The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

The police cruiser slowly wheeled up to and eventually parked right in front of 909 West 7th. Both the young officer who was
operating the vehicle and Mike O'Dea sat inside the car and glared on and on at the bleak, broken down old house with similar
looks of dismay written on their faces.
Mike, who by then had grown a full, greying beard that would have suggested that he hadn't shaved in quite a while, rubbed his
hard hands together as though he were anxious over something.
In his brown leather long coat, matching brown polyester pants and a tweed fedora, Mike took a strained gander at the rest of the
drab neighborhood on that slowly approaching evening. On the other side of the sidewalk were two black men wearing black
leather jackets and just standing in front of a parked car smoking and talking to each other. Mike just cut his eyes from the men
as to say they weren't worth his time.
"Well, Mr. O'Dea, here it is." The young officer switched off the car's ignition and sighed.
Mike glanced back over at the house and heaved, "Yeah, a real piece of shit, huh?"
"If you ask me, they should've torn this place down a long time ago."
"Hell, they should destroy this entire neighborhood, for the love of God." O'Dea snickered while unbuckling his seatbelt and
preparing to climb out of the car.
"You know, when I was here last, this house looked terrible. But now...it actually looks worse." Officer Sullivan mentioned with a
sudden pale face.
O'Dea just smirked at the young man as to imply that his comment was humorous. "Hang in there, kid. Believe me when I say,
you'll encounter a helluva lot worse by the time you're done in the force."
"That makes me feel secure." Sullivan sarcastically remarked.
"Look, you're a good Irish kid." O'Dea said. "We need more good cops like you out here." O'Dea then pointed out at the two men
across the street. "Look at 'em, the dregs of society." He sneered. "They, and any other that suck on society's tit. I hated it when
they took me off the beat. I got a chance to be out here with my nose to street. What you saw the other day inside that house
was just a glimpse of real life. Your father knew that, too. He was a good cop, and he expects his son to follow in suit."
Swallowing, Sullivan remarked, "Yeah, but I bet he never saw anything like what happened the other day."

Shrugging his shoulders, Mike callously replied, "Perhaps not, but then again, the little bastards had no business being in there
to begin with. You jump into Jaws' mouth, don't be surprised when you're eaten." O'Dea then reached inside his coat pocket and
pulled out a fifty dollar bill which he promptly handed to the young man. "C'mon, let's go."
Both O'Dea and Sullivan got out of the cruiser and proceeded to march towards the house. With his hands inside his coat
pockets, O'Dea's stride was zealous while Sullivan's was cautious if not sluggish. O'Dea paused for a moment to stare up at the
radiant autumn sky and back again at the men who by then were giggling in their direction. O'Dea just snubbed his nose at the
men before stepping up the stairs of the porch.
"You should've seen this porch." Sullivan said. "I think Officer Wayne said he found one of the boys' heart's outside here. He said
that it was still beating."
O'Dea scanned the grimy porch where several of the wooden boards were coming loose before he stood in front of the front
door. Sullivan pushed against the door's handle and stepped aside to let O'Dea in first.
Closing the door behind him, Sullivan's tongue fumbled, "I sure hope the Captain doesn't find out about this."
"Don't worry about Brickman; he already owes me a few favors. Besides, you're being compensated for this. You've got nothing
to be concerned about."
The floor boards creaked and cracked with every movement the men made as they walked across causing an echo effect to
rattle the silence within. There was still enough sunlight for them both to see where they were stepping. O'Dea took a minute to
scan the reddish walls and floor. The smell within the house was stiff and putrid, like being inside a cold butcher shop.
"The guys did their best to clean the walls, but there was so much blood that they eventually just gave up."
O'Dea took a Polaroid camera from out of his coat and snapped a couple of shots. He shook the prints and waited for the film to
develop before studying both pictures carefully and stuffing them into his pockets.
"Tell me again why you think this is so important?"
O'Dea took a picture of the floor before saying, "My boy, they say truth is stranger than fiction. This entire case has baffled
everyone since it first began back in February. No leads, no clues, just speculation and people still turning up dead."
"So do you believe that these animals are still on the loose?" Sullivan stood nervously behind O'Dea.

Scanning the entire living room from side to side, O'Dea answered, "It's hard to say. If it is an animal, it's an animal that no one
can seem to spot. These murders have been far too gruesome for a human to have committed. No, no, I happen to believe that
something a lot deeper is going on here."
"Well, if it's not an animal, or a person, then who or what?"
Right then, Sullivan's radio crackled to life. "I gotta take this." Sullivan hurried to say as he whipped out his radio from his holster
and took off out the front door.
O'Dea went and shut the door behind the young man before turning back around and taking out a mini tape recorder from within
his coat. From there he began a methodical march around the living room that would end up leading down the hallway.
Speaking into the recorder's voice receiver, O'Dea stated, "I'm currently inside the Glover residence. With the exception of the
living room, the hallway appears to be untouched."
O'Dea opened the one bedroom door and poked his head inside. He then walked over to the closet to find nothing but an empty
space within.
"I attempted to contact Lynnette Glover, but came up with no results. I'm considering paying a visit to her parents' home where I
am told she resides." He spoke as he headed back out to the hallway and down towards the bathroom.
With extreme carefulness, he opened the door and used what little light was still shining from the hallway to see what he was
able to.
Kneeling, the man said, "The floor still has remnants of blood lacerated all over. Nothing too deep, but one can surmise that due
to the lack of proper upkeep this house is not too far from demolition. Sullivan was right; it does need to be destroyed."
O'Dea kept on and on gawking about until he spotted something hiding behind the toilet. The man reached over and picked it up.
"I'm currently inside the bathroom where Isaac Mercer was shot dead by Detective Bruin. I'm holding in my hand right now what
appears to be a piece of...fur." O'Dea studied the filament from side to side before taking out his eyeglasses and inspecting
closer.
"Brice may be a nut, but he's still holding tight to his animal theory. And to be perfectly honest, I can't really blame him. The
neighbors all said that Glover did not own a pet, and yet, they also said that they heard an animal inside this house that night.
And that same animal was tearing the joint apart like a bulldozer. There was an animal inside this fucking house that night." He
spoke more sternly as he stuffed the fur inside his coat pocket.

"I don't care what anyone says; Linus shot and killed both Mercer and something else. And I happen to believe that was what
eventually drove him to take his own life."
O'Dea then stood back up. "They were harboring an animal inside this house that night. Possibly the same animal that tore those
Jamaicans apart last November. That's exactly what Linus killed. Isaac Mercer was involved with the Jamaicans prior to his
death and he brought it over here, possibly to fend off Linus. But Linus shot both Mercer and the beast, and the beast got away
to the Hollis Towers." He anxiously explained to his recorder.
"I'll be dammed, it's been right in front of everyone's eyes this entire time." O'Dea then began to gradually turn around and
around inside the bathroom. "That's why that black bitch Glover is nowhere to be found. She's probably running some kind of
underground voodoo cult in town." Mike then stopped twirling and gripped his recorder even tighter inside his sweating right
hand.
"This is exactly what could get me back on the force. Now, from what another informant told me, Charles Mercer was just
released from the hospital not too long ago. That means I need to catch up with him and—
Just then, O'Dea's keen ramblings were interrupted by a racket from another part of the house. The man nearly dropped his
recorder to the floor before he stuffed the thing back inside his coat and reached into another pocket to take out a revolver.
"Who's in here?" He called out. "Sullivan?"
But instead of an answer all that he could still hear was the thumping of something stalking about like it owned the place.
With his gun pointed straight ahead of him O'Dea boldly struck out of the bathroom, down the hallway and into the living room.
He stood in the middle of the floor and gazed all over before catching a darkened figure seated Indian-style on the kitchen floor.
"Hold it right there!" He pointed his revolver at the person.
The individual's face was hidden by the shadows within the increasingly dimming kitchen which only frustrated O'Dea even
further as he cautiously approached the person.
"Slowly get to your feet with your hands up!" O'Dea said aloud.
Gradually, the person lifted their head. The sun was going down for the evening, so seeing the person clearly was near
impossible. O'Dea could tell just by the bulky build that it was a man; a man with dreadlocks. Ever so carefully he raised his
hands in the air.

"Stop right there!" O'Dea snapped. "Okay, who are you, and why are you here?"
The man dropped his hands back down to the floor before glancing to his left and to his right. Still, O'Dea could barely see the
man's face. He could tell that he wasn't wearing a shirt of any kind, and that whatever sort of pants he was wearing looked to be
shredded to pieces.
"Where dey at, mon?" The man spoke in a hoarse Jamaican accent.
Turning up his face, O'Dea asked, "Come again?"
"Me sister, and me brotha," the man continued on, sounding completely confused.
"Okay, pal, I don't know why you're here, but you need to get—
Just then, O'Dea ceased his speech to take a moment to reflect. Immediately he thought of Lynnette and Isaac and began
backing away.
"Alright, pal, just hold it right there. I got back up outside. Make one move and I'll blow you away."
"Dey not here, mon." The man woefully groaned.
"Who's not here?"
"Dey gone," he continued on.
"Who, Mercer, Glover," O'Dea zealously questioned. "Do you know where Lynnette Glover is?"
Soon, the man in the kitchen began an ominous chuckle that lasted nearly an entire minute before he settled back down.
"No, no, mon, we here for de girl."
"Who's we? What girl?"
"Little Lynnette, no Isaac."
"I fucking knew it." O'Dea gritted his teeth in a whisper. "Okay, just come out of there and we can go down to the police station
and try and figure out together where Ms. Glover is."
But just then, the man inside the kitchen sat absolutely still, so still in fact that it appeared to O'Dea that he was lifeless.

"We come here to dis country for de girl. I try to get her, but she get away from me."
O'Dea could hardly even understand the man's dialect let alone what he was trying to get at. And the more the man remained in
the shadows the more anxious O'Dea seemed to become.
"What...what the hell are you talking about? Are you talking about Lynnette? Do you know anything about the animal attacks this
past summer?" O'Dea kept panting. "Listen...just come forward real slowly and—
"I still smell tha fire, mon."
"What fire are you talking about?"
"I feel it all over me. I tried to kill 'er, but she get away."
"Who did you try to kill, for Christ's sake?"
"De girl...Lynnette," the man's voice began to deepen. "But me brotha have no mercy upon me."
By then, O'Dea's knees were beginning to wobble beneath him. The situation was becoming more and more agonizing by the
second, and the seconds were dragging by like hours in his mind.
"So let me get this straight, you tried to kill Lynnette Glover, and you say that your brother tried to kill you?"
"Me brotha is a very powerful mon."
"What's his name? Where is he? Come down to the station with me and we can work this out."
All of the sudden, O'Dea's nose began to catch the aroma of something burning. The man kept his gun trained on the shadowy
man inside the kitchen while trying to figure out where the smell was coming from.
"Sullivan!" O'Dea hollered out. "Sullivan, get in here, I got a suspect!"
"Your mon not come here. No one save ya now, Yankee boy."
At that instant, the man on the floor jumped right to his feet. O'Dea tightened his slippery finger around his gun's trigger.
"Stop right there, dammit!" He nervously yelled.

The man in the kitchen stood perfectly immobile before his two eyes began to shine right through the kitchen's shadows.
"What in God's name?" O'Dea began to shiver.
"When ya get to hell, tell my brotha dat I cannot wait to see him."
"Don't you make one more move!" O'Dea himself started to back away.
Drawing further and further out of the shadows, the man's harsh voice uttered, "I be there real soon, mon. I be there real soon."
Without notice the man in the kitchen lunged out at O'Dea. O'Dea, out of sheer fright, fired his gun four times at the man before
falling backwards onto the floor. Disoriented, O'Dea writhed about on the floor before finding himself covered in a pair of torn
pants and what appeared to be pieces of burned flesh which the man quickly wiped off his self.
O'Dea promptly got to his feet breathing in and out as though he had been running for miles. He looked down at the floor where
the pants and charred skin was lying. With shaking hands he meticulously picked and prodded at the mess on the floor.
He could still smell the scorched remains as if it were fresh. Words were beyond him at that point. All O'Dea seemed to be able
to do was just stand and stare down at the floor before he turned to the kitchen to find it completely empty. It was as though
someone or something had sucked the very life out of him at that moment in time.
"What the hell is going on in here?" Sullivan breathlessly crept up behind O'Dea.
Still caught up in the thralls of terror, without thinking, O'Dea wildly spun around and began firing his revolver straight at
Sullivan's neck, which ended up sending the man crashing down onto the floor. O'Dea himself stumbled backwards, landing
squarely back on his rear. The moment O'Dea at last came to his senses he saw a bloody Billy Sullivan lying on the floor holding
his bleeding neck while writhing about in agony. Sweating and out of breath O'Dea sat absolutely still and watched in paralyzed
shock as the young man fought for every last breath become succumbing to the grip of death. His body jerked for at least ten or
eleven seconds until at last it went completely still.
O'Dea remained on the floor for the longest time before finally gathering the energy to get up and circle the dead man's body
while still holding onto his gun. He turned his head around to look back at the empty kitchen once more. He then looked back
down at Sullivan whose eyes were wide open in a dull gaze. O'Dea didn't even pull out a simple gasp let alone a word; he only
stood in the middle of the floor and shook incessantly. Soon enough, however, a chorus of whispers began to arise within the
small house. O'Dea spun around and around like a dog chasing after its own tail in search of where the uproar was coming from.
"Who...who's in here," he tried to catch his breath.

But the whispers only grew louder the more O'Dea kept going back and forth across the floor like a lunatic, waving his gun in the
air.
"Holy mother of Christ," he slobbered all over himself. "I'm sorry!"
In his delirious state the man couldn't decide whether to race for the front door or faint to the floor. No matter what he found
himself completely engulfed inside the ravages of insanity to the point where he was pointing his still warm gun at the walls
around him.
"Come...come out and show yourself!" He began to weep.
Just as O'Dea was about to head for the front door, on the wall directly in front of him he noticed it actually moving, or breathing
in and out. The man stood and watched in horror as the wall kept pulsating before what looked to be a snout with fangs made an
imprint within the wall, appearing as if it wanted to tear right through.
O'Dea attempted to fire his gun only to have it click repeatedly due to a lack of bullets. Without haste he rushed for the front door,
opened it and slammed it as hard as he could right behind him. Sweating profusely and huffing and puffing was all Mike O'Dea
could seem to do while stumbling backwards off the porch and tripping over his own feet in the process. He got up to see not
only the two men that were on the other side of the street still standing and gawking at him, but also other neighbors curiously
observing just what on earth was happening.
O'Dea suddenly remembered that he had a gun in his hand; he also realized just where he was as he caught sight of the police
car that was still parked at the curb. Ever so cautiously he slipped his revolver back into his coat pocket before gathering his
collapsed senses and walking down the street only to be seized by the striking sight of the blood orange and red sky before him.
It was such a remarkable sunset that cool evening that even O'Dea had to pause at its stunning display. Not that he was
enthralled by the image, but just the very sight caused his still racing heart to take brief pauses in between beatings. He was
motionless before the sight of Sullivan and the creature behind the wall came rushing back into his brain.
O'Dea took one final glimpse backwards at the neighborhood onlookers before resuming his mournful march down the block.