Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  www.danieljeudy.com.au

  Copyright © 2021 Daniel Jeudy

  ISBN: 978-1-922565-10-5 (ebook edition)

  Published by Vivid Publishing

  P.O. Box 948, Fremantle

  Western Australia 6959

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

  eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia

  www.fontaine.com.au

  Version 1.0. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  For my beautiful Eve, Mum and Dad.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  PART TWO

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  PART THREE

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  FOREWORD

  Let’s get something straight right at the start: I am intimately familiar with every word of Daniel Jeudy’s debut novel. In fact, I have read it twice now. I enjoyed it more the second time. In fact, the second reading was purely for pleasure. And this foreword represents my futile attempt to convey the beauty of Daniel’s work.

  I read a lot. But I confess that quite often I will stop reading a novel before the halfway point. I become bored, perhaps. Or the language is less than it should be. Maybe the characters do not excite me.

  Daniel, though, has excited me with Sons of Brutality.

  The first time an author excited me—the first time I literally could not put a book down—was in the summer of 1981. I checked out Stephen King’s Firestarter from the Buder Branch Library. For three days, I carried the hardcover book with me. I loved every page. I secretly wished the story would never end. After I returned it to Buder, I bought a copy from Target (I think). I’ve reread it several times.

  I didn’t carry Daniel’s book around with me in my backpack. But I’ve carried it in my head. And parts of it have followed me into my dreams.

  Meet Addison Mowbray, the jaded, hard-boiled veteran detective investigating the homicide of two young women whose mutilated bodies are found in the Hollywood hills. While Addison is a damaged soul, wrestling with unresolved childhood trauma and a fondness for liquor, his cynical philosophy and regrets have never affected his abilities as a detective. As a criminal profiler and hunter of serial killers, Addison has a unique ability to identify and understand the killers he tracks. He knows that he’s not looking for a glamorous artist-genius like Hannibal Lecter. He is on the trail of an ugly evil.

  Sons of Brutality takes the reader into a world of drug-fueled Satanists, snuff clubs, and killers who engage in every lust the world has ever known. We meet characters driven by madness, uncontainable urges, men and women who seem to exude an almost godlike invulnerability. Daniel introduces us to the rich capitalist who spent thirty years assembling a posse of affluent lunatics. We get to know a misogynistic wife beater who kills people for the Armenian Mafia.

  Addison and his allies explore the city’s underbelly to find their prey. What they didn’t expect was the ability of these killers to make police investigations disappear.

  What I did not expect was Daniel’s ability to make me turn the page, to read past the halfway point, to suppress my desire to sleep to finish just one more chapter. Then, finally, coming to the final page, and simply wanting more.

  Michael McConnell

  June 18, 2021

  Part One

  “Shadow deepens shadow, deception gives fire to flame.

  I tell you, you cannot beat the grave at its own game.”

  From the song Shadows

  —written by Leigh Marks and Daniel Beltran.

  One

  Detective Addison Mowbray looked up at the crescent shaped moon, conscious of a dull ache working its way to his shoulders. He thought about the last time he’d been here at Griffith Park, hiking in the hills with his son. The sky had been a cloudless blue, with oak trees soaking up the Californian sunshine; the dead female with two missing hands who lay sprawled on the carousel was in stark contrast to that perfect day.

  Homicide made its first incursion into Addison’s life when he was seven years old. That experience had hurled him toward a police badge and determined his view of the world. There was a time when he had trusted in the providence of God and the inherent goodness of people. Then his father was shot, and the darkness that pierced his heart began corrupting his soul. The grief was suffocating, but it had shaped his perception and prepared him for a career in homicide in a way no textbook ever could. He’d been working in the LAPD for almost three decades and occasionally got the inkling to try his hand at something new, though the idea always evaporated. Policing was all he truly comprehended in a life marred by solitude and dissonance.

  Addison stared down at the body and scowled. The old carousel made him uncomfortable. There was something about the intricately carved jumping horses and their jewel-encrusted bridles that distracted his thinking. It wasn’t dissimilar to how the fortune-tellers’ tents at traveling carnivals had made him feel when he was a boy.

  A memory came of watching his son ride the carousel a few years earlier, how the atmosphere had shifted when the military organ began its marching tunes. It was as if the music box released unseen darkness, a yesteryear evil that attached to the children while they went up and down and round and round. The young woman lying dead at the edge of the wheel intensified his aversion, and he half expected to hear the sound of a coyote howling at the moon.

  Addison took a deep breath to readjust his focus before moving away from the body until he arrived at the periphery of the crime scene. He shone his flashlight in a ten-foot arc while he advanced in tiny circles, sweeping the area. Finally, he stood over the corpse again, looking at the body from every available angle, giving the victim one final opportunity to speak in a way that didn’t require words.

  Criminal ineptitude often played a starring role in resolving a case, and a perpetrator’s sloppiness could come in various forms. Occasionally, he struck it lucky; however, most cops didn’t expect to find a perfect fiber or presume the first piece of evidence would land them at the killer’s door. To achieve success in the Homicide Division, a detective needed good instinct
s and a whole lot of flexibility. Addison usually got a sense of whether an offender was careless, and he sure as shit wasn’t getting those feelings here. Whoever was responsible for murdering the girl on the ride didn’t appear to be the blundering type. He’d figured as much when the first body landed at the Hollywood Bowl four days earlier.

  Headquarters had called while he was making his way home from a destined-to-go-nowhere dinner date. An old buddy who worked in the Commercial Crimes Division organized the night in Newport Beach with a recently divorced neighbor. Things had started off well enough, but their discussion soon became forced, punctuated by the kind of silences that suggested the outing would be a one-time thing. Perhaps he needed to connect with a prettier version of himself, a middle-aged, whiskey-guzzling woman with sleep concerns and good natural inheritances. It wasn’t as if he were completely past it. Standing at a little over six feet tall with thick brown hair and a lean build, he was in reasonable condition, all things considered.

  His mother named him after the town of his birth, and that town represented a past he could never escape. Addison, Texas, north of Dallas, was a humble city of simple-living folk, renowned for its generational continuity. Addison boarded the first train to California a week after his twenty-first birthday but still planned on moving back once he retired. He believed the stillness there might teach him to sleep again without the assistance of booze and pills.

  Checking the time on his watch, Addison wondered what might be behind his partner’s delayed arrival. The sound of shuffling footsteps ended his reflection, and he turned around to see Detective Stan Glover from the Special Assaults Section make his way down the small hill above the clearing.

  “Evening, Mowbray,” Glover called.

  “Hey, Stan,” Addison replied wearily.

  “No rest for the wicked, hey?”

  Addison sensed his colleague’s reluctance when he got an impression of the corpse, watching as the out-of-shape detective sucked in a few deep breaths. Stan Glover was a heart attack in waiting, all wheezy, plum-faced, and oozing with sweat. His sloping chest ran into a potbelly that hung over his belt, and his crooked teeth were stained yellow by nicotine.

  Glover was wearing a cheap gray suit with a faded red tie twisted beneath his jacket. In his fifties with receding ginger hair, he was counting down the days until retirement. Addison didn’t think he’d last long drinking cheap cocktails by the pool.

  “I thought you were headed to San Francisco for a wedding.”

  Glover shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say, Mowbray. My wife’s dumb-as-dog-shit cousin got himself caught in bed with the wrong woman. Three days before the ceremony, no less. We got a call yesterday: the whole thing’s been canceled. I can’t say I’m bothered, though; I’m not keen on San Francisco and its blatant leftist dogma. If it were Vegas, then I might be feeling a little pissed.”

  “Good for you,” Addison replied with no genuine interest.

  “So, what are we looking at here? Is this going to be falling back on HSS?”

  “What’s the body saying to you, Stan? We have a clothed female on a carousel with no apparent signs of sexual assault, and she happens to be missing both her hands.”

  Glover’s face remained blank.

  “This victim here, she’s not the first,” Addison continued. “There was another body with missing feet up at the Bowl three days ago. The unsub branded the shape of an inverted Christian cross onto her breast. I’m guessing the examiner will eventually discover the same symbol on this girl here. Both the scenes present like a copybook.”

  Glover stayed silent.

  “Surely you’ve heard about this,” Addison said.

  “Yeah, of course. But I’m not about to sweat over a case I’m not involved in.”

  Addison didn’t imagine he sweated much over anything these days.

  “So, HSS has got two serial killers working the city at the same time, then,” Glover remarked while struggling back into an upright stance.

  He was referring to the vigilante who’d started blowing holes into hardened felons over the past twelve months. It would be hard to find a detective anywhere who felt sympathy for the scumbags being targeted; however, the shootings impacted the department for obvious reasons. Mainly because the perpetrator dropped a toy police badge beside his victims, and almost everyone in the city believed the killer was a cop. The body count stood at four, all of them grade-A assholes.

  Addison didn’t bother with a response as the two detectives continued standing by the amusement ride, lost in their thoughts before Glover ended the silence.

  “I have to say: everyone was astonished when Collins handed the vigilante file to Miles and Ramirez, considering their tender age and general lack of experience.”

  “I’m sure Peter and Carlos will do fine. It’s not as if they’re incapable.”

  “Just saying, man. Those two are still wearing diapers, and that investigation has gathered serious steam. Put it this way: if it were my ass on the line, I’d be slapping it down in front of a cop who’s closed a few more cases than they have.”

  “The times they are a-changing.”

  “You’re certain this will be falling on you guys?”

  “Pretty much guaranteed.”

  “I can go home, then?”

  “It ain’t my job to facilitate your responsibilities, Stan. But I don’t think there’s going to be anything of a sexual nature discovered here tonight.”

  Glover looked at the dead girl again.

  “You got anything yet, or you flying blind?”

  “Nobody has even come forward to identify the first victim. All we have are two attractive young blondes with missing body parts. As for motive, your guess is as good as mine, but I wouldn’t be discounting an attraction to the occult.”

  “Well, for everyone’s sakes, I sure hope you find something soon. Pretty white girls chopped up in the Hollywood Hills? It’ll become a major pain in the ass if it drags on much longer.”

  Addison bent in toward the victim, blowing his fringe off his forehead. “Good things come to those who wait … Bad things too, I suppose.”

  “Has the examiner taken a look yet?” Glover asked.

  “She’s up there with the photographer. My assumption is she’s having a cup of tea.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The fact that I just said ‘she’ with a ‘tea’ should tell you who it is.”

  “Coniglio.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Well, here’s to hoping she clears me off this thing nice and fast.”

  Addison remained crouched beside the body; his palms were clammy inside latex gloves as rivulets of sweat trickled down his forehead. He reached for the hip flask of whiskey in his coat pocket, running a finger around the ribbed metal cap as Glover sidled in again, trying hard to give the impression he was working.

  “It’s like I’ve said, Stan, this is going to land on us; that much I know.”

  Glover stared out into the darkness.

  “There are probably all kinds of nasty prowling those hills.”

  Addison stood and rubbed at the pain behind his knees.

  “That’s just the world we inhabit,” he replied, inhaling the pleasant fragrance of mixed chaparral that could be detected floating through the air.

  Glover kept his eye on the night. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’m referring to the incursion of wickedness in modern times. Evil can be found in one form or another almost anywhere nowadays. Even right here on a children’s ride.”

  “You ever consider cashing in early?”

  Addison was about to reply but refrained when he noticed the examiner closing in.

  “Evening, gents.” Coniglio greeted them with a dazzling smile. “You fellas will need to let me squeeze in here. Otherwise, we might end up working past sunrise, and I don’t want to be playing outdoors in the heat that’s coming.”

  A deluge of brilliant light suddenly penetrated the darkness a
s artificial illumination bore down on the carousel to make the corpse appear like a figure made of wax. Addison spotted a young man he didn’t recognize moving hesitantly toward the crime scene. It didn’t take Coniglio long to pick up on his blank expression. “Gentlemen, this is my assistant, Dominic Beltran; he’s brand new, right out of the box.”

  “Well, he ain’t gonna stay that way long,” Addison said.

  “No, Mowbray, I don’t imagine he will.”

  Coniglio tried passing her flashlight to Dominic by extending an arm behind her back, but he just continued standing around like a goofball. Certain examiners would have been quick to point out the kid’s unawareness; however, Coniglio just waited for him to wake up, without speaking a word.

  Addison analyzed Coniglio while she carried on with her work, taking in her long dark hair, soft complexion, and bow-shaped lips. Her deep-brown eyes radiated intelligence, and her compact figure always looked appealing no matter what she wore. Coniglio was a year older than him but appeared younger than her age. She was easy to get along with, exhaustive in her work, and never obstructed the detectives.

  “What do you think?” Addison asked her.

  “Looks like a slam dunk match to the body at the Bowl.”

  Coniglio lifted the dead woman’s shirt to unveil a brand in the shape of an inverted Christian cross on her left breast as Addison wiped the sweat from his eyes.

  “I’m sure we’ll find ketamine in her system as well,” Coniglio said.

  Addison sensed Glover withdrawing—he had two feet out the door. “Well, if HSS is going to be catching this one, I’m going to head back to the car for some shuteye, unless you want to call it now and send me off to my desk?”

  Coniglio slowly shook her head. “The car will have to suffice for the time being.”

  Glover didn’t hide his disappointment. “Give me a holler if anything pops up.”

  “Uh-huh, I don’t imagine you’ll have to stick around for too long.”

  Glover began moping his way back up the rise. “Later, Mowbray.”

  “Yeah, see you, Stan.”

  Addison kept his gaze fixed on the victim’s face. If it weren’t for the streaks of mascara, it would almost seem like she was asleep. The wounds on her wrists were identical to those found on the first victim’s ankles. Neat, but in no way surgical. Her skin appeared as if it had recently been sprayed with a tan, and Addison assessed her age to be mid-twenties.