Strangled! Read online

  Alfred Bekker

  Strangled!

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  Strangled!

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  Strangled!

  Thriller by Alfred Bekker

  The size of this book corresponds to 140 paperback pages.

  Three men are murdered - and a skipping rope is always draped around their neck into a noose. The investigators are faced with a puzzle...

  A gripping thriller by Alfred Bekker.

  Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime novels and books for young people. In addition to his great book successes, he has written numerous novels for tension series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.

  copyright

  A CassiopeiaPress Book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books and BEKKERpublishing are Imprints by Alfred Bekker

  © by Author

  © of this issue 2018 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia.

  All rights reserved.

  www.AlfredBekker.de

  [email protected]

  1

  George Rizzo put his cabriolet on the side of the road and got out. He took off his sunglasses and looked around. A Rolex flashed on his wrist. The dark leather coat reached the floor. The row of houses with the Brownstone buildings seemed to be extinct. A garbage can had been knocked over. Half of the contents were on the road. Some vehicles were on the side of the road. Some of them had no tires. Rizzo looked at the clock. Come on, don't take too long, he thought. Suddenly Rizzo heard a groan. Immediately he was alarmed and had his hand on the gun he wore in his waistband.

  A man staggered out of one of the house entrances. His face was covered in blood. He wanted to say something, but only made incomprehensible sounds and stumbled to the ground. George Rizzo ripped out the gun.

  Armed figures dressed in leather suddenly appeared from all sides. They had automatic pistols, baseball bats, punch rings and even MPis. The ratcheting sound of a loaded Pump Action rifle made Rizzo swirl around. A man with curly hair and an angular face grinned crookedly.

  "He that will not hear must feel, George!"

  "Monty!", Rizzo came out. His eyes were widened. He pulled up the gun, but before he could pull the trigger, his opponent had fired. Rizzo took three staggering steps back and slid to the ground on the fender of his convertible.

  2

  Those dressed in leather came closer.

  "I'm glad you remember me," said Monty, waving her face.

  He was undoubtedly the leader of the group.

  Rizzo's right arm, with which he held the gun, no longer obeyed him. He tried to stop the bleeding on the shoulder with his left hand. But that was hopeless. It ran through his fingers in red.

  Rizzo breathed flat. His face had become a mask of pain.

  Monty took his gun.

  ".45 caliber - a much too powerful weapon for a toy child like you!"

  "Monty, I..."

  "Shut the fuck up!" Monty got up and threw the.45 to one of his men. "Put him on his feet!", he ordered afterwards. Two of his men grabbed George Rizzo roughly and tore him up.

  Monty spat out contemptuously.

  Then, with the barrel of his Pump Action rifle, he hit Rizzo's injured shoulder so that he groaned in pain.

  Monty grinned. "Why all of a sudden, George?" He patted Rizzo on the cheek in an act of patronage. "You know, George, you hurt me too. Not physically, but..." He pulled back his hand, clenched it to his fist and pressed it to his left breast: "In here, you know? I thought you would respect my word! I thought you realized that you no longer had any business here and that we were the only ones doing business in these blocks. But you don't seem to have taken me seriously, and that hits me hard."

  Rizzo swallowed. He trembled a little.

  "Monty, we can talk!"

  Matty's fist blew right into George Rizzo's face. He had to be held so as not to slide to the ground. Rizzo's mouth became a bloody cave, which got rid of a painful groan.

  Monty grinned cynically.

  "Talk?" He laughed hoarsely. "You hardly, George!"

  The others laughed hoarsely.

  3

  Meanwhile, two of Monty's men had roughly grabbed the injured man, who was staggering towards George Rizzo from one of the house entrances, by the shoulders. The man was wearing a parka with the inscription ADVENTURER on his chest and shoulder. The inscription at chest height could hardly be read because the parka was stained with blood all over. His face was a single wound, his eyes so swollen that he could hardly see. With his right leg he apparently could no longer step and his left arm was hanging limply from his shoulder. He was trembling. The blue eyes flickered restlessly.

  It was obvious that he had been brutally beaten up.

  "What should we do with this guy?" asked one of the men holding him by the arms.

  Monty grinned crookedly.

  "You came here to buy your dope, didn't you?" he addressed the man in the Adventurer's jacket. This was, however, incapable of saying anything.

  Monty pointed to Rizzo. "Search him for dope - and then stuff it in his customer's mouth. The mouth is king over you and should have what it wanted!"

  Laughter burned up.

  Pretty rough searched Monty's men through George Rizzo and uncovered some crack. The cocaine cooked with baking powder was in cube-shaped pieces - called'stones'. Rizzo had packed five of them in cellophane. He carried four such packages in his pockets. In addition, a few packets of pure cocaine appeared.

  The man in the Adventurer jacket was detained. Someone closed his nose, so he opened his mouth, out of which blood ran. Monty stuffed the guy's mouth with his own hands one crack cube at a time until nothing fit into it. The adventurer had to choke, ruckle, spit out the dice again.

  "Let him go!", Monty ordered. Then he turned to the Adventurer Man. "You know where to buy the stones in the future, right?"

  The person addressed only made an unarticulated sound.

  "Consider everything else you have in your mouth as a trial shipment and get out. But if we ever catch you buying your crack from someone else than us again, you won't get off so cheap. Do you understand?"

  "He can't say anything, Monty! He's had enough," laughed one of the gang members who held Rizzo.

  "Get out!", Monty hissed.

  His people let go of the man in the Adventurer jacket. He swayed away, pulling his leg.

  A little later he disappeared in a house entrance.

  Now Monty turned to George Rizzo. "You're not getting off that easy, though!" He made a sign to his people, and they let Rizzo go. Monty loaded the Pump Gun. "Listen, I'll give you five minutes head start. "Run as fast as you can - and if we catch you in our district, this is the last time you've offered your stones!"

  4

  George Rizzo rushed down the street, turning into a narrow alley that had remained
between two Brownstone houses and entering a backyard. A pile of old car tires and several car wrecks were found here. Many of the windows in the surrounding houses were broken. Nailing some up with boards. A couple of homeless people warmed themselves by a fire.

  "Hey, what about that one?" one of them shouted.

  Rizzo only took the hoarse voice as if it was far away. He was dizzy. His pulse raced.

  Sweat beads shone on George Rizzo's forehead. He kept rushing. He knew about the South Bronx. Rizzo had grown up here and knew every back way.

  His shoulder hurt like hell - as did his lower jaw.

  George Rizzo was barely able to think clearly. Again and again he left blood on the asphalt. Finally he reached the exit of the backyard and reached a side street. He crossed it. On the other side was a disused warehouse. The plot was surrounded by a high wire mesh fence. However, there were several places where the wire had been cut open and bent to the side.

  Rizzo squeezed through one of the holes. He got caught in the wire with his clothes.

  At first he did not notice the car stopping on the side of the road. The door was opened, someone got out.

  The steps on the asphalt were almost silent.

  Rizzo turned around and literally twitched.

  Twice there was a sound that sounded like a sneeze. A gun with a silencer. The bullets hit George Rizzo in the chest and head.

  With staring, dead eyes slumped down.

  5

  The crime scene had been cordoned off with flutter tape. No one could say exactly what the street was called, because some jokers had had fun dismantling the signs. According to the latest version of the city map, it was George Washington Lane.

  My colleague Milo Tucker and I were in one of the worst areas of the South Bronx. The City Police only dared to come here with a strong team and Kevlar vests on. Accordingly, this time an unusually large number of security forces were involved in the operation, which was actually all about protecting the scene of the crime from unauthorized entry.

  I parked the sports car with the other emergency vehicles. Apart from the City Police forces, colleagues from the Scientific Research Division and the Homicide Squad of the responsible police station were also on site.

  Dr. Brent Claus from forensics just arrived.

  We waited for him and he greeted us friendly.

  "Do you have any idea what awaits us here, Agent Trevellian?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "We came from a witness hearing on Rikers Island and were just around the corner when we got the call from headquarters," I reported. "The victim is a drug dealer with a rope around his neck. He's probably on the show we're dealing with right now."

  "Three similar cases in four weeks," Milo added. "Someone wants to clean up the scene."

  A uniformed colleague stopped us. We showed him our badges.

  "Lieutenant Alexander is waiting for you!", said the officer.

  We finally reached the crime scene.

  There was a dead man lying on the sidewalk. Two gunshot wounds to the head and chest were obvious. There was also a wound on the shoulder, which was much larger and must have bled very heavily. In addition, however, the dead man had further injuries. He'd been brutally beaten in the teeth.

  Lieutenant Barry Alexander from the Homicide Squad of the responsible NYPD area had just been involved in a conversation with a member of the Scientific Research Division, who immediately attracted attention with the white protective overalls.

  "Two casings lay around here," said the SRD colleague. Her name was Sandra Dominguez. I knew her from other crime scenes. "There is every reason to believe that the murder was committed with a weapon capable of firing 9 mm calibre projectiles."

  Lieutenant Alexander turned to us. We greeted closely.

  "I called you right away, because I assume this murder has something to do with your series."

  I looked up at the dead man. He was wearing a leather coat up to his ankles. The eyes stared into nothingnation.

  A finger-thick rope hung loosely around his neck. It was tied into a noose - like a gallows.

  "The man's name was George Nelson Rizzo," reported Lieutenant Alexander. "He was carrying a driver's license. According to the computer, he has been convicted several times for drug offences, assault, receiving stolen goods and the like and has spent a few years on Rikers Island."

  "A drug dealer symbolically tied a rope around his neck," Milo said. "Somebody seems to be going after the little crack distributors."

  Lieutenant Alexander pointed to the road. "This is supposed to be the border to the Spiders' territory. At least if you believe our informants."

  The'Spiders' were a drug gang that increasingly worried us, as well as colleagues from the local police stations and the DEA. They had tripled their territory within a year and we suspected that they were used as distributors by one of the large syndicates.

  "I assume there's some big guy in the background trying to get the drug distribution system under his control," believed Lieutenant Alexander. "But thank God it's not my job to find out, it's yours."

  "Was Rizzo carrying drugs?" I asked.

  "No," Alexander said.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Brent Claus conducted his initial examination of the deceased. "Three gunshot wounds," he explained. "The hit to the head was fatal, maybe even the shot to the chest. I can't say until after the autopsy."

  Only the projectile in the head was still in the body, since there was no exit wound. The projectile that had passed through the chest was stuck in the asphalt and was collected by Sandra Dominguez.

  But the bullet that went through George Rizzo's shoulder was missing.

  As much as the SRD colleagues were looking for it in the immediate vicinity, it just didn't show up.

  "Actually, it can only be explained by the fact that this injury did not occur here," Sandra Dominguez clarified. "Besides, I'm sure it was a bigger caliber!"

  "Then Rizzo was shot, fled here and was struck down by two more bullets from another weapon just before leaving the Spiders area," Milo sums up the suspected crime.

  Lieutenant Alexander showed us what they found on the dead man: a mobile phone, a notebook and a wallet with a total of 5000 dollars, several credit cards and a driving licence.

  There was also a calling card of an aid organisation for drug addicts. HELP called himself the.

  "Was Rizzo an addict himself?" I asked Dr. Claus.

  "Definitely I can't say until after the autopsy," was the coroner's answer. "But at least he must have coke. "The nasal mucous membranes are completely ruined."

  "Most small dealers themselves are more or less dependent," said Lieutenant Alexander. "That's how most people start this vicious business. Buy a little stuff for a buddy and take a little more than you paid for yourself..."

  There was also a bunch of keys in his pocket.

  The notebook contained abbreviations and numbers.

  "Maybe his clients' phone numbers," Milo suspected.

  "With any luck, maybe his supplier's."

  A cell phone rang with the melody of'Take Five'. It was Lieutenant Alexander's phone. He just said three times: "Yes!" Then he ended the conversation and turned to me. "In Mr Rizzo's name, a convertible is registered. Colleagues found the car a few blocks away."

  "I suggest we take a look, too," Milo said.

  I had no objection.

  6

  We had quickly reached the road where the convertible was found. We immediately noticed the police patrol car. It was standing on the side of the road with flashing red lights.

  Two uniformed cops just searched a young man in his mid-20s at the most.

  I drove the sports car to the side of the road.

  We got out.

  Milo pointed to the row of vehicles parked on the opposite road, some of which had their tyres taken off. "Better to leave your car here no longer than is absolutely necessary, huh?"

  "Even when the police is next to it," I nodded.

  "If George Ne
lson Rizzo left his car here, the tragedy that led to his death probably started here!"

  "He got shot, fled, was followed and got the rest where he was found."

  "There were two of them, Jesse. Two guns - and therefore probably two people."

  We reached the convertible. Our suspicions were confirmed. One of the fenders was stained with blood. The car had to be inspected by the colleagues of the SRD.

  "Hey, don't touch anything!", one of the cops shouted at us. I walked up to him and showed him my ID. "Jesse Trevellian, FBI. This is my colleague Milo Tucker."

  "Excuse me," replied the policeman, a tall, broad-shouldered man with reddish hair. "I'm Sergeant McGhee and my colleague is Sergeant O'Leary. Lieutenant Alexander asked us to look around for this Rizzo's car. Here he is! And this guy here has tampered with it!"