_w200_h/Jigglyspot%20-%20Ebook(1)_10310955.jpg "Jigglyspot and the Zero Intellect")
Meet SAC John Mills
Jigglyspot and the Zero Intellect:
Character Introduction: Meet SAC John Mills
What’s gotten into SAC John Mills? It’s like there’s someone in his head that’s just not him. Incoherent whispers are driving him mad, never relenting, and always in his ear. He’s been with the FBI for more than twenty years and in that time there’s been one case that has always eluded him: The mop bucket murders.
And after all that time not one lead reared its ugly head. The MO was always the same, a mop bucket soaked in bleach and a scent of sulfur, sometimes a human heart left unattended in the ice box or a spleen here or there. He’d do anything to solve the case and put it behind him. Anything at all. But today’s case was different. He finally received a potential lead. According to witnesses a short guy with a severe case of gin blossoms was seen leaving the crime scene.
Now he’s on his way to the Carnival of Chaos to follow up on the lead along with a fellow officer, CIA Agent Theo Helmsley. But Mills just can’t seem to satisfy that itch in his ear, the one telling him he already knows who the dreaded mop bucket killer is. For some odd reason, Mills believes that he’s fully acquainted with the murdering son of a bitch who slips away every time Mills’ is about to crack the case. Has Mills been playing the role of the dutiful fool? Or is the killer some elusive magician, gone in a flash of light?
Mills is holding onto the hope that the lead will bear fruit and he’ll be able to close the file on the one case that has driven him mad throughout his career. But those voices in his head are getting louder. Will there come a time when the voice will reveal itself? Mills is well aware of the possibility that the voice may have the intention of taking over his body. And if the voice does stake its claim, where will he go to in return?
Discover Jigglyspot and his cast of clowns, killers, demons, and wretched fiends, in a novel like you’ve never experienced. Horror, mayhem, thrills, chills, fantasy, and spoils are waiting for your reading eyes with an escape into the underworld of mind control and human slavery.
Get to know SAC Mills a bit more with the excerpt below and don’t forget, if you haven’t preordered Jigglyspot or added him to your KU subscription be sure to do so now. You won’t want to miss what Jiggly’s got up his sleeve. Click here to preorder from Amazon or here for Barnes and Noble.
Thank you for reading,
PD Alleva
Chapter Five: Jigglyspot Excerpt:
5
12:32 PM
Brooklyn, New York
SAC John Mills
Twenty years. Same M.O.. People disappeared all the time, sometimes entire families at a time. Those who were good at it were never found. But then again, some people didn’t want to be found, while others yearned to be discovered; the problem was that they couldn’t speak, at least not in this dimension. Couldn’t utter one word, not that they wouldn’t, if they could, but being dead posed many problems for those who wanted to be found. And in the last twenty years SAC John Mills had seen more than his share of the dead but never had he recovered anyone who’d disappeared with the mop bucket M.O.. There was never even a true crime detected, except for the very first mop bucket incident. Nonetheless, Mills believed in intuition, the gut reaction, pure instinct, and he understood there was something waiting behind the mop bucket. And whoever was doing it had been taunting Mills for over two decades.
Six foot three inches tall, rough around the edges, dark hair turning gray and a stubble of a beard, John Mills stretched a pair of latex gloves over his hands, and crouched down by the mop bucket, charred and burned to a near crisp. A swarm of firefighters, uniformed police, and agents watching him work. Mop handle on the floor beside the bucket; the mop had been burnt to a crisp prior to the sprinkler system working its magic.
“Did you dust the handle for prints?”
He asked this question to no one in particular and received no answer. They all shared perplexed stares. To them, there was no crime other than arson, and why the FBI had to be called was beyond everyone in the room. If anything, it was neighborhood kids taking advantage of an empty home.
But Mills knew differently. Something sinister had happened in this very room, just like it did in all the rooms he’d seen with the mop bucket in the center. Twenty years and at least twenty mop buckets in that time. Maybe more than he was aware of; some people just saw no need to call it in; to them, it was a drop in the bucket, no pun intended. Some dumb kid liked to light fires and there were a ton of them to be accounted for.
But patterns emerged over the last twenty years. The mop bucket scene might appear like an isolated incident to the norm, but to Mills, it meant something more. His senses were tingling; his nose like a bloodhound picked up on something. Bleach, the faintest smell of bleach and…
He touched the floor, still wet from the sprinkler. Put his fingers to his nose. Sulfur. Behind the bleach was sulfur, as if the bleach was used to cover up the smell. Same as in all the others. Always sulfur, followed by a bleach clean up. Always an abandoned, charred bucket in the center of the room. Mills stood and eyeballed the detective who was watching him.
“Were all the doors and windows locked when the fire department arrived?”
The detective looked perplexed, and Mills shook his head.
“Go and check. I need to know.”
That was another part of the mop bucket enigma; all the doors and windows were locked as if whomever started the fire had disappeared into thin air. Not that someone couldn’t leave through the front door, or any door, and lock it prior to leaving. The dead bolts would be the problem, unless said person had a key. But how strange would that be? Same MO and what were the odds that the same incident always involved some dumb neighborhood derelict with a key to an abandoned house? Sure it was possible. Possible but unlikely.
The detective went to check the doors and windows, and Mills eyed a uniformed officer. “What’s your name?”
The officer stepped forward. “Weaver,” he said.
Mills pointed at him. “Officer Weaver, you’re on door to door, so start knocking. See if anyone witnessed something strange over the last few days. Anything at all, especially last night.”
“Sir, yes sir.” Weaver just about saluted Mills before taking his task outside.
Mills liked that; respect for your elders was a virtue going by the wayside in today’s youth. Now Mills was observing, staring, searching. Eyes roaming. Other than the charred bucket and mop, the fire had caused no additional damage except the ceiling, just above the bucket, where a black circle stained the ceiling. Quite obvious to Mills, the fire licked the ceiling prior to the sprinklers doing their job; said sprinklers causing more damage than the fire. Water damage was always the worst. But there was something else, like all the others, there was something else. He could hear screams and feel pain, however faint and mute they were.
There were three floors to the brownstone. The first floor was a large basement, while the second floor served as the main floor with the front door and a stoop outside the front door with stairs that led down to the sidewalk. The second floor had two bedrooms, a kitchen and full bath with a staircase that led down to the basement, and a small narrow hallway that led to a second flight of stairs to the third floor, and the living room where Mills stood now. A large living room too, with three windows, two facing the street and the third looked over the driveway in between two brownstones. The third floor was a loft.
Mills was sure all eyes were on him. Not that he paid them any mind. Mills was well aware how ridiculous he seemed, but he had no time for ridicule or impressions. What these officers couldn’t hear, see, or taste was the crime that took place between these walls. But Mills did. He always boasted a keen eye, a bloodhound nose, and an uncanny knack to see beyond what was in front of him.
Beginning at his very first mop bucket scene.