The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter, Part 1 of 7

Mickey Malloy has rejoined the Office. His first case brings him to Charleston, hot on the trail of a traitor who has arranged to sell a dangerous and unknown weapon to the Nazis. Having hit a dead end in his investigation, he turns his attention to other quarry: the terrifying serial killer who has gripped the city in terror, the bloody-thirsty Holy City Head Hunter.

This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.

The Case of the Holy City Head Hunter follows close on the heels of The Case of the Candy-Coated Dynamite. If this is your first Billy Club case, we recommend (but don’t require) checking out the Smiling Smuggler and the Candy-Coated Dynamite first.

Content Warnings: Gore, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Alcohol Use, Creeps

MONDAY MORNING, MAY 4, 1942
WHITE POINTS GARDENS
THE BATTERY, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

The sun was barely up, but the crowd that had gathered around the corpse was so thick that Mickey Malloy had shove rubber-neckers aside just to reach the scene. He could smell the blood from six people back, even over last night's bourbon still gurgling in his stomach.

“Move it,” Mick grunted, about knocking the last whispering voyeur off his feet. A local patrolman tried to box him out, but a badge flashed in his face was enough to turn him aside. Mick tucked his shiny Bureau of Investigation shield away and stepped out in front of the crowd. The locals had cordoned off the scene as best they could by hanging sheets in the way, but every gust off the water blew them aside and gave the huddled vultures the scene of carnage they were thirsty for.

A plainclothes dick stepped in front on Mick and put his hand in Mickey's face.

“Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my crime scene like a god damn rhinoceros?” he demanded. He had that tone a fella with authority gets when he's afraid that authority might be about to get a little squished.

Mick stood up as tall as he could and glowered down at the other man. The detective wasn't small by any means, Mick was just half-gorilla and carried himself thusly.

“Pal, they only send me out for the weird stuff, I'd say this qualifies,” he said.

“You the fed?” the dick asked.

“That's me,” Mick said as he took his badge back out for the detective to examine. Instead of just looking, he snatched it out of Mickey's hand and eyeballed it like a jeweler. After a minute of turning it every which-way, he returned it with a huff.

“Detective Myron Barnwell,” he said. “My captain said you'd be coming.”

“Special Agent Michael Malloy,” Mick said. Marge had called ahead for him. “What else did your captain tell you?”

“That this is my crime scene, local business, and no one knows what Hoover wants with it.”

“Director Hoover doesn't give two hoots about a body,” Mick told him. “I'm here chasing other leads but the rumor mill has ground to halt unless you're asking about the Head Hunter. So until this mess gets resolved, I got nothing to do and you got another dead kid on your hands.”

A lot of what he said was true. Except for the part where he worked for Hoover. The badge had actually been made by the same company that made the Bureau's, but he wasn't any G-man. Mick worked for the Office for the Cataloguing of Unusual Occurrences as a deputy regional inspector. This was his first solo assignment since he'd gotten back in with the eagle, eye, and sword, and it really seemed like his whole job was to find wrinkles of the weird and fascist variety and iron 'em out in whatever manner worked.

It didn't matter that Mick'd sworn he'd never throw in with the Office again, the world didn't honor those kinds of pledges. Things had changed too much for him to hide in the background. Or it hadn't changed enough, he had just ignored it. What he'd come to realize was that the Axis wasn't something to ignore, and folks that deserved a chance to live needed all hands on deck to hold the fascists back.

How that brought him to Charleston, South Carolina to scrape gutters for gossip and whispers, he didn't know.

“Say,” he asked Barnwell, “Heard anything about a guy by the name of Schmidt stirring up trouble recently?”

“Schmidt, that's who you're here for?” Barnwell asked.

“No, just a ne'er-do-well I been meaning to talk to. Heard of him?”

“Not a hoot,” Barnwell replied. “Just like you said, ain't a thing being talked about besides the Head Hunter.”

“Figured as much,” Mick said. He wasn't expecting to bump into Eizhürst by cold-calling locals, but it didn't hurt to ask. The Nazi had gone quiet since that mess aboard the Empress a couple months back. Mick's thought on the matter was that some people cast a line to catch a fish, and they might or might not get a bite. His game plan was to dredge the whole damn ocean.

Since he'd run dry on Eizhürst, he shifted to the main reason he was in town:

“How about Mulholland Grace?”

Barnwell's eyes narrowed.

“That traitor was run out on a rail months ago,” he hissed. “He is a disgrace to himself. a disgrace to Charleston, and a disgrace to this police department, and if you're here to talk about him, this conversation is over.”

“No, no, just wondering, I read the papers is all,” Mick lied. The Office had a file on Mullholland Grace as thick as a Bible. The seditious son of a bitch had been talking to the wrong folks, and Mick had come to ask him about it. He pivoted to the situation at hand:

“So how can I help with this mess?”

The crowd was murmuring, gasping whenever they got a glimpse of the scene. Mick heard a flash bulb warming up and pulled his fedora low over his face before that could snap a shot of him.

Barnwell took a second to compose himself, then said:

“Mess is right. Have a look, agent.”

The detective led Mick between the milling officers and held the sheet aside so he could slip past. What Mick saw made last night's bourbon bucked in his gut, but he managed to wrangle it before it made a second appearance.

“So they did take her head,” Mick observed. The corpse splayed out across the bricks definitely ended at the neck. The papers had reported as much.

“Not all of it,” Barnwell said.

“How's that?” Mick asked.

“Over there, in the second circle.”

Mickey shuffled around the scene, careful not the scuff the ruddy circle or any of the strange symbols finger-painted in blood around the body. The burnt-down remains of black candles pocked the whole site, from the laid brickwork of the square to the lip of the gurgling fountain. Off to the body's right, a couple yards away, Mick found a second bloody ring, this one painted around a small mottled mound buzzing with flies. There were ringlets of golden hair sticking out of it.

“Face and scalp underneath,” Barnwell said. “Gray matter and other soft tissue on top.”

“Holy hell,” Mick whispered. His curiosity was getting the better of his disgust. He'd never seen anything like this. He'd thought the papers were exaggerating, but it looked legit: only her skull was missing.

“What about the others?” Mick asked.

“Two more bodies with the same M.O., same ritual.”

“Each killed on site?”

“Yes sir, no struggle, each stabbed once in the heart, once in the larynx. Bled out silently in seconds. Then the killer butchered them.”

“Damn.”

“So what do you see here?”

“Hard to say, really,” Mick said.

“'Bout figured that's what a fed would say,” Barnwell said, smirking. “It's pretty obvious from where I'm standing. Three kids from upstanding families, old families, get offed like this? Somebody is getting their britches in a twist and using satanic hoodoo pagan witchcraft to send a message.”

“You the one that came up with 'Head Hunter?'”

“You can thank the Post and Courier for that one,” Barnwell replied. “Anything for a headline. But more true than they realize, I'm betting. Once we round up the satanists out there...”

“Myron,” Mick offered.

“Detective Barnwell,” he snapped. The detective wasn't about to be patronized. If these kids had names behind him that he said they did, he about had the whole city breathing down his neck.

“Detective, 'satanists' is a leap,” Mick said. “You boys have been looking at these symbols from the beginning. Can you read 'em?”

“Nothing I can't see plain as day,” Barnwell said. “There's a bunch of folks who worship this kind of thing out there in the river islands.”

“What kind of folks are you looking at for this?” Mick asked as he ducked out of the way of the crime scene photographer.

“Folks that need to be reminded of their place,” Barnwell said. “Malloy, I don't know how you do things up in Washington, but here we arrest people that need arresting. You know why? If we don't, you are going to see this city burn. Folks are seething.”

“I understand people are scared - !” Mick tried, but Barnwell cut him off.

“People aren't scared, Malloy, they're furious. I ain't the only one that sees the writing this killer's putting on the wall. The whole damn city sees it. If I don't arrest someone soon, it'll be whole islands getting strung up and burned down instead of just the man responsible.”

“Yeah,” Mick said. He understood. A city's a living, breathing thing. If it felt cornered, it'd bite whatever it thought was doing the cornering. Quick justice would halt a riot, lynchings, or worse.

Mick knew that to the politicians yanking on Barnwell's leash, 'quick' meant more than 'justice.' He'd seen more people than he cared to count railroaded by impatience, prejudice, and meddling. He let the moment cool for a second before he spoke up again.

“You get pictures of the other bodies as well?” he asked.

“Of course,” Barnwell huffed.

“Get me copies of 'em,” Mick said. He looked up from the body to see Barnwell biting his tongue. Mick added: “Please, detective. I think I got a guy for... this.”

“I should be looking into you if you got a guy that understands this stuff off-hand. But yeah, I'll make a call for you,” Barnwell grunted.

Mick stood back a bit and looked at the girl. She looked young. Her dress started yellow at her ankles, turned orange around her waist, and was deep, arterial red by the time it reached her neck. Barnwell pulled a photo of her out of his notes. She was cute, with a wide forehead, straight brown hair tucked behind her ears, and a smattering of freckles.

“What is she, all of sixteen?”

“Nineteen next week,” Barnwell answered. “Same graduating class as the others.”

Barnwell pulled another couple photos out and passed them over. Two boys, young and fresh-faced. One had sculpted hair parted like he was running for office, the other with a tight buzz cut. Both of them were smiling, and both were dead.

“Wyvous Garnette and Milton Marion,” Barnwell said. Mick held up all three photos in a row. Three dead kids. He felt his heart drop. They were all innocent; well, innocent as old money gets. Each of them was smiling in their photos, each with a goofy head too big for their still-growing frames that made them look younger than they had actually been. The three of them could have been cousins. In a smaller town, maybe. Three damn dead kids.

“Damn,” Mick sighed.

“This here is Hazel Exley,” Barnwell said, like it should mean something to Mickey. He repeated himself: “Exley.”

It still didn't resonate.

“Youngest daughter of Tevester Exley. Lieutenant General Tevester Exley. God damn, Malloy, which papers are you reading? The Exleys have been one of the most influential families 'round here since, well, since there was an 'around here.'”

“You think her name's what got this started?” Mick asked.

“Might be, the others have the same kind of pedigrees,” Barnwell pointed out. “Old money. Made in the old-fashioned way.”

Mick understood what he was saying. The Exleys and the people like them were living large because their people had owned people. Old money families'll say that eighty years was an eternity ago, time to move on. All the while, the people they exploited might still be alive and kicking, hurting like it was yesterday. A damned good motive, if that was what this was, and Mick couldn't hardly blame 'em.

Still, it was a hell of a way to do it. Flashy, distracting. He cocked to his head to the side and examined the blood spatter. Thing is, there wasn't any. There was no spray around her, just a smooth red puddle beneath. Her heart wasn't pumping when they went to work on her skull.

“At least they waited 'til she was dead before...” Mick said.

“That's a blessing at least,” Barnwell agreed. “Cause of death was a single stab wound through the heart. Quick and quiet, right between the ribs. Some kind of narrow blade.”

“That how the others went?” Mick asked.

“All three, dead in seconds, minimal pain I'm told,” Barnwell said.

“That sound like some kind of voodoo vengeance sacrifice to you? Make 'em comfortable first?” Mick asked.

“Agent Malloy, if I knew what went through the mind of some witch or what-have-you, we'd've closed this case after the first kid. Believe me, we went through the swamps, the old rice fields, the islands, and we kicked in every door we could think of.”

“And all those doors, they all belong to Black folk?” Mick asked.

“It ain't about that, but all the people I got breathing down my neck tell me 'it's obvious,' 'it can only be one thing.' I am going to strung up myself if I don't find something. There's plenty more doors to kick, and one of 'em is going to have two, no, three fresh skulls sitting on the shelf.”

“I hear you, I hear you, law and order, public safety,” Mickey said. “You do what it takes to keep the kettle from boiling over. Don't rush into anything. There is something hinky here. In my experience, cases like this go one of two ways: either it's obvious who did it because that's exactly what happened, or it's obvious who did it because it's a frame job. I'll stay out of your way, look into that second angle. If I find anything, I'll let you know. Deal?”

“Sounds good to me,” Barnwell said.

“Can you send me copies of the autopsies, photos, whatever information you got on the victims?”

“I said I'll make that call.”

“Thanks,” Mick said. He made sure his hat was low and he ambled back toward the milling crowd.

“Where are you going?” Barnwell asked after him.

“Detective, it is early as hell and I had a long night. I'm going back to bed. Send me whatever you got to the Olde Brooks.”

SUNDAY MORNING, APRIL 5, 1942
LEVEL III DECRYPTION
HYDRA INTERCEPT SITE, CAMP X, ONTARIO

Analyst Second Class Doriane Tremblay tried to hold her breath, but no matter how much she wished time would slow, it did not. As soon as she submitted her latest intercept analysis and transcript, things would begin moving very quickly.

“Madame,” she said, trying to get the Chief Analyst's attention over the chaos of the decryption center. She stood ramrod straight and cleared her throat while standing over the other woman's desk and tried a little louder: “Madame!”

“What is it, Tremblay?” Chief Analyst Yvonne Fields grunted, not looking up from the piles of transcripts she was flipping through. There were always more coming. The HYDRA radio interception towers didn't miss anything.

“I think I found one, madame,” Doriane said.

“Put it with the rest,” Fields said, waving a dismissive hand toward the bin stacked with leads. Her New Zealand accent usually made her sound more chipper than she actually was. Now, without spunk behind it, she seemed absolutely deflated.

“I believe this is a fourth-tier target, madame,” Doriane insisted. “An individual used a codename we have on file: Golden Grace. And he mentioned a meeting for a weapons exchange.”

Fields sighed and looked at Doriane over her glasses. The younger woman wasn't going anywhere. She was practically trembling with excitement. Fields held out her hand.

“Let's see what you got,” Fields croaked. She took the transcript and squinted at it. She'd been at her desk for eighteen hours. Coffee wasn't working any more and the go-pills made her heart race and her vision go blurry.

“Southeast U.S. region, madame,” Doriane chirped. She leaned over and tapped the photograph of the sneering old man, saying: “Which tracks. Mullholland Grace, founder of the Grand Model cell of the Silver Legion, former assistant chief of police in Charleston, South Carolina. Cataloguing says he was forced out of the job three months ago after photographs of him in a Nazi uniform were published in local newspapers.”

“So you're saying he's quit his day job to go full-time Nazi errand boy?” Fields asked.

“It seems so, madame,” Doriane replied.

“And what makes this a tier four?” Fields wondered.

“Sixth page, madame,” Doriane answered. Fields turned to the sheet analyzing the weapons being purchased. Everything from the price to the code used to the vocabulary dissection of the reply transmission indicated it would be a high-priority device. She'd spelled out her whole conclusion there. Everything about the message told her that it was something they did not want the Nazis to get there hands on. It had to be tier four.

Fields finished reading reading Doriane's analysis and was nodding to herself as she flipped to the next page. Doriane's heart jumped: a gentle nod from Fields was like a ticker tape parade anywhere else.

“Do you know who he was talking to?”

“Signal strength analysis and triangulation point overseas,” Doriane said. “Possibly western England, but most likely Ireland.”

“There are plenty of officials posted in Ireland,” Fields said. “We can nip this in bud before it even starts.”

“There's so many officials there because there are so many Axis agents there,” Doriane said, no louder than a whisper. Fields was somewhere else, eyes jetting back and forth across Doriane's trascription.

“This is very good, Tremblay,” Fields said. She read over everything twice more, then took a deep breath, held it, and released slowly through her nose. When she had composed herself, she looked up at the younger woman standing over her. She asked:

“Does it look like I've been here all night?”

“Well, you have been working very hard, madame,” Tremblay stammered, her French directness colliding head-on with her Canadian politeness.

“I'm going to get washed up, then we'll take this downstairs,” Fields said. She groaned as she pushed herself up from the desk and wobbled for a moment. Her left leg was asleep and her head was swimming. She shook it off and a started to limp down the long hallway to the bathroom. She called over her shoulder:

“Can't have the brass thinking me a madwoman, can we?”

Doriane watched Fields wince each time she put her left foot down, every other step until she ducked into the washroom. She'd never found something like this before. A tier four! All she ever got to transcribe from intercepts was numbers stations and Axis Sally. May as well be writing recipes at that point.

She'd also never been downstairs. Downstairs is where the decisions were made, the big ones. Doriane knew that the Office dealt in more than radio signals and coded classified ads, but until she'd heard the words 'Golden Grace' used to sign off a transmission, ads and signals were all she'd ever dealt with. What she was bringing downstairs could get people in trouble. Or killed.

Fields emerged from the washroom looking like a new woman. She'd tied her hair back into a curly puff and had on a fresh face. Her brown skin looked radiant and her smile was bright and wide. She smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt, winked at Doriane, then nodded at the stairwell. She was halfway down the hall before she realized that Doriane was frozen in place.

“Tremblay, you coming?” she called. The other analysts looked up from their work to see her standing there. She yelped and hurried after Fields, papers clutched to her chest.

Fields held the door for her, and they descended three flights. Each floor had a landing, and each landing had a bigger guard and a heavier door. When they reached the second floor, there were two guards with big guns and the door looked like it was solid metal set into concrete.

“Hey Suje, hey Trip,” Fields said to the guards. Both officials smiled. Fields turned and dragged Doriane forward. “This is Doriane Tremblay, one of my newest. Tremblay, meet Sujata Banerjee and Trip Reese.”

“Call me Suje,” the Indian woman said. She slung her machine gun to the side and shook Doriane's hand warmly. She had a red bindi on her forehead, and a maroon scarf covering her hair.

“Nice to meet you,” Doriane said. The white man next to her looked big enough to pull a plow. He had to be twice Doriane's size and age.

“Bonjour,” Trip said. His pronunciation was terrible and he knew it. He switched to English and spoke with a thick Southern accent. “Good to see a fresh face around here.”

“I'm glad to be here,” Doriane replied. Trip's freckled hand was about big enough to swallow her's whole. She caught sight of a machete strapped to his thigh and inched away. Having weapons so close always made her edgy.

“Say Fields, ain't she one of your 'paper girls?'” Trip asked.

“A what?” Doriane wondered.

“Oh yes, one of my best,” Fields answered.

“Impressive,” Suje said, smiling.

“Good to have you on the team, sweetheart,” Trip said. Suje elbowed him in the ribs and he sputtered, then muttered, “I mean, 'ma'am.'”

“Is she expecting you?” Suje asked. Fields shook her head.

“No, this is a priority intercept,” Fields said. “Tremblay caught a tier four.”

Both guards looked at each other and nodded, impressed.

“A tier four,” Trip said.

“Very nice,” Suje replied.

“We can't keep that waiting,” Suje said.

“But it's best if we knock first,” Trip added. He turned and pressed a glowing yellow button on the door frame. A few long seconds later, it turned green.

“There we go,” Suje said. She walked to the far side of the door frame and punched in a combination, then Trip did the same next to the button. Heavy bolts rumbled inside the door, then it creaked open an inch.

“She's ready for you,” Trip said. He shoved the huge steel slab the rest of the way open and motioned for the two analysts to enter.

What had been polished concrete and utilitarian steel was suddenly opened up to stained hardwood and thick red carpet in a short hallway. It was like walking into the front door of some penthouse apartment from the movies. Amber light played across every surface. Books and binders packed shelves on every wall. Doriane could hear whispering up ahead, and quiet music playing on a gramophone.

“Come on then,” Fields said. She led Doriane down the short hallway, past several doors. It opened up into a wide room crammed with radio equipment, stacks of transcripts, and pots overflowing with wild vines. There, in the middle, sat two legends of the Office.

Arachnae Bellegarde, the Printmaster General, was seated behind a massive hardwood desk. Despite the ordered chaos of the rest of the room, she kept her desk clear. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, though her one gray lock had fallen free. She had an uncompromising severity around her that encouraged Doriane to keep her distance. This would be the first time she'd ever had to speak directly to the Printmaster.

“Good morning,” Gaétan Chiron said as he sipped a cup of tea. The wiry Frenchman smiled wryly. He was standing, leaning against the corner of Bellegarde's desk. His gray curls bounced with each movement of his head. Doriane had met him before in his role as Preceptor General. He'd interviewed her when she'd come to Camp X and trained her in basic survival and evasion, like he did every official.

“Good morning, sir, ma'am,” Fields said.

“You've found something?” Bellegarde purred. Sunlight poured into the room from behind her, through her open ballistic shutters. She had an amazing view of the sun rising behind the three HYDRA towers, the Bell Towers, so named for the printmaster's late father. Doriane thought their view from the fifth floor might be better, but their shutters were never permitted to open.

“Yes, ma'am, one of our analysts did,” Fields said. She waited a minute then turned to find Doriane looking around the room like she was in a painting. Fields coughed, grunting: “Tremblay!”

“Yes, madame,” Doriane said with a start. She shuffled the papers in her hands, shaking as she tried to put two words together: “What I mean to say is, well, I found a name, and...”

“Why don't you let me see those, analyst?” Bellegarde said. The corner of her mouth turned up in a nearly imperceptible smirk. Chiron held out an open hand and Doriane handed him the transcripts.

The two generals leaned in and examined what she'd found. It only took them a few seconds to put it all together.

“Mulholland Grace,” Chiron said. “Why do I know this name?”

“Fervent Silver Legionnaire, former police chief,” Bellegarde answered. “I had photos of him leaked to the press about four months past.”

“Three months,” Doriane chirped before she realized she was speaking.

“Three months, yes,” Bellegarde said. Her face looked like it was carved from granite. Her eyes were full of lightning and they locked onto Doriane like a wolf's. “Your name is Tremblay?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Doriane squeaked.

“She's one of the paper girls, ma'am, that's how you know her,” Fields offered.

“What's a...” Doriane tried, but Chiron cut her off.

“You know this is my idea, yes?” he said. Bellegarde's stoney mask broke, cracked in half by a wide smile. She snatched up a particularly thick folder, rolled it, then leaned over her desk and smacked Chiron in the arm with it.

“Ow, what did I say?” he groaned, holding his bicep and pantomiming injury.

“All you said was 'let's put a code in the newspaper, ma petite araignée,'” Bellegarde said. “I was the one who had to develop that code, encrypt it into an article, disseminate that article across two continents, unchanged, mind you, then recruit the people who found it. 'My idea,' ha!”

Doriane grinned. She had only been an official for a few months, and it had all started because she noticed a funny story in the paper. Its sentences and cadence were odd. The more she'd looked at it, the stranger it was. Then she realized the oddities made a pattern, one she'd quickly written out as numbers. At the time, Doriane had been working the front desk at a feed supply in Lac-aux-Sables. She'd always been good with maths but she'd never thought anything of it, hadn't needed it for much more than adding and subtracting. When all those numbers she'd found in the paper came together, it had been easy to recognize a phone number. Once she'd worked up the nerve to dial it, everything changed.

“There are not many of you left, you know,” Chiron told her. “Many 'paper girls' washed out of my training. Not you, though. You were not confident, or hardened, or strong. Neither were the others, that is a problem with blind recruiting. But, you were determined. Strength and confidence can be learned, and you learned them well. You are still here, many of your peers are not, and you are contributing to victory.”

Doriane blushed. She hated compliments, if that's what that was.

Bellegarde cleared her throat.

“You have one-hundred-percent confidence in this assessment, Chief Analyst?” she asked.

Fields snapped up ramrod straight.

“It came from my team, I am confident, ma'am,” Fields answered.

“And you, Tremblay, you feel the same?” Bellegarde asked. Her gaze bored into Doriane once more. Doriane swallowed a lump in her throat the size of an onion.

“Yes, madame,” she answered. “I double-checked every source, measurement, translation, code book, and even called Doctor Abebe in Forensic Etymology. I am confident.”

“Good, I'm glad to hear it,” Bellegarde said. “You've saved lives here today, Tremblay. Thank you.”

Doriane was so proud she almost popped like a balloon. Bellegarde turned to Chiron, already planning:

“I will make some calls. Brigadier Stephens should have someone on the ground to investigate in Ireland, and... southeastern America is...”

“I believe that is Earp's territory,” Chiron answered.

“Good, I'll speak with him directly, no need to get Klavin involved yet. I'm sure Inspector Earp has the perfect person for the job.”

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Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.