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A hand thumps on the table in anger. I’ve no idea what she was attempting to accomplish there. Scare me? I never feared her to begin with. Not when her clients always did so much worse than she could ever do.
Billy was always the worst one, and the one that hung around most frequent. He keeps my mother doped up on drugs, and she gives him information and bad sex in return.
He’s a drug lord and has insane connections. And Barbie fucks everyone. Men and women. With that, comes dirt on everyone in town. Barbie wraps the noose around their balls, and Billy strings them up. He owns this entire shitty town.
I’ll never admit it to her, but Billy scares me to death. He’s capable of making anyone disappear without a trace. Barbie knows that deep down, but I think there’s a miniscule part of her that isn’t willing to turn over her daughter to Satan himself. Besides, Billy always liked me better, and Barbie knows that, too.
He’s caused enough damage to carry over to my next three lifetimes at least. He took my innocence, and my entire childhood. Both irreplaceable. Both I’ll never get back.
“I want the money by next week. Fuck extra hard, I’m sure you can make it.”
I walk out the door, her screaming and curses following me long after I’ve left.
Four
Mako
“TIME OF DEATH WAS a little over two days ago based off the decomposition of his body. Looking at the blood spatter, he was shot from about ten feet away,” the criminalist, Redd, observes while snapping a few more pictures of the dead body.
There’s a small hole in his head. Looks like an entry wound from a .22 caliber. Carved into his bare chest is the word ‘Ghost.’
“Carvings have the consistency of a hunting knife. You can tell by the patterns that whoever did this took their time. Doesn’t look sloppy or rushed,” Redd continues.
“Was he alive when it was carved into his chest?” I ask, observing the jagged letters closely. The blood has already dried and crusted on his chest.
“Yep,” Redd says. “Very alive. There are signs of struggle, but it’s not consistent with this type of torture—it’s too subtle. I assume there were at least two people holding him down. There’s no way he acted alone.”
I shake my head, the scene before me pretty fucking morbid. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my career—the Ghost Killer isn’t the nastiest I’ve seen. Just the smartest.
My partner, Amar, stands next to me, his hands in his pockets as he studies the vic.
“Ghost Killer strikes again,” he murmurs to himself.
Greg “Froggy” Barber. Has a rap sheet related to drug activity longer than Beethoven’s last symphony and has been in and out of jail since he was thirteen years old. Kid grew up in the slums with a deadbeat mother and missing father. Slinging dope was probably his only way of survival.
His mother hasn’t even reported him missing.
“And as usual, he’s covered in DNA,” Redd sighs, shaking his head with disappointment.
Usually finding DNA at the crime scene is lucky. But in this case, it means nothing. Every vic we’ve found killed by the Ghost Killer is covered in DNA from randoms. Sex workers mostly, but we’ve come across DNA from murderers and rapists that have been in prison for years, pinning these crimes on people who have no relation to the victims.
No fucking clue how he does it.
He has to have a connection on the inside somewhere. Problem is that the convicts are in random prisons across the country, with no obvious connection between them. Whoever the Ghost Killer is, he’s powerful.
“Let’s head back to the precinct, see if we can find any connections to the vic,” I say to my partner, frustrated with this fucker. I’ve been chasing him for a good year now, and it’s been the longest three hundred sixty-five days of my life.
Amar nods his head, never one to speak more than what’s required. That’s what makes him a damn good partner. He sees shit I don’t, while I excel in putting all the puzzle pieces together.
I glance over at him, noticing how he looks at Greg’s body with sadness. This kid had an entire future ahead of him—one I’d hope would be full of redemption. Maybe Greg would’ve saw the light eventually and worked to get himself out of a bad situation. The fucked up part of it is we’ll never know. Poor kid suffered a gruesome death because of a sick individual.
Amar’s a kind soul, probably too kind. He migrated to America from India when he was ten years old. He had a harsh welcoming when his father was killed walking out of a grocery store because of the color of his skin. That’s what bred Amar’s need to seek justice for all the innocent souls whose lives ended way before their time.
Just as I get into my car, my phone rings.
“Hey, dad,” I greet.
“I have lunch ordered. Come on down, take a break. Bring Amar,” he says. Dad has a knack for adopting people as his kids, much to my brother’s dismay. He treats Amar like a son, and it pisses Ryan off something fierce.
