Murder Victim

The world goes black. Death will come to all of us. But it sneaks up on you like a thief in the night. In a dream, nothing is predicted in excruciating detail. Right? Wrong!

A billionaire from Blue Springs City seeks subjects for his neuroscience research, which deeply researches the mysterious neural pathways of memory and dreams. However, something has gone horribly wrong. Participants in the study are having terrifying nightmares with deadly consequences. It sounds like something out of the Twilight Zone. However, people are dying—their blood screams. Willie Phillips, a former FBI agent, must answer the call.

Willie Phillips battles his demons while battling the rare movement disorder that forced him to leave the FBI. His incapacitating flare-ups endanger his life as he investigates rage-filled murders and unearths secrets, shattering long-held illusions and raising ghosts better left dead.

"The Murder Victim" is the suspense crime thriller novel in my Thriller Books. If you live for the thrills of John Grisham's and James Patterson's white-knuckle plot twists and suspense, you should make time to read "The Murder Victim." You won't want to get off this fast-paced thrill ride.

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Chapter One

December 1959

Travis Stanley snatched the barrel of his shotgun, yanking it from the rack in his watch vehicle. He knew Daniel Robles all around ok to know better, however there he was, remaining before his sibling's farmhouse not fifty feet before him, shrouded in blood, one arm folded around his ten-year-old niece, Heather, gripping her like she was a prisoner, the young lady wearing only a robe, shuddering neglected. The dispatcher had accepted Daniel's call thirty minutes prior, Daniel shouting at her that Pritchard and Miguel were dead and that he had Heather.

The Robles place was twenty miles south of the sheriff's base camp in the Johnson County town hall in Olathe. He'd moved along at a good pace, exploiting the new thruway, Interstate 35, that had opened prior in the year, coming to Spring Hill in a short time, then, at that point traveling west and busting it throughout the last couple of miles of harsh province street. He fishtailed making the transform into the Robless' property, tires spitting rock and ice set down in last week's tempest, alarm booming, his heart riding in his throat the last quarter mile to the farmhouse. He was first on the scene, his agent Lee Rogers, and two ambulances five minutes behind.

It had been three weeks since the Clutter family had been butchered in their farmhouse close to Holcomb. That was a decent 400 miles west, however there had been no captures and each lawman in the state was tense, terrified the executioners would strike once more.

All things considered, Stanley realized almost certainly, Daniel had killed his sibling and sister-in-law than some anonymous lunatics, most killings being submitted by individuals who knew their casualties. He'd heard discuss inconvenience between the siblings, something about the land their folks left them, however apparently, it was simply talk.

He opened his vehicle entryway and ventured out, keeping the entryway among him and Daniel, the shotgun imperceptible next to him. The farmhouse sat on an ascent, protected on three sides from the breeze by stands of maples and oaks. It had been light for 60 minutes, the sky weighty and close with heavy mists, the breeze cold and hardened enough to make a man hard of hearing.

"Release her, Daniel," Stanley yelled.

"They're dead! The two of them." A rose fog skimmed off of Daniel, new blood blending in with the frozen air.

"Then, at that point we can't do anything for them however we can deal with Heather. Presently let her go."

Stanley didn't see a weapon in both of Daniel's hands however that didn't mean he was honest or unarmed. He could be both and furthermore be off the wall by what he'd seen, making him risky in another way.

Stanley began a lethargic stroll toward Daniel and Heather, keeping the shotgun focused on the ground. His representative and the ambulances would come bursting into the yard any second, no real way to advise how Daniel would respond to the additional upheaval.

"It's awful," Daniel said, fixing his grasp on the young lady. "They're dead! Slice to pieces!"

"Furthermore, that is something awful. We should not exacerbate it."

Stanley shut the distance between them, evening out the shotgun at Daniel. However he was unable to shoot Daniel without destroying Heather with buckshot, he knew seeing that weapon pointed at Daniel really wanted to make him center around his mortality.

Daniel gazed at the shotgun. "Ed, you don't think I killed them, isn't that right?"

They were ten feet separated. Daniel's hands, arms, and chest were absorbed blood. Heather's face was streaked with red, nectar shaded bangs falling over her eyes, her lips blue, her robe blood splattered. Stanley ventured nearer, raising the shotgun at Daniel's face; Daniel's eyes opened wide like day lilies under the sun.

"I don't think anything, Daniel. I simply need to examine Heather, ensure she's OK. Then, at that point you and I can discuss what occurred. That be okay with you?"

Agent Rogers's cruiser slid to a quit, flanking Stanley, Daniel, and the young lady. Utilizing his open vehicle entryway for cover, he drew his handgun, taking a two-fisted focus on Daniel Robles.

"We alright, here, Sheriff?" Rogers asked.

"It should, Daniel, we alright?" Stanley asked.

Daniel looked down. "Definitely, we're OK."

Stanley brought down his shotgun, going after Heather with his free hand. "Come here, darling," he said.

Heather took away from Daniel's arm and placed her hand in his. Stanley pressed her hand and she crushed his, astonishing Stanley with her quiet strength, as though the blood on her fingers was nail clean.

Over the course of the following hours and days, Daniel Robles recounted his story over and over to Travis Stanley, the head prosecutor, the polygraph analyst, and his legal counselor, never changing a word, sentence, or section. He and his sibling had put their bad sentiments behind. He'd come to get his sibling so they could fix an awful stretch of fence they shared. Nobody replied when he rang the chime. The entryway was opened so he went in and called out for Pritchard and Miguel. At the point when they didn't react, he went looking and thought that they are wounded to death in their bed. He got their blood on him when he supported their bodies in his arms, going off the deep end at seeing them. He discovered Heather stowing away in the shrubs underneath her second floor room. The polygraph analyst said that Daniel was honest in all actions and no charges were documented against him.

Heather Robles's story supported her uncle. She said that she was stirred by cries coming from her folks' room. Then, at that point she heard strides coming toward her room. It was dull. Somebody got her yet his hands were excessively wet and tricky with blood to hold her. She liberated herself and ran onto the overhang off her room, getting around the rail, her lone physical issue a hyper-extended lower leg. She ran into a close by field, remaining there until light, returning and stowing away in the brambles underneath her room, too scared to even think about going inside the house, staying there until her uncle discovered her. She talked without tears; a specialist who inspected her clarified that she was too stunned to even think about crying, guaranteeing Stanley that it was ideal in the event that she covered the recollections of that evening.

Stanley strolled through the Robles farmhouse many occasions, re-making the executioner's way, following the blood trail from Pritchard and Miguel's room to Heather's. He opened the French entryways onto her overhang, remained at the rail, and wondered about the fortitude of a ten-year-old young lady to escape from the executioner and hop from such a tallness.

Daniel Robles sent Heather to live with his sister in California. He never set foot on his sibling's homestead again, selling it in the spring and sending the cash to his sister to pay for Heather's childhood. That evening, he become inebriated and was killed when he drove his pickup truck into a substantial course.

At the point when Richard Hickock and Perry Smith were captured for the Clutter family kills, Stanley headed to Garden City to address them. They denied the killings and there was no proof to interface them to the Robles case.

No homicide weapon was at any point found. Nobody was at any point accused of the killings of Pritchard and Miguel Robles. It wasn't the solitary perplexing wrongdoing during Stanley' years as sheriff yet it was the one that woke him up around evening time until the day he passed on.

Chapter Two

January 2009

Heather Robles had been holding on to bite the dust for a very long time so when the lights went out while she was burning the midnight oil around evening time and the ringer holding tight a snare over the front entryway jingled as it opened and hammered shut, loosing cold winter wind into the farmhouse, and weighty, consistent strides walked up the steps toward her room, she didn't call 911, shout out, or snatch a letter opener to safeguard herself.

She'd longed for this second frequently. The picture of the executioner was just about as dim as it had been the point at which she was ten years of age, painting her cheeks with her folks' blood before she flung herself off the gallery outside her room, the executioner never got, always remembered.

Her work as a neuroscientist investigating the cost of injury on the cerebrum was a consistent token of that evening. Her bad dreams certified her unspeakable sureness that she would leave this life the same way as had her folks.

She rose from her seat, her voice tranquil and quiet when her executioner showed up in the entryway. "What took you such a long time?" she asked.

French entryways opened behind her onto the gallery, the frozen earth two stories underneath slanting away from the house, unpleasant and rough. She swung the entryways wide, venturing onto the gallery, her feet uncovered, freezing air undulating through her flimsy robe, pickling her skin. Parts of an oak tree just past her arrive at influenced in the black evening, the overhang over her whimpering, griping of the virus.

Her back was to the room. She felt him approach, felt the wooden boards of the gallery hang, then, at that point felt a hand slide down the length of her neck, subsiding into the foundation of her spine, the push firm as she went over the rail and the unforgiving ground hurried to meet her.

She got up, as she generally did, the moment before sway, her mouth covered with bile. Why, she pondered, was it so natural to kill thus difficult to bite the dust.