The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission by Raymond Klein (ebook reader 7 inch txt) 📕

Rib cage missing, internal organs removed. All done postmortem.” He too, had to keep up with DeLaRue’s strides. “But the truly disturbing thing. The eyes weren’t.”

DeLaRue stopped walking. Frank almost walked into the back of him. “The eyes were taken while the guy was still alive?” He incredulously asked.

“Sure were! The poor bastard.” Doctor Riviera motioned with his hand. “Come here, look at this.” DeLaRue and Frank followed the doctor to the man on the ground. The medical examiner removed a pen from his breast pocket and used it as a pointer. “See here, how the blood around the eyes ran down his cheeks. Means he had a pulse when they were removed.” Again pointing with his pen, “Now, you don’t find the same amount running from the incisions around the chest cavity. Telling me that the chest was opened after death.”

Dawson DeLaRue took his large left hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine coming on. “Time of death, Doc?”

“Hmm,” the ME thought while looking down at the victim, “rigor's begun to set in, so anywhere from five to ten hours. I’ll know for sure when I get him back to the shop and make some tests.”

Lieutenant DeLaRue reached into his right pocket for his pack of cigarettes, something else his doctor disliked. He shook one out, placed it between his lips, and pulled it from the pack. Putting the pack back into his right pocket, he started rummaging around his other pockets for a light.

“Like with the others,” the medical examiner added, “the knife used was incredibly sharp, most likely a medical scalpel. And like with the others, cause of death is the single incision into the carotid artery. Bled out in a couple of minutes.”

“This guy is one sick fuck!” Frank said, as he pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipped it open, ignited it, and brought it up to the tip of the lieutenant's cigarette. Dawson covered the flame with his dark hands and took a long drag. “Don’t worry,” Frank said, “I won’t tell Margaret.” Then closed the lighter with a loud click.

DeLaRue exhaled. “Yeah, what Margaret doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” Dawson took another drag while contemplating the fact that he had a serial killer on his hands. He just shook his head and said, “Jesus Christ!”

Doctor Riviera snorted out a laugh and said, “Oh! You got that right!”

All three looked down at the victim that was lying on his back, eyelids fixed half-open, displaying two dark empty holes. The legs were straight together with ankles crossed, the arms stretched out like that of a clock, pointing at ten and two, with elbows slightly bent.

Dawson took another drag, then exhaled, and said, “Like our Lord and Savior on the Cross.”

“Yup!” Riviera agreed.

Chapter Forty-Four

Bollar drove into the city of Westberry. The low gray cloud cover of the cold and drizzly morning reflected off the large glass and metal high-rises, giving the city a foreboding feel. As he drove deeper into the artificial canyon of grays and blacks he thought to himself how this town was ripe for the taking. After he finished his business in Old Town and depleted it, he’d start up here.

He continued on toward the north end of Westberry. He drove past a fuel storage field of large cylindrical tanks, each one holding 2.35 million gallons of Jet A and Jet A1 fuel that supplied the turbine jet engines at the Westberry International Airport. He drove on and into the large industrial center of town where all the old brick and modern prefabricated shipping and storage warehouses were located. He passed warehouses for dry and frozen goods that supplied the majority of the grocery stores in the region, and a large FedEx distribution center that bustled with trucks coming and going. Closer to the northern bend of the Horseshoe River that led to the bay he came to the fish-processing factories that received, processed, packed and shipped out their product twenty-four hours a day.

Bollar was on his way to see Prodor Moffit for their bi-monthly meeting. It was something Prodor insisted on. Bollar hated checking in. He found it tedious and time consuming. But he always obliged, not wanting to cross Moffit. Bollar wasn’t sure if Prodor met with the others on different days, but most likely he did. Moffit was brilliant, but extremely paranoid. He always wanted to know what they were all up to.

He pulled into the parking lot of a small, two-story office/warehouse building that overlooked the Horseshoe River. As he turned off the engine and got out of his car, smells from the fish processing plants wafted over on the air current, causing him to nearly retch. He fought the urge to remove his handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth the way he did the first time, but knew better. It did nothing to stop the awful smell, but did draw jeers and remarks from Prodor’s men.

He approached the main entrance of Prodor’s building where a very large man stood. Bollar knew him as Murray, and he was the one who started the barbs when he dry heaved the first time at the smell of this place.

Murray grinned as Bollar approached and motioned with his hands. Bollar knew the drill and raised his arms so Murray could frisk him. He was roughly patted down, then Murray opened the door for him saying, “I brung a plastic bucket for yah. It’s pink with little green flowers on it. Like the ones little girls use at the beach to play in the sand.” He gave him a crooked smile. “Just in case yah need to puke in it.”

Bollar ignored him, thinking that his fat fingers would make a nice trophy someday. He walked through the door and into the building, an old brick warehouse with its wooden carriage doors swung open wide. Two men were loading two-foot-by-three-foot pine crates into the back of a panel truck that was backed into the warehouse.