New Work in Progress
A new SECTION 5 mystery.
Good morning, readers!
It’s a fine day to introduce my work in progress, View to a Killer, a new SECTION 5 mystery. Agents Otis and Alchurch are called in once againt to investigate a case of unusual origin. The debut novel in this series, SECTION 5, is available now. (SECTION 5 is a spinoff from the third book in the Harvest trilogy, CENSUS, where Agent Otis was first introduced.)
Mind you, this is still being written, but the first few chapters are done, so here is a sneak peek.
Chapter 1
The body hung from the ceiling, pinned to the beams by long carpenter nails driven through the arms, hands and feet. The victim, a young woman in her mid-twenties, was wrapped in a towel, as if she’d just stepped from the shower. Another towel lay on the floor beneath her absorbing much of the blood. Presumably, it had been wrapped around her wet hair and fell off. The long strands of hair hid her face from view. But a pneumatic nail gun lay out in the open, in a corner, obviously the murder weapon.
FBI Special Agent Roger Otis shook his head and turned to his partner, Agent Niall Alchurch of MI6. Both were assigned to SECTION 5, a division within the bureau created over sixty years ago to investigate cases of unusual origin, a division that operated under many different names. Project Sign, Project Blue Book, SIGNAL, Operation Omega, and now, SECTION 5. Yet no other agents outside of SECTION 5 knew of its existence.
“Why are we here? This is a case for the local police.” Agent Otis asked, irritation evident in his tone.
Alchurch quirked a brow and ran a hand through the gray hair taking over his temples.
“Manner of death, I suspect.” Alchurch pointed up. “Not every day you see a corpse nailed to a ceiling.”
Otis snorted. “Maybe not, but it still doesn’t fall under section criteria.”
Behind them, two men in plain clothes entered the house. One was an older gentleman, with hard eyes and middle age spread. He wore a gray, button-down shirt and dark slacks paired with a Navy-blue trench coat. Next to him, a younger, slimmer man with a receding hairline and thin lips, dressed similarly, followed.
The older of the two glanced up at the body, then looked at Otis, giving him the once-over. He repeated this action with Alchurch.
“You two the FBI?” he asked, his tone showing he already knew the answer.
Alchurch replied. “Special Agents Otis,” he said, nodding at Roger, “and Alchurch.” Niall stuck out his hand.
The older gentleman gave it a brief shake.
“Wasn’t going to call you fellas,” he said, a grimace flattening his lips.
“Then why are we here?” Otis asked for the second time.
The younger man gave a pointed look to his partner. “See? They can’t help. We don’t need the feds—”
“Hold your tongue, Jacobs!” the older man snapped. He gave Jacobs a quelling look before turning his attention back to Otis and Alchurch.
“No patience, these rookies,” he grumbled. “I’m Detective Katz. George to my wife. Katz to everyone else. And to answer your question, Agent Otis, you’re here because my supervisor ordered me to call you in. This,” he said, pointing up, “is the fourth body in five months, and the fourth body killed in a manner that leaves no clues or obvious suspects. We don’t get but maybe one or two murders in ten years in our little town. Now I have four in the last five months and a terrified community.”
Alchurch pointed out the obvious. “There’s a nail gun on the floor in the corner.” He looked up at the body, now being photographed by a uniformed officer. “That’s a pretty conclusive clue.”
Detective Katz cast the nail gun a disgusted look. “And I will bet you my next paycheck forensics comes up with diddlysquat just like the previous three cases. No fingerprints. No forced entry,” he added, looking around, “and no signs of struggle. Someone went to a hell of a lot of effort to get that young woman’s body up there.” He spread his arms, gesturing to the room they stood in. “Do you see a ladder or anything even out of place?”
Roger Otis looked at the room, this time with renewed interest. There were the usual items in the living room; a couch, two chairs, a coffee table which contained a TV remote, a stack of coasters, and a couple of candles. A flatscreen television sat opposite the couch on a stand. Beneath it was a satellite box, and on each side, framed photos of the victim and, presumably, family members or friends. There were decorative pillows on the couch placed in each corner. It was clean and well maintained. Nothing looked out of place. He glanced up at the body once again. Other than the murder victim, the room was neat as a pin. The detective was right. There should be blood everywhere. There should be signs of a massive struggle, if not in the living room, then somewhere in the house.
“All the other rooms this undisturbed?” Otis asked.
The detective nodded. “Yeah. Feel free to look around. I was told this is your area of expertise, whatever that is.”
Otis and Alchurch locked eyes, and then Alchurch excused himself to inspect the rest of the house.
“Oh, and one other thing,” Detective Katz said.
Alchurch turned, his guarded expression that of a man leery another shoe was about to drop.
Otis faced Katz. “Yeah?”
Katz turned back toward the front door and waved at another uniform.
“Send her in.”
The officer nodded and stepped off the porch. He returned seconds later escorting a short, older woman with over-teased bleached blonde hair. She wore a colorful sweater over bright red leggings and black boots. When she saw Roger Otis, she pushed past the uniformed officer and walked straight to him.
“Thank God, you’re here. I knew you’d come.”
Otis looked at the woman, taken aback, then at Katz who rolled his eyes.
“This is Tess Johnson. She’s a local psychic,” he added, pointing at his head with one finger and spinning it in a circular motion. “She says she knows who did this…”
Tess Johnson threw side-eye at Detective Katz, clearly annoyed. Then she turned back to Agent Otis. “No, Detective,” she said, her voice sharp, “I said I know who’s going to be next. We have to save her!”
Otis opened his mouth to speak when a wet, sucking sound interrupted him. He glanced around, seeking the source. The others heard it, too, each looking at the next person for answers. The sucking sound grew louder. Alchurch looked up.
The other shoe dropped…and so did the body, which slammed onto the floor with loud splat.