The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  David refocused his attention from the demon hound to the demon itself. The man was writhing on the ground, unable to cry out for help despite his best efforts. With his lower jaw hanging from his face in two pieces, the only sounds he could make were wheezes and gurgles as blood pooled into what remained of his mouth and the back of his throat.

  He twirled the heavy ax in his hand as he approached his victim, sending droplets of blood splashing about the valley as he did so. He enjoyed this part, the last moments before taking the life of one of these perverse creatures from Hell.

  The man looked at David with wild, terrified eyes, and lifted his hands in a natural display of defense. But the bloody hands did nothing to stop the ax as David swung it downward once again, putting the demon out of its misery and ending its undeserving existence.

  Satisfied he’d done as instructed, David looked up at the cloudy sky and smiled. Under his breath he whispered the same words he always said after taking a demon from the world.

  “In the name of God.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  This Fucking City

  It was 04:42 on Tuesday morning when Detective William Blake was awakened from his sleep by the ringing of his work cell. He grumbled an obscenity and rolled over in his tangled web of blankets, trying to free one of his hands so that he could reach for the bleeping phone on the nightstand.

  When he finally got one of his hands free, he reached out, grabbed the phone and put it to his ear. “Blake.” He waited a second and instead of a response, his phone rang again. Growing more pissed off, the pulled he phone away from his head and saw he never hit the ANSWER icon. “Cocksucking piece of shit,” he grumbled, thumbing the green icon before putting the phone back to his head. “Blake. What?”

  “Rise and shine Detective,” said the voice of Chief Arthur Daniels.

  Blake looked to his bedroom window and saw it was still pitch-black outside. “Rise and shine my fucking nut-sack, Art. What’s going on?”

  “Got a body, get up and get moving. I’ll text you the address.” And with that, the Chief hung up without giving any more information as to what was going on.

  “Fucking fuck.” Blake tossed his phone to the side and sat up in the empty queen bed. There had been two women to ever occupy this particular bed, and both had divorced him for identical reasons: he was an asshole who drank too much. Of course, Blake knew that was bullshit and that they’d only left him because he wasn’t as emotionally available to them as some beta-brained dipshit would have been. Fuck that.

  He stood from the bed, grabbed a glass from the nightstand and downed the last few drops of remaining scotch before snagging his pants from off the floor. As he got dressed, he couldn’t help but notice the dull ache coming from his still-swollen jaw and nose, and his curses shifted from having to get up before five A.M. to wishing ill will on former-detective Micah Donovan.

  How dare that smug son of a bitch sucker-punch him like that? Who the fuck does he think he is? He was piece of shit, backstabbing, ass even when he was a police officer, taking Blake’s promotion away from him when Blake clearly deserved it more, just to go and fuck up the biggest murder investigation Solace County had ever seen. Not only that, but he was so arrogant and reckless that he’d gotten his wife killed in the process. Now, the one-legged punk thought he could just waltz in and take Blake’s investigation away from him?

  Fuck that, the detective thought, fumbling with his shirt buttons. Fuck. That. I’m not going to let him in at all, and fucking Art better not either if Micah tries to cozy up to him.

  Still grumbling to himself under his breath, Blake grabbed the holstered Glock 21 from the top of his dresser and clipped it to his belt just behind the gold detective shield. He then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth in order to rid his mouth of the smell of Scotch, and decided against combing his hair since he figured it was short enough anyway.

  He didn’t have time to fuck around with his hair anyway, there was a body to tend to and he was in no mood to fuck around with anything as it was.

  “Merry fucking Christmas,” he grumbled to himself as he stumbled into his living room, not bothering to turn on a light and nearly stepping on his sleeping dog as a consequence.

  He grabbed his dark trench coat from the coatrack near the front door and stormed out of his house without even saying goodbye to the old Rottweiler at his heels.

  *

  The glow of flashing emergency lights illuminated the chilly night, bringing about a sense of foreboding darkness, casting both the dead man and beast in a hue of alternating red and blue. Patrol officers stood guard around yellow crime scene tape which was stretched far beyond both sidewalks on either end of the alleyway where the dark deed had been done. The occasional white flash of a crime scene tech’s camera added to the emergency lights, and it wasn’t until they set up the flood lights that the scene became truly revealed.

  Detective Blake arrived in his unmarked Crown Victoria just as the last of the floodlights went up. Due to the icy conditions of the road, he hadn’t made very good time on his drive to the scene, but nobody would hold it against him. This part of the morning was the coldest time of day and everyone was running a little slower than usual.

  He found a uniformed police officer outside the perimeter tape and approached him. When the officer turned to face Blake, the Detective was unpleased to see it was none other than Officer Jason Kohl, the former partner of Micah Donovan. As much as he disliked Kohl, he knew the officer was most likely the senior officer on scene and he was also an experienced detective before returning to patrol.

  “Jason,” Blake said, not really bothering to hide his distaste for the man in the tone of his voice.

  “Bill,” Kohl replied, not bothering to acknowledge the rank of the detective.

  “What do we got?”

  “One adult male in his late forties and his poodle, both have been axed to death in the alley behind me,” Kohl said, pointing his thumb back behind his shoulder towards the floodlights.

  Blake could make out the two corpses on the ground behind the officer, but he couldn’t see well enough to get a good look at the scene. “How do you know they were axed?”

  “Because, believe it or not, the ax is still on scene. It’s impaled in the vic’s forehead like it’s a cutting block or something.”

  “Fuckin’ Jesus,” Blake said, now really wanting to go and see what Kohl was talking about. Little by little, he felt his sleep wearing off as intrigue took over. “Who called it in?”

  “Anonymous transient,” Kohl replied, looking down at his note pad. “Apparently some hobo saw the bodies and went to Walmart to make the phone call.”

  “Why Walmart? That’s a couple miles north of here.”

  “I figure it’s because it’s the only twenty-four-hour business open this close to the Holidays. He was sure to find an employee or a night-owl shopper with a cell phone there. In this case, a graveyard shelf stocker helped him out. I’ve got the employee’s information written down, but he doesn’t know anything and says the transient guy left right after making the call.”

  “So, some fucking tweaker homeless guy comes by in the middle of the night, sees a dead guy and his dog, then hikes two miles to Walmart to call the police, and then just disappears before the cops get there?”

  Kohl had never said the transient was a tweaker, but it was an educated guess on Blake’s part. It was a sad and known fact that most transients are in the position they’re in due to drugs, particularly heroine and/or methamphetamine.

  “That’s about the sum of it,” Kohl confirmed.

  “This fucking city,” Blake groaned. “What time did the call come in?”

  “Around oh-four-hundred. I arrived on scene first, called the sergeant, and he called the chief after he got here. Looks like they’ve been dead quite some time before then, though, because you’ll see for yourself that both bodies are frozen solid.”

  At least the blood smell won’t be as gnarly. />
  “Have you called the coroner?”

  “Not yet, was waiting for you.”

  Blake nodded. He didn’t like Jason Kohl, but he had to admit he was a damned good cop. “Thanks Jason.”

  “Yep.”

  Blake ducked underneath the crime scene tape and saw Officer Kohl log his name in on a piece of paper along with the time. He came upon the scene with the confidence of a surgeon approaching an operating table, however, when he got to where he could see the entire scene, he stopped in his tracks and eventually had to force himself to blink.

  A frozen, bloody massacre sat before him. The victim was laying on his back with what looked like a dual-sided battle ax buried into the top of his head. Even more disturbing, his entire lower jaw was split into two pieces and hanging open, reminding Blake of Predator from the Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. Lying next to the man at the end of a pink leash was a French poodle; its entire skull was split in two, nearly severing the entire head down the middle.

  “Morning, Detective,” one of the crime scene technicians said in a little too-cheery of a voice for Blake’s taste as she snapped another photograph. She was a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with short man-like hair and blue lipstick. “This’ll kickstart a morning better than coffee, huh?”

  Blake ignored her, his eyes focused on the ax protruding from the victim’s head. “When everything’s been documented, I want that ax wrapped up and preserved for prints.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young lady replied. “We’re about done with this part and will be able to move the body in just a second.”

  Blake nodded, well aware of the drill. Nothing in a crime scene was to change until everything had been tagged, documented, photographed and sketched. Once that was complete, then it would be okay for the scene to be disturbed and the body to be manipulated.

  Blake said, “Just make sure that fucking ax gets to printing. Got it?”

  “Yes sir,” the woman said, briefly glancing up at him and blinking, finally aware of the fact the Detective did not at all share her personality traits.

  “This is all I fucking need,” Blake said to himself, suddenly wishing he had a bottle of scotch on hand. “Days away from the Christmas Eve Butcher killings and now I’ve got to worry about this fucking bullshit.”

  Little did Detective Blake know, both cases were one in the same.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Well-Oiled Machine

  It was late into Wednesday afternoon when I received the phone call. I was elbows deep in paperwork, trying to find a thread I could tug at in the solo file I had on the case. I had been sweating, even though it was cold inside my house. I hadn’t slept the night before, and I hadn’t bothered fueling the wood burning stove; I was too busy hunting. Looking for anything I could find, any clue, anything to spark an idea.

  Anything that would save a boy’s life that was sure to end sometime tomorrow.

  The ringing of my cell had startled me, and when I answered, I hadn’t even bothered checking the caller ID first. “Yeah, this is Donovan.”

  “Micah, it’s Art.”

  The Chief’s voice had caused me to pause, something in his voice giving me the impression he had something incredibly important to tell me. “What’s up, Art?”

  “You were looking into Alexander Irving again, right? I believe you mentioned he was going to be one of your first stops into your investigation.”

  I perked up at the sound of this and stood up from my chair at the kitchen table. “Yeah, what about him?”

  “There was a murder yesterday morning. A guy and his poodle got axed in the alleyway between Ace Hardware and the thrift store. Believe it or not, the killer left the ax and we were able to lift prints off of it. They belong to Mr. Irving.”

  It felt as if my heart had stopped, and I gripped the cell so tightly I thought I was going to break it. The moment Art said the words, I knew something was wrong. It didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Lex had his problems, sure, but he was not at all a killer. Probably not even on his worst day.

  “Art, I just saw Lex. He’s medicated and stable, there’s no way –”

  “Micah, listen to me. His prints were on the ax, simple as that. I told you I would do all I could to help you with the investigation, and here’s my courtesy call to you. The warrant is signed and SWAT is gearing up to hit Irving’s house, as we speak. Blake is in route too.”

  “What the fuck, Art?” At that point, I was already out the door and heading towards the Bronco. “You couldn’t have warned me sooner?”

  “I’m warning you now, son.”

  “Lex isn’t the killer. This is a mistake. Look, I don’t know how his prints got on that ax but –”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you, other than we’re not going to stop a SWAT raid because of the hunch of a P.I. I’m sorry, Micah. I’ve let Blake know that I planned on calling you, and although he was beyond pissed, you’re cleared to go on scene. Don’t step on anyone’s dick and let SWAT do their job. If Lex is innocent, we’ll figure that out later when we question him.”

  “Yeah, unless Blake gets to him before the SWAT guys do.” I hadn’t bothered waiting for Art’s reply, I just hung up the phone and sped out of the driveway, kicking up rocks and snow as I went.

  That was all twenty minutes ago. Now, after leaving my car parked on the main road amongst a couple squad cars and an armored SWAT van, I’m waved through a checkpoint by a uniformed police officer that I don’t recognize and enter into staging area for the SWAT team. It’s a spot thick in the wood line surrounding Lex’s little farmhouse, well out of sight from both the road, which is closed off, and the house itself. Back at the SWAT van, I imagine it contains both the SWAT commander and the drone operator who, no doubt, is currently at the controls of the department quad-rotor drone.

  A light snow begins to fall when I find Blake standing next to a group of heavily armed SWAT operators. He’s staring at me with narrow eyes, no doubt wishing terrible things upon me. I ignore Blake and turn my attention to the SWAT team. I recognize most of the men on the team of six, and they seem both happy as well as confused to see me. They’re all decked out in black jumpsuits with plate carriers, FAST helmets and M4 carbines. Blake’s suit jacket is replaced with a plate carrier of his own, the words: POLICE written on the back in bold white.

  Apparently, I’ve arrived just as the men were about to move out, because nobody says a word to me. The SWAT team leader simply nods to his men and moves into the forest. Just as I’m about to follow the heavily armed operators, Blake reaches out and puts a hand over my chest. I look at him closely and can see his face is still a little swollen from our previous encounter.

  “Just so we’re fucking clear,” Blake says in a low whisper. “I didn’t fucking want you here, Donovan.”

  “Too bad, I’m here.” I go to step forward but Blake pushes back even harder. “Move your fucking hand, or I’ll move it for you.”

  “Oh really?” He curls his lips in anger, like a dog barring its fangs. “Last time you sucker punched me, asshole. It’s not like that this fucking time.”

  “No, this time it’ll be way more fun.” I feel my hands curl into fists but I refuse to let my anger get the best of me.

  Apparently, Blake is able to control his own anger, too, because he looks away from me and at the back of the trail man in the assault element. “Stay the fuck behind me, Donovan.”

  I draw my weapon, not bothering to argue with the man. This wasn’t my operation to run and besides, I’m not wearing my bulletproof vest. In the off-chance bullets start flying, I’m sure Blake will make a fairly decent human shield.

  For a small-department SWAT team, the six men on this team are good at what they do. I’m impressed as they move through the forest with the precision of an elite military assault element, using hand and arm signals to communicate everything they need to communicate to one another.

  When the farmhouse becomes visible, the short patrol comes to a halt, and
the operators take a knee behind the cover of the thick trees. From where I am behind Blake, I can hear the SWAT team leader hail the drone operator on his radio. There’s a brief conversation that I can’t hear due to the team leader’s earpiece, and then the team stands back up.

  Blake looks back at me, and I notice for the first time that he too is wearing an earpiece. “The assault is a go, keep the fuck behind me and don’t shoot me in the fucking back. You’re lucky you even get to carry your gun to this.”

  “Fuck you,” I say as the element begins moving forward again.

  Blake mumbles something at me that I don’t hear, and steps over a downed log in pursuit of the SWAT boys. I follow Blake, sticking close to him, not because I’m following orders, but because if Lex did decide to shoot, now would be the time when it would start.

  Things had been fairly easy going for me up until the point the SWAT team cleared the wood line. Now, out in the open, they pick up their pace and the slow, crawl-like speed, turns into a quick jog towards the farmhouse. In cases like this, speed is cover and I have no choice but to follow the leader. I grit my teeth and jog after them, doing my best to keep the pace and not trip up on my prosthetic or slip on the ice or some such bullshit. There’s slight pain in my bone as my prosthetic impacts the hard ground, but it’s not as bad as I’d thought it would be.

  By the time we reach Lex’s Honda parked in his driveway, I’ve discovered a rhythm in my step that I hadn’t found before, and for a brief moment, I’m actually having fun as we run. I can’t remember the last time I’ve actually ran, and it feels good to know I am capable of doing it.