Chapter 1

The Machine

Vanmer, Pennsylvania

Talon Park

September 7, 20—

7:29 A.M.

“Tad Dossner was murdered last night in his apartment,” I told Beckley Roarke, the running back for the Vanmer Vipers.

We were jogging again in Talon Park, which was just a mile outside of downtown Vanmer where the murder had taken place. Erie was six miles north, as well as the lake, and my Tudor was on Willow Street, which sat just a few blocks from Vanmer Stadium.

Beckley was a hunk with a thick head of onyx-colored hair, matching eyes, and shoulders as wide as field posts. He stood at six-three, smelled like a fresh workout, and was chiseled from head to toe. I saw him naked a few times in the locker room while doing press shots of his teammates for the Vanmer Independent, the small local paper I was employed by. Beckley had a big dick, which all the queers in Vanmer seemed to enjoy. And he wasn’t shy about showing it off, which pleased just as many queers.

He was single at twenty-eight, played for the Vipers for the last six seasons, and won the MVP Award twice. Retirement wasn’t anything he thought about. Coaching was a possibility in his future, as well as hosting a local sports show on WTVC, Vanmer’s leading channel. Both of us thought he was at the peak of his career as an ESFL (Eastern States Football League) player, and he wasn’t going to tumble down from his glory anytime soon. He was paid a healthy sum of money to play football, loved both the game and the money, and was all man, inside out.

“Where was the body found?” he asked, athletic and physically fit. Huffing was the farthest thing from the man’s actions since he was a machine.

“On his bathroom floor.”

“How was he offed?”

“A football helmet. He was bashed in the head a number of times. His face was mutilated and looked like a bulldozer ran over it.”

“Was it a Viper helmet?”

“I’m afraid so.” I wasn’t in top physical shape and puffed for oxygen, sweating all over Talon Park. A break from the jog was needed, but he wouldn’t hear of it. That’s what I got for agreeing to one of his marathon jogs for exercise.

“What did ESFL say?”

“They’re keeping it hush-hush, just as I suspected they would.”

“Who killed Tad?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked over at me, grinned with a wicked smile, and asked, “But you’re going to find out, right?”

“It’s not in my nature.”

“Don’t fool yourself. You’re nosy and should have been a private detective.”

I shook my head, gasped for air, bobbed up and down while jogging, and answered, “Guys would be all over me if I took that career on. I wouldn’t be able to handle them.”

He laughed, slowing his pace down because I was pooped next to him. “I would teach you some great moves, Johnny Knight.”

“I’m sure you would since you’re a player, Beckley.”

“A football player,” he said, correcting me. “I’m a one man kind of man, not a player.”

“Whatever,” I responded, stopped jogging, and knew that I needed a break, a sip of water, and vowed to never run with the jock again. 2: Tad Dossner

10:31 A.M.

I uploaded the crime scene photographs to my Cloud, sipped a coffee, and began to examine each of the pics, digesting Tad Dossner, his bludgeoned and almost unrecognizable face, and items inside his bathroom. The blue-and-gold Viper helmet lay next to what was left of Tad’s head. The head gear was smeared with blood and part of the guard at the front was cracked. Tad was naked, covered in his own blood. His face looked like a bowl filled with crimson and smashed cherries. No longer could I see his clean-shaven high cheekbones, hazel eyes, or the cleft in his adorable chin. Tad’s bald head was also covered in blood, which looked like a swimmer’s cap. His narrow frame was also drenched in blood, which turned my stomach a touch.

At thirty-four he had made a career for himself in the ESFL. For the last ten years he had been one of the league’s leading officials. Prior to such status he was Coach Normandy Bain’s assistant of the Vipers. And prior to that position he was a water boy fresh out of Duke with a degree in nutrition. Childless, wifeless, siblingless, being quite the loner, Tad liked his coffee, paperback mysteries to read, and cigarettes, which he had tried quitting three times and failed miserably at. He didn’t own any pets, had a sparse wardrobe, and rarely, if ever, visited his seventy-two-year-old mother in downtown Erie. He lived alone on Chess Street, rented his one-bedroom apartment for six hundred dollars a month from Julia Lullaby, and died with over three million dollars in a savings account, according to the WTVC morning news.