When a string of racially motivated attacks hits someone close to him, homicidal pit boss Jennings Kavenaugh is out for revenge. Jennings Kavenaugh is a pit boss at the Royal Flush Casino in Detroit. His job affords him certain opportunities. After his father took his own life because of gambling debt, Jennings developed a real hatred for those harboring a gambling addiction. His position as pit boss allows him freedom to spot the addicts-and eventually kill them, believing it's for the greater good. Oddly, one of Jennings's closest friends is Detective Nate Jackson, who has no clue Jennings is the guy responsible for so many dead gamblers. Now, a string of racially motivated attacks perpetrated by a violent gang of young, white men catches the attention of the Motor City. Jennings wouldn't have gotten involved, but then the gang targets a member of Jennings's inner circle. While Nate investigates, Jennings plots revenge. As Jennings sets his personal agenda aside for the moment and tracks down the white supremacists intent on beating and humiliating Detroit's minorities, he fears Nate might be onto him. If his best friend realizes the true nature of his murderous habits, things could get complicated-or deadly.
Brother's Keeper
A Pit Boss TaleBy Michael OddeniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Michael Odden
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-6232-1Chapter One
11:49 P.M. Detroit, Michigan
It was late February when the black Econoline van was creeping along Woodward and Six Mile.
"Hey, what about him?"
"Yeah Mikey, he'll do just fine."
"C'mon, y'all. That geezer's got to be about 60!"
"Even better. It shows that no one is out of range."
The van pulls to the curbside and two thugs jump out and grab the old man, throwing him into the open side door. The thugs hop back in and the van pulls off as smoothly as it pulled up.
"What the hell's goin' on? Who the hell are you?"
"Shut the fuck up, mud!"
A thunderous gut punch makes the old man double over in the seat.
"Now what, Frankie? What are we going to do with the geezer?"
"Now we go for a ride."
The old man tries to gather himself and begins talking.
"You young fellas don't have to do this. I ain't got no money. I'm just a tired old man."
"Shut the fuck up before I pop you again!"
"Well boy, the way I see it you already done hit me once, took me against my will, and made me spill my drink. Shit, before I go you may as well tell me why."
A new voice comes in from the driver's seat.
"Fair enough, old timer. You minorities have slowly destroyed this country. Lazy, shiftless bastards always trying to get something for nothing: food stamps, WIC, always with the hands out. Because of your kind, good, hardworking people like my old man get laid off. It's time for the country to see that people are fed up."
"That's some of the dumbest shit I have ever heard. You want to blame the problems of this country on the minorities? You dumb-ass kids don't pay attention to nothing. How can minorities be the problem when your people run the country? For eight long years Bush and the `Publicans fucked this country good. And not just your people, but all the people. The `Publicans don't care about white or black, all they care about is the green."
"Mud, you can't deny the dope dealers and gang bangers selling that crack and killing people over territory, sneaking into the country and taking all the jobs."
"You got it all wrong, son. Nothing goes on without the government knowing about it. You think they couldn't stop people from coming into this country if they really wanted to? Fact of the matter is, they know those workers that come over are cheap labor. It's always about the money.
"The problem is that before they were just taking the low end jobs, but now they come over with serious skills: carpentry, electrical and such. And you try to talk about the punks selling that crack rock, but you forget to mention your own kind making and selling that crystal meth shit, turning all the pretty little white girls into raggedy-mouthed hoes. Naw, what's going on in the world ain't classified by color, it's just pure evil. The devil is coming.
"The world is in a moral decline and greed is everywhere, along with stupidity. Young kids walking around with their ass hanging out cause they saw some thug like that. What they don't know is that thug was in jail and his ass couldn't wear a belt.
Women swearing up and down they don't need a man, choosing to be with a woman instead. But then they turn around and want a kid. Yeah boy, evil is coming."
The van pulls in under a viaduct on the southwest side and comes to a halt.
"It's time. Get his old ass out and fuck him up!"
The two thugs in the back grab the old man and fling him out of the van. Then they lay down a god-awful beating. Afterward, the leader hops out of the van, walks over to the beaten and bloody old man, unzips his pants and pisses all over him.
"Damn Frankie, that's some nasty shit."
"That ain't shit, at least not yet it ain't. You two go do what I told you to and give me a little privacy."
* * *
Every morning at 6:30 Sean Jester takes his dog for a walk.
They walk over to the park where Sean lets Bogart stretch his legs and handle his business. While on their stroll, Bogart seemed a little agitated and pulled Sean in a different direction. Bogart led Sean to the viaduct where they found a bloody body. Sean immediately called Bogart away and ran home to call 911. Twenty minutes later he could hear the ambulance and police arrive. The EMTs quickly learn that the bloody body is still alive and scramble to keep it that way. The police officers canvass the area and realize that this wasn't an ordinary beat down.
"Shit, Eddie. This is way above my pay grade. I'm calling the sarge."
"Sounds good. I'm just going to get some pictures of the area."
Officer Skelokowski makes his way back to the squad car and radios the sarge.
"Car 87 to base. Car 87 to base."
"Go ahead, 87."
"Better patch me straight to the sarge base. What I got to say he ain't going to like at all."
"You got it, 87."
Moments later Sgt. Kettles chimes in.
"What's so damn important, 87?"
"Sir, we were sent out to the southwest side on that beating call. Well it looks like this thing is racially motivated, sir. There appears to be a fresh message painted on the wall and it reads `Death to all the mud races!'"
"What!?"
"Yes sir, and there's more. The victim appears to have been pissed and shit on."
"Aww, fuck! You two seal off the area and hang tight until you hear back from me. Do not fuck this up. No one in until I give the word. Where are the EMTs taking him?"
"He's headed straight to Receiving Hospital."
"Alright. Out."
Sgt. Kettles sits and ponders the situation for a minute and then puts in a call to an old friend, Captain Dave Stevens.
"Dave, this is Kettles over at the 3rd."
"Greg, what's up?"
"I have a problem that's got your name written all over it. A couple of my guys got a call on this side of town about a beating, only it might be much more. It may have some real racial shit attached to it. I'm talking straight civil rights shit. Anyway, me and my guys aren't prepared to handle this type of shit so I was hoping you would do me a solid. Plus, if this shit turns out to be the real McCoy it's going to fall in your lap sooner or later. Got a body you can spare?"
"Geez Greg, my stats are already fucked up. I don't know if I can handle another hit."
"C'mon, Dave. You guys are always looking for the sexy cases. These newbies aren't ready for all the drama yet. I know you got someone over there who can run with this."
"You're right, I'll send you one of my studs, Nate Jackson. I swear the kid's part Bloodhound. Let me get him on the horn and I'll have him call you."
"Thanks, Dave. I swear if this kid can handle this I'll owe you big time."
After hanging up the phone Dave placed his face in his palms and sighed. He then got up and walked over to his office door, peeked out, and yelled.
"Where's Jackson?"
One of the many voices in the division cried back.
"Not in until 10 AM."
"Call his ass and have him call me ASAP. I have a job for him."
Nate Jackson lie sprawled all over his queen size bed in a peaceful slumber, dreaming about the one that got away. When the phone rang it shocked him so he was immediately sitting up.
"Hello!?"
"Jackson, the boss wants you to call him ASAP. That's police for: wake the fuck up and get your ass on the phone."
"But I'm not due in until 10."
"He's got something just for you."
Jackson gathered himself and moved over to his kitchen table. Still shaking off the sleep he put in a call to his boss.
"Hey boss, wassup? You do now I'm not due in for a little bit."
"Yeah yeah, whatever. Something's come up and I think it fits your particular skill set. Get your ass dressed and get over on the southwest side. Call the 3rd precinct on your way over there and speak to Sgt. Greg Kettles, you'll be working for him on this. Make me look bad and I promise you, I'll have you directing traffic in Greektown until your hair falls out."
The phone slammed so hard Jackson thought he felt a breeze. He hopped up and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. His boss had loaned him to another house. Depending on how you looked at it this could be very big or very bad. He didn't feel like he had pissed Dave off so bad that he would shop his services out just to keep him out of the office. What kind of case would require the 3rd seeking help? Nate continued to let his mind wonder while the steaming water coaxed his lethargic body awake. When he finished, he got dressed, grabbed his shield and service weapon, and headed out the door. He hopped into his black 2010 Dodge Charger and started it up, then he grabbed his cell and placed a call to the 3rd precinct.
"Detective Nate Jackson for Sgt. Kettles."
The voice on the phone put him on hold and transferred the call.
"Jackson! This is Kettles. I need you to get over to Federal and Junction now. I got two unis over there waiting. Look, I need focus and I need skill. They tell me you're my guy."
"I won't let you down, sir."
"After you survey the scene and get your legs under you, report back here in person so we can get on the same page."
"You got it, sir."
Jackson drove down to the crime scene and met up with the officers. Then he walked the crime scene grid himself, taking mental notes.
"You guys say he was pissed and shit on? Damn, that's just wrong. Alright, here's the plan you guys. You two stick here and wait for the tech guys and give crowd control. Me, I'm headed down to receiving to see how our vic is and if the doctors can give me any workable info. Under no circumstance are you to open your mouths to anyone lurking around. Reporters sometimes listen to the scanners trying to get the good stories, so just shut up. Trust me, the last person you want to be is the fuck up that leaks this story. Jeez. I got to bounce. The smell is terrible."
Jackson gets back into his car and heads for Detroit Receiving Hospital, with the scene flashing through his mind.
Anger builds inside him. The thought that this kind of behavior still exists makes his eyes begin to swell, but the rage evaporates his tears before they can begin to fall. He arrives minutes later at the hospital and heads into the ER where he approaches the desk and flashes his badge at the chubby little woman behind the desk. The woman isn't impressed. She looks up at Nate and shrugs her shoulders.
"What?"
"Detective Jackson. I'm here investigating a beat down that happened over on Federal? Trust me, you smelled it before you saw it."
"Yeah, you're right. I'll get the doctor up here for you. Wait over there."
Jackson went over to the set of chairs and quietly had a seat. He pulled out his pad and started looking over his notes. After what seemed like an hour, a man who appeared to be in his mid to late forties walked out and scanned the waiting area. Then he walked over to Jackson.
"Are you the detective?"
"Yes, Jackson. Nate Jackson. What can you tell me about my victim, doc?"
"Jessie Ferguson, age 62. Let's see: orbital fracture, three cracked ribs, bruised kidney. Those are the serious issues he obtained from the beating. The problem we're facing is that Jessie had so much alcohol in his system that we're afraid to give him anything for the pain. Not sure his liver can take it. So as of right now, we're just trying to make him comfortable and get him detoxed. When his levels come down will give him something to help him manage. Oh yeah, he also has a broken jaw. Honestly, I don't know how the old timer's doing it. A beating like that at his age ... hmph. He's one tough, old bird."
"Do you think I can have a word with him?"
"You'd be talking to yourself. Leave your number and I'll give you a call when he's in a better place. In the meantime, I got his clothes bagged and you can take them. As a matter of fact, I insist that you take them."
"Thanks, doc."
The doctor turned and walked back through the double doors, then returned with a couple of plastic bags filled with soiled clothing and gave it to Nate.
"Maybe you can get some answers from these."
"Maybe. I'll be in touch, doc."
Jackson took the belongings down to his car and placed them in the trunk, then he got in the car and headed for the precinct. He hoped he would be able to hand the filthy clothes off to the techs and maybe they could drum up some leads. Because as it stood right now, all he had was some filthy funky ass clothes and a big ass dead end. Not quite the way he wanted to meet his new boss. All he could think of was how anyone could beat an old man in such a gross manner. What the fuck was really going on?
The car came to a halt and Jackson grabbed the evidence, walked into the 3rd precinct, strode up to the bullet proof glass, flashed his credentials to the officer, and was immediately buzzed in. Once inside the inner office he asked where the forensics lab was and the officer pointed him to the elevator.
"Go down to sub-level two. The whole floor is theirs."
Jackson jumped on the elevator and did what he was told. When the doors opened his eyes bucked. He was overwhelmed by all of the equipment he saw. The area was compartmentalized and completely visible through shatterproof glass. As Nate walked off of the elevator a tall Asian male approached him with his hand outstretched.
"Hi, I'm Glenn Kim, one of the lead techs down here."
"Hi, I'm Detective Nathan Jackson from the 13th. I'll be working here on a case. Right now I'm going to need you to take these clothes and test them for everything, and run the results through the computer. With any kind of luck I'll get a match. Be careful though, the victim was pissed and shit on."
"I'll get started right away. When I find something I'll have the boss call you."
Kim gingerly took the bag from Nate and headed for one of the labs. Nate hopped back on the elevator and headed up to meet his new boss.
Jackson got off the elevator and began to look around.
Before he could really get a feel for where he was, he heard a voice.
"You must be Jackson. Get your ass in this office and fill me in on our case. Shut the door behind you. Last thing I need is some nosy mutha fucka leaking shit to the press."
"Well to be honest, sir, there really ain't nothing to leak. I mean I got nothing yet. Our victim was so drunk at the time that that's probably the reason he made it alive. His system was so pickled through they couldn't give him anything for the pain. I mean, unless the techs can find a lead or two in his clothes, or get some DNA from the waste he was covered in, I'm afraid ..."
"Whoa, whoa! That's not what I want to hear. Shit, my guys could've got that much. No, no, no! You're the infamous Nate Jackson from the 1-3!"
"But sir!"
"No buts. Bring me my whale."
Just as the sarge was getting ready to climb another step on his soap box the phone rang.
"Kettles here! What? Good work, I'll send him right down.
Jackson, get back down to the lab. They may have found that lead you were looking for."
"On my way, sir. Oh, pleasure meeting you. I'll be in touch."
Jackson was back on the elevator in no time. His meeting with the new boss hadn't gone as planned so he was eager to get some good news. He walked up to Kim.
"What you got for me?"
"Well, what I have is a receipt found in the inside pocket of our vic, time stamped around midnight. The really cool thing is that the store this receipt is from is all the way over on the west side."
"What?! That means that unless Jessie drove his drunk ass across town, which I highly doubt, he was transported. But by who? Let me get that receipt for a while. I'll bring it back later."
"Hey, you're not supposed to take that."
"Relax, Kim. I'm just hanging on to it for a little bit, jog some memories. Lose the rule book for a bit."
"Yeah, but ..."
"Look Kim, I got you. I give you my word that this item will be guarded like the president and will be back in your custody this time tomorrow."
Before Kim could continue his protest Nate had spun on his hills and headed for the elevator. Dylan's was the name on the receipt and it was off Woodward and Fenkell in the Highland Park area. Although the receipt was a nice clue, Jackson wondered just how helpful it would be.
The drive over was filled with a ton of hope and determination. Nate really wanted to show both of his commanding officers that he was cut from the cloth of detective excellence and that he could work a case even with the smallest of clues. He was praying that the store would give him something useful.
As he got out and walked the area looking for clues he noticed that the area near the curb had different colored snow. It wasn't gray slush colored, nor was it yellow piss colored. It was more of a brown color. Jackson also noticed the video camera above the entrance in the upper right corner.
He walked in and right up to the counter were he badged the clerk.
"Dylan! There's someone here to see you!"
An average sized man with shoulder length locks appeared out of a two-way mirrored office. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties.
"Hello, I'm Dylan. What can I do for you?"
"Last night a man was assaulted. I believe that this was where his ordeal began. Tell me what you can about this receipt."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Brother's Keeperby Michael Odden Copyright © 2012 by Michael Odden. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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