SE7EN meets The Silence of the Lambs in the most shocking thriller of 2017
The Four Monkey Killer has terrorised Chicago for over five years. Now he is dead. When the police find his body, they discover he was on his way to deliver a message – one which proves he has taken another victim and this one might still be alive
But even in death, the killer is taunting Detective Sam Porter, lead investigator on the 4MK taskforce. A personal diary found on the body takes Porter into the mind of the most evil of psychopaths and he must unravel a twisted history in the hopes of finding the final victim before it’s too late.
AVAILABLE FROM JULY 2017
Enjoy a free sample of The Fourth Monkey
Hello, my friend.
I am a thief, a murderer, a kidnapper. I’ve killed for fun, I’ve killed out of necessity. I have killed for hate. I have killed simply to satisfy the need that tends to grow in me with the passage of time. A need much like a hunger that can only be quenched by the draw of blood or the song found in a tortured scream.
Who am I?
To share my name would simply take the fun out of this, don’t you think?
You most likely know me as the Four Monkey Killer. Why don’t we leave it at that? Perhaps 4MK, for those of you prone to abbreviate?
We are going to have such fun, you and I…
PORTER - Day 1 6:14 A.M.
There it was again, that incessant ping.
I turned the ringer off. Why am I hearing text notifications?
Why am I hearing anything?
Apple’s gone to shit without Steve Jobs.
Sam Porter rolled to his right, his hand blindly groping for the phone on the nightstand.
His alarm clock crashed to the ground with a thunk unique to cheap electronics from China.
When his fingers found the phone, he wrestled the device from the charging cable and brought it to his face, squinting at the small, bright screen.
CALL ME - 911.
A text from Nash.
Porter looked over at his wife’s side of the bed, empty except for a note—
Went to get milk, be back soon.
He grunted and again glanced at his phone.
So much for a quiet Sunday morning.
Porter sat up and dialed his partner. He answered on the second ring.
‘This is Nash.’
‘Hey, it’s me.’
The other man fell silent for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Porter. I debated whether or not to contact you. Must have dialled your number a dozen times and couldn’t bring myself to actually place the call. I finally decided it would be best just to text you. Give you a chance to ignore me, you know?’
‘It’s fine, Nash. What have you got?’
Another pause. ‘You’ll want to see for yourself.’
‘There’s been an accident.’
Porter rubbed his temple. ‘An accident? We’re Homicide.
Why would we respond to an accident?’
‘You’ve gotta trust me on this. You’ll want to see it,’ Nash told him again. There was an edge to his voice.
Porter sighed. ‘Where?’
‘Near Hyde Park, off 55th. I just texted you the address.’
His phone pinged loudly in his ear, and he jerked it away from his head.
He looked down at the screen, noted the address, and went back to the call.
‘I can be there in about thirty minutes. Will that work?’
‘Yeah,’ Nash replied. ‘We’re not going anywhere soon.’
Porter disconnected the call and maneuvered his legs off the side of the bed, listening to the various pops and creaks his tired fifty-eight-year-old body made in protest.
The sun had begun its ascent, and light peeked in from between the closed blinds of the bedroom window. Funny how quiet and gloomy the apartment felt without Heather around.
Went to get milk.
A half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s caught his eye. The bottle sat perched on his nightstand about three inches from the alarm clock’s last-known position before the timepiece took a header to the hardwood. The clock blinked up at him from the floor with a cracked face displaying characters no longer resembling numbers.
Today was going to be one of those days.
There had been a lot of those days lately.
He considered the Jack Daniel’s, decided six was too early even for him, then rose and shuffled to the bathroom.
Porter emerged from the apartment ten minutes later dressed in his Sunday best—a rumpled navy suit he bought off the rack at Men’s Warehouse nearly a decade earlier—and made his way down the four flights of stairs to the cramped lobby of his building. He stopped at the mailboxes and dialled his wife.
‘You’ve reached the phone of Heather Porter. Since this is voice mail, I most likely saw your name on caller ID and decided I did not wish to speak to you. If you’re willing to pay tribute in the form of chocolate cake or other assorted offerings of dietary delight, text me the details and I’ll reconsider your position in my social roster and possibly get back to you later. If you’re a salesperson trying to get me to switch carriers, you might as well hang up now. AT&T owns me for at least another year. All others, please leave a message. Keep in mind my loving husband is a cop with anger issues, and he carries a large gun.’
Porter smiled. Her voice always made him smile. ‘Hey,
Button. It’s just me. Nash called. There’s something going on near Hyde Park; I’m meeting him down there. I’ll give you a call later when I know what time I’ll be home.’ He added, ‘Oh, and I think there’s something wrong with our alarm clock.’
He dropped the phone in his pocket and pushed through the door, the brisk Chicago air reminding him that fall was here.
We hope you enjoyed this sample of The Fourth Monkey by J.D. Barker.
|Brilliant. Complicated. Psycopath. That's the Four Monkey Killer or '4MK'. A murderer with a twisted vision and absolutely no mercy. Detective Sam Porter has hunted him for five long years, the recipient of box after box of grisly trinkets carved from the bodies of 4MK's victims. But now Porter has learnt the killer's twisted history and is racing to do the seemingly impossible - find 4MK's latest victim before it's too late...
Pre-order in print:
Booktopia | Dymocks
Pre-order in e-book:
Amazon | Kobo