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Prologue

Smile, you're Dead

Max Dalton did not struggle nor fight; his body hit the water with a stinging embrace, though he did not feel any pain. He was past caring; technically still alive, but more than ready to welcome death.

The water was warm, inviting. Max had no real comprehension of where he was, and even less now of who he was. Slowly, he submerged. The warm fluid filled his mouth, the cavern enlarged by the removal of his tongue, lips and teeth. He breathed the water in through his nose; at first panic at the realisation that there was no way of expelling it, then only the comfort of allowing it to fill his lungs.

Part One

Hell waits

One

The alarm was ringing in his ears with a fuck you attitude that was sure to get Leroy LaPortiere out of bed, but on the wrong side. The heat was closing in already and his clock cheerfully told him that it was just after five thirty in the morning. His girlfriend, Lia, was lying on top of the sheets, her body glistening with perspiration like morning dew. Her arm outstretched touching his naked back.

‘Go to sleep, hon.’ Leroy wanted to roll on top of her and slip deep inside her.

‘Be careful, baby.’

‘Sure hon, nothing ever happens around here.’

And he was right. He was on the money one hundred per cent of the time, but a winning streak like that has to end some day.

After a cold shower, Leroy was ready to face another day. Breakfast, would consist of an artery hardening and unsatisfying stop at Wendell’s Diner for an early morning mixed grill, hash browns and a gallon of extra strong coffee. The longevity of officers of the law on Turtle Island was not dictated by the rising tide of crime but by the accelerating spread of saturated fats through increasingly narrowing arteries.

‘You gonna die.’ A familiar voice came from behind.

‘That is the most sense you’ve talked in a long time my man. We all gonna die.’ Leroy didn’t need to lift his head from his grease sodden breakfast to know his partner was standing behind him. The smell of Giorgio Armani aftershave followed Rick Montoya around like a dust cloud announcing his arrival. Montoya dragged a chair over the stone tiled floor and sat next to LaPortiere. He waited patiently for a passing waitress before ordering his morning meal.

This is Groundhog Day, TV, Football, Sex and living. The game plan was that they would meet every day for the next twenty years, doing the same thing until they cashed their pensions, sold their homes and sailed around the world. Of course they were going to sail around the world; why wouldn’t they?

Montoya, like his partner Leroy LaPortiere, worked for Missouri Police Department. LaPortiere for the past twelve years, Montoya, only one year in Missouri, twelve in Chicago before that.

Rick dropped a small brown envelope onto the table next to Leroy.

‘What’s this?’

LaPortiere opened the manila envelope, noticing that it was addressed to Captain Norman Frusco, his chief. He withdrew a small bundle of Polaroid photographs, knowing that it wasn’t going to be Rick’s holiday snaps.

‘You know, I really thought that this sort of thing was confined to the big cities.’ Leroy shuffled through the photos. ‘This is the John Doe?’ He studied the victim, or what was left of him. He stared into the white bloated face, the lifeless eyes; it was something a movie could never capture, no matter how good the actor. The mask of death was something that could never be faked even with the best special effects and yet here he was looking at a cheap Polaroid and the look was unmistakable.

LaPortiere shivered. ‘Like I told you, we all gotta die someday.’

Narla Fleisher brushed her teeth vigorously while staring at her face in the bathroom mirror. She swirled water around her gums, dislodging toothpaste and various debris from last night’s dinner. She smiled, thoughts of the previous evening still fresh in her mind.

‘Honey, Don't forget its parent evening tonight.’ She called through the adjoining door.

An audible moan came from the en-suite bedroom.

‘Harley's expecting us both, so try not to get tied up with work, okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Charles Fleisher rolled over in the bed onto his back and sat up.

The sunlight streamed through the window, which Narla had already opened to fend off the beginning of the day's intense heat. Charles massaged away the early morning fatigue from his face, sweeping back his dishevelled mousy brown hair. Narla walked into the bedroom, naked from her shower.

Charles admired his wife’s body as much as when he first saw her naked.

Narla laughed and playfully threw the towel at her husband, all suburban happiness with no dark undercurrent. Charles leapt out of bed and grabbed his wife from behind. She enjoyed the sensation of his bare skin rubbing against her own.

‘Hey, I thought you had enough of that last night.’ She turned and immediately felt how excited Charles had become. ‘Obviously not.’

She pushed his powerful frame away from her and he over-dramatically fell backwards onto the bed. His hands reached out and grabbing her arms, he pulled her on top of him.

‘I've just showered.’ Narla only slightly protested.

Two

Leroy studied the pictures for hours. He searched through files on missing persons. He was wearing the face of a man that had spent too much time delving through the minutiae of boring details of boring people’s lives.

‘I think our break is only going to come when we find the body. The savagery of the killing…the mutilation, the killer wants us to be aware of his existence.’ Rick broke the silence.

‘Power games?’

‘Something like that.’

Leroy looked at the photographs. ‘D'you have a theory?’

‘Curiosity, that's all. This guy really is pulling our chain.’ Rick continued. ‘Sending us the photos.’

‘There might be clues here.’ Leroy grinned

‘He likes to play games.’

‘Yeah, one big power game. The more we look at this, the more we might learn about him.’

‘Ring Lia, it's going to be a long night.’ Rick settled back in his chair.

‘Shit man! Lia and I were goin’ out tonight. She’s gonna kill me and you're responsible. By morning you’re gonna be looking for another murderer.’ Leroy strolled away, tutting his disapproval. ‘I need a holiday from this dump.’

‘Harley really is an asset to this school, Mr Fleisher.’ The grinning form tutor smiled flirtatiously at Charles. She crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to fall open briefly, exposing long tanned legs. Charles could smell her. The bitch was in season. Miss Fuller made no apology nor looked even faintly embarrassed. She stared into his eyes and pulled the skirt back to modestly cover her legs.

Narla coughed indignantly. ‘Do you think she's making progress?’

Charles thought she was.

‘Oh, most definitely.’ Miss Fuller's southern drawl placed her somewhere between Missouri and Mississippi, what the 'Narla Fleisher's' of this world would have branded poor white trash, three or four decades ago, and even now only met at PTA meetings and on daytime soap operas. Mind enemas for the non-working classes.

Narla was impressed by Miss Fuller’s simple beauty, her long, fine, sun bleached hair, her body, with only the merest hint of a tan, her smooth, moisture holding skin, wrinkle free and unblemished with a pair of green eyes to die for. Narla imagined a school full of pubescent boys with permanent hard-on’s.

‘Harley is top of her form in most subjects. She is a very bright young girl. Her maths still needs some work, but even here she has excelled against this time last year.’ Miss Fuller continued

Charles looked across the hall at his daughter, Harley was sitting with a group of friends they were laughing and chatting the way ten year old girls do, with feverish excitement, possibly about the latest hunk boy pop group or an exchange of fashion tips which will come back to haunt them in future years.

Harley broke from her conversation briefly to look up and wave affectionately to her father.

Charles smiled back.

Later in the evening, Narla cornered Charles in a quiet moment. ‘Miss Fuller wants to fuck you.’

Charles laughed. ‘Do you blame her?'

Narla snorted. ‘You smug bastard.’

‘I love it when you talk dirty.’ Charles continued to mock his wife, enjoying the frisson of the moment.

‘Did you think she was attractive, I know I did?’

‘Sure, if we ever have a son I'll send him here.’ Charles pulled his wife closer. ‘Seems our daughter is the school genius, though that's not surprising with our genetic pool.’

‘Hey, Mr Modesty, be careful or we may have to widen the door frames.’ Narla leaned up and kissed Charles gently on the lips.