Glimpse Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Also by Stephen B King

  Glimpse, Memoir of a Serial Killer

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: 1999–The Beginning

  Chapter 2: My Memoir Entry - The First Glimpse

  Chapter 3: The Y2K Bug

  Chapter 4: My Memoir Entry - I Spy, With My Little Eye

  Chapter 5: Into the Noughties

  Chapter 6: My Memoir Entry - Life in Foster Care

  Chapter 7: June

  Chapter 8: My Memoir Entry - Enjoying the Fear

  Chapter 9: Mind Games

  Chapter 10: My Memoir Entry - Step into My Parlor

  Chapter 11: Cut and Thrust

  Chapter 12: My Memoir Entry - Graduation Day

  Chapter 13: An Assortment of Excerpts from Newspaper Articles

  Chapter 14: A Troubled Soul Laid Bare

  Chapter 15: My Memoir Entry - Incandescent Rage

  Chapter 16: The Needle in the Haystack

  Chapter 17: The Day the Sky Fell In

  Chapter 18: My Memoir Entry - Ducks All in A Row

  Chapter 19: The Ultimatum

  Chapter 20: Face to Face with the Devil Incarnate

  Chapter 21: Hope and Good Intentions

  Chapter 22: The Gathering

  Afterword (Part 1)

  Afterword (Part 2)

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  Detective Sergeant Richard ‘Rick’ McCoy had drunk three cans of beer, and just opened his fourth, when his mobile phone rang. It was his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Colin Harris.

  “Rick, sorry to call on a Sunday, but we’ve got a dissected dead body found in a suitcase at the Midland Refuse Dump. Meet up with Forensics and the M.E., will you? The local cops have secured the scene,” he said in his usual no-nonsense, gruff, tone.

  If the mental image of a body in a suitcase hadn’t sounded so interesting, Rick would have told him that he had been drinking and to take the next officer on the roster. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I’m on my way.”

  Just for a moment, right after he hung up the phone, he thought about calling back and declining. It was Sunday, he had been drinking while watching a boxing match on TV, and he had hoped to drive back to his old neighborhood a little later. He didn’t have visitation rights for that weekend, but he still hoped to watch Amy, his daughter, from afar.

  Rick was forty years old. He had salt-and-pepper graying short spiky hair, that never seemed to sit right, but because he wore a six-day growth beard, somehow it looked good on him. He wasn’t overweight, but not a picture of fitness either, and he always looked like his shirt had missed the iron before he put it on. In short, he looked like the married, but recently separated man that he was.

  Also by Stephen B King

  Forever Night

  Repo

  Domin8

  The Vigilante Taxi

  Burial Ground

  Published by TWRP

  Thirty Three Days

  Glimpse, Memoir of a Serial Killer

  by

  Stephen B King

  Deadly Glimpses, Book 1

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

  Glimpse, Memoir of a Serial Killer

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Stephen B King

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Thriller Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2268-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2269-8

  Deadly Glimpses, Book 1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  I will be forever grateful to Mica S Cole for help and guidance. She took my book and told me all the things I’d done wrong in telling it, and that was a lot.

  Special thanks to my editor Melanie Billings who loved the story, as did everyone at TWRP and wanted Rick and Patricia’s tale to see the light of day—Thanks, Melanie.

  My wife and family put up with a lot, having an author in the house, who only wants to spend time writing instead of quality time with them.

  Lastly, my daughter Tania has been my constant rock, and biggest supporter. None of this would have happened without her behind me, pushing and giving her constant praise. Love ya, babe.

  Chapter 1: 1999–The Beginning

  Melanie Cartwright disappeared on a Sunday evening. Storm clouds gathered in the West as her husband’s car pulled into a spot of the busy parking area of the suburban shopping center.

  She turned to her husband with one hand on the inside door handle of the car. “Are you sure you won’t come with me? You never know, I might meet another man.” She smiled, and he knew that was a joke.

  “You’ve had me working my bum off all day; the football’s on and I think I can trust you to buy a couple of steaks to throw on the barbeque without being tempted away by some passing gigolo.” He winked at her.

  She grinned as she flicked her head to clear her blonde hair from her face in the warm breeze. They had been stripping the bathroom for new tiles to update the three-bedroom house they had bought the year before, and it had been backbreaking work. Once they cleaned up, it was past closing time for the big supermarket she usually shopped at, so Allan agreed to drive her to the smaller grocery store in an adjoining suburb. During the drive, he insisted he would stay in the car, to listen to the radio, while she ran in to get things for dinner.

  His team, the West Coast Eagles, was playing Hawthorn and it was the third quarter in what was a very tight game. “Don’t be long, or I’ll come looking for ya,” he joked, watching her light cotton dress ride up her thighs as she climbed out of his battered old SUV.

  She waggled a finger at him before spinning around with a little skip, which lifted the back of her dress almost to her panties. “Back soon, lover boy.” She closed the door quietly, then with a spring in her step, headed off toward the supermarket.

  Allan settled back into the seat and turned the volume a little higher as Hawthorn scored a goal. He watched people come and go in front of his car, backlit by the setting sun, their gray plastic bags overflowing with vegetables, cans, and freshly baked bread. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

  The fourth quarter had only just started when Allan wondered what was taking Melanie so long. That woman is such a tease; I bet she’s doing it just so I go looking for her. He smiled, but the Eagles goaled again, and ten more minutes went by as the two teams fought in a tug-of-war for supremacy.

  Allan glanced at his watch and scowled. If this is her idea of a joke, it’s not mine. He yanked the keys out of the ignition, wound the window up, and got out of the car slamming the door so hard it rattled.

  He entered the building through the automatic glass doors and scanned the checkouts. He moved through the turnstile then walked up and down each aisle.

  He searched the supermarket three times before his anger turned cold. Maybe I missed her, and she’s back at the car? He ran back outside, but she wasn’t there, or an
ywhere else that he could find.

  Melanie Cartwright had vanished.

  ****

  The police arrived in a light utility truck with a fiberglass canopy with two fresh-faced officers who were approaching the end of their shift. One was male, and the other female. They took down his statement and description of Melanie in a little notepad. Allan could tell what they thought; he could read them like a book. In their minds, they thought the couple had argued, and she had run off in tears, despite his assurance that they most certainly had not.

  The officers asked a few cursory questions of the supermarket checkout staff to see if they remembered serving her, which they did not.

  “Look, Mr. Cartwright, I can see you’re upset,” Constable Wilkins said in a placating, patronizing voice, once Allan had finished his statement, “but I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. She’ll probably turn up later at home.”

  “Why are you not getting this? She wouldn’t do this; she had no reason to run off. She just went in there to buy a couple of steaks for dinner, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, let me ask you: what do you think happened to your wife?” He stuck the end of his biro in his mouth and waited with a stupid know-it-all look on his face.

  “I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t have called you, would I? You should be helping me find her. She may have been kidnapped.”

  “Why would someone want to kidnap your wife from a tiny suburban shopping center on a Sunday evening? Is there something you’re not telling us, hmm?”

  Allan shook his head. There was nothing, no reason he could think of. “I don’t know, I just don’t know. Look, it’s been well over an hour, something bad has happened to her, I’m telling you.” He looked down, he was wringing his hands and hadn’t even realized.

  “All right, Mr. Cartwright, best you go home and wait there, she may turn up, or you may get a phone call from her. We will have a drive around the area see if we can spot her wandering around. We’ve put a bulletin out for other cars to be on the lookout and notified the hospitals to keep a watch too. If she hasn’t turned up by the morning, come into the station and we will get CID, and Missing Persons, to have a chat with you. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

  ****

  It was fifty-eight-year-old Harvey Broughton, who made the find which would feature in local newspapers and TV bulletins, for months to come. Fit and healthy for his age, with hair that was snow white, he finished emptying his six-by-four trailer full of branches pruned from the Bougainvillea plants, which populated his front garden, and grew like wildfire. He was at the Midland City garbage dump, four weeks after Melanie’s disappearance.

  He wiped his sweat-covered brow and glanced around as he wrinkled his nose. The place stank to high heaven and he knew he would need a shower when he got home. He realized he was alone at the tip face and spotted the new looking saddle-brown suitcase halfway down the slope. Always on the lookout for a bargain, or better yet something for free, he thought the case looked to be in fine condition, far too good to have been left there. At that distance, he thought it looked brand new, and that was odd.

  After a furtive glance, to make sure he wasn’t being watched, because there were signs everywhere warning patrons: NO SCAVENGING. He clamored down the short incline and squatted down on his haunches. It had twist locks, which he turned counter-clockwise and to his surprise, they popped open. He lifted the lid and peered inside.

  It took several seconds to understand what he was looking at. The opaque plastic was wrapped around what appeared to be butcher’s joints of meat, yet in the back of his mind, somehow, he knew they couldn’t be that.

  With a dawning horror, he realized what he had found. He screamed, and in a blind panic, ran back up the slope, bent at the waist, and vomited into the dust.

  Melanie Cartwright’s body, which would later be identified from dental records, had been discovered, packed inside a large suitcase at the Midland City Rubbish Dump. She had been neatly dissected, her pieces individually wrapped in plastic sheeting, and carefully stacked inside the sturdy case.

  ****

  Detective Sergeant Richard ‘Rick’ McCoy had drunk three cans of beer, and just opened his fourth, when his mobile phone rang. It was his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Colin Harris.

  “Rick, sorry to call on a Sunday, but we’ve got a dissected dead body found in a suitcase at the Midland Refuse Dump. Meet up with Forensics and the M.E., will you? The local cops have secured the scene,” he said in his usual no-nonsense, gruff, tone.

  If the mental image of a body in a suitcase hadn’t sounded so interesting, Rick would have told him that he had been drinking and to take the next officer on the roster. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I’m on my way.”

  Just for a moment, right after he hung up the phone, he thought about calling back and declining. It was Sunday, he had been drinking while watching a boxing match on TV, and he had hoped to drive back to his old neighborhood a little later. He didn’t have visitation rights for that weekend, but he still hoped to watch Amy, his daughter, from afar.

  Rick was forty years old. He had salt-and-pepper graying short spikey hair, that never seemed to sit right, but because he wore a six-day growth beard, somehow it looked good on him. He wasn’t overweight, but not a picture of fitness either, and he always looked like his shirt had missed the iron before he had put it on. In short, he looked like the married, but recently separated man that he was.

  He lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment and was forced to play what he thought of as mind games with his ex-wife, Juliet, over visiting rights for their daughter. Unfortunately, it seemed that whenever they reached an agreement, his job would take a bow, and he would be forced to work all or part of the agreed day. The separation hadn’t been formalized, with a judge setting custody rights. The bitterness Juliet displayed when they spoke on the phone, when he tried to arrange an alternate visit, shone like a beacon as it seemed she tried to make life as difficult as she could.

  Rick didn’t have to think too long and hard about where things had gone wrong in the marriage: he resolutely blamed himself. Though at the time, he blamed his work, Juliet, and anything but himself. It was a common story among a lot of senior homicide detectives: long hours working, booze to help them forget the hideous things they saw, and the people they had to deal with. Worst of all, detectives often had a reluctance to talk about it with their wives, so they felt excluded. That had been true for him.

  In Rick’s case, the final nail in the coffin that was his marriage was Angie.

  Angie had been a victim in a mugging gone wrong. One interview with her, and the spark of instant attraction had struck, ending in a short but torrid affair. When Rick came to his senses and tried to end it, Angie took great delight in giving his wife graphic descriptions of the sex they had shared.

  When he got home from work that night, the locks had been changed, his clothes haphazardly crammed into two suitcases, and a scrawled note pinned to the front door to tell him why. No amount of pleading for the chance to explain made a difference. Two hours later, he grabbed his cases and went to a motel, where he drank a bottle of scotch.

  Rick was sometimes thought of as morose by colleagues, although he was the life and soul of any party after hours. When his marriage ended, he became moody, but threw himself harder into his job. His arrest rate increased as his alcohol intake decreased; the hope of winning back Juliet never far from his mind. He knew that to have any chance of reconciliation, he had to sort himself out, grow up, and become again the man Juliet had fallen for years before.

  At three fifteen that Sunday afternoon, going back to work was the last thing he wanted to do, but a dismembered body in a suitcase was far too interesting to let go of. Using his mobile phone, he called his partner, Tyler Dundas, and left a message with his answering service, telling him of the job that he was attending.

  He changed from his grubby T-shirt and shorts into the least crumpled shirt in h
is wardrobe, adding slacks, a dark woolen tie, and a jacket to conceal the gun at his hip. He was out the door in ten minutes, popping mints to cover his beer breath.

  It was almost four in the evening by the time he got to the dump, which had been locked to restrict access. A uniformed cop nodded, recognizing Rick without the need for him to show his I.D. and got into the passenger side of Rick’s standard police issue dark blue sedan; and they drove over the rutted gravel road to the tip face.

  Rubbish dumps all over the world have the same horrible odor, and Rick wrinkled his nose as he climbed out of the car and concentrated on not retching. He walked over the uneven ground to the staked, taped off area, which designated the crime scene. Off to one side, a policewoman comforted a small, nervous man, the one who’d likely found the body, Rick thought. He gave a small wave of acknowledgement to the woman and kept walking toward a group of men who wore white coveralls. They were combing the area.

  Thank God I don’t have their job. Some were on hands and knees, raking through garbage with their gloved fingers, searching for clues.

  Rick sighed inwardly. How would anyone recognize what was evidence and what wasn’t in a rubbish tip, for Christ’s sake?

  Clearly whoever dumped the body had driven in, picked a quiet spot, threw out the suitcase, and left. There would be no usable tire tracks among the hundreds they’d find. So, what if they find used cigarette ends, or gum wrappers? He knew it had to be done procedurally, but what a complete and utter waste of manpower it would undoubtedly turn out to be.

  He ducked under the tape and walked between the string lines which showed where had been swept, to the edge of the slope, within meters of the case. He nodded to the officers and forensic investigators and stood waiting with hands in pockets for the medical examiner to acknowledge him. The man squatted next to an open suitcase while a photographer worked alongside him. It didn’t take long; the ME stood, shook his head, and picked up his bag. He methodically climbed up the slope toward Rick.

  “Mike, how’re you doing?” Rick asked.