I’m Chicago police detective Hank “The Tank” Brewer. I was “Tank” even way back in High School, when I started my football career. Man, I used to light ‘em up on defense, and nobody got the better of me. Like a tank, rollin’ ‘em over. The name stuck in college and in the pros, same reason. I played special teams and backup linebacker for the Chicago Bears for six years. Really enjoyed truckin’ ball carriers, too!
Now I’m a cop. Don’t get to lay guys out like I used to, but I’ll take the win in Homicide every time. Popular in the squad room, too. Nobody wants to see my angry side, I guess… Nah, that ain’t it. I bring a smile to work every day. A positive attitude makes all the difference.
Don’t mean to complain, don’t like it, but I guess I’m gonna. This Roppelt character’s got me a new partner, and this guy is off. Myles Hanson, yeah. Dude’s wound way to tight. He’s gotta be in his late thirties but talks like he just got outta college. I can live with that. But he carries this gizmo with him all the time. Looks like a thumb drive, but he records his voice on it. Makes notes on it at crime scenes, and looks goofy doin’ it. Says it’s got “sentimental value.” I find out it’s from another cop who got killed in a drug bust gone bad. I feel for the cop, and for him. But that gizmo’s gotta go.
But then he tells me it’s recording messages from ghost land—at least, that’s where his girlfriend says the voice is from. I don’t know if Myles believes her or not. But now he’s getting stuff on his phone, static and a strange voice. I told him it’s just a wrong number callin’ his janky phone, and he should get a new one.
And again, just sayin’, my man’s wound way too tight.
Can’t complain about his detective game, though. He’s got solid moves. He’s relentless, like me. If he was a foot shorter and fifty pounds heavier, we could’ve used him on the Bears. He knows where to get the best ribs in town, too. Twin Anchors, yeah. They got a sauce called Prohibition. Can’t make it too hot for me, but yeah, man! That Prohibition is smokin’.
One more thing. Roppelt gives Myles a girlfriend, Rebecca Dale. Me, I get Shondra, a wife who ain’t been around in a while. I got my Momma too, but Shondra’s afraid of me getting’ hurt on the job. What kills me is she never worried when I was playin’ ball. I had a better chance of getting’ carted off then. Roppelt better have her switchin’ up in the next story.
Otherwise, I got no complaints. It’s just, that’s a big one for me. I ain’t getting’ any younger. I can get used to Myles—I like to call him Sticks, him bein’ so tall and skinny. I might even get used to that gadget. But doin’ it without my girl? Momma says she’ll come around. I sure hope so.
Last Words: A Supernatural Murder Mystery Hanson and Brewer Murder Mysteries
Book One
Marty Roppelt
Genre: Mystery / Supernatural / Horror
Publisher: Dragon Breath Press
Date of Publication: February 7, 2025
ISBN: 979-8985349580
ASIN: B0D184PVWZ
Number of pages: 151
Word Count: 36,241
Cover Artist: Christopher Chambers
Tagline: Some cases cut deeper when the dead refuse to stay buried
Book Description:
Last Words: A Supernatural Murder Mystery follows Chicago police Detective Myles Hanson as he navigates a world of crime and unsettling revelations. After a nighttime raid on a drug lab ends in a deadly shootout, Myles is convinced to transfer to another unit. His first case in Violent Crimes is unlike any he’s faced before. Maria Peski, a midwife with a quiet life, is savagely murdered.
But that’s not the only mystery haunting him. Myles begins experiencing chilling visions and inexplicable phenomena. He begins to hear the final words of the dead, fragments of unfinished thoughts from those who have passed. As the voices reveal clues no one else can uncover, Myles teams up with his streetwise and relentless partner, Tank Brewer, to piece together the secrets that the dead have left behind.
When a second murder rocks the city with startling similarities, Myles is increasingly pressured to accept that some clues lie beyond the realm of the living. As the line between the supernatural and the real begins to blur, Myles and Tank must untangle a web of deceit, violence, and spectral warnings before the killer strikes again.
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TRAILER: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/lU-_D-vPnRU
Excerpt:
Myles
paused at the glass doors to the Area North police station. He checked his
watch. Then he turned away from the entrance, paced roughly fifteen feet, added
several more steps and lit a Marlboro Light. He pulled his jacket collar up to
block an unusually crisp September breeze.
A
long strip of grass punctuated by an occasional shrub next to the building
attempted to soften the structure's strictly functional design. In the
courtyard, a few trees stood guard along with a twisting metal sculpture. But
the shades in all the windows were drawn, keeping the occupants' minds focused
on their tasks. The parking lot spread far in every direction. Several squad
cars waited there for their officers to climb in and begin their patrols.
Taking
in his surroundings, Myles shook his head. The Nineteenth District Patrol
station held more appeal to tourists to Chicago than did this location. A block
west of the Nineteenth on West Addison Street sat a busy elevated, or
"L," train station, over a century old and still flaunting its
original grid of iron spans and frames in the open. Another block further west,
Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs, buzzed with activity during home
stands. Across from the Nineteenth on Addison, a row of shotgun style houses
butted up against each other like a knot of sentinels standing shoulder to
shoulder. Some bore brownstone façades, some red brick. A thin sheen of grime,
car exhaust mostly, the grit of a busy city, covered them. All the dwellings
needed power washing or sand blasting.
He
knew that locale well, and it charmed even him.
But
no tourists visited this spot, the Area North station's locale. A massive tan
and brown brick building, Area North dwarfed the Nineteenth. Built in a
commercial and industrial zone, the station resembled a Big Box store in spite
of the unnaturally planted greenery. If not for the fleet of squad cars in the
sprawling lot, visitors might enter the north side's police nexus expecting to
buy a hot air fryer or bed linens.
Myles
nodded to himself. Area North was all business.
From
the corner of his eye, in the window nearest him, Myles spotted the reflection
of two women, one short and slight, the other tall and slender. They approached
from the parking lot arm-in-arm. The window distorted their shapes, giving them
a hot August day shimmer. Their pale complexions suggested a summer spent
together indoors. They both dressed for summer, each wearing tie-dyed blouses
but no jackets, immune to the cool day. The shorter one put Marla Hines in
mind. He recalled how she used to chide him whenever he sneaked out of the
Organized Crimes building for a quick smoke. As the pair neared him, they
opened their mouths, Myles assumed, to berate him.
"Sorry,
ladies," the smoker said. "I'll just put this out." He turned in
the women's direction.
They
were gone.
Frowning,
he swung his head around, scanning the area. Nothing. The parking lot lay empty
of everything but vehicles. Two uniformed cops exited the building. But no one
passed them heading in.
"Come
on, Hanson," he muttered.
He
stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, deposited it into a nearby
trash can and entered the station.
Marty Roppelt lives in Wauconda, Illinois, with his wife Becky. Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, his family roots stem from Transylvania. Yes, THAT Transylvania, from where his parents emigrated in the mid 1950's. So of course, Marty enjoys writing in the supernatural / horror genre. In addition to his first novel, Mortal Foe, he has written a series of short paranormal Christmas stories to raise money for St. Herman’s House, a homeless shelter in Cleveland. He also has featured stories in anthologies, Tales from the Dragon's Lair and Holiday Hearth. Marty and Becky enjoy quiet time together with their cats Nala and Malik.
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