Ring-a-round the Rosie, a pocket full of posies, Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down.
The Nursery Killer commits crimes so brutal that they have changed the lives of even the most hardened. A nationwide manhunt ensues for the gruesome serial killer. Leaving behind nursery rhymes at every scene, the killer taunts the police and public with letters to the newspapers. Psychologist Dr. Mary Grant’s life was destroyed when the killer chose her husband as victim number two.
Now, after three years, the FBI has come to her for help. Front and center is Mary’s newfound love interest, Special Agent Brock Hale. Mary’s life changes once again as a seemingly straightforward consultation cartwheels out of control. Mary is now the target and those she loves are at risk.
The killer leaves shocking crime scenes that stain the minds of all who work them. The relentless manhunt can only end in a chilling confrontation with the essence of pure psychological evil. Active until the rhyme ends and with no time to spare, the team is pulled down a strange, twisted path of smoke and mirrors, where anyone could be next and the victims can be as guilty as the killer.
This book contains graphic descriptions of crime scenes and references to child abuse, rape and abortion.
General Release Date: 3rd July 2018
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Vancouver, Canada
Received and printed by The Vancouver Sun
Letters from a deranged mind,
Why did you not print my last letter? I found it to be elegant and honest. Was I too fucking candid? Perhaps in the way that I described how I wanted to fuck the dead man but fiddled with myself instead? I think that shows control when I could have killed his entire useless family. Did I offend your sensible fucking morals? I doubt that, given you are a newspaper and reporters lack those just like a dog lacks wings. It’s what gives you the guts to photograph dead babies for ratings. I suppose you have limited options in life. You either become a journalist or you become a lawyer—then the one percent become me.
I will kill someone in your name. I will whisper your name in their ear as I carve the flesh from their twitching body. Are you happy now? Are you fucking listening now? Or do I need to sling them up in a schoolyard to let the little kiddies see what real art looks like? Not the worthless crap that the old cunts past retirement try to jam down their throats. The teachers of today are breeding the useless minds of tomorrow. Humanity is fucked, but I’ve got your back. Give me a few more weeks, and I’ll weed them out.
Let’s review the rules, shall we? When I speak, you fucking listen. When you ignore me, I will express myself through the flopped carcasses that I’ll line your dirty fucking streets with. I’ll nail them to your front fucking door. Do you think your bastard children would like that? Shall I give them a little lesson in etiquette, since you clearly have no idea what that is?
I am your wickedest nightmare. I am the incubus of your sanity and safety, because I know it isn’t your own pain you dread the most. It is the pain of your loved ones you fear more than anything I could possibly do to you. But isn’t that the crux of love? I don’t feel love. I don’t drink from the pool of poison, but understanding it makes my art grander. It makes those moments all the more memorable. It gives me inspiration. The brilliance is that I won’t have to guess who you love. You will show me willingly without noticing I am even watching you. But I’m always watching you. You’re a pawn to me, each one of you. Your worst nightmare is my most cherished dream. I savored the moments where I knew I had taken your loved ones and twisted them into the grandest of memories. Their last breaths, the very last seconds, the moments their lights go out are orgasms for my soul. Yes, I still have one of those. Can you say the same? For most of you, you’re shells of what humanity was meant to be.
Vancouver is strange, but so am I and so are you. I’ve seen worse—worse places and worse people than you or me. I saw the inner cockles of the cesspools we call home. It makes one feel dirty just stepping off the plane, like the disgust is seeping into your pores and coating your veins with the tears of every whore who drinks down dirty men for blow. I’ve met folks who make you want to remove a layer of skin from just one touch. It’s not just this handsome city. It’s in every corner of this world. The evil you all try to ignore is like that bat-shit crazy grandmother you only bring out for Christmas—ignored until the reading of her will.
Our cities hold parts they wish to hide from the rest of the sophisticated world, spewing out of the crack-infested alleys like crawling cockroaches and beggars, cities built on broken dreams like the jagged-toothed grin of an old junkie, tucked behind the shops in places you see on commercials, holding the colorless, forbidding, grim, faded graffiti and dirty needles that will kill faster than the shit it once held.
The women pursue fresh cock in their meager outfits and boots so high they rub on their dirty cunts while they search for a new, diseased lap to spread their legs for. Their drugged-out bodies are as thin as dashes, their cheekbones jutting out through their colorless skin. They already look dead. They make my stomach roll and pinch at my sanity. The carefully constructed façade is more fragile than the glass that is blown for the tourists. Little glass balls bring the foolish downtown for the beggars and dealers to mug. The circle of life is a dirty fucker. It brought me here after all, didn’t it? Maybe you can thank your God for that or Mother Nature—or whatever fucking lies you tell yourself. Add it to the other bullshit like “Daddy loves me. He isn’t hurting me. He loves me.”
What’s oddest about Vancouver, different from other places, is the blunt truth thrust in your face the moment you step outside. There’s no bullshit. Its welcome sign should read ‘This is us. Don’t like it? Get the fuck out.’ I can respect that. But respect don’t pay the bills, and it won’t keep me from turning your gutters red or stringing intestines from your charming little Christmas trees. I say it would add a festive flare to the excitement of the season, but that’s just me. I’ve waited and watched and noticed how the holidays remove basic manners and human dignity. It’s made my shopping all the easier.
It is insanity out there, and it’s killing you all—granted, slower than I would. We rip babies from vaginas, some to kill and some to sell for money. We devised a system that doesn’t rely on mercy or true freedom or love, and you say I’m mad? I’m crazy? You created me. Mankind has built a living and breathing creature that starves children to their deaths, and I get more coverage than babies dying. We produce disease but can’t afford to cure it, yet you pump money into my capture? People kill people in the name of a God because he differs from someone else’s God, and you will kill me because I believe in no God? If there ever was one, he left long ago. Search around you. The only omnipotent person here is your dealer, your whore and your cell phone company, yet you look at me as though I’m evil. I’m no different from those you pay to run our countries into the fucking ground, only I don’t bomb nations or kill children. Who am I kidding? If I had a bomb, I’d undoubtedly use it.
Tomorrow I will show you all what ignoring me does. I haven’t yet decided if I will take the husband or the wife. Maybe I’ll take both? ’Tis the season for giving, after all. The husband is a fraud and a prevaricator. His spouse is an ignorant, cock-sucking moaner. Her weeping in her car is enough to make me want to plow her into oncoming traffic—not out of hate but out of clemency. Putting that bitch out of her wretched misery would be a kindness to us all, like seeing a mangled cat on the freeway and running it over again.
The trepidation is killing me. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Do I go left or right? Do I kill for mercy or for rage? We shall see. What I know for certain is that if you keep ignoring me, you will find me on your fucking doorstep, giving candy to your spoiled-rotten children.
The newest will make a divine display of the grotesque humanity the world wades through every day. A perfect specimen, either one I select. I will wrap my hands around their snappy little throat and take away what they don’t deserve—life. I will wait in their house built of cards on a foundation of lies and bring it crumbling down around them.
Until we meet.
Your friend always, TNK, The Nursery Killer.
* * * *
Brock
“Hale, briefing in five.” A voice pulled my attention from the article in the paper.
A budding serial killer had written to The Vancouver Sun and its headlines had gone worldwide. The press had coined him The Nursery Killer, TNK, glamorizing the sick fuck. Ratings meant everything nowadays. There wasn’t a single officer in Canada who wasn’t gunning for TNK, and every state was on the alert for the possibility of the killer jumping borders. TNK taunted them, warning them for months leading up to the murders and relishing in the fact that they hadn’t caught up with him yet. The bastard was about to kill again and there wasn’t a fucking thing anyone could do about it. Vancouver was on the verge of mass panic. It was a fear so great that the FBI was called in for help. TNK wasn’t the first killer who had caused cities to damn near board up their windows, and he wouldn’t be the last.
I pushed the printout from the newspaper to the side, downed a few antacids, grabbed my folder and headed for the door. I’d be offering up some additions to a makeshift profile on TNK, a desperate attempt at understanding the fuck who was running the streets of Vancouver. I slipped into the conference room and stood at the back. The meeting was already in full swing. I knew the drill—shut up until asked to speak. Enough years with the FBI and I could gauge the pressure by just how many people were in attendance. Forty suits with one name and one focus—TNK.
In all my years, I hadn’t ever seen horror like the carnage left behind by TNK. And I had witnessed enough shit to pour my ass into two divorces, a case of Scotch and enough hookers to keep a bottle of penicillin on standby. TNK was different. There was something about the killings that was more personal than anything I had ever seen. Days and weeks had gone into the planning of the most gruesome deaths I’d had the misfortune of seeing in all my days. At any moment, the phones would be ringing with another scene. It wasn’t a matter of if it would happen, only when it would happen.
With one nod, I stood at the front and did my song and dance. I had analyzed every letter and had come up with a few details no one else had thought of. I wished I could have taken credit for it, but it had been an academy class that connected the dots. Kiss-asses, the lot of them. TNK might not even be Canadian. We could be looking for a tourist or a border jumper. Everything about the letters had suggested TNK was American. And if that were true, the FBI would be balls deep in someone else’s pond, trying to clean up their little slice of home. Usually, with the prospect of jumping borders, I was pounding Advil, trying to ward off the pending headache it would bring me. Not this time. This time they wanted the FBI there, and I was thankful I wouldn’t have to go. I had too many open cases on the burner, and for once, I was grateful for that.
I closed up shop and headed home. By home, I meant the pub on the corner. There’s no place like home. Arnold’s Pub was as close as it was going to get. My apartment was empty, not of possessions though. My newest ex had been fair in the division of assets, but it was bare of everything that gave it a sense of home. It reminded me of what I’d lost to climb the ladder in a job that damn near killed me each day. Every case took a piece of my soul with it. Each day I walked through the front doors and faced pure evil and a small slice of my sanity was left behind at the crime scene.
The glamorous life of an agent felt like a slow drag behind a pickup truck to the loony bin if I didn’t eat my gun first.
L.A. Kennedy, beyond the story…
L.A. Kennedy is a Canadian born writer, living in the ever-growing city of Vancouver, Canada. Here, she spends her days getting lost in the beauty of reading and writing. L.A. Kennedy mainly writes fictional books. And can be found researching myth, folklore, and everything in between, with a special interest in edge-of-your-seat paranormal romance. L.A. Kennedy can be found behind a mountain of books, on any given Sunday.
L.A. Kennedy’s writing credits include two hit series that mix mystery, horror, paranormal romance, fantasy, and intrigue.
You can follow L.A. on Facebook and Twitter.
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