HOMECOMING: A thrilling crime mystery full of twists (New York Murder Mysteries Book 4)

by Joshua Brown

  Homecoming

  New York Murder Mysteries

  (Book 4)

  By

  Joshua Brown

  Copyright © 2020 by Joshua Brown.

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

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  Table of 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

  More Books by the Author

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Jack

  I woke up in a hospital bed with cracked ribs and a busted knee. The pungent scent of disinfectant burned my nostrils and left the hairs on the back of my neck on end. Blurry vision, barely able to focus more than a few seconds before waning. It was deathly quiet in my room, with only a single other patient across from me.

  He coughed, cleared his throat, and spat into a spittoon beside him.

  What the hell happened?

  The patient adjusted in his bed to look at the small tv hanging over his bed. A neon pink cord ran down from on high, nestling two buds in his ears. He turned to me, only briefly, a sickly smile on his face.

  “Hello, pal,” his voice cut through the silence.

  “Evening,” I replied. The words came out in a husky, low grumble. I didn’t know if he’d be able to hear them.

  “It’s actually afternoon,” he shrugged, pulling out the earphones. “They just keep the blinds drawn to ensure we get our rest.”

  The way the man said they led me to believe he had a distaste for doctors, all the same as me. He was clean-shaven, not a single hair atop his head. By looks alone, I knew why he was in that hospital bed. The thought stung me, only amplified because I might be in here for the same reason—cancer.

  What a horrible fate. Chances of survival were slim, and even if you made it through, life wouldn’t be the same again. You’d come out weaker because of it. No matter how many claimed that you were strong for fighting it off and surviving.

  But how the hell did I bust my ribs? My knee? Was it some prolonged form of the disease that slowly ticked away at my body until the very bones that held me together crumbled?

  With all the smoking and drinking I’d been doing the last few years, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit. It’s easy to forget how fragile the human body is. Walking out in the sunlight is just about enough to screw you up for good, and sitting here, looking at the man—well, I had to hope for the best.

  However, twisted that might sound.

  My body slowly regained animation. At first, it was the twitch of my fingers. Then the rest followed. Finally, whatever sedative kept me down wore off completely. Something still trapped my mind in a haze, left to ponder my state of amnesia, trying to piece together my fragile psyche.

  A bitter taste lingered in my bone-dry mouth. Machines hummed and beeped at my side. Lights blinked in and out of my vision. My senses were returning to me, but no memories—not yet. And Christ knows I wish they hadn’t.

  “You’re that detective from the news, right?” he asked. “Mercer, I think they called you. Wish I didn’t have to meet you in such… unfortunate circumstances, but hell, it’s not every day you meet a real-life hero, right?”

  A hero? That didn’t sound like me. I was a cop, doing my job.

  “That right?” I adjusted in the bed, my ribs grinding against one another. A wince escaped my lips, but I fought back any more noise, any show of the torture.

  “Sure is,” a wheezy cough escaped him. “Your name’s being praised all over the place. Name’s Johnny, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I cleared my throat, trying to shake the hoarse voice. “I’m Jack. Jack Mercer.”

  My name sounded foreign to me - a once-proud title now reduced to a distant relic. At least I remembered it.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Johnny adjusted himself in his bed. As he sat up, he caught the light, and I got a better look at him. He was gaunt, pale, and his skin wrapped tight against his skeleton.

  “What did I do exactly? Struggling to rid the fog,” I let out a half-assed chuckle that exacerbated the hurting rib cage. I bit down so hard my jaw started aching to negate the sudden burst in my chest. If that’s how I felt pumped full of painkillers, how bad was it without?

  “You cracked that bastard Ziggy Stark. You can’t tell me you don’t remember?”

  The name sounded familiar, but it ought to have, considering I’d been chasing him down for so long. Three months I’d been on his tail, only to wind up in a hospital bed. Before I could ask another question, Ziggy Stark’s face burned into my mind.

  The last time I saw Ziggy, he had a twisted grin on his face. Blood caked the stubble on his chin, dripping down his mouth—that’s right. We had a fistfight. I kicked his teeth in right before he pulled the trigger. I ran a hand over my chest, remembering the hard thud of the bullet that struck my chest that night.

  My shattered ribs came from being shot. I was lucky to be alive. On the mention of Ziggy’s name, the floodgates opened of fractured memories, now tearing through my mind. Pieces of this puzzle slammed through my head, smashing down my walls. Each one trying to find its place by force.

  My head started pounding as every new fragment found its resting place on my mind: Ziggy Stark, a monster of a man.

  A fat, slobbish sack of shit, with a goatee and sleeveless biker jacket. Ziggy gave a beating as good as he took it, leaving me battered before he shot me down. He’d become notorious across New York for abducting college students over a six-month period.

  I was the one who found the dismembered corpses of his nine victims scattered across his home. My mind raced, drifting between the hospital bed and his house. Heads dangled from the ceiling, legless torsos on the sofa, hands used as ornaments. Every blink took me back to the scene, nausea threatening to spew bile across the floor.

  Locked, stunned, trapped, Ziggy caught me off guard with a bat to the back. I crumpled to the floor, reaching for my gun. Before I could draw it, his rotund form collapsed on top of me, flailing wild fists wherever they’d land. I suffered his beating, returning whatever I could.

  I broke free, pressing my thumbs against his eyes and squeezing until he collapsed beside me. Our bloody battle hit a crescendo while the bodies of the deceased crumbled around us. The sinister giggle that left Ziggy’s lips pierced my ears, staining my memories.

  Once more, I slipped back to the hospital, Johnny standing beside my bed, a nurse opposite him.

  “Jack, yo
u’re going to be alright, my man,” Johnny said, resting a hand on my shoulder.

  I wasn’t with him long, once more trapped in the nightmares of memory. One of the many floating heads dropped to the floor, and Ziggy lifted it from the ground. I was on my feet, looking down at him. He brought the head up to his face; rotten flesh peeled from the cheeks while his tongue grazed the meat.

  Unable to control myself, puke spilled from my belly. While I stood, sickened and humbled at humanity’s cruelty, I saw the twinkle in his eye.

  Bruised and battered, Ziggy moved, seemingly unharmed. While I stood, unable to control my body’s convulsions, the bullet tore through me. My own revolver unloading a single round into my chest. I clutched the hole. Blood-soaked fingers left me uneasy, defeated. Ziggy shuffled to his feet, grunting with every motion. I collapsed to the ground.

  “Another addition to my collection,” Ziggy said, delighted.

  I snapped back to the hospital room, now full of doctors and nurses, Johnny back in his bed. My eyes fell on him, and he met me with a warm, knowing smile. He mouthed, everything is going to be okay, and I didn’t believe a word he said. The memories of that night with Ziggy Stark would leave me broken.

  A husk of a man, forever doomed, on a path to redeem any and all injustice—no matter how small.

  With one final blink, I returned to my fever dream of Ziggy Stark. His enormous form loomed over me. Looking into his eyes left me staring into a void. Two black orbs holding everything vile in this world. His toothy smile revealed stained yellow teeth.

  “We’ve got another one, boys and girls. Let’s all welcome Jack to the family, shall we?” Ziggy shouted. Another giggle escaped his lips. His excitement hit a peak, readying to add me to the pile of corpses.

  He grabbed limbs from every-which-where, dropping and dangling them on top of me. For the first time in my career, I heard the Reaper’s knock on my door. Somehow, it was more comforting than having to live with what I’d witnessed there.

  I felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness. Ziggy animated limbs, body parts, and worst of all, he gave the deceased voices.

  “Welcome to the family,” he said in a high-pitched voice. He clutched a woman’s head by the hair, squishing her cheeks together to make her mouth move. She was his most recent victim—the name eluded me in my half-dead state.

  Put me out of this misery. I’d have begged if I found the strength to do it.

  ~

  I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming at the top of my lungs. I reached for the pistol beneath my pillow, training it in the darkness of my room. It took far too long to settle my nerves. It was only a nightmare, and yet it felt so real. As if I was transported back in time, nearly ten years ago.

  The loud, high-pitched ring of the living room phone ripped me from my hellscape. A sound that usually left me annoyed now deserved my utter gratitude. And while I huffed and puffed, trying to regain composure, I felt the sting of the bullet in my chest.

  I flicked on the nightlight to find Skylar whining at my side, cuddling up to me. The concern on her little face shattered my heart. The smell of the hospital still lingered in my nose. Johnny’s face, his words, everything is going to be okay, returned to mind.

  They steadied me. In the end, they were true; even if in that hospital bed, they made everything worse.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, girl.” I ran a hand over Skylar’s pelt. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Johnny’s words didn’t settle Skylar the same way they did me. She whimpered, nuzzling into me. The phone stopped ringing. I pulled myself out of bed, and Skylar followed me through the house. It was 5 AM, and I didn’t see myself getting back to sleep.

  I made a cup of coffee, grabbed yesterday’s paper, and got settled in my single armchair, waiting for the second ring. If someone was going to bother me this early in the morning, they’d not let up until they got a hold of me.

  While I read through the front page of the paper, my mind returned to Johnny Ortega. He was my only friend in that hospital. It broke my heart to hear he never made it out. The cancer took him a day after I left.

  Halfway through my cup of coffee, the phone started ringing again. I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want to appear overeager, and somehow I felt I’d hear Ziggy Stark’s voice on the other end.

  I supposed it impossible, considering he met his end in prison. But with all the strange happenings that occurred during my last case, I wasn’t taking any chances.

  On the fourth ring, I lifted the phone, tucked it in the crook of my neck, and said, “Jack Mercer speaking.” It felt like a foolish thing to say, considering the call was on my home telephone.

  “Jack, it’s really you. I’m sorry to bother you this early in the morning.” It was a woman’s voice. “My name is Valentina Shelby. I don’t know if you remember me?”

  “Sorry, I can’t say I do,” I replied. After years of working as a detective, names, faces, and people all blur into one after a while.

  “I used to look after you when you got home from school,” she said. “Don’t you remember when we all still stayed on Rivenes Avenue?”

  What new hell is this? A blast from the past that I’m not pleased to hear. As those words left her lips, I took another ride down Memory Lane–only now, my nightmares weren’t of devils in disguise. Instead, they were of a tattered childhood, strung together by threads of a crumbling family.

  I wanted to hang up the phone and move on from the conversation immediately. I’d been through enough with the nightmares of Ziggy Stark, and reliving anymore would not do well for my sanity.

  “Of course, I remember, Miss Shelby,” I sighed. “How can I help you?”

  If anyone from my god-forsaken childhood deserved a moment of my time, it was Valentina. She was in her late twenties when I was a kid, always took care of me when I ran away from home or had to avoid my old man’s wrath.

  And if she really took the time to track me down, whatever she needed had to be important.

  “Well, Jack, I’m really not sure if you can. I heard that you’re a detective now. It seems that I’m in dire need of one,” Valentina said.

  I saw the first signs of the new sun rising behind tall buildings of New York City. In my apartment on high, no noise of traffic hit my ear, though I knew the early birds were already out, preparing for another daily grind.

  “What’s the problem?” I sank back in my chair, reaching for my box of Lucky Strikes. I lit one up while she spoke.

  “It’s my son. He’s gone missing. It’s not unusual for him to disappear for a few weeks, here and there, but he’s been… quiet, a little longer than expected.”

  “Have you spoken to local law authorities in connection to this?” I asked, rolling the cigarette between my fingers.

  “Yes, but they’ve become useless in recent years. You know Priest River, it’s the goddamn Wild West out here. There’s only one sheriff and a handful of deputies that can’t even keep the ruckus of two thousand people down.”

  A town that small, I’d think it’d be easy to keep under control. A disappearance like this shouldn’t have even filtered through the books, but goddamn, Priest River was a hellhole.

  Freddy Cochran was sheriff back when I was a boy. Seems that time never changes if the cops still aren’t getting off their asses and helping those in need. I knew that life was too small for me, and I was lucky to escape it.

  Those poor souls that remained left behind drifted off into obscurity. I was happy to forget them.

  “Have you followed any procedures to make sure he’s not just hiding out somewhere? A friend’s house, maybe? Where was the last place you saw him?” I knew nothing about Valentina’s life after I left. I didn’t even know she had a kid. So, to make assumptions, ask questions, gather information was difficult.

  “It pains me to admit it, but the boy is hooked on smack,” Valentina said. “He could be anywhere by now, looking for his next fix.”

  The way
she spoke, the bitter tone left me uneasy; always a kind, caring woman when I was younger, this didn’t fit with her nature. Time, and Priest River, got the best of her. Those small towns are septic tanks, ready to pollute everything they touch, and they’ll chew up and spit out even the purest of souls.

  “There’s not a whole lot I can do out in New York, Miss Shelby,” I said, hoping she’d understand that I wanted no part of this case.

  But those who call never do. They’re trapped in a delusion that I’m some mighty savior that can crack any problem. It’s surprising enough that anyone from my hometown even remembers my name, let alone knows anything about my career.

  “I don’t want you to handle it from New York,” she said. “We can include the plane ticket in the expenses for taking on the case. Jack, I’m worried about my little boy. I don’t care about the money; I just want him home again.”

  I expected to hear sniffles or whimpers from the other end, but they never came. Her voice remained stone cold, stern, and serious. Something felt off—and if she was in trouble, I had to help her.

  After all, she was the woman who saved me so many times before.

  “Alright, Miss Shelby. I’ll help you. I’m going to need some time to get over,” I replied.

  “That’s all I wanted to hear,” her voice brimmed with delight. “Thank you, Jack. Thank you so much.”

  We said goodbye, and I hung up the phone.

  Though the outcome of the call didn’t go as expected, I couldn’t back down from the case. It was always my right to choose who I helped and who I didn’t, but the nightmare that pulled me from sleep reminded me of my duty.

  I was sent to this world to help those in need, no matter how small their problem. But going back to my hometown wasn’t an alluring thought. The place was riddled with ghosts and fragments of a long-forgotten history, ready to rear its ugly head once more. I’d have to make quick work of it if I wanted to escape with my sanity intact.