A slaughter in new york.., p.1
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       A Slaughter in New York - A Short Novel (Unrevised Edition), p.1

           David J. Skinner
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A Slaughter in New York - A Short Novel (Unrevised Edition)
A Slaughter in New York

  By David J. Skinner

  Copyright © David J. Skinner 2014


  The Crime Scene

  The Motel at Chinatown

  That Blonde Girl

  Narcotics and Associations

  A Nightly Thinking


  A Reddish Rat

  The Payment

  A Warehouse in Harlem

  A House at Jersey

  The Truth

  Victory’s Cigar

  Watch the Booktrailer

  Author’s Main Page

  The Crime Scene

  The detective closed the door behind him, without looking back. Even a veteran law enforcer would have disgorged after seeing that nightmarish scene and, in fact, he felt his stomach churn. After taking his notebook, he wrote one number. One single number.


  Yes, she was the ninth victim and like the others, this girl was her arms and legs in impossible positions. Her head was twisted almost to her back and there was a strange mark onto her chest, probably made using a machete. The same way that the previous ones. He prayed in silence for, this time, the young woman died before the torture began, although he doubted it. The forensic claimed that in the other eight times, the victims were alive while their bones cracked and broke; while the cold steel made the hot blood flowed from their bodies. They died when their neck’s spinning was too much for their backbones.

  The police sergeant looked at him curiously, perhaps waiting for a more grotesque, less calmed reaction from him.

  “Like the other ones. “Cutfield said it for himself, but speaking loud. He prepared to light a cigarette. “If that motherfucker had been so careful as always, you don’t find even a damned hair of him.”


  He turned towards the voice. It had been Jonathan Landers, assistant to the mayor, and an old acquaintance for too long. Landers gestured exaggeratedly, trying to demonstrate how inadequacy it was smoking at this place.

  Of course, Cutfield rubbed the match against one wall, making it burns. Then, put it to his cigarette.

  “I am here because of you.” He answered before the assistant proceeds to say something. He gave a wide shed before speaking again. “Any information you forgot to tell me?”

  “We are so fucked, Cutfield. We've already been on the cover of the Sun. After this, it would not surprise me to get out on the front page of the Times too. Do you know who she was?”

  Landers pointed to the closed door.

  “She's the daughter of a journalist, perhaps? “Cutfield said, with a half smile on his face. Landers didn't show any smile in return.

  “She was a close friend of the mayor, asshole.” Landers said close and quietly, although the detective thought that surely everyone there were aware of that, but him.” Hylan is very nervous. In case newspapers become aware... ”

  “Anyway, I didn't vote for him. “He threw away his half-consumed cigarette and continued.” Political trouble, or trouble of politicians, I do not give a shit for those, Landers. What worries me is that another girl ends this way.”

  “Yesterday, in the evening, she met Hylan, “the assistant started to say” in a motel, at Chinatown. That was the last time she was seen alive. If I was you, that place would be a good start.”

  “If I was you, Landers, I would have less hair, more bad blood, and incriminate the mayor with my statements. We're lucky I am me and you are you. Don't ever tell anyone Hylan was the last to see the girl alive, you nuts.”

  Landers blushed, but remained silent. The detective, after a short pause, began to record the information the other was giving him. Apparently the name of the ninth victim was Christine Stonewell, originally from Battle Creek, Michigan (yeah, where that cereals are from). Neither he wanted to know how old she was, nor did Landers say it, although it was clear that the girl was not yet twenty-one.

  The name of the motel was not known to him, even though Chinatown was one of his most visited areas of Manhattan. He didn't forget to write that Hylan left the room about seven o'clock, and Christine stayed inside. If he weren't the fucking mayor of New York, at that time he'd be behind bars, as all data placed him as the main suspect in the murder.

  “If there is another killed girl, they’ll hang me of my bollocks “Landers said, finishing.” And I assure you: I will not fall alone.”

  “I’m pretty sure of that because Hylan will fall too. Of course, he’ll be hanged by his wife, when she knows about his penchant for the young ones.”

  Cutfield walked towards the entrance door, lighting a new cigarette before exiting and without observing (though intuiting) the face of the assistant to the mayor.

  The Motel at Chinatown

  The streets were quite empty, for mid-afternoon. Maybe the cold, Cutfield thought. Winter had come late, but stronger than ever. His long green coat barely sheltered him against the winter onslaught he felt just outside the building. That night it would snow, almost for sure, and he hadn't intention of spending it walking through Chinatown. However, he wanted even less to see how a girl ended its tenth day with horrible suffering.

  He didn’t like Landers. That man was an arriviste, an upstart of the worst kind, and even with the significant economic offer he did to him Cutfield would not have worked for him--- except for being that kind of case. Even without having relationship with any of the victims, those crimes had affected him especially. Maybe what happened to his niece (although that case was already closed, and the culprit was ... neutralized). Or perhaps because, despite him being a selfish bastard, Cutfield also had his heart.

  One way or another, two hours later the detective stood in front of the motel. The building conservation was not so terrible, and the entrance was quite more stylish that he expected. He entered slowly and walked towards the front desk.

  “Good evening, sir “, the receptionist said. He was an extremely fat and, by the way, exaggeratedly ugly guy. “Want a room? Are you alone?”

  The clerk moved towards, looking for anyone lower than the desk. Cutfield snorted in disgust.

  “A friend will come, later”, he said.” She recommended this place to me.”

  After a brief pause, the receptionist smiled with malice.

  “Room 207 is free”. The plump guy looked to the shelves of keys, at his right. “It’ll be ten dollars.”

  Ten bucks for a hovel in Chinatown?

  “Well… This friend of mine wanted the 303.”

  The smile disappeared from the clerk’s face, being replaced by distrust. A couple of seconds later he seemed to relax and after taking the 303 key put it on the desk.

  “Ten dollars. In advance.”

  Definitely, he would also have to collect his fees upfront. Cutfield took out the money and put it next to the key. He didn’t wait for the other to finish and pick up the key, starting to walk up the rickety stairs, much worse preserved than the rest of the motel. For now.

  After reaching the third and last floor, he took no long to find the right door. Along the way he came across a man with gray hair and good looks, accompanied by a teenager (a little girl, rather), who walked with her head bowed. In any other situation, this man would have ended up on the floor with a broken nose; now he could not afford to get attention. Besides, it wasn’t his business.

  He would not know how the remaining rooms were; Room 303 certainly worth every penny of its price. The bed was large and looked like a newly purchased, the walls were clean without a single blemish in sight, and also it had an enormous and elaborate carpet. It was an elegant and discreet pl
ace, for people with more money than scruples.

  Mayor Hylan was not an eyesore, that was true, but Cutfield doubted that without having been elected mayor of New York he had the slightest chance with the young Christine Stonewell, and who knows how many others. The detective didn’t believe he was responsible for the murder, but that doesn’t absolve him from other sins he must have been committed in that chamber.

  A thorough search revealed that all was not as nice as it looked at first. The bed had several stains, almost imperceptible, although they weren't precisely of blood. Behind a painting, the chipped paint suggested a fight that occurred there at some point. The big prize, however, was under the carpet.

  It was a miracle that they had not seen while cleaning the room. Under the carpet, almost on the edge, there was a small piece of jewelry. It wasn't valuable, but testimonial: it was part of one of the Christine’s earrings.

  It's funny that he needs to write every single detail of the data they told him, but he can hold in his mind all the images he saw anytime, as if they were photographs. And, in one of these photos, there is the twisted dead corpse of Christine, wearing two earrings. One of them lacks of a small piece of glass it was on the other one. A little irrelevant detail because at that moment he thought there was elsewhere near the body, or maybe it could be broken at any moment previously to the death.

  Now, he knew what moment it was: the last night. And the place was the room when she lay with the mayor.

  He kept it. The finding doesn’t imply that the girl was attacked, yet. He continued
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