We are delighted to welcome author Liam Sweeny to Omnimystery News today.
Liam's second thriller to feature homicide detective Jack LeClere is Welcome Back, Jack (Down & Out Books; October 2015 trade paperback and ebook formats) and we are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt from the first chapter.
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SOUTH END NIGHTS BELONGED TO THE drunks, degenerates, addicts and their feeders, and a handful of unlucky souls forced by short straws to preside over the darkness and the damned.
It was three a.m. and Jack LeClere fumbled for a match. His fingers trembled in the frigid late November air. He had a brushed chrome Zippo that Mary gave him in his pocket, but he never found time to get fluid.
The smell of sulfur replaced the hot coffee he'd had to sacrifice when the call got him up. He took a whiff of the matchstick, grunted and tossed it to the curb.
Third nightmare he'd had in a week. For once, he was glad to get the reprieve, such as it were.
His partner, Eddie Gamble, was late, as usual. He'd just been promoted to "Proud Papa" six months ago. His wife, Sarah, fell in love with a man in a uniform, but she wasn't in love with late night calls; the price Gamble paid for not having to go on shift. Jack was just covering for someone.
"It's a fucking mess in there, Jack." Jeff Mitchell was one of the responding officers who secured the scene. He was a golem in a midnight navy blue uniform with horsehair brows and grim eyes. "A fucking mess. The techs are processing the house. The M.E. just got here."
Jack took a deep drag of his smoke, feeling the kick of cold carcinogens. He trailed his exhale with a cough and a renewed vow to quit.
"What're the basics? I barely got anything on the call."
Mitchell scratched his neck. "Nine-one-one got it about an hour ago," he said. "He knew the dispatcher's name, just like the other two."
He flipped out his notepad. "Three victims, the Masons: father, Matthew; mother, Sheila; and daughter, Kyla. The father took one in the head, the other two …" Mitchell took a loaded breath. "You tell me, I guess …"
"Thanks, Mitch," Jack said as he started up the stairs.
"You might want Vicks for your nose. Everyone's been asking for it. It's bad."
Jack poked his head in the doorway. It was rank.
"Nah," he said as he walked back down. "Don't think it'll help any."
"Suit yourself."
Just then he saw Gamble walking toward him, the patrol lights catching his tight, curly hair and the creases of his wrinkled jacket. A little cold for just a suit coat. Jack stifled a laugh with a grunt, ever thankful for Mary.
"Sorry, man," Gamble said, "Sarah was up with the baby." He pressed his palms into his eye sockets. "He picks tonight to put up a fuss. An angel all day, straight from heaven. Till midnight."
Jack chuckled. "How's it feel being double-on-call?"
"Shoot me. Use my gun, even. No paperwork."
"Hold that thought." He patted Gamble on the chest as he flipped his cigarette down into the storm drain. "It's probably you-know-who, I haven't been in yet. Smells like ass."
"Maybe it's warm, then." Gamble started up the steps to the aged brownstone with lead shoes. Jack was right behind him. A crowd had gathered around Fourth Street, busybodies wearing pajamas and overstuffed jackets. Even the kids were out, shaky fingers grasping the police tape. Jack wondered if any of the concerned citizens would bring in a lead.
He scanned the crowd, tried to catalog each face, but the light wasn't good. Maybe the killer was watching them.
The floodlights poured out of the open door, revealing moving shadows, empty body bags and the vacuum darting in and out of view.
A portly guy, bald on top, wearing a dirt-streaked cardigan and khakis, was seated in a recliner facing the wall opposite the front door with his arms on the armrests, calm-looking, serene and posed. Matthew Mason.
He was staring blankly ahead, cloudy eyes glazed over and frozen by the hole in his forehead. Medium caliber, by the look of the entrance wound. Jack donned his gloves and went to roll the head and look at the exit wound.
"He's patched up back there, Jack," the M.E. said. "Let me get him off the chair and on the floor, best I can. I'm just guessing a thirty-eight, something like that."
Jack nodded and picked up a framed picture from the stand by the chair. A hiking scene in the mountains, the Adirondacks maybe. Jagged rock face behind them, flanked by smoother slopes farther off.
They had backpacks, walking sticks and must have been up high. Dad had them gathered in his arms and they were all smiling.
The daughter had an exhilarated look on her face. Her eyes were lit up, her cheeks flushed. Jack flipped the picture over and popped open the frame. On the bottom "Kyla's B-Day! — Mt. Marcy" was written in blue ink.
"They looked happy," Gamble said.
"She's about Paul's age in this pic."
"It's a damn shame. Come over here, check this out."
Gamble led him to an office area on the other side of the room, just a desk with a jungle of paper surrounding a laptop.
Gamble rifled through a stack of papers. "Receipts from Second Chance, Helping Hands of New Rhodes, the Red Cross, Salvation Army …"
Jack scanned through other pages, receipts and placed them back on the desk gently.
"I wish this asshole had a type."
"I don't know but we'd best get into the kitchen. They want to bag the two in there."
"Sheila and Kyla Mason."
"What about 'em?" Eddie asked.
"In the kitchen." Jack pointed to the picture. "They have names, Eddie."
"Jeez, sorry?"
"Nah, forget about it," Jack said. "Tired, I guess. Had a nightmare and woke up to this."
The real nightmare was in the kitchen. They found the two women; he'd have to say "women" because of their hair length and bone structure. At least that's what he could figure out from what he saw. There were no clothes, no skin below the hair-lines. They looked like pictures of the muscular system he'd seen in doctors' offices.
Precise, clinical and damn near sterile. There were no pools of blood; there had to be pools of blood. But there weren't, just muscle fibers, milky-white tendons and sinew, crisscrossed with faded blue veins and a patina of something slick coating the bodies. Gamble groaned in disgust.
"He had time. He had to have time. Nobody noticed this? Not even the smell?"
Jack shrugged. "Go check the living room again. And then check the back wall behind the recliner to see if Mason was even shot here."
Gamble went into the living room. Jack grabbed one of the techs.
"Did you spray in here for fluids?"
"Our first stop," the tech told him. "Found just a little pooling underneath the bodies, on the table from where they were, umm …"
"Posed."
"Yeah, but other than that, there should be more blood. A lot more."
"Is Larry still out there?"
The tech pointed toward the living room. "Your partner's talking to him now. He's been in here already to get time of death."
"Thanks." Jack looked at the scene, at everything. The bodies were sitting upright at the table. They must have been posed and held until rigor set in. Soon, the bodies would lose rigidity and collapse, sliding off the chairs. They'd be in a bag by then.
The smell was overpowering, and he regretted not getting some Vick's. There was a dinner plate in front of each body with silverware laid out. Their elbows were on the table, hands cupping the edges of the plates like a macabre suppertime scene. They reminded him of plates he and Mary used for company. He'd have to buy new ones.
There were dishes in the sink, and papers and magazines on the kitchen counter. Jack walked over to them and saw something familiar. His own name.
It was small, on the bottom right edge of a newspaper from six months ago. Detective Jack LeClere, others to be honored at the Annual New Rhodes Police Department Recognition Ceremony.
It was in the Community News section. Mary had it stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
"Eddie, get out here."
Eddie must've been on his way. He was quickly peering over Jack's shoulder again.
"What do you make of this?"
Eddie hopped over and pawed through the other magazines and papers.
"These are all new. This month or last month. Did you know these people, Jack?"
"I didn't recognize anyone in the picture." Jack thumbed the table. "If that's Sheila and Kyla, I can't tell but … really, I don't know 'em."
"Okay. That's pretty strange."
"We passed strange fifteen minutes ago."
Eddie wretched. God, Eddie, don't puke.
"Killer had to leave this," Jack said. "It's evidence."
He had to leave the kitchen. His mind was being rendered by Escher.
"Larry told me they've been dead for more than twenty-four hours," Gamble said, snapping Jack out of his own head. "I also talked to the upstairs neighbor. She told me the daughter, Kyla, was a loudmouth, her words, but she hadn't heard her over the weekend. She said she didn't hear any other voices or anything. And the wall behind the husband's head was clean. He wasn't shot here."
"The upstairs neighbors didn't notice the smell?"
"She said she did, but thought it was a dead cat or something."
"Mountain lions in the South End?"
"Yeah." Eddie stepped aside as the M.E.'s assistant walked into the kitchen with two bags.
"They're in rigor in the kitchen," Jack said. "Rigor peaks at twelve. They should've been out of rigor by now."
"This has got to be him."
"I'd bet on it," Jack replied, "but only one of the other murders he could've done by himself. Not the last one, not this one."
"So what do we want to tell the captain?"
Jack walked outside, tapped a fresh cigarette on his pack and got the match to light with the first strike. He lit up to kill the smell still in his nose.
"I don't think we'll have to tell him much. Harken said if we got another one, we'd set up a task force. So my guess is to head back to the station."
"What about that paper in the kitchen?"
Jack took a drag. "Can't exclude it. But hell, even I don't know what it means. So no use shining a spotlight on it."
"Harken will," Gamble said. "And if you don't at least turn it on for him, he'll swing it at you."
"Yeah, he'd pretty much kill me on that."
"Save yourself. I know if I go into overtime, Sarah's gonna kill me,"
"Better her than this guy." Jack walked toward his car. "See ya there, Eddie."
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Photo provided courtesy of
Liam Sweeny
Liam Sweeny has been active in various community causes, from grassroots political campaigns to disaster relief work starting in Louisiana with hurricane Katrina. He has spent the past four years as a disaster responder in the American Red Cross of Northeastern New York. His short fiction has appeared in numerous periodicals, including Thuglit, All Due Respect, Spinetingler Magazine, Shotgun Honey and Out of the Gutter Online. He lives in Albany, NY.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at LiamSweeny.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
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Welcome Back, Jack by Liam Sweeny
A Jack LeClere Thriller
Publisher: Down & Out Books
When Jack was six years old, his parents were brutally slain by a serial killer. The police later found drifter Clyde Colsen driving a stolen car, his clothes soaked in blood. He was tried, convicted and executed. Jack grew up knowing the police got their man.
Now a decorated homicide detective in New Rhodes, Jack arrives at the third crime scene of the "South End Killer" murders and finds his name. He will soon find out something else: thirty years ago, they got the wrong guy. And now the right guy's come back to pay Jack and New Rhodes his bloody respects.
As Jack struggles to stay on the case, his cat-and-mouse game with the killer makes him wonder if he's the cat or the mouse. His family and everyone in his life is fair game. As the killer escalates and threatens the entire city, Jack has a question he must answer in his desperation: can he stop the monster without becoming one?
— Welcome Back, Jack by Liam Sweeny
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