The worldâs leading AIDS researcher has been brutally murdered in Edinburgh on the eve of a world-shattering announcement. What did he know that made him a target? If anyone holds the key to the secret he carried to his grave, it is Margaret Kreiser, his former lover and research associate. James Macfadden, Scotland Yard inspector assigned to this case, meets with Margaret and both quickly become targets of the CIA, of corporate hitmen, drug cartel operatives, and others wanting to keep the AIDS discovery âclassified.â What was found deep in the heart of the African jungle will affect millions, but no one will ever know unless Macfadden and Kreiser can stay alive long enough to unlock the secrets of the rivers of the black moon.
The worldâs leading AIDS researcher has been brutally murdered in Edinburgh on the eve of a world-shattering announcement. What did he know that made him a target? If anyone holds the key to the secret he carried to his grave, it is Margaret Kreiser, his former lover and research associate. James Macfadden, Scotland Yard inspector assigned to this case, meets with Margaret and both quickly become targets of the CIA, of corporate hitmen, drug cartel operatives, and others wanting to keep the AIDS discovery âclassified.â What was found deep in the heart of the African jungle will affect millions, but no one will ever know unless Macfadden and Kreiser can stay alive long enough to unlock the secrets of the rivers of the black moon.
December 11, 2022 Edinburgh, Scotland
The apartment had already taken on the putrid stench of death. Ripped open and eviscerated as if someone had dug through the intestinal tract, the contorted body lay surrounded by chaos: furniture overturned, pillows gutted, drawers emptied, carpeting pulled up, the ransacking seemingly desperate but futile. One blinding flash of a police camera followed another as the grisly evidence was gathered. Outside, along the wet cobblestones of Church Street, a crowd had gathered around the black-and-white coronerâs wagon and turned as one to watch a tall, athletic man in his early forties exit an unmarked vehicle, enter the building, and bound up the two flights of stairs to the murder scene. âWhat do we have here?â demanded Inspector James Macfadden, Special Investigations Unit of Scotland Yard, as he strode into the steamy room. He grimaced when the odor of rotting flesh assaulted his nostrils. âInspector.â Constable Nigel Brodish, Edinburgh police, was caught off guard by the sudden appearance of an official from the Yardâs international branch. âWe didnât expect anyone from intelligence on the case. Weâd been told it was a local matter.â Andrew Goliszek 2 Macfaddenâs steely gray eyes zeroed in on the body. âAfraid not, Constable,â he said tersely. Brodish peered at the body with greater intensity as if reevaluating its significance. âItâs a nasty one, sir. If you ask me, it was a goddam animal behind this.â Macfadden lifted a handkerchief to his nose and walked slowly around the body. At Scotland Yard for nearly two decades, heâd seen it all, hardened by years of exposure and desensitization, assigned to the most gruesome cases until he could look at lifeless eyes and cold flesh and see nothing but a piece of evidence from which to pluck the clues that would lead to a final resolution. And though adept at hiding his emotions, the violent murders and terrorist bombings that indiscriminately tore innocent victimâs arms and legs from their bodies were something he couldnât comprehend. Now, lying before him like a slab of butchered meat was yet another example of everything he hated about a degenerate society that would make someone do something like this. With keen eyes, he outlined the body and stared at the dried blood that had soaked nearly half the carpet in the room. He spoke softly, trying to free his mind of needless words as he concentrated. âAye, an animal it was, Constable, but from the condition of this flat and the poor bastardâs dissected innards, Iâd say it was an animal looking for something important.â He made a 360-degree sweep of the room before returning to the body, then leaned forward for a closer look at the stomach, which sat atop the chest in two finely cut longitudinal sections. âHas this body been moved?â âNo, sir,â Brodish answered. âHands and feet are Rivers of the Black Moon 3 still bound, mouth gagged to prevent him from screaming. As you can see, thereâs quite a gash on the left side of the head. No doubt the cause of death.â âIâm not so sure, judging by the amount of blood.â Macfadden drew a wide arc with his index finger, indicating where blood had spilled onto the carpet, then pointed to streams of dried blood that spread outward from the body and where pulses of blood had spurted as a result of pressure from severed arteries. âThis bloke may have been unconscious, but he was still alive when he was dissected. The heart continued to pump blood out into the room until it stopped. And by the contortions of the body, I suspect he might have come to before he died.â Brodish took a deep breath and swallowed hard at the thought of it. âPoor bastard woke up and realized what was happening.â âItâs obvious that whoever did this didnât find what he was looking for,â Macfadden continued. âNo, this was no ordinary animal, Constable. This was a careful, premeditated search for what must have been worth digging through someoneâs guts for.â âMicrofilm?â âPerhaps. A piece of paper. A small object. Who knows?â Macfadden removed his drenched raincoat, took out a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them on. âLook here.â Lifting one of the loose pieces of stomach, he removed thin slivers of glass and several threads of carpeting from the chest, placing them in the palm of his extended hand. âThese were stuck to the flesh beneath the stomach by body fluid, which means the body was the last place the attacker looked. And if heâd found what he was looking Andrew Goliszek 4 for in the stomach, he wouldnât have dissected nine feet of intestines⌠probably had the bloke tied up while he searched the flat, then in desperation whacked him across the temple and decided to look inside one final place. No, itâs a safe bet nothing was found.â Macfadden signaled for the body to be taken out and, with his eyes to the floor, maneuvered carefully around debris that was scattered as if a windstorm had rumbled through. âWhereâs the landlord?â he asked, eyes still focused on the floor. âOn holiday,â Brodish answered. âNeighbor says he left five days ago and should be back tomorrow.â âDid you question the other tenants?â âOnly two. Neither heard anything. But they both work and probably werenât home when it happened.â âYes, of course. Anyone whoâd done this would have made sure no witnesses were present. Anything else?â âThey confirmed the name Richard Zarnoff, but not much else. Both agreed he was a strange sort. Kept to himself. They didnât see much of him during the time heâd been here.â âWhat was he doing here?â The black body bag moved past them and disappeared through the doorway. Macfadden waited for a response as he walked to the window and looked down at the crowd. âAll they know is that he was some sort of scientist. Spent some time in Africa, they found out during one of their conversations with him. He was planning to attend a scientific meeting at the Hilton next week before going back home to America.â âWhich is where?â Macfadden turned back to Rivers of the Black Moon 5 Brodish and peered at him from atop the rim of his glasses. âSalt Lake City, Utah. He worked at the university medical center there.â âOdd.â Macfaddenâs mind was now sifting through bits and pieces of the preliminary evidence, comparing what heâd just been told to what he already knew. According to Brodish, an American AIDS researcher named Richard Zarnoff travels to Edinburgh from Africa, rents a seedy room in an out-of-the-way section of the city, and lives in near seclusion for a month until being brutally murdered and mutilated a week before attending an international AIDS conference. But thereâs more to this, Macfadden reminded himself. Such as the fact that a few days before the corpse turned up, Scotland Yard had been informed by FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. that a top American AIDS researcher was missing somewhere in Europe and thought to be carrying data that would turn the scientific community on its head. And what would the researcherâs name be but Dr. Richard Zarnoff, of course. And what better setting to stun the scientific world than at an international conference. Whoever had done this to Zarnoff was no lone sociopath, Macfadden was certain. âHave you talked to anyone else?â he asked Brodish. âNo, but one of the tenants suggested we try the local pub crowd. Sheâd heard from the regulars that a few pints loosened the bloke up a bit, if you know what I mean.â âRight. Iâll go down and get a pint myselfâŚmaybe get lucky. Find out how many scientific societies are involved in this conference next week. Names of Andrew Goliszek 6 organizers, speaker coordinators, vendors, everything. If Dr. Zarnoff was going to present some of his work, I want to know what it was.â âRight, sir. Iâll report to Scotland Yard as soon as I find anything.â Macfadden turned back to the rain-streaked window in time to see the coronerâs wagon pull out and head south on Church Street toward St. Maryâs Hospital, where an autopsy would determine the time and exact cause of death before the remains were sent back to the States. He followed the wet tire tracks with his eyes, then looked up at the leaden morning sky that hung over Edinburgh, wondering if it was all worth it: the gruesome bodies, the sickening smells and scenes of death, the failed marriage that grew as lifeless as the corpses he examined and finally ended with adultery during one of his investigative trips abroad. Nothing in his secretive world made sense to him anymore, each case more vile and confusing than the last. It was as though his ordered world were losing whatever remnants of civility it had; and in each tortured body, every mutilated face and terrorist attack, Macfadden saw a growing social abyss and feared he was becoming more a part of the violence and the hatred than heâd ever imagined. âWill you be needing anything else from us today?â the police photographer asked as he packed up. âNo,â Macfadden answered with a deep sigh. âJust make certain I get a detailed report when youâve finished.â âVery good, sir.â The forensic investigative team remained busy, dusting for remaining prints, combing through every Rivers of the Black Moon 7 square inch of the apartment, gathering every piece of evidence it could pluck from the wreckage. Macfadden tiptoed carefully around the mess, took a last, cynical glimpse backward, and inhaled deeply the second he escaped into the hallway, though the foul air had already polluted his mind and, as if to remind him again of the vile nature of his work, had buried itself deep into the fibers of his tweed jacket.Â
Reading novels centered on medicine and medical crises carries a certain new gravitas since the start of 2020. Regardless of where one stands on the import of COVID itself, the illness dominated global headlines and concerns for quite some time. It also brought a new spotlight on the realm of contagious diseases itself, especially ones reaching epidemic or pandemic status. Rivers of the Black Moon makes AIDS the disease du jour, but including recent history regarding other diseases helps firmly cement the relevance of the novel.
Goliszek's background in medicine shows tremendously throughout. When the disease or research being conducted on it are the focus, the story operated at its best. The author also has a knack for descriptive details, from the crime scene of the first chapter and excerpt on through. I don't want to spoil where the novel gets its title from, but I also always enjoy when an author makes an effort to tie it into the plot. That happens majorly here, holding not only clues for the characters, but offering a great tie in for the reader.
The premise for Rivers of the Black Moon is incredibly sound. Even those not often drawn toward conspiracy theories don't feel it's a stretch to believe the powers-that-be withhold valuable information from the public. Or to believe that corporations will do anything to make money, even at the expense of public health and safety.
However, the execution of the premise behind the novel didn't fully live up to the potential. From a technical standpoint, there are quite a few errors scattering the work. From a content standpoint, a handful of the rather large cast of characters don't seem to stay entirely consistent from one scene to the next. There are also several instances of redundancy, especially in the narration, that add to making an already lengthy story feel even more so.
I do still consider this title well worth reading, and fans of spy or medical thrillers should enjoy Rivers of the Black Moon despite neither of the main characters being a doctor or a spy.