Chapter 5 – The Boston Strangler

The morning started with a dressing-down from Kozloryl… The chief was fuming and spitting insults. Droplets of spit from his bastard mouth splattered onto my new suit – the one Cocksucker had given me.

“Jerry, you’re a real piece of work. A triple homicide at the Marriott – the mayor killed his family and blew his own brains out right in front of you. How could you let that happen?” Kozloryl squealed, yanking the blinds shut.

“Me? What about your Cherry? She’s a detective too! Why aren’t you chewing her out?” I shot back.

“She just started on the force. And you know the situation… She’s Black, and I don’t need trouble with those darkies,” Kozloryl said nastily.

“You old asshole! Listen to me now – I don’t give a damn about your hang-ups. You chew me out one more time, and I’ll plant one right in your face, got it, you little prick? You and your career only went anywhere because of me and my partner – how many times did we cover your sorry ass?” I shouted.

“Now, Jerry, I—” Kozloryl faltered. My outburst hit home.

“Go to hell, mustache-face. You just drenched my jacket in your spit,” I yelled.

“Wait, let me just say—” he stammered.

I didn’t listen. I stormed out and slammed the door hard. Finally, I could say what I really thought. And most importantly, it was the truth. That worthless piece of crap had been belittling my work for years, stealing all the credit for himself. Screw him.

I was pissed – and ready to go all in. I went over to Cherry and told her we needed to talk. She flinched.

“Why so tense today, Cherry, sugar? Come on, tell me what’s up. The chief mentioned some case to me…” I tossed out.

“Oh, right. The case. Looks like we’ve got a serial killer in the city. The press doesn’t know yet – just suspicions – but it’s starting to look that way. Remember the Anna Stern case your favorite Fox handled?”

“A 40-year-old woman raped with a bottle in her own apartment, then strangled with a bathrobe belt. Investigators worked the leads but came up empty,” I recited.

“Today, two weeks later, another woman turned up dead – Linda Brown. Same MO. Rape. Strangled with stockings,” Cherry said.

“And she’s white too?” I asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Cherry clearly didn’t get where I was going.

“Listen up—” I grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her out of my partner’s chair – “I’m getting damn tired of your constant, scared little hints about your skin color. I don’t give a crap until you people start making it the point of every conversation. From now on, when I ask a question, you answer it – directly, without your stupid hints.” I let go, and Cherry plopped back down into the chair, her chin trembling.

“Yes, she’s white,” she nodded, almost in tears.

“So I take it the case is ours?” I asked, softening my tone.

“Yes. We can go right now,” Cherry said.

The victim lived in the southwest outskirts of Boston on Clifford Street. I lived in the same area, so it meant driving back – but with a purpose this time. I flipped on the siren. The house was cordoned off, a few people standing behind the tape. As Cherry and I approached and I flashed my badge, a man in a worn blue sweater, maybe 50, called out:

“Linda was a good person. Find her killer.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“George Servanto, sir. My family and I have lived here twenty years. We knew Linda – she was our neighbor. We often visited her…” He seemed genuinely eager to help – or at least that’s how it looked at first glance.

“Notice anything suspicious?” I asked.

“No. Just that the power went out around midnight. I was reading when it happened. A minute or two later, the lights came back on – I’d just managed to pull a flashlight from the drawer,” Servanto explained in detail.

“And does that happen often?”

“In twenty years, I can’t remember it ever happening…”

“Alright, thanks,” I said, turning toward the house.

Inside, the front door and lock were untouched. The killer had either used a pick or – more likely – the victim had let him in. No sign of a struggle in the entryway. In the living room, on the couch, the body lay face down.

The left stocking was torn, the right missing entirely. The killer had strangled her with a bathrobe belt still tied around her neck. A comb protruded from her anus, handle first.

“Well, did the bastard leave us anything?” I asked when I saw the familiar scowl of Herner, the god-tier forensic tech.

“He didn’t just leave something – he left his underwear,” Herner said, clearly itching to share.

“Good. Hopefully they stink enough for the dogs to catch a trail,” I said, encouraged.

“They did. The scent led to the road, then stopped. Likely he got into a car,” Herner reported.

“Time of death?”

“Too early to be sure – the AC was running all night. But my guess, with the cooling factored in, is between midnight and one a.m.”

“Son of a bitch – left his underwear, but turned on the AC to throw us off,” I muttered.

“Maybe it was already on,” Herner suggested.

“No – judging by the stockings and warm sweater, she was the type to feel cold. Let’s check the cameras. Cherry, call Doug Quark at HQ – he’s sharp.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Just give him the address – he knows what to do. Have him pull city camera footage. There’s a gas station nearby – maybe it caught something. Give him the timeframe Herner just told you. He’ll figure it out.”

Cherry was already grating on my nerves.

“Well, this case is a mess,” I told either myself or Herner. “Only good thing – the killer’s left-handed. Easier to track.”

“How do you know?” Herner asked.

“Look at how the stockings were torn. Definitely with the left hand.”

Here’s what I had so far: jack shit. Every night I had to get into the “cage.” I didn’t know what happened after I transformed. My Black partner wanted to kill me. America faced a werewolf epidemic only I could stop. And now this Boston Strangler wannabe was on my plate. This bastard picked victims at random – which meant catching him would be tough. I’d need luck.

“Let’s work,” I said. “Autopsy as soon as possible.”

Half an hour later, Cherry reported that Quark had called back. They’d pulled footage from surrounding streets and nearby gas stations. His team flagged several suspicious cars – their owners would be questioned soon.

The meat wagon arrived. Two guys, with Herner’s approval, rolled the victim over.

One unzipped a black body bag, then they lifted her in.

“One sec,” Herner called. “Stop – photographer!”

“What is it?” I asked – but I already saw it on the couch.

The woman had been lying on a blanket. When they moved her, the blanket slid off, revealing red letters scrawled across the upholstery:

DH + HS = DH by 01.01

“Not a word. I’ll take a sample,” Herner said.

Looks like he didn’t get the riddle. Neither did Cherry, judging by her dumb face. She had an excuse – but Herner? He’d been friends with my partner.

“Looks like we’re staying here. Search the place top to bottom. This isn’t just any murder – we’re hunting a very specific killer. I want everything on both the first and second victims. There will be more – that’s certain. Check the laptop?” I asked.

I walked over to the laptop on the coffee table and tapped the space bar.

The desktop wallpaper was a pair of shapely legs in white stockings. A Word doc was minimized – I opened it. Four lines stared back:

The monster will come

And you it will slay.

At night I shall pray

And live through the day.

Two hours later, I left Cherry and got into my pickup. This killer clearly wanted me to investigate these murders. Either he was some amateur who thought he was immortal, or a calculated psychopath trying to leave me holding the bag. DH were my initials. HS were my late partner’s. But why that strange equation?

I asked the operator to connect me to Cocksucker. Ten seconds later, he was on the line.

“Hello, Jerry Harrison,” Cocksucker greeted me.

“Hey, Cocksucker. Swear to me this isn’t one of the Bureau’s sick jokes. I’m at a crime scene – second woman dead, brutally murdered. And it looks like the killer knows me and is playing games,” I said.

“No, we don’t do that kind of thing. And remember – the first murder happened before you and I even met,” Cocksucker replied.

“That doesn’t mean much. Anyway… you probably don’t know, but in the mid-20th century Boston had a serial killer – the Boston Strangler. Same M.O. as our new friend. As far as I remember, they caught him. This can’t be coincidence. We need to find the bastard.”

“You think the Boston Strangler’s back?”

“Some nut read too much internet before bed. I’ll find him. I’m going to the archives to take a fresh look at the original Strangler case. I want you to check your channels – maybe the FBI has more than what’s in the files,” I said.

“Fine, I’ll look. But Jerry… I’ll say this up front: we don’t have time for this crap. We’ve got bigger problems. By the way, Fred Johnson – that Crooked-Dick – still hasn’t made a move on you? And what about Cherry?”

“It’s been three days. Relax. I’m on it,” I said crisply. I didn’t like his pushy tone.

“This country’s in the middle of a werewolf epidemic, son. I can’t wait forever. My boss has me by the balls and soon he’ll start pulling. You’re only free and alive because I vouched for you. Don’t let me down,” Cocksucker pressed.

“I get it. But we agreed I’d wait for Fred Johnson’s people to make the first move. Let’s stick to that plan. If it fails, we go on the offensive,” I suggested.

“Fine. You’ve got four more days. Don’t screw this up,” he said, then hung up.

I already knew about the Boston Strangler. We’d studied the case at the police academy. In short: in 1962, 1963, and 1964, thirteen women aged 19 to 85 were killed. The murders were linked into one series.

The killer raped victims with foreign objects, then strangled them – often with nylon stockings. The culprit was Albert DeSalvo. After the series, he spared one woman – only raping her. She described him to police, leading to his arrest. DeSalvo had posed as a detective to gain entry, then assaulted her. His conviction rested on his own confession. Nine years later, he was stabbed to death in prison. In 2013, DNA tied him to one of the murders. Case closed.

Today was the second murder. When I pulled the old dates, I froze – they matched exactly: June 14 and June 28.

The first victim of the old Strangler was Anna Schlepers. The first of the new – Anna Stern. Same name. Both killed on June 14, both strangled with a bathrobe belt.

The second victim of the old Strangler – Mary Mullen. The new – Linda Brown. Killed June 28. Different names – good. Maybe the first-name match was coincidence.

Both of the new victims wore stockings – likely brought and put on by the killer. And the “left-handed” clue might be a ruse – he could be right-handed. The planted underwear? A distraction.

Then there was the formula: DH + HS = DH by 01.01. Interesting.

And the poem:

The monster will come

And you it will slay.

At night I shall pray

And live through the day.

Also – the power outage at midnight near the second murder. Could be a lead.

Alright, Boston Strangler – you picked the wrong guy to play hide-and-seek with. I’ll crack you before I crack Crooked-Dick’s brother’s case – the one who turned into a wolf twelve years ago.

The next two murders in the old series happened on June 30. Two women, different districts, raped with foreign objects and strangled with stockings.

That gave me two days to prepare.