By Steven James
Milwaukee, 1997. In a urban reeling from the crimes of Jeffrey Dahmer, a chain of grotesque kidnappings and mutilations draw professionals right into a case like not anything they've ever obvious. law enforcement officials imagine a Dahmer copycat is at the free. yet Patrick Bowers, operating as a murder detective, suspects this can be greater than an ode to the notorious cannibal.
When he discovers that the surprising acts reference essentially the most infamous and macabre killers in our nation's historical past, the research spirals right into a nightmare of manipulation, brutality, and terror
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Additional resources for Opening Moves (The Patrick Bowers Files, Book 0.5)
He turned to Dr Shawcross. ’ She looked up from her empty coffee cup and thought for a moment. ‘No, I think everything is clear from my point of view. I would, however, like to take Christopher and show him where we will be working. There are one or two things I want to explain before we set to work tomorrow. If no one has any objections, we’ll take out leave’, she added. No one had and it suddenly struck me that she had, for the first time, called me by my first name. She led me through a series of corridors to the back of the house, down a flight of well-worn stone steps and into what I supposed to be the cellar, before its conversion for more specific purposes.
His fists smashed up and down on the side of the bed and choking noises came from the back of his throat. He grabbed, time and time again, towards his crotch, never actually holding on. After five minutes or so of this behaviour, she began to calm and reassure him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in time to stop him urinating. For the next half hour, she introduced positive and relaxing thoughts into his mind; occasionally interspersed with little demonstrations for my benefit, just to prove that he was still hypnotised.
For a moment, I wondered which of her guises the real one was. She guided me towards a room at the far end of the hallway, where three people were talking animatedly. As we entered, this ceased. One was Kelmsley, one a younger man unknown to me and the third was obviously the owner of the property. Introductions completed, we spent the next half an hour sipping sherry and being regaled by our host with tales of his ancestors, many of whose portraits festooned the walls. 30 sharp, confirmed by the distant chiming clock, a door to an adjoining room opened and a polite, but firm voice informed us that dinner was served.