’s top crime reporter and his nemesis, was scratching for news. Her article on shoplifting needed help big time. Thank you, God.
With a flush of satisfaction knowing her reporter life was in the crapper, he turned to the sports section. His life, on the other hand, along with his crew, had been cool and calm since the “Mother Goose” series. He wondered how long it would last. He snickered at the headline announcing the Cardinals finally won one as he heard his troops tromp into the squad room.
His office, in the corner, was glassed from the hip up allowing him to keep an eye on the seven detectives that made up the special unit dubbed the Doom squad. It was so named because they handled the groaners , the cases that were hot potatoes, the messy ones that were complicated, time consuming, and politically sensitive.
He smirked hearing the start of the morning bull shit.
“Hey Kraut, you get laid this weekend? Yer walkin funny,” Breed quipped. “Naw, I got sunburned legs.”
“Dip shit fell asleep in the boat, fishing,” Grezer finked.
“If you were black, ya wouldn’t have that problem,” Spook put in.
Spook was the only Negro on the squad. A prior project dweller, his Christian name was Thomas Jefferson (no kin). He stood six-two and built on the thin side. Caramel colored, a cop for fifteen years, he sported broad shoulders and skinny ass. An Olympic sprinter with a couple bronzes to prove it, he earned his seat on the team by taking down a cop killer.
“Say,” Dago piped in. “If I was a black, I could get some of that chocolate pussy, right?”
Dago, short for Anthony (Tony) Angelo, hailed from the local Mafia family and was one of a handful of wops on the department. Most wise guys, full of piss and vinegar, became a mutt for the mob dreaming for the big time.
He topped out at five-ten, one-eighty-five with a perpetual five o’clock shadow. With dark, bad boy looks, Hollywood pretty boys had nothing on him and he knew it. If he could sing “Blue Swede Shoes”, Elvis would be selling newspapers. Girls got wet, shedding their skivvies just looking at him. He won his seat by busting up a heroin ring.
“You kidden’, you pencil dick wop,” Spook shot back. “You need a nigger size cock to match.”
“You ever do a white broad, Spook?” Kraut asked.
Kraut, alias for Karl Shultz, almost had to turn sideways walking through a doorway. With a melon slick chrome dome, he was top heavy with a barrel chest. If King Kong was hairless, he’d be his twin. He spoke German and his Heinie blood gave him a mind like a steel trap. He turned down Army Intelligence to fight with the ground pounders on their march to Berlin. His fellow countryman, Adolph, really pissed him off and he took it personal.
“Too many to count,” Spook smirked.
“They just do blondes,” Grezer added. “Doin’ a blonde split tail is like drivin’ a Cadillac, right Spook?”
“Hey, I’m just doin’ my duty showing those poor white girls what their missin’.”
“What about Puerto Rican broads?” Grezer asked.
Grezer, legal name Raul Ramairez, was the resident spick, worked undercover a lot. Looked like a squirrelly sneak. He touched the minimum height at five-nine with some help from shoe lifts and walked stooped on purpose to look shifty. A real scrapper, his nose looked like a snake trail. He won his chair by busting up a human smuggling ring plus winning a gunfight with two coyotes trying to stop him.
“Makes no difference,” Spook declared with pride. “Once they go black, they don’t go back.”
With that, he sat down with a fake air of confidence knowing he had them guessing. Their wheels were turning, weighing the truth of his comments. What he failed to mention was that he didn’t get laid over the weekend either.
“Hey Kraut,” Breed said. “How about those Cards? They finally won one, six to three.”
Kraut grunted. “They were just lucky.”
“Cheeks, how come you got that shit-eatin’ grin on your face?”
Cheeks, with chalk-white Nordic skin, flushed cherry red.
“Well, Pam told me to keep it a secret, but what the hell, . . . we’re having a kid.”
The whole room fell silent except for Dago. “You’re havin’ a Billy goat?”
“No, smart ass, a baby kid.”
“Well, it couldn’t be full grown. Those horns would really hurt comin, out.”
Cheeks groane