Vangelis - Darkness Falls: Based on a True Story

Nick Vangelis

6 by Nick Vangelis

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D.O.A Publishing Group

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author

DARKNESS FALLS is based on a true story . The character and place names have been altered to protect the innocent and are a product of the authors imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author . The events in this book are told largely as they occurred.

About the Author

Nick Vangelis is a former NYPD homicide investigator who retired after losing an eye to a knife wielding murder suspect in Central Park. Unable to return to active duty, Vangelis wrote DARKNESS FALLS while recovering from his injuries at his home in Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York. The book is based on true events as told to him by a Canadian friend formerly with the Special Investigations Unit of the Ontario Provincial Police. Vangelis believes his biggest challenge these days is not in finding inspiration but in adjusting to a life viewed through only a single lens, which he believes potentially skews his already cynical world view.

His first novel, BLINK AND YOU DIE , Vangelis wrote while on extended vacation in Los Angeles, a place where he hopes to someday return both physically and creatively. THE CHATTERBOX KILLER , his third book and soon to be released second novel, is based very loosely on his experience as a New York City Homicide Squad Detective.

Vangelis resides in New York City with his family and Brutus The Boxer dog.

THE CHATTERBOX KILLER & BLINK AND YOU DIE

AT THE BACK OF THIS BOOK. AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM

DARKNESS

FALLS

What are little girls made of, made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;
And that's what little girls are made of."

Childrens Nursery Rhyme

ED DOJCSAK LEARNED of the disappearance at six forty five p.m., after the murder but before the body of Missy Bitson was discovered. It had been a long Sunday. With no baseball or football to occupy his time and his constitution not up to CNN or The War in the Middle East, it was a time of limbo, that period in his life between major league seasons Ed liked to refer to as wasted space; a flaw in basic architectural design and an area not small enough or sufficiently large to be of any functional use to him . A time for drinking too much, smoking heavily, and generally dragging his listless self a dozen times for beer from the television set to the refrigerator and back before retiring early to bed, as hed done tonight. On such occasions his wife was overheard to say, Sit much longer, Ed, youll grow roots.

Dojcsak was not resentful of the interruption when shortly after midnight it came, his mobile phone disturbing his dream filled and restless sleep. At first he thought it part of an illusion, a ruse to draw him back to a place he didnt want to be. But no, it was Burke and he was telling him the child was no longer missing but dead. Dojcsak knew as much, the inconvenience of untimely death being the solitary reason for anyone to disturb him at this hour.

Usually it was death by drowning, somewhere along the river that separates the town of Darkness Falls into two distinct halves. Often, death by accident, the twisting county back roads having claimed their share of fatalities in Dojcsaks twenty-plus year tenure as County Sheriff. And more than once hed needed to confess to distraught parents that their child had been dispatched from this life to the next while attempting to outrun a speeding locomotive at an unmarked level crossing. But tonight it was death by murder. Burke had told him as much.

Found her in a garbage bin, Ed. In the alley, behind the Exxxotica Video , he had said.

N ot misadventure and Dojcsak knew the postmortem would not determine death by natural cause.

Struggling from the mattress, he shuffled a few tentative steps and paused, feet naked on the carpet below. The dark was heavy, without relief from the rising moon that had earlier marked his withdrawal to bed. Dojcsaks failing eyes battled the gloom, adjusted, and after a moment allowed him the confidence to resume his journey across the floor to the window opposite.

Outside, a porridge of fog rolled through the street and over the grass to smother the homes of his neighborhood, moving across the landscape like a blanket of fuzzy gray wool. Winter-naked trees stood in relief against an unrelieved backdrop of wet dust, their skeletal rigidity softened by cloud. Beyond that, the world disappeared over an unseen horizon into an unexplored dimension of white haze.

Dojcsak lamented the weather, regretting his decision now to delay filling a renewed eyeglass prescription. It was a short drive to the body but fog, the rain and dark would conspire with his neglect to obliterate the florescent yellow markings on the roadway and upcoming curves he would encounter on his way there. Dojcsak threw a final unflattering glance over his shoulder at his sleeping wife before leaving the bedroom.

M ov ing across the hallway to the second floor room where his youngest daughter made her bed , Dojcsak placed his ear to the door. Pausing , he idly finger ed the St. Jude Medallion dangling among the tangled hair on his naked chest, a keepsake given to him by his father. When asked, Why the Patron Saint of Lost Causes , Frank Dojcsak was overheard to say, Suits the boys character.

Dojcsak listened for the peculiar and shallow gurgle of his daughters tortured breath, a sound like thick boiling liquid bubbling from the bottom of a pot to top. Lubas disabled lungs labored in vain to achieve what in most is taken for granted. She had battled this demon too long and if her body didnt submit, Dojcsak was convinced her spirit soon would, the daughter he considered favorite eventually unable to endure the unendurable and muster sufficient will to live. Surviving her fifteenth birthday shed already defeated the best odds, the doctor s said, as if that meaningless triumph should somehow soften the impact of her inevitable death.

In the bathroom Dojcsak closed the door, passed wind and relieved himself , h is toes, if little else, visible beyond the edge if his hairy belly. For a moment he pondered the source of his passing water. Im aging, Dojcsak conceded, in ways I hadnt anticipated. No longer could he deny the degradation of his own anatomy, this prelude to obsolescence. Hed always assumed it would come quickly, that one day hed simply wake to find himself old. Instead, it began gradually, an unseen infection contaminating his youth .

On his most recent visit, Dojcsaks family physician had remarked, Weight is up, blood pressure up, pulse rate up, blood-sugar level is up. Fine if youre the Dow Jones Industrial Average, Ed. If you were a stock, Id sell you short; you cant possibly maintain these elevated levels. What are you doing to yourself?

Doctor Henry Bauer spoke in a staccato fashion that appealed to his sense for driving hard to the point. He treated the Dojcsak family, had done so since the children were born, and was the man responsible for setting the best odds on when Luba Dojcsak might inevitably die.

Nothing different, Dojcsak admitte d.

Of course not, Bauer replied. Its what Im talking about. Are you sleeping?

Yes, Dojcsak said truthfully without admitting that sleep, lately, was his only refuge, a gauzy state of slumber his only respite from the hobgoblinsboth imagined and realthat plagued his wakeful mind.