I’m continuing with the theme of sharing the first
segments of each story. Today it’s time to shift gears a little and introduce
you to Jefferson Chene and the major case detective squad.
Chene actually makes his first appearance in print in “Vanishing
Act” which is the second Jamie Richmond mystery.
While working on that book I had already done
a few early drafts on “Why 319?”. Chene
was starting to take shape and when I needed a character to make a cameo
appearance to help out with Jamie’s story, it made perfect sense to ‘borrow’
him for the role. This has been done
numerous times by other authors, such as Virgil Flowers in the Lucas Davenport
series by John Sandford or Mickey Haller in the Harry Bosch series by Michael Connelly.
For me a good character is always on my mind. Which may
explain why Jamie makes a similar appearance in Chene’s second novel. Chances are I can see them crossing paths in
each other’s stories for some time to come.
As is often the case, what a character really looks like can be dramatically different from the author's intention and what the reader imagines. Here's a possibility of a guy who could play Chene in the movies, should it ever come to that.
So here’s the opening segment of “Why 319?”
Prologue
It
was almost becoming too easy. They were everywhere. One plain Jane after
another kept crossing my radar screen. Some nights it was like shopping for
bananas, and they were visible in bunches.
Tonight
was one of those nights. It was as if someone were holding up a sign, steering
them in my direction. Like right now. Off to the left at one of those elevated
stations, where you had to sit on a barstool in order to reach the table, were
two perfect physical examples of the ideal target. Four women, each in their
early to mid-twenties were crowded around the postage stamp-sized table. I
ruled two out immediately. They were chunky, flashing lots of cleavage with
large breasts. For a nanosecond, I wondered if the flesh was real or the
results of surgical enhancement. It didn’t matter. They were unworthy of any
further consideration.
But
it was the other two who caught my eye. The one on the right was a bottle
blonde, which was obvious by the dark roots showing and the dark eyebrows. The
other was a brassy redhead. She was tiny, almost doll like. I was in a perfect
position to observe her. She was wearing high-heeled red boots that came up
over her knee, sassy-looking things that accentuated her legs. Her black skirt
barely touched the middle of her thighs, but it might have been longer if she
was standing up. She wore a heavy ivory-colored wool sweater that covered her
from the throat to the waist. It was loose enough to keep the goodies beneath
it a well-guarded secret. With the boots and the short skirt, she was almost
too good to be true. And upon reflection, I realized she was.
Her
attitude was a turn off. This was a girl who flaunted the little bits she had.
As she sat on the stool, swaying to the background music, she kept crossing and
uncrossing her legs, putting on a floorshow of her own. Her hands were
constantly in motion. Now they were slowly, seductively sliding down her arms,
dropping below the table into her lap. They lingered for a moment, then
skittered down her legs to tug at the bottom of the skirt. This was no timid
child. She was well aware of her body. By the way she was moving, she knew how
to use it.
My
focus returned to the bottle blonde. This one had potential. Her wardrobe was
the polar opposite of the redhead. Loose-fitting slacks, with low heeled shoes
that would have been rejected by a nun with an orthopedic condition, she wore a
blouse buttoned to the neck and a jacket to help conceal her. The only thing
that broke the mold for this plain Jane was the hair color. Upon a closer look,
it was blonde highlights swirled in with the natural brown, a shade best
described as mousy brown. Perhaps she was letting it grow out after getting it
dyed for the holidays. What would she look like, sprawled naked on a bed,
unable to resist, unable to stop, unable to do anything at all?
My
body began to respond.
My
heart rate kicked up a notch. A warm glow started in the pit of my stomach and
eased out in every direction. I basked in the tremors of anticipation. My
cheeks flushed with beads of perspiration.
Yes,
she could very easily be the next one.
But
first the stage had to be set. And it was a time for patience. The plans were
perfection, which was evident by the lack of awareness of the public or any
progress by the police. Those bumblers in blue would never put it together
because of the meticulous planning. If by chance they somehow managed to get a
clue, the misdirection was already in place. So there could be no deviation
from the plan. It had taken weeks of study, of strategizing each and every
move. Every step was plotted out. Every move was a smooth, choreographed
motion. Every action triggered the next in a series of reactions. Just
reflecting on the past efforts was enough to make me smile. The memory of my
last victim, her limp body slowly cooling as the life force ebbed away was
enough to bring a smile of triumph to my lips.
“What
the hell are you grinning at?” The band’s drummer, Malcolm, asked as he stepped
up.
“Just thinking about how good a night this
will be,” I said.
“I don’t want a bumpy ride tonight.”
I
turned and looked him right in the eye. “You got nothing to worry about, man.
Everything will be smooth.”
Malcolm
hesitated a moment as he studied me, then nodded in agreement. “We can’t ever
be too smooth.”
My
smile widened. “That’s me, man, I’m too smooth.”
****
I am elusive. I’m a cold, calculating,
efficient machine. No computer can analyze my moves and predict when and where
the next victim will be found. No one can determine the motive that lay beneath
the actions. Only someone who has lived in my body, had the same experiences,
the same influences, the same events coursing through their veins would have
even the slightest glimmer of a possibility of figuring this out.
“I’m
too smooth,” I said softly, closely studying the reflection in the mirror.
“That’s smooth spelled with seventeen Os.”
Everything
was moving forward according to plan. The next victim was being developed, that
timid one with the blonde highlights from the bar last week. She was so
uncertain of herself, it was as if a strong wind could change the direction of
her focus. Her name was Melissa. She was a preschool teacher, helping four- and
five-year-olds learn their colors and the alphabet. For a moment, I wondered if
that had been the extent of Janet’s own knowledge. She certainly hadn’t
appeared to be experienced in the ways of the world when it came to dating. Of
course, she needn’t worry about dating any longer, now that she was dead.
It
had almost been too easy to cut her from her small group of friends at the bar.
With the crowd noise, the interactions of both men and women reveling in the
music, the booze, the pheromones, and the physical contact, it was only a
matter of paying attention, of waiting for the right moment to pick her off.
Each of her three friends was drawn to the dance floor, where the press of
bodies was intense.
“Melissa,
my dear, you are about to discover the world of excitement. The world of
romance, of passion, of intensity that you could never imagine is waiting for
you. And I intend to be the one to introduce you to it.”
I
spun from the mirror and snapped off the lights. Game on.
Chapter One
You never really get used to the
smell of a dead body. It’s that thick, ghastly odor that attacks the nasal
passages and stubbornly clogs the back of your throat and just hangs there. It
lingers, waiting, like some sadistic culinary delight that you really don’t
want to sample. The temperature in the room was hot, which would expedite the
decomposition process. The gases inside the body were already starting the
decay. That was the stench that assaulted me the second I crossed the threshold
of the motel room.
Two
crime-scene technicians were already at work. One was busy with a video camera,
filming the details. The other was making notes and dusting surfaces for
fingerprints. Standing in the outer hallway were two uniformed police officers
and a detective in a gray flannel suit. As I was taking in the details of the
room, I felt a finger prod my spine, just below the shoulder blades.
“Hey,
Koz,” I said, without flinching.
There was a chuckle in the deep voice behind
me. “Damn, Chene, you must be a great detective. You never even turned around.”
I
inclined my head toward the small oval mirror on the opposite wall. “Sometimes
you make it too easy. Anyone else get the call?”
“Nah.
You figure it’s the same guy?”
“Hard to say. But it’s got the right feel to
it. They haven’t given the media the specifics yet, so we can rule out a
copycat.”
Koz
nodded as the guy in the gray flannel appeared in the doorway. The suit was
badly wrinkled. The guy was in dire need of a shave. He was about five foot
ten, with curly black hair framing his head. We followed him across the hall to
another room and waited while he closed the door behind us. Koz slumped into
one of the upholstered chairs. I leaned against the wall.
“Name’s
Costello. I was just going off duty when we got the call from the hotel
manager. I’ve got two detectives on a stakeout, one on vacation, and another
out with appendicitis. This just isn’t going to be my day.”
We
did the business card exchange. His had the Bloomfield logo in the background.
Sergeant Norman Costello. I doubted that the State of Michigan shield on our
cards impressed him. I didn’t really care. He gave the cards a quick once-over,
then looked up quickly.
“Jefferson
Chene. Isn’t that an intersection downtown?”
Reluctantly,
I nodded. “I’m Chene. That’s Kozlowski. Koz is easier on the tongue. What made
you think to call us?”
Costello
pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and looked at us briefly. Koz
raised his hands palms up. I merely nodded. It took him three tries to get a
match lit. He took a deep drag before answering.
“Saw
the notice from the top yesterday. There have been two other killings in the
Metro area in the last two months. Both fit the same description. Young
females, slender build, with no evidence of drug use. Both found nude,
spread-eagled on the bed. Sexual activity evident, but it’s uncertain as to
whether it was pre- or postmortem, or both. Cause of death appears to be
suffocation.” Costello rubbed his left hand across his face. “It looks like he
used the pillow. No apparent struggle. No signs of forced entry.”
“How
long you been here?” Koz asked.
Costello
checked his watch. “About forty-five minutes. We’re lucky that the room is on
the end of the hallway. I put one uniform on the door, another at the end of
the corridor to keep any guests out. Called for the evidence techs, then called
you guys.”
“Who’s
the top?” I asked.
“That
would be Chief of Police Ryun. Him and the lady mayor notified us yesterday. She
wanted to make it abundantly clear that we contact the state police
immediately. It’s almost like she expected us to be involved.”
“This
scumbag has committed two other murders, one each in Wayne and Macomb counties.
Stands to reason Oakland was due,” I said.
“Yeah,
but why couldn’t he pick something like Troy or Southfield? Or even Royal Oak
where all the trendsetters are,” Costello grumbled.
“Just
lucky I guess,” Koz said.
“No
offense, but we’ll have our forensic team join the party. We’ll need copies of
whatever reports you generate from this investigation.”
An
inch of ash teetered on the tip of Costello’s cigarette. He looked around the
motel room for an ashtray, then gave up and cupped his palm beneath it. He took
another long drag and walked into the bathroom. I could hear the hiss of the
ember hitting the water, then the toilet flushed as he got rid of it. He came back
in the room, brushing ashes off his hands.
“You
smoke much?” Koz asked as he rose from the chair.
“I
gave it up three years ago, used to do two packs a day without even thinking
about it.”
“So
what’s with today?”
Costello
gave a reluctant shrug. “First homicide I’ve seen in years. Most of what we get
is home invasions. Maybe some snatch and grabs, DUI, that kind of stuff. To
make matters worse, she looks like a girl that works as a babysitter in our
neighborhood. We don’t get homicides out here in the suburbs.”
Koz gave him a single nod of understanding.
“You do now.”
Here are some links where you can find "Why 319?"
Music today comes from an old favorite by Rod Stewart.
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