The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

Completely deflated, Bruin dragged himself past the murder scene on his way back into the living room to find Fitzpatrick holding
a tape recorder. He then watched as his partner pushed the rewind button and allowed the recording to play.
Everyone that was gathered in the living room stood and listened with disgusted faces as Cummins huffed and wheezed to a
Chicago song playing in the background. It wasn't too difficult for everyone to figure out what the man was doing in the recording.
"Damn shit." Fitzpatrick growled as he placed the machine back down onto the glass table without stopping the recording.
"Hey, Jones," Bruin motioned to the floor, "there's a thing of Vaseline beside the couch there."
"Where's the fellow that he snatched yesterday?" One of the other officers asked.
"Maybe he's downstairs." Bruin miserably replied before starting for the bedrooms.
"I guess it makes sense in a way," Fitzpatrick mentioned while gawking about the sophisticated living room, "he's been using his
own vehicles to snatch people."
"We've got a live one down here!" A voice gleefully shouted out from the basement.
Like little boys on summer vacation, both Bruin and Fitzpatrick raced through the living room, into the kitchen and down the
basement stairs to see fifteen naked, dead bodies lying all over a bloodied floor, and one living, naked person curled up in a
secure ball, holding her thin hands together as tight as she could while her blue eyes bulged out of her head in a horrific manner.
"Someone get Donaldson down here, now!" Bruin feverishly screamed as he got down to his knees and attempted to tenderly
hold the woman in his arms.
"It's okay, honey. It's all over now." He gently reassured the girl while taking off his coat and wrapping it around her shockingly
warm body.
Right around the corner at the top of the stairs was a plump, blonde white female officer. The woman came rushing down the
steps only to stop midway at the sight of the sadistic death that took hold of her eyes.
"Shirley, come here, we need you to take her upstairs!" Bruin yelled.
But Donaldson appeared too afraid to make another move forward. She slowly began to back away until she stumbled against
one of the steps behind her.

"Get your ass down here now, Donaldson!" Fitzpatrick furiously gestured with his left hand.
The petrified woman skittishly stepped down the stairs and approached the young lady on the floor. From there she coddled the
woman in her arms like a child.
"Talk to her, Donaldson, she's a baby girl!" Bruin urgently ranted.
"Hold on...sweetheart, we're gonna get you out of here real soon." Donaldson stammered while caressing the woman's long,
brunette hair.
With his hands shaking, Bruin stood back up and surveyed every corpse that was lying on the floor. Each body, including the
young woman's, had deep puncture wounds to the stomach area.
Their pale, distraught faces told the story of their final moments of life. Handsome, young black men and pretty, young white
women were all scattered from one end of the basement to the other. Even the overwhelming stench of the room couldn't tear
the officers and detectives away from the bludgeoning sight of all the death that stared ever so lifelessly right back at them.
Every moment passed by in surreal slow motion.
"There's Calvin over there." Fitzpatrick pointed straight ahead.
Bruin turned around and watched as the medics helped the young lady from off of the floor and onto a gurney.
Bruin was handed his coat back by one of the medics before turning and saying to an officer beside him, "Smiley, contact the
Cohen family. Inform them that we've found their daughter...alive."
Brice scurried his hefty girth down the stairs and began to examine the bodies one by one. After he had overturned each corpse
onto its stomach, he coldly stated out loud, "Forced insertion wounds to the rectal areas. Looks like our man raped his victims
before killing them all. That would explain the Vaseline."
"So where the hell is this fellow that Cummins took yesterday?" Fitzpatrick griped.
Ignoring his partner, Bruin noticed even more black fur that was located next to the steps. "Yep, it came out of here alright." He
remarked as he gazed deep at the fur. "Pat, are you sure this isn't bear fur?"
Brice stood up, retrieved the fur from out of Bruin's hand and sighed, "Linus, forensics fucked it all up last November when their
supposed bear attacked those Jamaican guys. Everyone down at the lab was in such a hurry to get home for the holiday that

they would have said an elephant did it. This fur resembles that of a wolf rather than a bear. You saw the bite marks all over
Cummins; it even left a tooth behind, for God's sake."
"So you're saying that a wolf did that to Cummins?" Fitzpatrick stepped up beside both men. "C'mon, Brice, you saw that faggot
bastard, he was torn in half."
"Unless it was a pack of wolves, that's not too uncommon for these parts." Bruin said.
"There's only one set of paw prints tracked in the snow, Linus." Brice added.
"Well, let's only hope that this Mercer guy escaped while he could." Bruin exhaled.
"If he did end up escaping, he did so a naked man." Fitzpatrick said. "His clothes are still upstairs on the couch. I'm gonna call
back to—
Right then, the bizarre roars of an angry animal shot out from upstairs. Every officer and detective that was in the basement
pulled out their weapons before racing back up the steps.
Once they made their way into the living room, to their stunned surprise, the sounds that they were hearing were coming from
the tape recorder that Fitzpatrick left playing earlier.
Each and every officer stood in the middle of the living room and listened to the roars and growls of the beast that was tearing a
human being to shreds.
"Is that a bear?" Fitzpatrick's face turned up.
"I've never heard a bear sound like that before." One of the other officers chimed in.
They all continued to eavesdrop until the crashing of wood came into earshot, which was followed by utter silence. Bruin picked
up the recorder and hit the off button.
"That's not all." Another officer pointed to the front window. "Look out there."
Every man inside peeked out the window to see news vans and reporters all descend upon the residence like a swarm of hungry
bees.
"Well, you're the big TV star here." Fitzpatrick sarcastically grinned at Bruin. "Go get 'em, tiger."

The very last thing Bruin wanted at that stage was to speak with nosey reporters, or anyone else for that matter, but it was his
case, it had been for the past six months, there was no turning back.
With cement feet, the detective stepped outside onto the icy porch with his hands slipped tightly into his coat pockets.
"Detective Bruin, is this the residence of the B.O.D. kidnapper?" A male reporter asked with a mini tape recorder pointed at
Bruin's blushing face.
"Yes it is." Bruin bashfully exhaled. "We received an anonymous tip. The tipster described a black male in his early twenties
accepting a ride from a man that fit our description. Upon our arrival here this morning, Leroy Cummins the Third was found
dead inside his home."
"Wait a minute, Detective, are we talking about the same Leroy Cummins that owns Cummins' Chevrolet here in town?" A female
reporter questioned in a flabbergasted tone.
"That is correct." Bruin shook his head. "We discovered sixteen bodies located in Mr. Cummins' basement this morning."
"Were there any survivors, Detective?" "Just one, so far," Bruin stated. "One Gloria Cohen was found alive, but in a shell-
shocked condition."
"What about this person that Cummins abducted yesterday?"
"So far, we haven't been able to locate Mr. Mercer. We're only hoping that he managed to escape and is on his way back home
as we speak."
"Detective, you mentioned that Cummins was found dead. What exactly was the cause of death?"
Bruin held his tongue for a few seconds before uttering, "We are not releasing that information at this time."
"Detective, there are rumors that an animal, possibly a killer bear, murdered Cummins. Is this true?"
"Like I said, we are not at liberty to discuss Cummins' cause of death at this point, but, we are working in conjunction with
Cuyahoga Falls' authorities and informing residents to stay clear of wooded areas for the time being, until we are able to
investigate further. That is all for now."
Bruin turned and stepped back into the frigid confines of the house, leaving the ravenous reporters screaming for more.

"Just how the fuck did the bear story get out that quick?" Bruin snarled at Fitzpatrick who was holding a Taser gun in his right
hand.
"You know how some people are." He shrugged. "Someone else probably saw the tracks, too. Look at this." Fitzpatrick said while
holding up the weapon. "How much you wanna bet he used this to incapacitate his victims?"
"Where did you find that?"
"Right behind the sofa here," he said.
Ignoring the Taser that his partner seemed so proud to embrace, Bruin stepped towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms
before an officer approached him and said, "We found more tapes inside his room, Detective."
"Thanks, Dudley." Bruin despondently replied, glancing past the officer and straight ahead at Cummins' bedroom.
As he made his way inside, Bruin began to stroll about the room that smelled of Old Spice cologne and unclean laundry. The
unmade, queen sized bed was layered in nothing but dirty men's and women's underwear.
There were spots of blood sprinkled all over the tan carpet, along with dirty tampons and cut out pictures of famous black males,
noticeably The Jackson Five and Jimmie 'JJ' Walker, to Billy Dee Williams.
Pasted on the cream colored walls were photos of well-known white woman from Diane Lane and Jodie Foster, to Linda Blair.
With a pen that he pulled out from his back pocket, Bruin picked up a pair of blue panties from off the bed before asking, "Hey,
Al, what was the name of the guy from the diner again?"
Fitzpatrick stopped snapping pictures with his Kodak camera before saying, "Mercer, I believe."
"No, his first name," Bruin said. Fitzpatrick paused again and remarked, "The car was registered to a Charles Mercer. Fifty-eight
years old, from Cypress."
Bruin dropped the panties back onto the bed and frowned, "Fifty-eight? I thought the waitress at the diner said he was a young
guy."
"You're right, Detective." A young, black officer announced as he abruptly entered into the bedroom. "I found his I.D. in his pants
pocket. His name is Isaac Mercer. He's twenty."

"Thanks, Smith." Bruin responded, securing the wallet from the officer's hand. "If he's from Cypress, what in the world was he
doing all the way out here in the sticks of all places?"
"The waitress did say that he was arguing with a woman there before she got up and took off. Maybe they were lovers or
something of that nature." Fitzpatrick clarified while slipping on a pair of blue rubber gloves.
"Christ, I feel filthy just being in this room." Bruin turned up his nose. "I'm guessing that Isaac is the son of Charles, and Charles
is probably wondering just where in the world both his son and his car are right about now."
Fitzpatrick knelt down to the floor and said, "I think we need to head back to Cypress and quick, before this guy's family goes
insane worrying about him."
"Not only that, but I'd also like to follow those tracks in the back as well. From the sound of it, I don't think this was the last place
our furry friend visited last night." Bruin said as he turned and wandered out of the bedroom and back into the living room.
He stood next to the sofa looking on in silent aversion. Everything he had expected, minus the slaughtered kidnapper, had come
to vibrant and horrifying life.
Once the busy path of pacing officers and medics was clear, Bruin stepped lightly back into the slippery kitchen. There was still
more evidence to collect down in the basement, but he was in no such rush to get down there anytime soon. Just staring off at
the hole in the wall was jarring enough.
"Detective, we've got a report of a murder just a few miles west of this location." An older officer announced as he stepped inside
through the gaping hole.
"Just west of here, huh," Bruin cynically shrugged. "We get rid of one animal, we end up with another. Any more surprises?"
His conscience couldn't decide on what was more terrifying, a kidnapper that rapes and kills his victims, or a supposed animal
that splits the kidnapper in two and leaves a seven foot wide hole in the sturdy wall as a calling card.
His beating heart wanted ever so much to grieve over the victims and their long suffering families. Bruin's hands at that instant
began to tremble, even though his entire body was on fire.
Mournfully, Linus turned away from both the officer and the hole before making his way downstairs.