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The Hunter-Fiction by Sebnem Sanders
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Red Velvet, White Lies-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Headhunters-Fiction by Gary Lovisi
Holiday Season-Fiction by Don Stoll
Milky Way Galaxy. Solar System. Earth.-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Angel-Fiction by Gary Clifton
Backpage Baby-Fiction by Robb White
Elegant on the Outside-Fiction by Bruce Costello
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Run, Baby, Run-Fiction by J. Brooke
The Pursuit of Presley Penguin-Fiction by Michael D. Davis
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Strange Attractors-Fiction by Jeff Houlahan
The Ghost of Christmas Never-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Best Enemies Forever-Flash Fiction by Walter Giersbach
Glitter in the Dark-Flash Fiction by Dini Armstrong
Spirit Intoxicating Babe in the Woods-Flash Fiction by Monique Saier
My Only Christmas Story-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Ode to Old Brooklyn-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
Bacardi Taillights Machine Gun Farewell-Poem by John Short
Pearl Diver-Poem by Wayne F. Burke
Abandoned Sofas-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Kafka Museum-Poem by Henry Bladon
Elegy for Frank-Poem by David Spicer
Schmoozy-Woozy-Poem by David Spicer
Dangerous-Poem by Marc Carver
Eternal-Poem by Marc Carver
The Race has Just Begun-Poem by J.J.Campbell
The Endless Nightmare-Poem by J. J. Campbell
The Last Word-Poem by Meg Baird
Vision of Steel-Poem by Meg Baird
Zen-Poem by Meg Baird
Estrangement-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
First World Herd-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
Christmas Morning in an East Hollywood Hovel-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
A Season of Bailing Wire and Duct Tape-Poem by Brian Rihlmann
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Hillary Lyon 2019



A Griff & Fats story


Gary Lovisi





          I picked up Fats at the usual place. He was at Jackie’s on Dumont Avenue, stuffing his pudgy face full of burgers, fries, wind rings, and Jackie’s sad-sack coffee. That’s the kind of joe where the pot hadn’t been scrubbed since the days back when Jackie still got her period. Now that was surely long ago! It was nasty coffee that packed an unkind bite, sorta like Jackie herself sometimes. I wonder why anyone drank it. It was the kinda brew that if spilled on the hood of our car might just peel the paint off our old unmarked Plymouth war-wagon like sulphuric acid burning through melted butter. I told Fats to be careful with it. I don’t know how he could drink that rot-gut stuff and survive. There was a lot about my partner that was a mystery to me back then. That was the least of it, though.

          I pulled the car up to the curb. Fats came over, belched in my face, laughed and said, “Hey, oh, so what’s up, Griff?”

          I did a fanning motion in front of his mouth, made a something-stinks-face right back at him. He just laughed at me, then to accentuate his point he farted, loud and squishy. I just shook my head. What the hell was I going to do with him?

          My exasperated voice said it all and to the point, “Come on, get the hell in. We got business.”

          Well he knew what that meant, and Fats bounced into the death seat like a whale with an attitude and I took off, down Dumont, down, down deep, and out of what we called back then ‘The Square’.

          Or as they all called it back then, ‘The Square Mile of Vice’, the heart and soul, the very hell of the town I call Bay City. It wasn’t the only bad part of town. It just seemed to try harder. That’s the place where Fats and I did most of our work back then, Homicide cops in the early days of the bygone 1960s.

          The so-called ‘old days’, when Kennedy, the first one, hadn’t even been killed yet, when the New York Yankees were still playing real baseball with Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris hitting 50-60 home runs that summer of ‘61, and when crime, drugs and guns were still in the hands of people who knew how to handle them. Professionals.

          Not like today, when every teeny-bopper, doped-up, wise-ass punk, crack-head on the street has the kind of fire-power Fats and I could have only dreamed of having back then. Today, when every child-punk, rat-bastard considers himself the toughest, gangsta mutha in the world—but in reality they’re only screwed-up, lost, scared, alone kinds without any good sense or upbringing worth half a shit. Because no one cared about them. No one took an interest. Or no one on the good side of things. Of course, that doesn’t diminish their danger—it only enhances it. In fact, it takes the violence to a whole new level that was rare back in the old days. Usually. But not always. We did come upon some really weird shit in them old days, for sure.

          The 1990s, when I’m telling you all this, really do suck, but the 1960s was no bed of roses either. Not for Blacks for shit-sure, and not for a lot of others too, back then. Not for cops in Homicide either. Not if you was honest like Fats and me. We had our days back then, shit still happened. Everything was just hidden back then, too. Undercover. The 1960s was just the training ground for all the crap the 1990s would become—and the decades beyond that later on would be even worse. Far as I could tell, there wasn’t much positive truth to all the nostalgia about them old days being so peachy keen. Leastways, not a real lot, not usually—but I guess if the truth be told, I’d have to admit those days were just a bit better than these days. Maybe a lot better? The thing is, even a little better can make a whole lot of difference sometimes. They were the good old days. Most of the time. For most of the people. But not the kind of people we dealt with in the day-to-day on the job.

          The case we caught that morning was an interesting one. It concerned a guy who’d lost his head. Literally. He’d lost it because the guy that killed him had evidently sawed off the victim’s head and took it with him when he left the corpse and the crime scene.

          “Nice, eh? Sounds like some freako stuff to me, Griff,” Fats growled in anger. Things like this always upset his delicate sensibilities. I could tell he figured we were in for something bad with this. He saw it coming. So did I. He didn’t like that at all.

          “Guy takes the head. Leaves the body. What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I mean, what’s he gonna do with it? A damn human head.” I muttered, then shrugged, and just kept on driving.

          “Freakin headhunter. Like them guys in the jungle, Griff. I wonder if he’ll shrink it down. You know, maybe make a necklace or something out of it? I saw a picture somewhere in a magazine that they did that to some missionary in the Amazon,” Fats grunted. He did not approve of this kind of behavior. Who the hell did!

          I shrugged again, what did I care? We weren’t in the damn Amazon, but then again, in a town like Bay City, the jungle is just a state of mind.

          “Well?” he asked me, as if I had all the answers.

          I said, “I can see you’re starting to get talky. That’s not a good sign. Next, you’ll start thinking and before you know it, you’ll start getting all kinds of ideas. When you get too many ideas, Fats, you can be trouble.”

          He just smiled at me. He did have a nice winning smile. That was also a bad sign. Trouble on the way. I did not want to encourage him.

          “You’re gonna get in trouble again, if you don’t watch yourself,” I told him.

          He laughed again, “Trouble, not me, trouble only to the bad guys.”

          “I know, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

          He laughed, said, “So what we got, Griff?” He pulled out a bag, took out a bagel stuffed with cream cheese, and began munching it like it was the last bit of food in Bay City.

          “You’re always hungry. Always eating.”

          “Mama didn’t raise no shrinking violet, gotta have fuel to keep the furnace running in tip-top shape.”

          I just laughed, at 290 pounds last weigh-in—and he had probably added a few ounces since then I imagine—he was anything but in tip-top shape for a copper. However, Fats was one hell of a cop, and in them days that’s all that mattered.

          I told him, “They found the body in one of the junk yards out by Blacktown. Laying there nude, right out in the open. No ID. And no head on the corpse. Freaked the dogs, and the guy that runs the junk yard. Freaked the harness bulls that came upon it and called it in too.”

          Fats laughed, “I can imagine. Must be one hell of a mess.”

          I looked at Fats, sitting there, munching on that bagel like he hadn’t a care in the world.

          He looked over at me carefully. Wiped his face.

          “Wanna bite, Griff?”

          I just gave him a gruff “No” and floored the gas. I didn’t bother with the damn siren, and just cut and weaved in the traffic so I could get us to the junk yard before the press hounds got there to indulge ‘the public’s right to know’ with a lot of grisly photos and wrong information. The press hasn’t changed much from the old days either. They’ve just gotten like everything else—worse.

          Doc Carten and the meat wagon were right on the ball and Fats and I pulled up, pushed through the small crowd, ripped away the yellow crime scene tape and walked out to a secluded area behind stacks of flattened, rusted old Buicks and Chevys. Ghost cars, some with the dried blood still on them in places, wrecks that I’d bet could tell some tall tales of horrendous crashes if they could talk.

          The body hadn’t been moved. Not yet. It was waiting for us. Doc lifted the sheet, and Fats and I got an eyeful of a naked guy, six feet tall—or he would have been six feet tall if he’d still had his head on his shoulders. His weight was about 240 pounds, a big boy, white, no tattoos, big belly, like I say, a big boy. Him having no head, is what kinda really stuck out for us. I mean, you couldn’t help but notice. And wonder why.

          The neck stub on the corpse had been cut clean. Nice even job there. Bloody and messy as hell, but a clean cut on the bone. I wondered if it had been done while he was still alive. I couldn’t tell from the blood yet, I’d have to wait for the Doc’s dope on that. That would be freaky shit if he’d been cut while still alive, and I knew we might never really know for sure, but I had a feeling that was exactly how it had been done. I would bet on it, and that made the murder a lot worse than if the head had been taken while the guy was still alive.

          I looked at the cut more closely. Fats and Doc now at my side. I didn’t like what I saw. It wasn’t a knife, axe, hatchet, or even a razor cut. I thought back on Gando Jarmandeu and that razor, his calling card, and sighed in relief. It wasn’t none of that, at least. It was something else. Something more involved. This looked like a clean saw cut. Like it had been done by a butcher? Maybe. That thought was not reassuring to me.

          “Well, ain’t this just lovely,” Fats told us in a light tone, tinged by his dark humor. He’d just finished up his bagel and was now busy opening up a box of Ju-Ju Bees. He chucked them down his gullet by the dozen, like he was watching a movie Saturday morning at the Rialto. I just hoped he wasn’t going to start throwing them at me and Doc the way we used to do when we were kids. Those damn things were annoying when they hit you. I wasn’t in no mood for playing games right then.

          Doc Carten, the crime scene investigator, just looked up at Fats, then me, then said, “Fine-toothed saw did it, like what a plumber would use on thin gauge piping. This was done carefully, but it caused a lot of blood—too much—but notice the stub of the neck bone. It isn’t jagged like you’d expect in a similar killing done by other means. It’s smooth. Clean cut. Whoever did this wanted the head and wanted it in fairly good condition.”

          “Damn that!” Fats murmured.

          “And…ah…” Doc continued in a soft tone, “the guy was done while he was still alive. His head was definitely sawed off while he was alive—at least at the beginning of the cutting.”

          “Nice,” I whispered gloomily.

          “So the killer did his deed while the guy was still alive—and then took the head,” Fats said with a nod of his own head. “That’s cold! And he took the head with him!”

          “What the hell for?” I asked.

          The Doc shrugged, then laughed, “I don’t know. Two heads are better than one?”

          Fats just laughed along with Doc, said, “Maybe freako wants to mount the damn head on his wall?”

          Fats came up with the damnedest ideas sometimes.

          The Doc shrugged it off, became serious for a moment, “Nah, that can’t be it.”

          I looked at Doc and then back to Fats and took a closer look at the neck stub. When I was finished, Doc covered the body with a sheet. He said, “I figure time of death about 24 hours ago, Rigor has set in. Fingertips cut off also. Of course you know, he wasn’t done here.”

          “No shit,” Fats bellowed, “yeah, the tips of his fingers have also been severed. So, no fingerprints. No chance of ID, unless there’s a missing persons report somewhere that will match with this mess. Which I doubt. Which something tells me there ain’t going to be. Why do I think that, Griff?”

          I shrugged, I had the same hunch, then offered up, “I don’t know, Fatman intuition?”

          “Fats nodded like an all-knowing Buddah, said, “Boys, I got the power.”

          Doc shook his head, he had had enough, “Okay if we move him now?”

          “Yeah, take him away,” I said with a nod and Doc and his boys did their thing with the corpse. We watched a bit. I wrote some junk in my log book. Then I went over to my partner. I didn’t say much. We were both just thinking. Two great minds at work. Scary, ain’t it?

          Finally I said, “The killer cut the fingers off so no one could identify the body. Without a positive ID there’s no legal proof an actual murder has been committed. Nothing for us to go on. Nothing for the DA to go on. This killer didn’t have to pull out the teeth to stop an ID of the corpse from death records—this killer didn’t need to do that, because he just decapitated the corpse and took the whole freakin’ head with him.”

          “Griff, the killer could’ve nixed any ID by pulling the teeth. Not a big deal for a guy like this who knows what he’s doing. Knows what the wants to do. He didn’t have to cut the head off. That’s nasty stuff, even for your average psycho. But judging by the fact that he went through all the trouble to do that—it appears that’s what he wanted. He really wanted that head!”

          I said, “I think you’re right.”

          Fats belched, rubbed his blubbery face, laughing with that wise-ass laugh of his. “You mean about the guy wanting the head to shrink down, Griff?”

          “Yeah, sure. No, you idiot. The fact that some freak took this guy’s head to mount on his wall.”

          “Trophy, either way,” Fats told me seriously.

          I nodded, he was probably right about that, one way or the other. “But why? Why do it at all? Why go through all the extra trouble after you kill a guy?”

          “I don’t know but it looks like someone of a very serious and angry nature was very pissed off at our dead guy,” Fats offered serious now. “That’s a serious level of anger, or hate, I cannot even imagine.”

          I nodded, tried to think about this logically, gave up, we just did not have enough information yet, then I said, “I guess we’ll find out who the killer is once we find out who the headless guy is. Was.”

          Fats just laughed it all away, it was his turn now to state the obvious. “We got a corpse with no ID. There’s no distinguishing marks, no missing persons report on anyone even remotely like him, the fingertips have been clipped, so no prints…”

          He gave me that what-does-that-tell-you? look of his.

          “A missing person report might still show up. We have to expand the search. It’s only been 24 hours,” I said, helplessly hopeful.

          Fats just smiled, “Griff, I got a feeling on this one. It ain’t good. We can wait 48, we can wait 72. We can take reports from all neighboring jurisdictions. And we’ll do that. And you know what? We’re not going to come up with squat.”

          I nodded. I knew Fats was right. I had the same feeling.

          Fats had me laughing when he sent out an APB—on the guy’s missing head.

          “You can’t put an APB on a head just by itself,” I told him. A little ball-busting went a long way in those days.

          “Why not, Griff? That’s all we need. I mean, we got the rest of the body. Alls we need is the head,” Fats said it with a sly wink. Was he busting me back? Yes he was!

          I shook my head, laughing as Fats made the call into Central. We did all we could on it. And that was that.

          The case fizzled after that. Just as we knew it would. The Medical Examiner did an autopsy and backed up what the crime scene boys had told us. Now there was never any doubt that the man’s head had been taken while he was still alive. That was grim news and a really brutal fact, and that level of violence or anger told us a lot—but it led us nowhere.

          Meanwhile, no one fitting a description of the corpse was reported missing in Bay City or any neighboring jurisdiction. There was no way to ID the corpse, or the remains—and no place to go with the case now, so the ME kept the body on ice and we filed the case with all the other crap shoots in this town that got us no answers. It was a big file.


          It was a month later when Fats and I got the call. A flat-foot beating it in the Square Mile of Vice had found something in a hat box laying on top of a pile of garbage in an alley. It smelled pretty bad. The first thought was some lonely hooker’s dog or cat had hit the bucket—or maybe something more ominous—perhaps an aborted fetus thrown out by some back yard butcher. Or God help us, some new-born baby, thrown out dead in the trash. It happened back then too. More often than you’d think.

          Then we heard the true poop about what had been found. A human head in a box. Fats and I were on our way like big dogs with the hot scent of a bitch in heat. This is what we had waited for, something we could chew on, and hearing about this newly found head was the lead we hoped we needed.

          The uniform officer on the scene took us into the back alley. Slow. The smell hit us as we got closer. It was a real bad rotting death smell. Fats and I walked faster. Towards it.

          The uniform guy told us, “There’s something here you ought to see. I heard about the guy found in the junk yard out by Blacktown. This might have something to do with it. With him.”

          I said, “Okay, let’s go take a look.”

          The box was a woman’s hat box, of all the damn things. Nothing fancy, or colorful, the colors were dulled. It was old, or sun-faded. It had been tied closed with a string.

          “I cut it to look inside,” the uniform told us. “The string, I mean.”

          I nodded. He seemed the curious sort.

          Fats moved the box, began to pry off the lid. The uniform guy stepped back. I moved in closer. Fats pulled off the lid and then the smell really hit us, like a ton of old vomit. Not vomit though. It was the death smell. Concentrated. Locked in that hat box and just dying to get out. The smell of decay and putrescence.

          I looked inside. There was a severed human head.

          “Male?” Fats asked.

          “Yep,” I replied.

          Fats said, “Okay, looks like we got our missing piece.”

          The rot and decay were powerful. Advanced. About what we expected after four weeks in the hot Bay City sun. The face was almost entirely gone. Very little folds of skin or flesh. Worms had eaten through most of the flesh. And they were still there. Feasting. Busy. White, thick, ugly, squirming maggots. Disgusting. The hair was matted with black chunks that had been blood. What was left of it. There must have been a lot of blood. Not much left now. Now white bone shone through the face in most spots. I could see the teeth were bad. Not a full set. Brown and white, green and black. Some broken. No gold.

          Fats said, “I don’t know who he is—was—but I think we just found the missing part to our little puzzle from the junk yard, Griff.”

          I nodded, but I wasn’t all that sure yet. The head in the box seemed to be looking back at me. Mocking me. I didn’t like that. I wondered how anyone could do such a terrible thing to another human being. That thought lasted all of two seconds. I was a cop. Homicide. I didn’t need to wonder about any of that, that’s just the way things were. Back then, and even today. Especially today.

          I didn’t like the whole thing, and the hair—there was something about that hair.

          Fats nudged me, “The cut on the stub, it’s eaten away and all, but…”

          “I don’t know about this…” I said carefully.

          “Could be the rot, but damnit, Griff, this has just gotta be the head we’re after. Right?”

          I nodded a bit reluctantly. Hopeful more than anything else. I didn’t tell Fats what I really thought just then. Not right off. It was just a hunch, a crazy hunch. So I kept mum about it for the moment. We took the box, closed it up, the smell making us both sick. The uniform guy who’d found the mess had left and was all the way at the mouth of the alley, about fifty yards off, puking his guts out all over the sidewalk.

          On the way over to the station Fats said, “Guess we cleared that up. Match the head to the body, maybe we’ll even find out who the lucky guy was. Once we find that out we can dig around for the killer.”

          I nodded. My partner, Mr. Optimism. I didn’t know how to break it to him. My hunch. The ME would give it to us straight and for sure, soon enough. Sometime tomorrow we would know for sure.

          “Why you looking so glum, Griff?” Fats asked me, opening up a Hershey bar with almonds. He loved to eat that damn chocolate goop.

          “I don’t know,” I answered back softly, a bit too non-committedly.

          “Now what the hell?” he blurted, looking at me hard, demanding an explanation.

          “The cut ain’t right... The decay obscures it but I don’t feel it’s right,” I told him.

          The smile left Fats’ face. He did not seem happy at all now. He looked at me hard, “Okay, Griff, spill the rest. I feel you got more. Like to rain on my parade. Figured we had this bad boy all signed, sealed and delivered.”

          Fats held the chocolate bar in a holding pattern in front of his big mouth waiting for my answer.

          “The thing I told you about. The hair?”

          “Ah, Griff, that don’t mean nothing.”

          “I think it does. At least it could. Fats, the hair ain’t right for a white guy, but it’s good if the guy’s a negro. Maybe.”

          “Bullshit! I can’t believe it”

          “I’m not making this up for fun.”

          “I know, Griff, but the guy could be a half-breed, mixed blood. You know? Have features of both races? You realize what you’re saying? You realize what it means if you’re right about this?”

          “Fats, believe me, I realize it. The headless corpse in the junk yard was a white male, the head we found in the alley seems to belong to a negro male. They do not match. We got the wrong friggin’ head!”


          The next day the ME did an autopsy on the head we had found and backed me up. I wasn’t all that happy I’d been proven right. The head belonged to a negro male, age thirty-ish, no ID was possible. There was no body to match the head, so we were still missing some significant parts in this case—if the two cases were even connected.

          I thought Fats was gonna be sick on it but when we went out for grub he just ordered an extra plate of pancakes that morning at Jackie’s, smothered them in maple syrup and brown sugar, and ate them like they were the last pancakes on Earth.

          It was disappointing. A head with no body. A body with no head. A no damn match. It was a frustrating time for us. No leads. Nowhere to go with it. We were forced to shelve it. Once again. At least for the time being.

          After that, things kinda quieted down. Things got back to the usual crap, the more normal kind of murder, killing, and mayhem that everyone in Bay City was used to. Killing for very specific reasons. No mutilations, aside from the usual ones.

          Fats and I never did find out who the headless corpse was. We never found his head. We never were able to ID the severed head of the negro male, or come up with his corpse either. It was frustrating, but not unexpected. The cases were left open. They’re still open.

          Fats told me once, “You know what I hate about police work, Griff? And it goes double for us in Homicide.”

          I took the bait, asked, “What’s that?”

          “It’s the unremitting bullshit, the relentless evil of the human mind, the rot of the human spirit. I can’t stand it sometimes. Man, I know what’s going on here.”

          “Yeah, Fats, I know too…”

          “Some evil motherfucker has got that guy’s head stuffed and mounted it some-damn-place on a wall in his house or… something like that…”

          “And he’s probably looking at it right now,” I added.

          Fats looked at me, laughed, then said, “Or the damn head’s looking down on the guy who did him.”

          “Either way it sucks.”

          “I guess.”

          I said, “Either way, Fats, that’s always the way it is. Always the way it will be. We’ve got a thousand questions and maybe we get lucky and find one or two answers. It’s never enough.”

          “I’m gonna be on the lookout for this head-chopper, Griff. I’ll never forget this. Someday he’ll make a slip-up. Someday it will come out. Someday the guy that’s got that head mounted on his wall or wherever the hell it might be, is going to get fucked by you, or fucked by me, or another cop, or someone, somewhere, sometime. When that happens, it will all come out and I’ll nail his balls to the wall. Right next to that damn head he took.”

          I nodded. When Fats lost his jolly fatman personna he was not someone to mess with. Even in conversation. Or what barely passed for conversation for him at those times.

          I said, “We got time, Fats. A guy that can do something like that, he just can’t all of a sudden stop. It’s not in him to stop. It’s in him to snicker that he got away with it, and a bit later, in him to get bold and cocky. You know what I mean?”

          Fats nodded, “Yeah, I’ll tell you what’s in him, he thinks he pulled one over on us all. He’s laughing his ass off about it. He’ll be dying to talk about it too—but he can‘t do that—but it will only eat at him more and more to want to tell someone about it—to need to tell someone about it. It’s in him—eventually—to get caught.”

          I smiled. My partner was right.

          Fats lit up a Camel. Took a deep drag. He let the smoke fill up the car, looked at me through the haze and said, “And when he slips up, I’ll be there, Griff. On his ass so fast he won’t know what the hell hit him. Then I’ll nail his balls to that damn wall for sure!”

          I just nodded, gunned our old Plymouth war-wagon down Dumont Avenue. All I could say was, “Fats, when the time comes, you bring the nails, I’ll bring the hammer.”

          Fats said, “One day, Griff.”

          “Yeah, brother, one day.”

          Fats just smiled, took one more deep drag from his cancer stick and finished up with, “That’s good. That’s the way it will be, Griff.”





Copyright 2019 by Gary Lovisi. All Rights Reserved.




"Headhunters" originally appeared in HELLBENT ON HOMICIDE, tpb 1997 in UK, from the Do Not Press and is copyright 1997 & 2019 by Gary Lovisi.


Gary Lovisi now has a free YouTube channel about vintage paperbacks, book collecting, etc. Here is the link to “Collectible ‘Dell 10c’ Vintage Paperbacks, Episode #28:


 GARY LOVISI BIBLIOGRAPHY:  (Recent and partial):


Sherlock Holmes:


The Secret Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series:





 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. HOLMES (Gryphon Books, 2016)


 THE GREAT DETECTIVE: HIS FURTHER ADVENTURES, edited anthology (Wildside Press, 2012)


 SOUVENIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (Gryphon Books, 2002, non-fiction, new edition forthcoming)

 SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE GREAT DETECTIVE IN PAPERBACK & PASTICHE (Gryphon Books, 2008, large-size, spiral bound)




BATTLING BOXING STORIES, edited anthology, (Wildside Press, 2012)


 MURDER OF A BOOKMAN (Wildside Press, 2011)

 DRIVING HELL'S HIGHWAY (Wildside Press, 2011)

 THE LAST GOODBYE (Bold Venture, 2015)

 THE NEMESIS CHRONICLES (Bold Venture, 2016)


 DIRTY DOGS (Gryphon Books)


 HELLBENT ON HOMICIDE (Do Not Press, UK, 1997)

 BLOOD IN BROOKLYN (Do Not Press, UK only, 1999)

 Science Fiction / Fantasy & Horror:

 GARGOYLE NIGHTS (Wildside Press, 2011)

 MARS NEEDS BOOKS (Wildside Press, 2011)

 WHEN THE DEAD WALK (Ramble House, 2014)

 SARASHA (Gryphon Books, 1997)

 The Jon Kirk of Ares Series: (Wildside Press)



#3 THE SPACE MEN, 2015

#4 THE MIND MASTERS (forthcoming, 2017)

#5 THE TIME MASTERS (forthcoming, 2017)

Other Fiction:





THE SEXY DIGESTS (Gryphon Books, 2001, large-size)

 THE PULP CRIME DIGESTS (Gryphon Books, 2004, large-size)


DAMES, DOLLS & DELINQUENTS (Krauss Books, large-size trade paperback)

BAD GIRLS NEED LOVE TOO (Krauss Books, hardcover, 2010)


MODERN HISTORICAL ADVENTURE NOVELS (Gryphon Books, 2006, large-size, spiral bound)

 THE SWEDISH VINTAGE PAPERBACK GUIDE (Gryphon Books, 2003, large-size).

Hillary Lyon is an illustrator for horror/sci-fi and pulp fiction websites and magazines. She is also founder and senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. An SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet, her poems have appeared in journals such as Eternal Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s Honey, and Red River Review, as well as numerous anthologies. Her short stories have appeared recently in Night to Dawn, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Sirens Call, and Tales from the Moonlit Path, among others, as well as in numerous horror anthologies such as Night in New Orleans: Bizarre Beats from the Big EasyThuggish Itch: Viva Las Vegas, and White Noise & Ouija Boards. She appeared, briefly, as the uncredited "all-American Mom with baby" in Purple Cactus Media’s 2007 Arizona indie-film, "Vote for Zombie." Having lived in France, Brazil, Canada, and several states in the US, she now resides in southern Arizona.  https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/                                             

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2019