Angel of Death

by J. Robert King

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Samael hooked a foot under the man’s gut and flipped him onto his back. He pulled his own pistol, stooped, put the muzzle in the man’s mouth, and fired. The frightened, furious eyes immediately went blank.

  “For a guy who’s never had a tattoo before, you’re sure starting out big,” said David. He wore a ripped shirt over a wiry physique. Across his skin, tattoos wriggled like gray snakes. He had a sharp, feverish smell, the smell of youth and vigor. He held up before him a piece of paper that rattled dully in his hand. The page showed the outline of a human face, with eyes, nose, and mouth delineated. Between these features were Arabic letters distorted into flame-like patterns, covering forehead, cheeks, and jaw in a mask of violent black lines that formed a skull. “You sure you want this all over your face the rest of your life?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never seen this one. What is it? Some kind of oriental mask?”

  “It’s the mask of a spirit.”

  David nodded. He scratched a thinning patch of hair on his head. “Sure. Anyway, it’s probably gonna take a couple sessions.”

  “I’ll pay you double if you do it all now.”

  “Pay me half of that, and then when I get tired, give me the rest to keep me going,” David said with a laugh. He leaned over the needle apparatus, picking something off its point.

  “Yes. Here. Here’s three hundred.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re lucky I ain’t my cousin Jerry, or you’d be dead for the rest before I even got started.”

  “You’re lucky I ain’t the Son of Samael, or you’d be dead the moment you finished.”

  They both laughed at that.

  “All right. Well, let’s get going. I’m going to wash your face with some alcohol, and then I’ll use some petroleum jelly to transfer the pattern in place. We’ll do it in pieces – cheeks, forehead, nose, chin…”

  “Fine. In pieces, but we keep going. I want it finished if it takes all night.”

  “We’re closed,” said the old, white-haired taxidermist.

  “To everybody else, yes,” said the man with the demon mask tattooed on his face.

  “Who the hell are you to tell me that?”

  The demon man drew a gun, approached the old man, and held the barrel to his head. “I’m the Son of Samael.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Wh-what do you want from me?”

  “Taxidermy. I want you to teach me how.”

  “It takes a long time to learn.”

  “It better take only the next eight hours or so, because this gun goes off in eight hours, and I’d hate to have it pointed at your head when it does.”

  “Well, well, all right. I’ve got a long-haired rabbit I’ve just started on.”

  “No. You start on these. I want two full-head masks and two pairs of gloves. Cut off the eyelids. I’ll use my own. What the…? God damn it, leave it. You can scrub puke after I’m gone, after your eight hours are up. Yes, get to work, unless you’d like to be the next mask and gloves.”

  SON OF SAMAEL KILLS THREE IN A THREE-DAY SPREE

  AP International

  Photo and Story by Blake Gaines

  The man known as the Son of Samael is responsible for three recent Chicagoland slayings, according to police.

  An unidentified male, around 32, was slain at the Parkside Laundry in Berwyn in what police call a “heinous and audacious daylight crime.” According to one witness, the Son of Samael, dressed as a policeman, handcuffed his victim and cleared the scene. The body, with the name Samael written on its belly, was later found at the facility. The Son of Samael allegedly took the victim’s hands, head, wallet, keys, car–”a large gray Chevy from the early nineties” – and laundry.

  “He killed a guy his size and got a whole new wardrobe,” said a police source.

  A similarly dismembered body was discovered at the Skincredible Tattoo Salon in downtown Des Plaines. Coworkers positively identified the man as David Darrow of Wheeling. Photos of the man’s many tattoos aided identification.

  A police handwriting expert said the hand that had written “Samael” on David Darrow had also written on at least ten previous bodies, including the Laundromat victim.

  While police focused on that crime scene, the Son of Samael was apparently busy just across the street. The headless, handless body of Albert Terrence of Des Plaines was found in his taxidermy shop. A teenaged assistant to the taxidermist found the body. The youth indicated that numerous taxidermy tools and tanning chemicals were missing. Police from Des Plaines, Wheeling, Arlington Heights, Berwyn, and Chicago are planning a plenary session for all detectives working on cases that might involve the Son of Samael.

  One police officer, who asked not to be identified, said, “He is honing his craft. He’s doing it better and more openly. He’s defying us to find him. He’s a killing machine.”

  Yes. Get together. Talk about me. It sounds like a good place to learn who I am. I’m glad to have this cop uniform. And these new faces. And these new hands. It suddenly isn’t so bad not having an identity of my own, a history of my own. Not having even my own species.

  How can they call it murder when I’m not even human? A bear or cougar would do as much, would kill to live. They call it murder only because they have been so long out of the food chain.

  Welcome back.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Detective Donna Leland lay in St Mary’s hospital. She blinked. That was accomplishment enough after two months of coma.

  The feeding tube that had snaked up her nose and down her throat had been pulled just this morning. The IVs still dripped their fluids into her veins. Catheters, too – she was invaded in half a dozen places but felt none of it. A two-month coma was plenty of time for her body to become accustomed to plastic and stainless steel and processed fluids and unregulated eliminations. It all felt completely natural. It all felt not at all.

  That’s what coma was for. Anesthesia. The doctors had found no serious injuries beyond her concussion. The airbag had made certain of that. The tree had fallen on the empty passenger seat, missing her but bringing the roof of the car down on her head. She had a slight cranial contusion, perhaps enough to cause amnesia, but not coma.

  Amnesia would have been more merciful. Now that she had awakened, she remembered it all. She remembered and cared enough to call the station for an update. The chief said he’d come out and explain things. He would arrive any moment.

  “Detective!” came the voice from the doorway. Bigg’s face was red and fleshy beside the big spray of flowers he had bought in the gift shop downstairs. The thin plastic wrapper was still around the bundle, and it still bore a price tag. “So, you decided to come back to the land of the living.”

  “Yeah,” she managed. She cleared her throat, swallowing painfully past the soreness from the feeding tube. “You didn’t have to drive out here.”

  “Aww, it’s nothing.” He cantered in and pulled back the drapes. Sunlight stabbed against the ivory-colored wall. “I was hoping to see the old Donna again, you know.”

  “Here I am. Got two months of beauty sleep.”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “Yeah. Well. It looks good on you. You weren’t looking right during the whole trial.” He handed her the flowers.

  She smiled, sniffing the frumpy bouquet. “Oh, that’s just TV cameras for you. They add ten pounds and twenty years.”

  “I’m glad you can joke again. It’s good to see you without that creep hanging on to you.”

  Donna blinked. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  He gestured dismissively. “For the first couple days, it was round the clock guard – in case you-know-who would show up. He didn’t. Must’ve bought the story of your death. The press sure did. Ran with it. They care more about a good story than a true one.”

  Donna took in the information. “What do you mean, in case you-know-who showed up? How could Azra show up?”


  Biggs grimaced and changed the subject. “The judge didn’t see past all that malarkey about the Gulf War.”

  “Malarkey?”

  “Well, that part of it has only come out three weeks ago. It turns out that whole story was one Billings arranged from prison. His wife came out with it. Named names. There’re going to be seven different indictments. Falsifying information. Planting evidence. A bunch of computer tampering crimes.”

  “It was a lie?”

  “All of it. We know less about our Doe now than we thought we knew before your accident.”

  “He always said it was made up,” Donna said. She swallowed sourly. “I’m the one who convinced him it was true. I’m the one who told him he had to believe, he had to live.” She shook her head, weary to the bone.

  “So, has Illinois scheduled his trial yet?”

  “Well, no. See, that’s the thing…”

  “He’s been extradited already?”

  “Well, no. Not extradited.”

  “Where is he?” she asked, concern piercing her grogginess.

  “He’s in Illinois, just not in custody.”

  She sat up, and the blood drained from her face. “Not in custody?”

  “He tried to kill himself – just after hearing about your accident. They rushed him to the hospital – this very hospital, but en route he killed everybody and took the ambulance. Even overturned a semi on the highway. Got away.”

  “Mother of God. Well. God damn it, Azra. God damn it.”

  The chief glanced down, chagrined. “Yes. Yes, it’s bad. He’s giving the Chicago cops quite a time. He’s escalated. Twenty-two in the last two months.”

  Her eyes were pleading. “No. No. That’s not possible. No. He… he had such a heart, Chief. He was just a dog that had been kicked and kicked and kicked until he snapped at anything and everything, but I started to get through all of that. I saw the man trapped inside that monster, and I was bringing him out.” Donna sank back against her pillow.

  “He’s not a lost child, Donna. You’ve been asleep. You haven’t seen the papers.”

  “You don’t understand–”

  “No, you don’t understand. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger – like Bundy, like Manson. He’s brainwashed you.”

  “I love him.”

  “Damn it, Donna,” Biggs snarled. He stepped away to the window and looked out grimly. “He’s not the man you knew. He’s changed his MO, for one. He works alone, now. He takes his victims’ heads and hands and makes masks and gloves out of them. His own identity has disappeared.” He turned back to Donna. “He’s always taking on the identities of his victims. He can be anyone, anywhere, at any time. He could be me.”

  Donna stared intently in the chief’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said it. Just a figure of speech.” He paused, sniffing. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re awake. And if you’re serious about wanting to talk to him, you could help us catch him.”

  Donna couldn’t answer at first. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Finally, she managed, “Whatever you need. We’ve got to get him off the streets.”

  “All right,” he said grimly. “There’s going to be another plenary on the Son of Samael down in Chicago, three days from now. I figured, if we could get a special release from the doctor…”

  “I’ll go, regardless.”

  “There’s my girl. You’re kind of – well, you’re the expert on this guy. There’ll be FBI profilers there, discussion of proactive approaches, and all that.”

  A troubled look came into her eyes. She swallowed and looked down at her swollen abdomen. “What about…?”

  “The accident wasn’t enough. Besides, it’s a Catholic hospital, Donna. They did everything to make sure it survived.”

  She breathed, staring blankly ahead like a frightened animal.

  “You’ve still got a month to get it done legally. I’ve talked to a doctor who said she would take care of it after you’ve been stable for a week.”

  A sudden brightness came into her eyes. “No. No, I’m glad. It’s all right. I’m Catholic, too, Captain. You knew that.”

  “Yes, but in cases of rape–”

  “But this wasn’t rape. My car ran into that tree, but I survived. The baby survived. God has done something here. It’s about time that God has done something. And I’m not going to undo it. If I’m going to live, the baby will, too.”

  “You’re sure about this, Detective? The sins of the fathers, and all that. Aren’t you afraid whenever you look at him – ?”

  “There’s got to be redemption somewhere in this mess. It always takes a child to overcome the sins of a previous generation. There’s got to be redemption somewhere.”

  He sat at the breakfast counter of a small, smoky diner. A plate of sunny-side-up eggs, bacon strips, and hash browns sent steam coiling up the valley of the newspaper. His fork sliced free a rounded wedge of egg, piercing the yolk, which oozed across the plate. He lifted the wet mass of white toward his lips – not his lips, but those of the fat grocer he had slain on the loading dock. The mask was becoming one of his favorites – comfortable and realistic. It was the first mask he’d filled out with foam rubber to make the jowls and bulbous nose and rings under the eyes turn out well. He would not have sat at the breakfast counter with any other mask, much less ordered a runny egg and crumbly hash browns.

  The article he was reading was buried on page thirteen of the first section, unlike most of the stories written about him. He had almost missed the account.

  “Which would have been a great shame,” he told himself.

  KILLER’S COP GIRLFRIEND WAKES

  AP International

  Photo and Story by Blake Gaines

  Previously reported dead, the Son of Samael’s female companion, Detective Donna Leland of the Burlington, Wisconsin, police, woke from a two-month coma yesterday, according to anonymous sources at St Mary’s Hospital, Racine, Wisconsin.

  Detective Leland is widely considered the foremost expert on the man known as the Son of Samael. Police indicate that her death was falsely reported in order to keep the Son of Samael from targeting her during her coma.

  Sources in the hospital indicate that Leland is pregnant, perhaps with the child of the Son of Samael. Despite an automobile accident and a two-month coma, the unborn child survives. Detective Leland has chosen to keep the baby, according to sources. She has one month in which to have a legal abortion. Detective Leland is reported to have claimed that the child “is the only innocent.”

  Leland is scheduled to appear at tomorrow’s plenary session on catching the killer. Security will be tight at the session, open only to police personnel, fearing that the Son of Samael might try to attend the conference.

  “I thought you were dead.” A sucking breath came into him. “I died, too. It’s too late for me, now. It’s too late for us.”

  The coffee felt hot on Samael’s true lips, glued behind and beneath those of his victim. He folded the paper once, twice, and then set it beside his plate. The eggs were getting cold.

  “But it will be good to see you again, Donna, my angel,” he said to himself, tears tracing the line of spirit gum under his eyes. “I’m glad one of us still lives.”

  Sergeant Mike Uriel sat in Arlington Heights’s East High School theater. Nearly a thousand delegates were in attendance. Many were detectives, many others beat cops, administrators, dispatchers – even neighborhood watch captains, ministers, teachers, reporters, boy’s club advisors, and other average citizens. The theater had a carnival atmosphere: masses come to gawk at human grotesqueries.

  That’s why they will never catch me, thought Mike Uriel, leaning back in his seat. They all think I’m human.

  All but, perhaps, one. Detective Donna Leland spoke from a wheelchair, unable to stand for long periods. She wore a suit jacket and blouse, but in place of the slacks was a skirt that allowed room for her pregnant belly.

  �
��–I have, needless to say, learned a lot about serial criminals in my pursuit of and relationship with the Son of Samael. Profilers from the Quantico Behavioral Sciences Unit have given me a crash course in understanding the thinking of psychotics and psychopaths. Being Azra’s confidante has taught me even more. We were companions, the killer and I. We were intimate. I knew Azra the man before I knew Samael the monster.”

  The crowd’s polite hush deepened into silence. Unfair, Donna. Unfair. You said you would not testify against me. You said you would not abandon me.

  “The inevitable result of our liaison is this child I now carry, his child. The other result is an especial insight into the mind of this man. I share these insights with you in hopes, not only, of getting him off the streets, but also of helping him. Of saving him and all of us.”

  The lines are drawn now, my angel. You have betrayed me. The lines are drawn.

  “For example, is this man a psychotic or a psychopath? Is he deluded about his own nature, and therefore committing his crimes due to paranoid schizophrenia? Or does he know exactly what he is doing, merely disguising the fulfillment of his violent sexual fantasies in a guise of madness?

  “Originally, we had Keith McFarland to explain many of the disorganized, psychotic elements of these crimes. No longer. The Son of Samael has likely killed another twenty-three people without McFarland. Even so, these crimes continue to show signs of a psychotic – many clues left at the crime scenes, high-risk victims, ritualized manipulation of the body, and so forth. Remember, our man has likely committed these acts solo.”

  Yes, I committed them on my own, but was prompted by you and all of you and the hosts of Heaven and Hell and God him- self. You all are complicit in my crimes. You all are accomplices, and you all will be victims.