The
Deadliest Sins
Jack Murphy
Thriller #7
by
Rick Reed
Genre: Mystery, Thriller
Pub
Date: 10/16/18
“Reed
writes as only a cop can.” —Nelson DeMille
Jack
Murphy Won’t Back Down
The
headlines scream the ghastly news of an abandoned truck filled with
murdered immigrants. Detective Jack Murphy and his partner Liddell
Blanchard are on the case. They’ve got a lone survivor, rumors of a
witness, and the feds getting in their way. Jack’s gut tells him
there’s a connection with a local killing—and the bloodshed is
far from over. He’s going up against a butcher who commits the
unspeakable in the name of protecting America. Some say the worst
crime is to look the other way. Jack Murphy only looks for justice .
. .
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Chapter 1
The “Coyote”
sat in the booth, drinking stale coffee, eating a crust of cherry pie, and
writing in a five- by nine-inch ring notebook. He had to record his thoughts,
his feelings. That’s what his shrink said. His shrink was an asshole, but at two
Benjamins a session Coyote didn’t want to waste the advice.
The
gray-haired waitress shuffled over in dirty house shoes. She was wearing faded
gray sweat pants and a shirt with stains and smudges of flour.
“Coffee?”
she asked.
Coyote
looked around the shabby café. It was narrow, with a six-foot counter on one
side and two ramshackle booths on the other—one of those had duct tape holding
a leg together. There were no other customers. The varnished seat of the booth
had turned to a gummy residue, but the top was worn smooth. Mounted in one
corner of the ceiling was a defunct surveillance camera, its wires disconnected
and hanging. The coffee in the bottom of the carafe was black and thick as
syrup. She calls this drain cleaner coffee?
He was
polite. “No,” he said. His voice was gruff, deep for a man barely five and a
half feet tall. He was wearing a charcoal-colored Burberry coat, black leather
gloves, black Western Stetson, crisp white shirt with imitation-pearl snap
buttons, creased blue jeans, and Western boots. He wasn’t a big man by any
standard, but only a few men had made the mistake of seeing him as “small.”
The woman
said, “Closing in five.”
He ignored
her as her shoes scuffed across the stained black-and-white tiles. He dug deep
in a pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He slid the twenty under
his cup and read what he’d written so far:
I’m
tired. Tired of everything and everyone. People disgust me. Food doesn’t taste
good. No happiness anywhere for me. I see people pretending to sing, their
words full of hate and anger and violence. They dance with faces showing hate
and confrontation. What are they so unhappy about? Why do they want to
disrespect everything they got for free? They won’t work. They think they can
be rich and happy taking drugs. They dishonor their parents and each other.
They fight from a safe distance with texts and computers and phones. Cowards.
Everyone
is out for themselves and the only thing they can agree on is that their elders
were wrong, racist, or homophobic. They don’t see why “elders” always talk
about the past, about the lessons that took a lifetime to learn. They are
confused about who they are, who anyone else is, angry that their elders didn’t
give them more. Why should they take any blame or responsibility?
This is
where my mind goes when I’m on the road. Alone, thank God. My dreams are
visions, premonitions of things to come. Slackers, drug addicts, and
alcoholics, irresponsible, arrogant pretenders surround me. They have created a
world where they matter. They don’t. If the last three or four generations were
wiped from the face of the earth, we wouldn’t notice. They contribute nothing.
They do nothing. They want everything. They’re using my air.
“Time,” the
old woman said.
Coyote got
up. He couldn’t wait to leave. The smell of putrid coffee mixed with the odor
of fried onions was enough incentive to go. He walked out the door, his boots
crunching on rock salt. He pulled his coat tighter against the frigid air,
looked down the street at the car with the fogged-up windshield. The asshole
had made Coyote wait. Coyote respected that.
He tugged
the coat collar up around his neck and face. He pulled a cigarette from inside
his jacket and lit it. Holding it between his lips, he slipped his hands into
his pockets and turned down the alleyway.
Sergeant
Rick Reed (Ret.)
is a twenty-plus-year veteran police
detective. During his career he successfully investigated numerous
high-profile criminal cases, including a serial killer who claimed
thirteen victims before strangling and dismembering his fourteenth
and last victim. He recounted that story in his acclaimed true-crime
book, Blood Trail. Reed spent his last three years
on the force as the Commander of the police department’s Internal
Affairs Section. He obtained a Masters Degree and upon retiring from
the police force, took a fulltime teaching position with a community
college. He currently teaches Criminal Justice and writes thrillers.
He lives in Evansville, Indiana, with his dog, Belle, and his two
cats, Hannibal and Clarice.
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