The Vampire King, Brookalina R. [most popular novels TXT] 📗

Dirty Deeds

 

June 13, 1998

10:42 P.M.

Denver, Colorado

 

Joseph Ritruva lay bleeding on the soft, white carpeted master bedroom floor in his four story mansion. No one can save him, for his throat has been slit and his lungs have collapsed. His vision starts to blur more and more as he absorbs the last of his surroundings and his veins drop their last of the warm red liquid that once coursed through out his entire body. His face is covered in sweat from fighting for his life. Soon he stops moving all together and becomes numb as his eyes glaze over with death.

 

He had always known this day would come; his history of scamming others has now come to an end. An outcast from both worlds, no one accepted him. A prisoner to his own mind, his ego and self-esteem lay at its lowest.
The twenty-seven year old was born into a broken family, he was the one kid on the block who had the police at his house practically every day. As a boy he had never known attention and affection, at least not from his parents.
Joseph was a troubled child, and even more so as a teenager. He would sneak out late at night and on most occasions, wouldn’t be back for days. He spent most of his time in a drug house on Parsonage Street where the crime level was up and the percentage of teenagers graduating high school was close to none. He never took drugs and he never sold them, but he would get some acknowledgement from the druggies that surrounded him. He didn’t care that his friends were drug dealers, he only cared that they gave him attention. On holidays and his birthday, they would sometimes give him a portion from their share of money after making a deal.

 

He loved it there, there was little food but a lot of fun, fun because they would go painting murals on abandoned buildings on the weekends and take a joy ride in the town’s most respected mayor Dan Pinkerton’s Porsche. Despite his few spirited friends in the streets, people hated him remember. In school he was labeled as a freak, a monster, his own parents were afraid of him. When he disobeyed, he would be beaten by his father till he was unconscious. His mother was a drunk and a slob. Every night she would come home either from her sister’s house or from the club after having countless mix drinks and getting into bed with her husband.

 

The Ritruva’s were known for their many violent outbursts in public places. Most of their tantrums would be triggered if there was someone to stare as they walk by. There were no secrets about them that weren’t the talk of the town. Every mistake the family would make went straight to the ears of gossip hungry women and from their ears to their mouths where they babble away everything they’ve heard. And what’s gossip without a little make believe story to follow? Most of those who listened to the truth got an ear full of false information as well. After a rumor would surface, Mrs. Ritruva-Nancy-walks up to the ones who started the accusations and lets them have a piece of her mind which of course only adds another match to the fire.

 

With a family as such, you can only hope their child won’t grow up to be as wild as their parents. In this case, it was a mixture of being a wild child and a broken spirit. Joseph was never one to judge, but to be judged by those who look at his parents as an example of him. There is almost nothing worse than too be labeled as a demon if people think your mother and father are the Devil and his wife. With all of the things going on in the young boy’s life, you’d understand why he’d leave home.

 

At the age of eighteen, he packed up his belongings and headed into the world on a search for a job. He settled in a one bedroom apartment for two-hundred dollars a month. He found his living when he got involved in hacking computers.
Now at the age of twenty-seven, Joseph’s six year streak of fooling people out of their money has come to an end. The number one hacker of the decade is no longer with us. His lies and sins are now surrounding his cold body on the bedroom floor. With the police of El Paso County gathered together, staring at his frozen corpse, he is lost in the darkness that closes in on him. This is the day that the sinner is forgotten.

 

 

 

June 14, 1998

6:32 A.M.

 

“Alright what’s so important that you had my partner drag me back here?”
Nicholi walks in the room with a disapproving look on his face. Normally he is the one to get on other’s nerves, but today everyone else seems to be doing his job for him.

 

“Good morning to you too. What’s got you all roiled up? Did you have another fight with your redhead girlfriend?” Connie, a humble deer eyed, brown haired and petite woman asks with a chuckle as she looks up at the tall striking black haired and stubble bearded man in front of her.

 

“Just tell me what you called me in for.” Nicholi, a broad shouldered and thick muscled man in his early thirties, struts across the floor and sits in Connie’s black leather swivel chair behind her desk and crosses his rather hairy arms over his chest.

 

“Well I found something interesting on the victim’s body. You know how we have a sudden rise in unexplained deaths down town?” she shifts her weight from one side to the other as she puts on a pair of plastic gloves. The popping of the gloves slapping against her many silver and fake purple bracelets.

 

“Yeah, they all had similar bite marks on their necks, all on the right side. Why, what did you find?” Mr. Michelson leaned forward and listened in as though he were intrigued.

 

“There’s burn marks all over his body and instead of bite marks on his neck, there’s broken glass in the flesh. The puncture wounds are clearly uneven unlike the others. It’s almost as if the killer was putting up a fight and judging on the cuts across his back and shoulders, it was a brutal one,” she states as she gently picks at the open gashes as though the lifeless corpse could feel the pain.

 

“So you’re saying the killer might have been the victim? How does that make sense? If they were injured which would be very possible since like you said, it might have been a brutal fight, then they would have left at least a drop of blood if nothing else.”

 

Nicholi scrutinized his eyebrows, pretending to pounder the thought. He’s very careful when making a crime scene point its fingers towards another who has absolutely no part in it. When changing the story, he goes snooping around, looking for someone who might have a grudge against his victim in hopes that they would take the blame.
He stood up and went to search the body.

 

“Yes, but if you think about it, it’s possible they bandaged themselves before they bled onto any of the surfaces in the bedroom. You said it looked like a piece of the curtain in the room was torn off. It’s thin right, like a hand towel? Even with that covering up any cuts, depending on how serious their injury which would most likely be severe, it could start to soak through and drip onto the floor in another room on their way out.”

 

“I guess that’s reasonable… Wait a minute, David said he found a red like substance on the porch. It could be blood, the killer’s blood.”

 

“Did you have him check it?” she asks looking up at him as he backed away and headed backwards towards the door.

 

“Yeah, he should get a DNA result back at around seven. I have to go, I’ll bring you back a sample,” he says as he turns around and grabs the gold coated door knob.

 

“Where are you going?” Connie shouts as he swings the wooden door open and walks down the hall.

 

“I have a meeting with the mayor. He asked to see me, he’s concerned about the deaths of the people in town,” he finishes just before the door closed shut and Connie watches him turn a corner through the small rectangle glass window.

 

 

 

7:37 A.M.

Manhattan, New York

Carol sat at her desk in the Life Magazine building on the eighteenth floor. She lifts her right hand and rubs her temporal as she flares her nostrils. Frustration takes over as she curls her left hand into a fist and deep lines form on her forehead and a frown replaces the muted expression she had plastered on her face not too long ago.

 

Everything seemed to be going so well. She had just finished her report on the attack in another country and saved it to her desktop file titled U.S. Embassies in Kenya and Tanzania bombed before being called into her boss’s office. Mr. McHimpher had wanted to talk to her about her decrease in her usually fast paced news articles. Though she worked hard to keep him from clawing at her back with his constant smart remarks about not having enough good material for the public to soak in, she couldn’t keep him from finding something to complain about.

 

“Be seated Ms. Windelburg,” Mr. McHimpher had said once the shaken woman, Carol, entered the rather large tan painted office. He sat behind his silver metal desk and stared at the tall and lean woman as she closed the door behind her and found her seat.

 

“Hello Mr. McHimpher,” she tried to sound strong and confident, but the size of authority before her caused her voice to crack as she coughed to clear her throat. Never the less, she put on a smile and straightened her back, hands on her crossed long legs. “You asked to see me?” she questioned, giving him professional eye contact.

 

“Ms. Windelburg, I’m sure you already know what this is about,” he glanced at his watch and back at her.

 

“I’m sorry, but no I do not,” Carol answered, still smiling. “May I ask-“

 

“Well let me explain to you what it is that I was needing to discuss with you,” he cut her off as he stretched his arms out on the large desk and intertwined his stiff fingers. “According to our clients, a complication has surfaced. Also according to them, the situation didn’t seem as big a problem as it does now. And as time progresses, it continues to concern them which will soon concern the public and you know as well as I do that we can’t have the public involved.” Mr. McHimpher stared at her as though he were searching her soul, the intense, cold look in his eyes caused her to shiver slightly and clench her jaw.

 

“Well I assure you sir that I will approach our clients separately and answer any questions they may and most likely have and resolve what it is that is bothering them,” Windelburg answered quickly.

 

“Tell me Ms. Windelburg, do you have a problem with the way I run things around here?" McHimpher asks.
Carol, caught off guard, wonders where this question may have come from. Deciding she’d be better off if she answers him immediately, nods her head no.

 

“No sir, of course not. I’d much rather work here where things are planned down to the second than to be somewhere else where it’s unorganized,” she stops talking, hoping that was enough.

 

“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” is all he said slightly smirking. Carol waited patiently for him to continue.

 

“Is that all?” she asked.

 

“No, it’s not. I’ve noticed that we’ve