A Wicked Haven Read online

  BARRY SMITH

  This book is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Barry Smith

  My next chapter begins on the other side of the nation,

  A city in healing from its dark reputation.

  Crime and prostitution are at an all-time low,

  New Religion and Power brought hope to bestow,

  Downtown’s been renovated, all futuristically lit,

  But don’t be fooled by sugar on shit;

  I can smell shit early, no job transfer is that fast

  If it’s a city of hope, we’ll see if it last.

  But who am I to talk, if I recall,

  A sex addict husband caught in a menajah-for-all,

  The timing is perfect, it’s change that I need

  Escaping the Ex that had me thick in the weeds.

  No more exhausting visits down to City Hall,

  The divorce is now final, for once and for all.

  As I pull into the city where the sun never shines,

  Like a solar eclipse that’s forever aligned,

  I’m reminded of my Ex passing another city hall,

  But a man on the great steps seems to speak for them all.

  He speaks of this hope that will show us the way,

  So I’ll pledge my allegiance to Corbindale Bay.

  Prologue

  It is another dark morning in Corbindale Bay. For most of the nation, it is summer, but a season for fun in the sun is something unheard of in this town. But today is special. The usual overcast seems a little brighter than most days, and there is a positive energy in the air.

  The city residents seem to share this positive energy, for many are gathered at the steps of the City Hall to hear the newly elected Commissioner, Luke Munson, speak. The dark-haired, middle-aged African-American man, dressed in a three-piece dark blue suit, soon make his way to the podium bearing the city’s coat of arms that stood in the foreground, atop the flight of stairs. Standing behind him, are rows and rows of government officials and leaders of a religious movement, who goes by the name, ‘Disciples of Zion’; all of whom ceased their side-talk as Munson begins his speech:

  “Today, a new era has been born; an era which aims to lift our beleaguered city, and liberate her from several decades of misdeeds that besmirched her reputation. All those you see before you; with our combined efforts, we will rise from the ashes of transgression, and restore honor to our great city, Corbindale Bay.

  Several hours later, when the crowds at the City Hall have long, since been dispersed, and the moon has taken over the sky, a lady to the East of the city- comes out of her apartment, in search of her cat. After minutes of futile searching, she finally hears its meows coming from an alley that is devoid of all light.

  “Keira! Come inside baby; it’s time for dinner.”

  Her words seem to push the cat further into the darkness, as its meows become more and more distant.

  “Come on, Keira! Don’t make me come in there,” she pleads and cajoles, but to no avail.

  “Okay, you win,” mutters the lady under her breath, as she crosses to the other side of the road and feels her way through the dark alley. After seemingly endless groping about, she finally finds her cat sitting underneath a broken and flickering lamp, licking its paws.

  “Here baby!” are her words, as she reaches for Keira with outstretched arms.

  “Let Momma get you out of this freaky place.”

  She picks up her feline friend eagerly, turns, and makes a beeline for her apartment’s door. Navigation in the dark is far easier on her return journey, as her eyes have acclimatized to the dark. As she moves, she plays with her cat by tickling its belly and brushing her chin against its furry head; the cat purrs in delight. But this show of affection is soon brought to a halt as the lady in question raises her head, and sees a sight in front of her door that made her stop dead in her tracks.

  It is a man, or rather, the semblance of a man, standing with a bowed head, completely still, on the other side of the road, blocking the entrance into her apartment. Its head is bowed, hooded too. It has no face; if it did, then it is well masked. The slight wind that blows carries an unfamiliar clinking of metal against metal.

  Chains, maybe?

  She wasn’t sure.

  After seconds of nervous staring, the lady manages to find her voice, and calls out to the figure in unsteady words:

  “H…Hello, may I he..help yo..uu?”

  She elicits no response from the stranger, an inaction which increases the pace of her already wildly, beating heart. With the compelling power of fear overwhelming her senses, she manages to make a second attempt for a response:

  “A..Are you lo..lost? Are you lo..oking for som..eone?”

  The second response is met with even less success than the first. The lady then concludes in her mind, that whoever the newcomer is, he is up to no good, and that it will do her more good than ill to get, as far away as possible, from him.

  She steps out of the shadows and makes a left turn; hurriedly walking in the direction of the nearest police station. She has walked a few steps when something, sharp and pointy, sliced through the air in front of her, barely missing the tip of her nose. The flying object is then, stopped by the wooden fence that stood in its path, embedding itself into it in the process, and it is only then, did it reveal itself.

  A kitchen knife.

  The lady, with one hand cradling her cat and the other cupping her nose, stares on in horror, as the realization of her predicament dawns on her. With one, prolonged shrill scream that rent through the stillness of the night, she turns, and races back down the dark alley she has just emerged from.

  As she runs, she hears footsteps thundering behind her, getting closer and closer, with each step taken. In order to put more distance between her and her attacker, she hastily crouches, while running blind in the dark, and gently urges her cat out of her arms.

  Free of her burden, she resumes running, only to be snatched by her hair, completely terminating her momentum. Soon, a heavy musk, of bleach and death, envelopes her. The last she saw is an arm wrap itself around her neck, and the glint of a knife in the light, as it slashes her throat open.

  Chapter 1

  Corbindale Bay.

  A city built on the coastline, several decades old and with a population of hundreds of thousands. Such a number will suggest it always bustled with activity, and indeed it did, around the clock; with its streets and buildings playing host to one form of activity or the other.

  The Corbindale Bay Police Department is no exception, especially on this particular Monday morning, as its corridors is a sea of heads. The reception is particularly rowdy as dissatisfied citizens, in an unruly manner, lodge their complaints at the front desk where an officer contended with the crowd.

  The main doors swing open and in comes two officers returning from a crime scene. One bore a file bearing pictures and other relevant documentation, while the other begins to pave a path for himself and his colleague within the agglomeration of angry citizens. Having sifted through the crowd, they then begin to their course through the station’s chaotic corridors, towards the police captain’s office, to file their report.

  Several minutes and a knock later, both officers walk into the captain’s office to find him barking orders into his office landline:

  “…and make sure you nail a good number of those InfliXion thugs. I would love to make an example of those septic sacks of shit,” and with that, he brings down the phone’s receiver with a loud bang.

  “Brown! Davidson! You’d bette
r have a good reason for barging in my office this damn morning,” says the ill-tempered man, with a scowl visibly written across his face.

  Lloyd McCormack is a man in his late fifties, white and with absolutely no hair on his scalp; a feature common to all who had spent the number of years that Lloyd had in the force. In his days as a lowly officer, his distaste for the putrescence that had eaten deep into the police force, and his personal efforts to combat it, caught Commissioner Munson’s eye, who later elevated him to the position of Captain, an appointment that helped him further reform the then, morally degenerated Corbindale Bay Police Department.

  “Yes Sir!” replies Officer Davidson, presenting the file he held.

  “We just returned from a crime scene on 52nd Avenue. It seems like the serial killer struck again. The victim was a brunette, whose throat and abdomen were slashed open, just like those who preceded her; and then, she was disemboweled. We found her cat nearby; the poor thing was feeding on some of her organs. This time, the lunatic left her dead body on the roof of a parked car and then, rearranged her entrails in the shape of a number on the hood.”

  “Just like the others?” questions Captain McCormack, as he flips through the file.

  “Just like the others.” Brown responds. “Cap, I think we need to put more focus on this case; this is the third victim now, and with the media blowing things out of proportion, people are getting scared.”

  The Captain paused, for a few seconds, before reaching for the phone sitting on his desk. In rapid succession, he punches in the number for an office within the building, and brought the receiver to his ear. On being answered, he barked into the phone again:

  “Monica! When does that damn new detective get here?”

  ***

  Out in front of the very same building, a patrol vehicle rolls to a stop, and from the passenger side, alights the newly transferred police detective, Ryan Swett. Swett is a handsome man in his late thirties. His two-piece suit clings tightly onto his moderately toned body, while his right hand is holding a briefcase. Ever since he cracked the infamous Penny Lane Phantom’s case, the name, Ryan Swett, became a name of fame, almost overnight, especially within the force. But the face behind the name has always remained shielded from the public, to protect his identity, especially as he is being transferred. Not that he minded anyway. With no wife or kids, the department could have been located in the Arctic; he couldn’t care less.

  “She may be old, but the Corbindale Bay Police Department never ceases to impress, doesn’t she?” asked a voice interrupting his thoughts. It’s the officer who had driven him from the airport.

  “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m particularly loving the …”

  A crackle from the speaker, sitting on the young officer’s shoulder, interrupts Ryan, yet again.

  “Unit 1-L-23, this is dispatch. We got a 10-57 on the corner of 13th and Meyer, 4697 Meyer Road. Kindly check it out. Over!”

  The officer, in response to the metallic voice, brings the black box closer to his mouth and said:

  “Dispatch, this is unit 1-L-23. I am in route now.”

  “Sorry, Detective. Will love to show you the lay of the land, particularly the white, bald, hard-ass that is our Captain but, duty calls. It was an honor meeting the fabled Ryan Swett in the flesh though,” and with those words, he steals a handshake from Ryan, jumps back into the driver’s seat, and zooms off with the vehicle’s sirens blaring.

  Ryan stares for a moment, as the car recedes from sight before turning and marching into the building. At the reception, he is greeted with a riotous crowd, with citizens angrily shouting:

  “I refuse to pay this ticket,” shouts a lady.

  Followed by a gentleman, “My girl’s been missing for two weeks.”

  Another man adds, “What do we pay the police for?”

  “What the hell is happening?” thinks Ryan, as he edges his way through the crowd to the front desk, where he sees three officers futilely trying to placate the crowd.

  “Excuse me, Officer! I..” begins Ryan, after being elbowed and kneed in several places by the crowd.

  “Get back, Sir!” says the officer, cutting him off. “The Department’s doing all it can to handle your requests. Please fill out a report, and we will be with you momentarily.”

  “But…” continues Ryan.

  “Sir, wait for your turn!”

  Ryan leans over the counter to be discrete, and whispers harshly to the officer, “Listen, Mouth-Breather!” demands Ryan, instantly switching moods. “I am Detective Ryan Swett, and I am not part of this scene out here. I have just been transferred, and I’m here to see Captain McCormack!”

  “Ryan Swett? As in the ‘Penny Lane Phantom Ryan Swett’? I am so sorry,” apologizes the brown-eyed male officer. “This way, please; Captain McCormack’s been expecting you.”

  He steps out from behind the desk and leads Ryan away from the crowd, up a flight of stairs, all the while, still apologizing. They had just turned off the landing when the officer spotted the Captain leaving his office.

  “Hey, Cap!” he calls out, “Guess who finally arrived?”

  “Well, it’s about fuckin time! It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” replies McCormack. “You’re dismissed officer.”

  Ryan thanks the officer, and apologizes for his outburst earlier.

  “No worries, I have tough skin,” replies the officer, as he walks away.

  “You know they do have those breathing strips if you want to fix that,” hollers Ryan, as the officer turns the corner.

  Minutes later, Captain McCormack was leading Ryan through a maze of cubicles, towards his office.

  “I’ll be putting you to work immediately, Swett!” begins the Captain.

  “Jeez!” thinks Ryan, “He really is a bald, white hard-ass.”

  “We’ve got a ton of cases that could use your genius, especially on the ‘Missing Persons’ cases,” continues McCormack. “As you can tell by the lobby, we have our hands full, and we need help.”

  “Yes, I would say you do, and I’m up for the challenge.”

  “Here we are,”shouts McCormack.

  They stop at a corner office. The door to the office has a frosted glass window with the title, ‘Police Detective’, which McCormack opens inward, as he steps into the office.

  “This right here, Swett, is your office. Probably not as fancy as your last, but we made some improvements so it’s just as adequate.”

  Ryan spins around slowly, taking in all the room had to offer. Inside, to the left of the door, is a large floor to ceiling window with three panes, each pane have blinds that peer out to Corbindale Bay’s skyline; behind the desk is a strange wall, majority black that stick out like a sore thumb since all the other walls are of a blue stripe wallpaper. The lone desk, in the room, carries files in multiple stacks several feet high. In front of it, are two

  chairs and behind it, another for the newly transferred detective. Ryan finds the décor confusing, with its mix of modern technology and antique furniture. He hadn’t seen a phone and lamp like that since seeing old pictures of his grandfather’s days as a detective.

  “What the hell!” exclaims Ryan, as his eyes come to rest on the towering stack of case files.

  “It looks daunting, yes; but you have my word that you will have all the resources you require to tackle the cases assigned to you,” the Captain assures.

  “Let me first begin by introducing you to Gloria,” McCormack speaks, while moving over to the wall behind the desk. Ryan glance at the door, expecting a lady to walk in when McCormack broke into his thoughts:

  “Over here, Swett! Gloria’s not a woman.”

  Ryan’s gaze follows the Captain’s voice, only to find the initially black wall behind him come to life, with a singular horizontal line across, pulsating with every word spoken, almost like an ECG machine.

  “Hi, I’m Gloria, your voice-controlled personal assistant.”

  “Great! A wall that talks,” says Ryan, with mil
d sarcasm, “What else you got for me, Cap?”

  McCormack, with a smile, and one hand waving Ryan aside, continues:

  “We just had this wonder installed after the last detective that used to occupy this office. Gloria here, is capable of a ton of things; she even has a smart memory sequence that adapts to your personality.”

  “That’s impressive,” remarks Ryan, “but I’m guessing that having a smart computer could only mean I get an increase in the number of cases that will be assigned to me, and that they will be, most likely, high-profile.”

  “Perceptive. I like that. I now see why Munson wanted you transferred here by all means,” grins McCormack, as he turns to Gloria and asks her to pull up the cases Ryan would begin work on.

  The wall first went dark before flickering back on with a display of three ladies, a map of the city with three pinpointed locations, and gory pictures of human insides.

  “My goodness!” exclaims Ryan, while making a conscious effort to keep his breakfast down.

  “Sickening, right? What you are staring at, are the victims of a serial killer, who the press has dubbed ‘The Numerical Slasher’. Fucker ambushes his victims, slits their throats, and then their stomachs, disembowels them, and then arranges their intestines in a random number.”

  “That’s just twisted,” opines Ryan.

  “Tell me about it,” replies McCormack, before pausing to stare at the images Gloria flipped through, on her screen.

  “Well, that’s for you to figure out!” announces the Captain, after breaking from his reverie.

  “The other case you will be working on is bordered on the death of Niall Pinkerton, the detective you can say you are ‘replacing’. Before his demise, he was assigned to investigate possible prostitution within a business venture that has been on our radar, for a while now, namely, ‘A Wicked Haven’. Things were running smoothly at first but one night, Niall never returned from an undercover assignment there; and a few days later, his charred remains arrived at the doorsteps of his family’s home. His position has been vacant ever since, and his murder is yet to be solved.”