Glimpse of Insanity

INTRODUCTION

New York City’ a city with a population of over 8,000,000 people. Many dreams have been awarded here in the Big Apple and no one said it better than Jay-Z. and Alicia Keys in their New York Anthem…if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. But the violence like other major cities is over bearing. The loss of human life is normal; 95% of the people that lose family members to senseless violence have a long lasting effect on the individual left behind – mentally, emotionally and physically. Some have learned to suppress these emotions; others don’t.

CHAPTER 1

August 25, 1986

Two muffled shots ring out. The bullets that entered the heads of the two black males were heard by no one. Bodies are falling to the ground in the soft sands of Far Rockaway Beach in Queens, NY. The time is 1:30 A.M. The weapons of choice are Heckler and Koch MK23 .45 caliber handguns with sound suppressors and laser sights - a weapon used primarily by Special Operations units during military tactical maneuvers. Blood flew and brains ripped to pieces drench the surrounding sands. The killer runs to the downed bodies, holsters his .45 handgun and pulls out his Lone Wolf Heresy tactical knife. Nerve endings in the bodies continue to cause the cadavers to jerk, well after the brain has already died. The killer placed his left hand down hard on the chest to hold the first body still. He then carves out the right eye of the victim, placing it in a plastic bag he retrieved from his pocket.

Then, plunging his knife deeply into the chest of the second victim, piercing the heart, making double sure this victim was also dead. Faint sounds of a nearby spectator did not go unnoticed by the killer.

Tony, a friend of the two young men just murdered, hides under the boardwalk, frozen in place, terrified of the events that just transpired. He has been a close friend to General and Neville as long as he can remember; always wanting to be like them, but never really having the heart even though he has a 6 foot frame, dark skin complexion, with his hair in braids, matching his buddies hair style. He was sporting a dark blue pullover suit with a pair of Lugz boots and a dark blue scully hat pulled down close to his eyes. The low pitch, coughing sound he barely heard was recognized and understood to be a gunshot silencer. Knowing his partners brought no silencer on this job, he thought the unthinkable.

What the fuck is going on? Tony asked himself, looking from his position under the boardwalk and toward the scene of his friends laid out on the sandy ground, then at the figure bending down beside their bodies working his hands in various motions.

Tony reaches into the front of his pants and pulls out his Glock 9 millimeter; an automatic reaction for his own protection. This was supposed to be a contract we took! We’re not supposed to be killed in the process, he whispers softly at the night.

With experience in such matters he runs as fast as his legs can carry him, making his way from under the boardwalk, reaching the railing and jumping over the railing closest to the street in a single, panicked bound, then continues to run to a nearby, but abandoned, parked car. He partially hides himself beside the car, glancing out towards the boardwalk in the direction he had just come from. All he sees against the blackness of night is the shadowy figure of a man appearing, then glancing around briefly. Tony takes a deep, nervous, near panicked, breath, stands up and takes careful aim.

He fires his Glock 9mm ten times, then turns and runs for the street lights at the intersection of Beach and 56th Street.

After wiping his knife clean on his last victim’s clothing, the killer runs from his location into the direction of the fading sounds of fleeing footsteps. Knowing now the victims had brought a third party, as a possible look out, or even a third gunner. He exposes that fact to his inner self that now he has to be on point. One quick slip up can cost him his own life. He knows he has to reach this third party before a description can be given to the police. The killer knows than under pressure, there is no telling what this thug might do. He follows the sound of running feet falling upon packed sand.

The killer hears voices in his head. He answers, Get away from me! They killed them, you promised you’ll never leave me; I’ll never let them get away. I will get each and every one of them. You’ll see! In his pursuit the killer reaches the boardwalk and sees some movement behind a nearby abandoned car. He briefly glances in that direction then looks away as if not to give any indication his third victim has been spotted. Just as he began to look forward, he sees the individual raise his right hand in his direction. He dives for cover on the boardwalk behind a bench just in the nick of time as bullets swarm around and over him. The sound of rapid gunfire erupts in the quiet of the beach front night.

The killer hits the ground, rolls over, and reaches to his lower back to find his Smith & Wesson, .50 caliber, hand gun, which fires 400 grain bullets over 1600 feet per second. This particular handgun is capable of taking down Cape buffalo, and other very large prey, from a good distance. The killer looks toward the shooter, coming into position the killer sees, in the distance, a figure running all out toward the intersection. The killer looks around for others that could be with the two thugs he had just dispatched to hell. Seeing no other threat, he stands and takes aim at the fleeing man’s back. Carefully he takes a deep breath and fires two shots.

Tony runs for dear life. His power comes from terror. Just the thought of a man on his trail to kill him is hardly believable, but he understands the concept and code of his and his partner’s business. "Kill or be killed!" Yet, he never felt it would come to this; that the tables would be turned. He only served as a lookout and most of the contracts his crew accepted for murders had been easy.

He has watched people die on various occasions and for each one he was paid well for acting as lookout. Several thoughts entered his mind as he covered distance, thoughts of Mom, Dad, his young kids that needed him. The very same thoughts he had when he’d watched others die. Then he thought about who they had left behind. Sadness consumed him. He felt like crying for them.

Please let me just get out of this one, God. I promise to do right. I know you heard this before, but I mean it this time. Hopefully, I killed that motherfucker! I wish I would have stayed home with my girl. I wouldn’t be in this shit now. Just about there, he said, when two very hard punches hit him in the center of the back. He never heard the two loud gunshots that echoed into the coming morning sky.

Car alarms and dogs can be heard as a result of the loud booms. Tony had been just about to reach the intersection when the mist of blood, flesh and bone fragments explodes out the front of his chest. He levitated from the impact of the rounds tearing through his back as his legs come from under him. The impact sends him 5 feet into the air. He tumbles head first to the pavement, then lays motionless.

Please no! Tony begged, lying on the pavement, already in a pool of his own blood, feeling severe pain while feebly reaching for his gun that’s 12 inches away. It might as well have been a mile in his desperate situation.

He is coming to finish the job. Tony watched his buddies finish the job quite often and he couldn’t sleep for days. He frantically fumbles for his weapon and when his hand reaches it a sigh of relief overcomes him. But the light was already fading from his eyes; becoming too difficult for him to see, until it was total darkness.

The killer walks to the downed body with his gun pointed at the thug, still carefully, nervously inspecting his surroundings. The killer knows that the man is dead but he shoots the thug in the head twice anyway to make sure he stays dead.

I’m sorry, whispered the killer as he was turning around. He was then running back toward the boardwalk and disappearing into the brightening morning.

CHAPTER 2

75th PRECINCT, BROOKLYN

After pulling a 24 hour shift during a murder investigation, Detective Jamel Gaines sits at his computer typing in information, a hot cup of coffee sitting on the right side of his desk. He picks up the cup, takes a sip, then places the cup back on his desk. It has been a long night, he thinks to himself, after hours of interviewing family members about the events leading up to the death of Jesus Melendez. The info led to the arrest of one Mark Jackson, who in turn confessed to the murder and events that led up to Mark killing Jesus over a money dispute. Mark was read his Miranda rights, then placed in a holding cell at the back of the precinct with many other perps brought in during the busy night.

Detective Gaines has been a detective for the Homicide Division for well over 12 years. During this short period of time, he has profiled hundreds of homicide cases. He is a highly decorated Detective for his bravery in assisting his fellow officers in the line of duty and in helping solve over 80 cases in the boroughs of Brooklyn, Queens and Bronx during his 12 year career. The United States District Attorney’s office sought the detective’s advice for his expertise in the Homicide field.

D.T. Gaines grew up in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn. Living in that type of environment he was constantly filled with distractions from peer pressure and wanting to fit into his neighborhood. He continued school succeeding with high grades, graduating high school in 1973, proceeded to take the police exam the following year, graduating at the top of his class in 1974. Gaines comes from the traditional black, lower class, family. His older brother, William, who was known on the streets as Two-Guns, was a vicious thug for hire who passed down some of his skills to his younger brother Jamel at a very early age. Before William died by the same standards he lived by on July 19th, 1974. William and Jamel were the spitting image of one another and Jamel loved his brother dearly. William also loved his younger brother, lacing him with all the up-to-date fashions in clothing and footwear so as to fit in comfortably in school. Jamel was willing to do anything to show his brother love even if it meant breaking the law, which went against what Jamel believed in. He had dreams of one day helping out his neighborhood by becoming a detective. But for now, his brother was his only source of survival; feeding, clothing, and keeping a roof over his head.

His mother and his father were casualties of the Vietnam War, and as such came home as may war veterans had, addicted to heroin to cope with all the killing they had done in Vietnam. Each month they were waiting on their checks so they could load their arms once again. They didn’t last long. A few years later after the war was over, they died together in bed from an overdose.

Some say Jamel’s older brother took him on a few capers, but no evidence was ever revealed. Some say this is the reason Detective Jamel is so knowledgeable in the actions killers take in covering their tracks.

In the early 1960’s Detective Gaines spent most of his time playing basketball through elementary and high school. Very athletic, he stands at a height of 6’2", light skin complexion with round button nose and small ears; always wearing his hair cut short and neat. Medium wiry build, he loves wearing dark casual clothes to work rather than the customary suit worn by most detectives, often looking like the street thugs he is sent to apprehend.

From the eyes of white America and their stereotyping, it’s just the inner city style of Detective Gaines, who calls it blending in. When he speaks, people listen, with his street mannerisms and deep tone of voice; he commands attention, especially from young officers who admire his reputation.

The phone rings in his office. Seconds later, Officer Gloria Williams answers the phone.

Detective Jamel, the phone call is for you, sir, says Officer Williams with a bright smile on her face looking at Jamel.

Thank you Ms. Williams. I’ll take it over here, Jamel replies, then places the phone to his ear. Hello?

Hey, says Detective Donna Burrus.

What’s going on, Donna? Gaines asks.

"Well, I’m in need of your assistance down here near the city dump in Brooklyn Burrus answered.

Why? What seems to be the problem?

We have a 187 here and the death is really strange. It appears that the perp cut the victim’s tongue out and his ears off, and they’re not in plain sight. The suspect is making a statement. What do you think? Donna replied.

Is that the dump off of Fountain Avenue in East New York, Donna? asks Gaines

Yeah, Donna answered.

I’m on my way.

Twenty minutes later, Detective Gaines pulls up to the crime scene, parks his car and gets out. He makes his way toward the scene of the crime. He watches as his partner gives officers orders to tape off and secure the crime scene for forensics and the coroner, or ‘meat wagon’ as it is often called.

And a very good morning to you, too, ma’am.

Please, call me Donna . . . Should I step down, sir? she asks.

No, please continue with your observation, Gaines replied thoughtfully, while looking around the scene.

Well, what we have here is a young black male in his middle to late thirties, about 5’7 and weighing between 155-170 pounds. From what I can tell this John Doe was brought here still alive."

Why would you say that? Detective Gaines interrupted, then said, If this was an abduction, wouldn’t his arms and legs both be bound?

Yes, in most case scenarios. You’re making a good point, answered Detective Burrus, then continued, You see, we’re not dealing with an organized crew or gang, or even the mob. This is a possible vigilante, or serial killer.

You have to be kidding me, says Gaines. Here in New York? A serial killer? Not since the Son of Sam have we seen something like this.

That’s my point! That leaves only a vigilante, says Burrus.

Possibly, replied Gaines.

"You know Detective, we don’t find bodies in the street with heads cut off, or body parts missing, in New York, unless it’s the mob or the Jamaican Posses, says Detective Burrus.

I can’t agree with that. The mob and the Jamaican Posses fancy themselves with butcheries, said Gaines. But when I look at this situation, his legs are bound and his hands are free. The killer wanted to speak with this victim and from the looks of the gun wounds to the leg and shoulder, the killer wanted answers. The shot to the leg was probably the first entry wound. From the looks of the crime scene this victim was knocked to the ground and blood splattered over there. Detective Burrus said pointing across the street to where the body is laid. Now that is more accurate. The blood trail indicates this victim was over there, shot in the leg and when he fell to the ground he pushed himself away from the shooter continuing to try to get away. Then he was shot a second time.

So, what you’re saying is that this may be just the beginning? There’s going to be more killing? Gaines asked.

Possibly, yes. Remember this victim was brought here questioned and then shot three times. The last shot was to the head. Why would the killer then stay and cut his ears off and tongue out? asked Burrus.

More than likely the killer and this victim knew each other, says Gaines.

"We need to find out who the victim is and if he has a criminal record.

Yes, I came to the same conclusion. In most case scenarios the victim has a criminal record. It’s not like a situation where the suspect is out to get a family member because of revenge. Any family member can become a target, says Burrus. In most instances the family member is targeted in front of their building, house, or car, or anywhere in their neighborhood without being bound," said Burrus.

Police officer David Smith calls over to his superiors. Detectives, I think I’ve found something. A wallet seems to have fallen out of the pocket of the victim. Here it is, handing the wallet to Detective Burrus.

Thank you Officer, said Detective Burrus.

I found it a short distance from where the blood trail began, says Smith.

Burrus and Gaines look in the direction in which the officer is walking.

Detective Burrus then opened the wallet. It appears that the owner of this wallet is named Tate Willard. It’s the name on his driving license, Social Security Card, as well as some other identification papers. He also has a few credit cards in his name. As she spoke Detective Burrus is moving toward the body, reviewing the photo on the license and comparing it to the victim on the ground.

Where do I remember that name from? Let me think a minute, Gaines mused.

If this might help you, his address is 1250 Sutter Avenue. Right down the block from here – in the Cypress Hills projects, Burrus stated.

Yes, I know the name. Let me see the victim. Gaines glanced down at the body to get one more look. Yeah, I know the victim. His name is J.B., a tough little punk. He goes around killing people like he controls the neighborhood. I had a few reasons to investigate him on several occasions, but never had enough evidence for an arrest. He’s a real smart ass; or was. Over the last ten years his name has been brought up in quite a few cases as a murder suspect.

Good! Burrus replied. Now you have the ID and the body. Here comes the Coroner.

We need to speak with J.B.’s partners, Gaines said.

The victim’s partner? Burrus asked.

Yes, his name is Caveman. They’re two of a kind known for causing terror all over Brooklyn. There will be retaliation for J.B.’s death. Or maybe the killer got answers from J.B. before he was killed and will be going after Caveman next, Gaines said.

Do we have to question Caveman, Detective? Burrus asked impatiently.

He wouldn’t want to speak to us. He will listen to try and learn details of J.B.’s murder in order to try putting the pieces together. He’s going to hold someone responsible for J.B.’s murder, Gaines replied in a promising, knowing, tone of voice.

We have to try! I’ll put a tail on Caveman to trail him, Burrus said.

Good. I’m out, Gaines said.

Where are you going, Gaines? Burrus asked.

Home to get some rest, Gaines replied. "I’ll be going with you tomorrow to question Caveman. Cypress Hills projects isn’t a nice place for police officers. See