Angel Killer

by Andrew Mayne

  Watching the news replay the video and play up the mystery is frustrating. I keep hearing the phrase “a case that has the FBI baffled” over and over again.

  For Christ sake, we’ve only been on the case for less than twenty-four hours. Give us some time . . .

  But there may not be time, I realize. The Warlock may be playing a game with us, but it’s not one we’re meant to win.

  A young paramedic, one I think I remember from the scene, is talking to a reporter. His face is wide open with surprise. Not shock. It’s awe.

  “I can’t explain it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. One moment the girl is just there and then BOOM! She’s erupted into flames reaching the sky.” He looks up, expecting to still see the fire.

  “Do the authorities have any idea what caused this?” asks the reporter.

  The paramedic shakes his head. “No. Nothing. They don’t have a clue. Look to your Bible, that’s all I’m saying.”

  I turn the television off, disgusted. I don’t think it’s time to give up on rationality and reason just yet. I hope he’s just one excitable young man, but I can’t help think that his reaction is similar to that of many other people watching this around the world.

  Somewhere the Warlock is also watching this. Laughing to himself.

  I finish getting dressed and head back to Quantico for a conference with Danielle’s forensic unit, the assistant director, the head of behavioral sciences, in addition to a man from behavioral analysis and a few other people I don’t recognize. It’s a large room with about thirty seats around the table. Another thirty people are sitting and standing around us. When Ailes sees me, he pulls me from a chair by the wall and sits me next to him at the table.

  I’m sitting still, trying not to call attention to myself. I don’t belong here. Everyone else has piles of folders in front of them, like they’re showing off their homework. I just have a folder with the notes I wrote on the plane, which I already typed up and e-mailed to the newly appointed supervisor of the investigation, a squat bald man named Joseph Knoll. He has a face like a prizefighter, the calculating kind that knows where to hit.

  After getting a nod from the assistant director, Knoll calls the meeting to a start and begins with a PowerPoint presentation of what happened between the hacking and yesterday. He plays a video of the body in flames, taken by a sheriff’s deputy. This is a much closer view than the one on the news taken from atop a news truck.

  “One week ago, the FBI’s public information website was hacked into and a number was placed there and an invitation for us to decode it. Almost seven days to the hour later, our cryptanalysts using our best number cruncher found the hidden code. It was the GPS coordinates of a cemetery in Michigan. That’s where we found the body of a girl that resembles, in every detail we could check, a murder victim from almost two years prior. However, a preliminary investigation showed that she had died just hours before. Apparently from asphyxiation and exhaustion from trying to crawl out of her own grave.

  “When we proceeded to move the body from the grave, it erupted into flames caused by some chemical reaction we’re still trying to determine. It’s been suggested this was done as a means to conceal the true identity of the girl. Despite what the Warlock wants us to believe, the dead do not come back to life.” He ends the recap by freezing on the face of the girl we’re still calling Chloe, fire erupting out of her mouth.

  It’s a hellish sight, much higher resolution than anything on the news. She looks like a demon screaming fire in a medieval painting, almost biblical.

  Knoll points to Danielle. “Our forensic team brought back what we could to look at in our labs. We’ll probably know within a few hours if we can get a tissue match between this and the preserved samples from the first murder victim nineteen months ago. As you can imagine, it’s a bit of a challenge. We still haven’t identified the particular incendiary device used to cause the combustion. Field tests show high levels of potassium, indicating that it was some kind of autocatalytic reaction. This still leaves two questions: who and how. Danielle?”

  A tech pulls up the 3-D image of the coffin in the ground as Danielle walks over to the screen. Her voice is clipped. I can tell she hasn’t slept since she got back. I feel guilty for my nap. “Density tests and soil oxidization levels indicate this casket has been in this position for at least six months, likely much longer, which implies that this was planned at least that far back. The real Chloe, or original victim, was probably removed at that time. The whereabouts of her body are still unknown. It would seem evident that the original Chloe was murdered by the same individual who staged this. He drew her blood, saved it and injects it into the second victim to confuse a preliminary forensic examination. Or at least that’s the prevailing theory.”

  As she says this I begin to have doubts. I don’t know why. Something is out of place. The long burn . . .

  A blond woman with glasses stops taking notes and raises her pen. “Would a more thorough examination have revealed the transfusion?”

  “I think so. Given the extreme circumstances, we would have done skin scraping as well and compared them with samples from the original autopsy. If it was just a regional medical examination, then possibly, but I’d like to think they would have caught it too.”

  “Are we sure there are two girls?” asks the woman.

  Danielle thinks the question over carefully. We all know it can’t be just one girl, but she’s rational enough to know we can’t always go by what we “know.” “The first girl’s body would likely have much more advanced necrosis. It’s possible the body could have been preserved. But a cellular analysis would confirm this. Because we stand a good chance of getting a skin sample from the portion of the body that was still in the ground and didn’t undergo complete combustion, I’m reasonably confident we will be able to know in a few hours.” She looks in my direction. “Thanks to Agent Blackwood, we can be thankful we have that much. If the techs had pulled the body all the way out of the ground, we might have a different story and be looking only at a pile of ash.”

  I feel awkward about the praise. If I’d said something sooner last night, if I hadn’t been distracted, we might have had more to go on. Like everyone else, I was still too dazzled by the show to see where it was going. Danielle may be trying to pay me a compliment, but it’s just a reminder to me that I failed.

  Knoll thanks Danielle and takes over the podium. “We have several areas we need to investigate. We need to identify who the second victim is. How was she chosen? Does she fit a type the Warlock has? Was she just a lucky find for him? Did he find her after murdering Chloe McDonald? The scars on her chest matched the original stab wounds. The question we have now, without the full body, is whether those were genuine or makeup effects? If they were genuine scars that healed over, that suggests a whole different level of premeditation. Based upon the evidence on hand, the assistant director has suggested we proceed to treat this as a serial killer investigation. To help us with that, we’ve brought in an expert to assist the analysis unit in giving us a profile.”

  I turn to look at the head of behavioral sciences, but he’s looking at me. Everyone is facing my direction. All the FBI chiefs in the room are waiting.

  Ailes leans in and whispers to me, “You’re on.”

  Me?

  11

  MY FIRST STEP onstage was by accident. I was three years old and my grandfather was performing a series of shows in London’s West End. My mother had run off a year before, leaving me in the care of my unprepared father and my equally unskilled grandfather—his solution was to use dancers in the troupe as nannies. I had more “aunts” and “uncles” than I can remember. I was watching from the wings as usual. I used to sit in the lap of the dancers before they would go on, and this time my designated sitter was filling in for a girl getting ready on the other side of the stage, so I was left unattended.

  Grandfather was performing the Mischief Rabbit, a trick invented by his father. He’d pretend to atte
mpt to make a rabbit appear out of a silk top hat, only to fail. Each time he turned to the audience with an exasperated look, the rabbit would poke his head out of the top of the hat.

  The trick was accomplished by a pneumatic lift built into the table. Each time Grandfather stepped away, a stagehand would push a button and raise the rabbit on its little rabbit elevator, bringing him into view.

  I loved the trick. The rabbit delighted me. I used to feed him carrots and look after him and his six brothers like they were my own pets. When Grandfather performed the trick, I paid no mind to the machinery and thought it was really the rabbit poking his head out of the hat, giving Grandfather a hard time.

  On this occasion, with no one there to mind me, I ran onto the stage and pulled the rabbit from the hat when my grandfather looked away. The audience screamed in delight. When Grandfather turned around, the rabbit was gone and so was I. He didn’t realize I’d stolen the rabbit and continued on with the routine, baffled as to why he didn’t get the laughs in the right places.

  At the end of the effect, when it was time to produce the rabbit, he reached into the hat and his face turned red. The rabbit was gone. Suddenly he knew why everything was off. Then he saw me in the wings cuddling his finale.

  I’d seen his enough of his temper to be frightened. Rather than run away, I joined him onstage, handed him the rabbit, and said in my high-pitched voice, “Don’t be angry, Grandpa! You can pet him too!”

  The audience roared. Grandfather’s scowl melted. He knew a good bit when he saw it. I was in the act from then on.

  Until he taught me the trick with the red sponge balls two years later, he’d never thought of teaching me to be more than a prop. I was used onstage but never as a magician until I took the initiative.

  Since then, I’ve been on national television and performed for tens of thousands of people in outdoor arenas in Asia. But none of that has prepared me for this. I look at Ailes, not sure what I’m supposed to do. He taps his pen to my folder with its single page of notes.

  I decide to just start talking and let my brain catch up. Just stick to what I know and not go into some bullshit theory about how I think the Warlock sees things—a mistake I’ve seen a lot of green analysts make.

  I take a breath. “What we saw was a trick. I mean that in the strictest sense of the word. This is a magic trick designed to fool us and keep us fooled.”

  Ailes and Knoll are waiting for me to continue. “A trick assumes a trickster—a magician. There are two kinds of magicians: the type that acknowledges to the audience that what he’s doing is a trick, and the kind that uses deception to pretend he’s the real thing—like a psychic or a spoon bender. The first one just wants your attention. The second type wants to continue to deceive you. He wants you to believe in him.”

  Knoll raises a pen. “Why?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Dr. Chisholm or behavioral analysis would have to answer that. I can only tell you about the kind of magicians I’m aware of.” I point to the screen and the girl’s hellish scream. “This man is the second type. He doesn’t want us to know how he did his trick. He wants us to believe in him. He wants us to believe he’s real. He’s not just trying to prove how clever he is. He doesn’t just want our attention. He wants us to think this is a miracle. Maybe he knows that a room full of people like us won’t be fooled into believing that a man can raise the dead, but he knows some of the public will be. A dead girl crawling out of the ground who spontaneously erupts in flames? That’s a powerful idea.” I think of what Gladys told me. “No matter how much science and logic we have on our side, if there’s any room for doubt because we can’t figure it out, he’ll consider a win. It’s about the spectacle.”

  The blond woman raises her hand. “How do you think he wanted the illusion to play out?”

  Illusion. I guess that’s the right word for this. Usually an illusion is much more benign. It only looks deadly . . .

  I think for a moment. “If it was me and I wanted to convince you I was some kind of necromancer, I mean a real magician, I’d try to destroy the evidence that could contradict that, just like he did. Maybe I’d rig the body to combust when it was pulled out of the ground. Or perhaps I’d plant some kind of pressure sensor so it would burst into flames once it was in a confined space like a morgue truck. Maybe I’d try to make the combustion even more significant by having it burst into flames when the sun came up.”

  The last observation gets several raised eyebrows. I realize I’m overstepping. “I’m just speculating. He’s obviously obsessed with the occult. It’s a theme for him.”

  Knoll interrupts me with a question. “Do you think this person is a trained magician?”

  I’ve been thinking about that a lot since last night. I don’t have a specific answer. “I don’t know. I’d say not. Magic techniques are available to just about anyone who wants to find them. Most magicians aren’t creators. And to be honest, magical thinkers, I mean people who invent tricks, are extremely rare. They usually find work elsewhere, in Hollywood, designing games and other stuff.” I leave out joining the FBI. “His method here is nothing like what would be used for a traditional buried-alive illusion. Superficially similar, but it ends there. He’s just very, very clever.”

  I pause for any further questions. None. I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone turns their attention back to Knoll.

  The long burn is in the back of my mind. “There’s one other thing.”

  Knoll sits back down and raises his eyebrows. I’m afraid I’m pushing, but it has to be said.

  “If he’s thought this through, he doesn’t want us to solve it. That means he’ll do things to lead us down blind alleys. He’ll distract us. He’ll make us reach for the wrong conclusion.”

  “How do you mean?” asks Knoll.

  I remember an illusion I used to do for reporters and reach out to the conference table to pick up a set of keys from Knoll. I pass them from one hand to the other with my fists closed. “Which hand are they in?”

  Knoll points to my right. I open the hand and show that it’s empty.

  “I think this is more than sleight of hand tricks, Agent,” sneers the blonde.

  “You’re right,” I reply. I open my left hand. I’m holding Knoll’s BlackBerry. There’s silence followed by a few stifled laughs.

  “Well shit,” shrieks Danielle. “That girl just burned a room full of us FBI folks.” She gives me an approving look.

  “My point is that smart people are smart because we are generally very good at knowing where to focus. Which means we’re sometimes the easiest ones to fool.” I look around the room. “Me too.”

  Ailes speaks up. “Jessica, do you think this is the last we’ve seen of the Warlock?”

  I glance at Dr. Chisholm. “I think your division and the people at behavioral analysis would have a better answer than me.”

  Chisholm gives me a smile. “We have our thoughts. But I’d like to hear yours.”

  I’m still in the spotlight. The room is looking at me, expecting me to pull off another stunt. I’m not an expert on behavior and hate to be put on the spot for something outside my expertise. I go with my gut. “No. This isn’t the last. He’s just getting started. This is how a magician gets your attention. The website defacement was the poster calling us to the show. The Chloe murder is his opening effect, something quick, to the point, which tells us to take him seriously. Now he’s going to follow through with something else. Something bigger. You saw the news today. This is only the start.”

  Chisholm nods his head. He knows this too. “Why do you say that, Agent Blackwood?”

  “Because he’s that second kind of magician. The dark kind. He doesn’t want us to show that he’s a fake. He’s the kind of magician that thinks he’s special, that despite the trickery there’s something about him that is magical. Jim Jones used to do mentalism and hypnosis. That’s how he got nine hundred people to follow him down to the middle of nowhere. Their kind only get stopped one of two ways
. They either get exposed or they die.”

  “Either way is fine by us,” replies Knoll.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think you understand. The ones that die without being exposed have religions built around them. I can name a handful of religions that really took off when their founder died. In a sense, they became immortal by dying. That’s what the Warlock wants, what every dark magician is after, to be thought of as a god. And gods don’t care how many people they kill.” I shut up and sit back in my chair.

  Chisholm follows up my comments with some analysis about the Warlock being obsessed with the occult and the suggestion that Chloe and her double were meant as a kind of sacrifice to demonstrate his powers. People keep glancing my way, expecting me to say something or add on to what he’s saying.

  I focus on Chisholm as he recommends looking for possible connections between the victims and the Warlock through occult online groups and related subcultures.

  As the meeting is about to wrap up, a young agent barges through the door and whispers something into Knoll’s ear and hands him a note.

  Knoll tells us to stay in our seats. “They exhumed the coffin and found something else.” He checks the note again. “Sand. From initial inspection it doesn’t appear to be from the Michigan area. Apparently it’s still damp and smells like salt water.”

  The blond agent raises her pen. “Wet sand in a coffin that was supposed to have been buried for two years? How is that possible?”

  Everyone turns to me.

  How the hell would I know?

  12

  TWO DAYS LATER, the assistant director of the FBI waits for me to perform a literal miracle in his office.

  AFTER THAT MEETING I returned to my job in the cubicle hunting down fugitive decimal points. But I’d been active in the online working group for the Warlock case, following its development. The forensic lab sent samples of the sand over to the Navy and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution for analysis and I was asked again to offer my explanation as to how fresh sand got into the coffin.