Murder Race

Murder Race by Alexandrea Weis

Chapter 1

There was an art to yanking a hip bone from the socket when dismembering a body. You had to twist the femur a certain way, feel that satisfying crack when the joint’s tendons ruptured, and then pull with a quick jerk. He’d mastered the technique through trial and error. A lifetime of disposing of corpses had made him efficient and clean.

The head of the young woman he’d taken from the French Quarter rested on the old butcher’s block next to her torso. Her long auburn hair appealed to him, but he didn’t care for the thick makeup she wore to attract customers.

This recent acquisition he’d picked out from dozens of prostitutes walking Decatur Street. He’d lured her into his car and drove to a secluded spot next to the old St. Louis Number One Cemetery.

She’d been eager to get down to business, and when her head was in his crotch, he’d slipped the rope around her neck. His homage to John Wayne Gacy was the hammer used to twist the garotte tighter. He liked imitating his heroes. Reenacting their murders was his MO and something he felt sure would keep the police scratching their heads when they eventually uncovered his handiwork.

The thrill of watching a person struggle never got old. It was a bit of a letdown when this one had died, but disposing of her body helped him relive every moment from that first encounter to that glorious glint of life ebbing from her pretty blue eyes.

He stood back, admiring the woman’s disarticulated limbs. After dumping her parts in different waterways around the city, no one would find her. Would anyone look? He doubted it. Hunt where the prey was easy and only select those no one would miss, his father had taught him.

He grew up watching his old man trap and murder attractive young women. The screams and the blood seemed normal to him as a child. Killing was a family affair, and everyone expected him to continue the tradition one day.

When he was old enough to strike out on his own, he discovered things his father had forgotten to pass down. For instance, he never took two of his selected from the same area. That was what he called his victims—the one’s he’d marked for death.

His white fishing boots squished on the congealing blood of his shed’s floor. He toed a bit of the thick black globs toward the drain he’d recently installed to wash away his handiwork.

He removed his thick, black work gloves and tossed them next to the woman’s head. The Selector was pleased with his newest masterpiece. That was the name he’d chosen for himself. The one he would tell the reporter who wrote his story. Before falling asleep, he pictured it on the banner of a lead article every night. You weren’t a serial killer unless you were on the news. Nobody gave a shit about the FBI’s Most Wanted List anymore.

He walked to the desk he kept on the other side of the shed out of splatter range. He flipped on the lamp and fired up the two laptops he’d connected to an end-to-end encrypted, untraceable server. A computer geek since childhood, he’d spent a lifetime studying firewalls and security software, and his knowledge gave him access to local, state, and national law enforcement networks. His black hat hacking skills kept evidence of his crimes off criminal databases.

Clippings from articles and blogs of the best true-crime writers cluttered the wall behind his desk. The Selector knew the names of every blogger, reporter, YouTube videographer, and amateur sleuth. These were the people he wanted to impress.

He longed for a great writer to share his accomplishments—someone to make him a household name. After all, the media and serial killers needed each other. It was a symbiotic relationship like rats and fleas. Unfortunately, his numbers weren’t near Ridgeway’s or Samuel Little’s. With over three hundred serial killers operating in the United States at any given time, he was just another faceless madman. So how did The Selector get the best in the true crime business to appreciate his art?

He studied the byline pictures and the smiling faces of people who shared his love of serial killers. One of them could write his story, but which one? He’d spent hours lamenting that question, and during that time, he’d hatched a plan. It was an intriguing way for the world to learn about his murders. And if successful, his ruse might lead to a lucrative way to keep the family business afloat.

An array of maps and old newspaper clippings stacked on a corner of the desk demanded one last review. He was almost ready. Only a few more details to settle, and then he could set his glorious plan in motion. A way to ensure his name would live on long after the bones of his selected had turned to dust.

Chapter 2

The rumble of rolling suitcases and the chatter of harried travelers swirled around Mackenzie Galanos as she waited for her flight. Peering into the dregs of her bourbon, she cursed her life. The summons from her blunt, ball-busting editor, Sharon Olinde, had her traveling from New York to New Orleans.

She should have been grateful for the assignment. Sharon was why she’d become well known in the true-crime circles. Women weren’t headliners at Murder, Mayhem, and More Magazine, but Mac had worked her ass off, and put up with a bunch of bruised male egos, to win followers among those who lived and breathed serial killers. What Sharon expected now made her blood boil.

“Thriller Madness Magazine just put out an article, and it’s getting a lot of hits. They uncovered several tour operators telling falsehoods and stealing made-up stories from one another.” Sharon had said less than twenty-four hours before. “I’m sending you to New Orleans. There’s a tour business convention there, so there’ll be a ton of ghost, vampire, and true crime guides descending on the city. Get me the dirty dealings, tricks of the trade, and things tour guides and operators do to mislead the public. I’m sure you can come up with something.”

Mac gritted her teeth, recalling the hot story and the former lover who wrote it, Dane Peters. The sensational rag piece wasn’t Mac’s style but had created a fire in Sharon. Her hard-ass editor wanted an article that gut-punched the readers with disturbing details and eye-popping photos.

There was one big problem. Mac might burn a lot of bridges when her article hit. Admitting that anyone had misled the public was hard enough for politicians, but it was a death knell in the tourist trade, and angry companies would retaliate.

Mac regretted taking the assignment. She preferred writing about the former hunting grounds of serial killers like Gacy and Dahmer or analyzing their personalities and exploring their MOs. Exposés were better suited to Dane’s sensational writing style.

Images of the stocky, dark-haired, dark-eyed reason for her dilemma created a knot in Mac’s belly. She and Dane had started churning out true-crime teaser articles together at the same Manhattan rag sheet. They’d hit it off and ended up in bed together but parted when fate sent them in different directions. They met again, tracking down the Jersey Shore Killer—a psychotic prick who liked hacking young women into pieces. Mac had put together the first piece on the psychopath, drawing on her deep interest in serial killers. The work received a lot of critical praise and landed her the job at Murder, Mayhem, and More. Dane hadn’t been happy about Mac’s big break. He wrote a juicier exposé, citing unpublished police reports not meant for the public. Mac’s cousin in the Atlantic City Police Department took the fall for the leak and got fired. She’d never figured out how the conniving bastard had found out about her cousin, but the betrayal cost Mac a top story.

I’d give anything to put Peters’ head on a spike.

She debated ordering another drink to get through the three-and-a-half-hour flight to New Orleans. The assignment was a chance to get even with the son of a bitch who’d deceived her. Her editor knew it. That’s why she’d picked Mac for the job.

She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Her blue eyes remained bloodshot, and her blond hair stood stiff atop her head as if she’d just climbed out of bed. Her boyfriend, Eric Ramos, compared her face and figure to a California beach bunny, but Mac never cared about her looks. She wore black jeans and shirts because it saved her from having to think about her wardrobe. Makeup was a waste of time, cutting her own hair saved money, and fading into the background at any social event was her modus operandi. Her words were meant to shine, not her.

Despite her efforts, many of the magazine’s male readers liked what they saw. Their growing numbers were why Sharon had promoted Mac from spitting out tour reviews to lead writer in less than three years. Her editor might have been a middle-aged pain in his ass, but she knew attractive byline photos moved copy.

The shit I gotta put up with to get my book deal.

She’d had enough of pumping out mind-numbing one-thousand-word pieces, but she was stuck until Mac had the funds to quit her job and chase her dreams.

Mac tapped her glass as the bartender in a white T-shirt passed. “Can I get another?”

The broad-shouldered man nodded. “Sure.”

He reached for the bourbon from a shelf behind the bar. Mac waited as her server added three fingers of the amber liquid to a clean glass.

“Where you headed?” the bartender placed a napkin on the shiny oak.

Mac swirled the last of her drink. “New Orleans.”

The bartender’s eyebrows went up. “You’re serious?” He thumbed the TV above the bar. “Don’t you watch the news? They got a hurricane heading there.”

Flashes of trajectories and wind probabilities came and went on the screen. Mac pictured the carnage of Katrina that had filled news broadcasts for weeks when she was a kid.

The burly man set her fresh drink on the napkin. “I sure hope you weren’t planning a long stay.”

Of all the times for her luck to take a nosedive. Sure, she could postpone the trip, but Sharon wasn’t big on delays. She saw them as a weakness—something Mac couldn’t afford.

Mac slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “I’ll be fine,” she lied, not wanting to look intimidated.

The unfolding drama of the forming hurricane—hats off to the devoted weather team for making rainfall predictions and wind gusts sound like a disaster movie—had Mac needing a bolster of confidence. She removed her phone from her backpack to send Eric a text. Mac didn’t want to scare him, but she also knew when her boyfriend found out about the storm, shouting and demands for her to return home would follow.

Hey, baby. Didn’t have the heart to wake you this morning. You looked

exhausted after your night shift. I’m at La Guardia and just got word there’s a

hurricane headed to New Orleans. Don’t panic. It’s just gonna be a lot of rain

and wind. I’ll call you when my plane lands. Love you.

She reread the text twice. Two years together, and she still worried about how the feisty Puerto Rican would interpret her messages. Eric was big on feelings and kept reminding Mac she never shared hers with anyone.

“I love you, baby. Isn’t that enough?” she’d always told him.

After, his brown eyes would fill with fire, and he’d curse at her in a language she was only beginning to understand.

Even though Mac was sure he was the right man for her, she still vacillated on the question of marriage. She needed a brighter future and a better income before considering the prospect. At least, that’s what she kept telling himself.

She pulled up her boarding pass on her phone and placed it on the bar. The bourbon burned when it hit her stomach. One more drink, and then she could sleep all the way to New Orleans.

The rustle of the stool beside her made her turn. Her mouth slipped open when Mac encountered the cold eyes of Dane Peters.

Son of a bitch!

Her first reaction was to cock her arm and punch him in the nose. Mac relaxed when she heard Sharon’s grating voice in her head, chewing her ass out when she’d have to arrange bail money.

“Shit.” She slumped. “What the fuck, Dane?”

Dane gave her his trademark cocky grin, accentuating the small crescent-shaped scar on his right cheek. She remembered nights touching the mark as he slept, fascinated by every inch of him.

Female fans found his good looks, curved jawline, and tanned skin irresistible, which eventually got in the way of their relationship. However, it was his piercing gaze that disturbed her most. It was Ted Bundy’s glacial glare and harbored the same lack of empathy shared by all serial killers. Mac suspected him of being cut from the same cloth as the psychopaths they wrote about.

“Damn, Mac.” Dane sucked in air through his teeth as he explored her figure. “Two years without a peep, and that’s the best you can do. Don’t you love me anymore?”

“You’re confusing love with fucking.” Mac deepened her voice, wanting to sound intimidating. “Neither one you’re good at.”

“Ouch.” Dane chuckled, appearing unfazed. “You really should try putting on lipstick now and again. It will make you seem less like a thorny bitch.”

His bulging biceps and broad chest made Mac wish she didn’t have ovaries. She’d admired the man once, believed in his talent, and did what she could to support his success. Mac had grown used to getting burned by competitors, but the sting of having a lover turn into one still hurt.

Mac retrieved her bourbon. “It’s your fault we haven’t spoken.”

“You’re not still mad about me swiping your cousin’s info?” Dane’s smoky voice drowned out the noise of the airport terminal. “What did you expect?”

Mac lifted the rim of the glass to her lips. “You got Sal fired, asshole.”

He rested his elbow on the bar. “You know how this business works, Mackenzie. You’ve always got to stay one step ahead, no matter who you have to step over.”

“Does that rule apply to writing trashy exposés about sleazy tour guides?”

Dane looked her over. “You read it?”

She didn’t want to give the fucker the satisfaction of thinking she’d ever read any of his work, but as a former English professor had once said, “Deception is the first lesson you learn in journalism. How to write is the second.”

“Of course I read it.” She waited, watching Dane bask in her lie. “I just want to know how many friends you fucked over for the piece.”

Dane picked up a napkin and wiped his hands. “Our kind doesn’t have friends.”

“I once thought you were my friend. That was until I discovered you were also being real damn friendly with our secretary.” Mac sipped her drink, hoping to wash away her anger.

Dane tugged the overnight bag over his shoulder while peeking at her phone. “Where are you heading?”

She set down her glass. “Savannah, to see what’s left of your reputation.”

Dane’s earthy chuckle circled the bar. “Sounds better than where I’m headed. My editor wants me in Hotlanta for an article on a haunted plantation. He needs me out of the office for a while.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Can you blame him? Some of those companies you wrote about sponsor your magazine and mine.”

He eyed the television, seeming interested in the picture of the Gulf of Mexico. “Pissing off sponsors is a small price to pay for triple the hits. Besides, I only wrote about the small-time guys who never buy big ads. I’m crazy. Not stupid.”

Murder, Mayhem, and More Magazine also had tour companies from around the country advertising on their website. Suddenly, her trip to New Orleans didn’t inspire excitement but trepidation. She’d have to fashion an article exposing the shady tourist trade while protecting the names of valuable sponsors. That would be tricky. Fuck me.

Dane tapped a stubby finger on the bar. “What we suffer for a story, eh? Almost makes me want to get out of the racket.”

Mac appraised her former lover’s crinkled brow. “I thought you loved the true-crime trade and all those buxom fans wanting to screw your brains out.”

Dane lowered his gaze to the bar. “You know I never slept with fans. Just co-workers. Anyway, I’ve been getting threatening phone calls. I don’t want to spend my days looking over my shoulder.”

The change in his demeanor was a surprise. Dane never struck her as the skittish type. “What are you gonna do instead? Work for your old man?”

Dane touched the scar on his right cheek. “And grow oranges? No thanks. I’m looking into a few things, so I never have to return to the farm again. Would you go back to your father’s accounting firm if things fell through?”

Mac regretted the late nights they’d shared their painful pasts. Any information she’d given Dane would one day come back to bite her in the ass.

Mac waved down the bartender, eager for another drink. “That life was never for me.”

The blare of the overhead speaker rose between them. Mac wished the painful meeting would end.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t set out to hurt you.” Dane’s voice chased away the noise. “I always cared for you even after … I needed that story to get promoted. You know how it is..”

Mac peered down at her shaking hand. “I could never be like you. I couldn’t live with myself.”