by Julie Kramer
A blanket seemed wrapped around my body. I shifted my legs and rocked back and forth to loosen the cover. I tried locating something with a sharp edge, like a tire iron. But any tools must have been stored in the space under the floor mat along with the spare. I was probably lying on top of prime gizmos, but didn’t have enough room or dexterity to pry the compartment open.
My purse and cell phone were missing. No Saint Saturday-Night Special.
The vehicle was moving fast; no point in kicking against the sides or yelling for help. That would only tell my captor I was alert. Best he think me dazed and helpless.
Our speed increased. Most likely we were traveling on a freeway. No idea what direction, or how far, but I decided to stay quiet until the car stopped.
I had no doubt Karl Dolezal was behind the wheel. I wondered why he hadn’t just beaten me to death instead of slamming the trunk shut. Clearly he wanted to take me somewhere. But why not simply kill me first? He could draw an angel around my body any time.
He might be using the blanket to avoid traces of my DNA in his vehicle. That made me determined to leave something of myself behind in case searchers found the car and needed proof it had carried me to my death. While that strategy might not save my life, it could doom his.
I scratched my wrist until I felt wetness. Blood, I hoped. Sticky. Pushing the blanket aside, I rubbed my arm against the carpet. Then I spit on the floor of the trunk. Again and again. Until I felt thirsty.
To take my mind off lying in my own saliva and blood, I started tearing off my fingernails and shoving them in corners of the trunk to be discovered during a forensics search. I knocked against an edge of metal along the back. It wasn’t razor-sharp, but felt honed enough that it might cut through my binding.
Rolling on my side, I held my wrists up against it and rubbed back and forth. My position was awkward, and I had to pause to rest, but already I could feel the fastening loosen.
I had no idea how much time had passed. The tire hum was making me drowsy. I tried to stay awake by sawing through my ties and thinking of Nick. Briefly, I fingered my engagement ring.
And because I could think of no one else to turn to, I prayed to my guardian angel. “Ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide.”
CHAPTER 71
His gas gauge was low.
Dolezal would have rather waited to fill up the tank after his mission, but didn’t think he’d make it to their destination. He pulled into a service station and parked at the pump farthest from the cash register. Then he remembered not to use credit cards because his movements could be tracked. Dolezal also couldn’t risk playing pump pirate and driving off without paying because gas stations always videotape license plates.
He had plenty of cash, thus the bill was no problem. Riley Spartz didn’t seem to be awake, so he decided it was safe to leave her for a few minutes. His disappointment would be to open the car trunk and find her dead.
Dolezal walked inside the convenience store, and handed two twenties to the clerk. The young woman took the money, fingered the bills and then looked at him without making eye contact.
He didn’t like that look. But he also didn’t want to be remembered, so he took his receipt and left without saying much beyond “thanks.” Glancing back from the car, the clerk seemed to be holding money up to the light. And that made him nervous.
He made sure he drove off slowly. But a couple miles later, flashing lights came up behind him. The officer gave a short burst of siren, indicating he should pull over.
Dolezal wasn’t speeding. He thought about hitting the accelerator but didn’t have much hope that Nanna’s old Taurus could outrun the cop’s Ford Crown Vic in a chase. He hoped he was being stopped because small-town cops like ticketing out-of-state drivers instead of their neighbors.
He pulled over, and the officer parked behind him on the side of the road. The cop sat in his squad for a minute, probably checking Dolezal’s plates to make sure the vehicle wasn’t stolen.
Dolezal opened the glove compartment and went for the gun. If the officer asked him to step outside the vehicle, he would fire. He watched in his mirror as the uniform approached, carrying a flashlight which he shined in Dolezal’s face.
“Driver’s license, please.”
“Excuse me, Officer, I do not believe I was exceeding the speed limit.”
“You weren’t. Now may I see your license?”
He handed over the plastic, confident it would pass muster—both visually and through any computer crime check. Dolezal had made sure the identity he’d lifted came from a client with a clean criminal record.
“What probable cause do you have to pull me over?” He thought a little lawyer jargon might speed things up.
“Counterfeiting,” the officer said.
Dolezal couldn’t believe the accusation. “What?”
“You paid for that gas with two counterfeit bills.”
“This is some misunderstanding,” Dolezal said. “If they were fake, I had no idea.” Then he realized the twenties were the money he took from Riley Spartz’s wallet. Damn her.
“Wait here for a moment.” The cop headed back to his squad car to run the driver’s license.
Dolezal still thought he might slip out of this mix-up by offering to pay for the gas. Until he heard a woman screaming for help.
Riley Spartz was awake.
• • •
The car had slowed, then halted. Smelling gas, I realized we must be filling up at a pump. I was tempted to call out then, but knew I would only get one chance. I had to be sure a rescuer was within earshot. I heard nothing, so I stayed quiet.
A few minutes later, we started moving again and I knew my opportunity was lost. I resumed trying to cut through my binds. I felt some give and knew I was close.
Then I heard an unusual noise, and we stopped again. The sound might have been a siren blast. I listened carefully and thought I heard footsteps. Then voices. Definitely more than one. That’s when I knew the time had come to scream for my life.
Dolezal could see that the patrol officer was not prepared for the scream. While the cop glanced around, fumbling for his weapon, Dolezal stuck his head and arm out the car window and fired.
The cop fell down, injured but not dead.
Then Dolezal, in his Angel of Death mode, tossed the gun on the passenger seat, started the engine, and floored reverse, backing over the officer.
Dolezal climbed out of the car to retrieve his driver’s license. The officer still seemed to be breathing, but was in no position to call for assistance. He had apparently dropped the driver’s license. His assailant spread his hands across the cold ground, crawling on his knees, searching for the lost plastic or at least the flashlight.
He knew he didn’t have much time. Another officer would soon be dispatched to check on this one. And his vehicle license plate had already been radioed to police headquarters. But nobody knew his final destination. He would take back roads to Iowa City.
And then he found the license, and got back on his feet.
The reporter was still shrieking; he banged his fist on the trunk to silence her.
CHAPTER 72
When Dolezal reached the Iowa City town limits, he was ready to execute his plan. And the TV reporter, Riley Spartz, would be the only victim he slew in the open. With the others, he’d always taken care to act behind fences or walls.
The time was just after midnight, so he wasn’t worried about witnesses. He knew he was trespassing, but he especially enjoyed driving through the cemetery in the dark.
He parked next to his dear Black Angel, shutting off the engine and lights before meditating a moment. Then he reached for the candle stick because he appreciated the personal contact and wanted to get used to the grip.
I heard the car door open and suspected he was coming for me. When the trunk opened, I was startled by the face of the Black Angel staring down at me. Even though my hands were free, I kept them behind my back so he
would think me vulnerable. He dragged me to the cement slab in front of the statue, and slammed me down. Then stood over me, arm raised.
I rolled and ran, taking him by surprise.
Dolezal knew the general direction of my hiding place, and proceeded to search methodically from headstone to headstone. The full moon offered enough light for his hunt. If I moved, he would see me. If I stayed still, he would find me.
Cat and mouse in a dark cemetery. I tried not to squeak.
Dolezal held his breath. If he listened closely enough, he might hear her pant or wheeze. She must be trying the same trick, because he heard nothing.
While he could not see her, he was certain she could see him. That gave her an edge. He decided to replace suspense with shock by rushing toward a nearby crypt. If she was crouched there, she would be his. If not, she might be startled into giving away her position.
Then the chase could commence.
He never doubted the outcome. Before dawn, a freshly dead body, outlined in chalk, would pantomime the statue of his beloved.
A shriek left his throat as he made his wild blitz.
My ankle was too sore to count on consistently. So I needed a place for a last stand. I decided on Dolezal’s car because I was closer to the automobile than he was.
If the keys were inside, I could escape. Otherwise, I would buy time by locking the doors, leaning on the horn, and praying for a neighbor to call 911 and complain about the noise. The vehicle seemed too old for autolocks.
My confrontation with him would take place there. I was trying to decide when to up and run when he made an odd noise and raced in a direction away from me. My only chance. But almost immediately, he perceived my destination and raced me.
I got there first, but once inside, my plan changed because waiting on the seat to rescue me was my true guardian angel—Saint Saturday-Night Special.
“Drop it, or I’ll shoot.” I cocked the hammer like Ed showed me, then climbed out of the car carefully. “I mean it.”
I had intended to order him to “Freeze, sucker,” but even though I’d practiced, the words did not come.
Dolezal let his weapon, a candlestick, fall to the ground without any fuss. Daylight was hours away. I couldn’t stand watch over him that long. The cemetery was empty, except for us. I thought about firing in the air as a call for help, but wasn’t sure how many bullets remained. And couldn’t risk running out of ammo.
The trunk was still open, and seemed like the ideal place to keep him until I could get assistance. Let Dolezal experience the tight quarters.
“Toss me the keys,” I said.
Instead, he flung them far off into the darkness without saying a word. He folded his arms across his chest in defiance.
“Okay, climb in the trunk.” I motioned with my gun that I was serious.
Instead he moved backward, away from the vehicle, to pose in front of the sculpture, his arms mimicking her wings. I could no longer see his face, and that’s when I noticed he wore plastic gloves.
“Fine, Dolezal. Say your good-byes to your Black Angel. Where you’re going, you won’t see her again. You’ll live the rest of your life behind bars. Prison can be hell on earth. And I will pray that you suffer misery for all the pain you’ve caused.”
He made no move toward the vehicle, merely shrugged as if my remarks were irrelevant. Then apparently changed his mind and decided I deserved a lecture. For such a quiet guy, he surprised me by being articulate.
“The Angel of Death was my destiny. I’ll be more famous than Ted Bundy or Charles Manson. Son of Sam. The Zodiac. Maybe even Jack the Ripper.”
He certainly was well versed on notorious serial killers in history. I detected no shame in his voice, only pride.
“Behind bars, I’ll be a star. A real-life Hannibal Lecter. Law enforcement officers will want to interview me. Psychiatrists will want to study me. They’ll scan my brain. And examine my motivations.”
He was probably right about that. For cooperative research sessions with him, authorities would make his prison stay palatable. Just then, I regretted Minnesota didn’t have a death penalty. Then I realized that neither did Iowa, North Dakota, or Wisconsin. He’d done his murderous homework, and realized he could dodge execution.
I was starting to worry that as an inmate, he might be smart enough to escape from prison; or as a defendant, beat a murder rap by pleading insanity.
“Get in the trunk, Dolezal.”
He didn’t seem to fear me or my gun. In this spooky graveyard, I was uneasy that he might catch me off guard. I could still end up dead before morning.
“My trial will be the trial of the century.” His spiel continued with enthusiasm.
He smirked in anticipation of his celebrity. During our other encounters, I couldn’t recall him ever smiling. His face, once stoic, now beamed like salvation was his alone. Under his breath, I heard snickering.
He was right about his destiny. He would become a champion of evil. And I couldn’t stand it.
Society would grow more fascinated with him each year. Anniversary stories would appear. No one would remember the names of his victims, but Karl Dolezal would become a household word. And when he finally died, headlines across the globe would publish clever lines like Grim Reaper Finally Claims Angel of Death. For generations, his grisly deeds, like those of his bloodthirsty idols, would be glamorized.
To reward him with infamy seemed so wrong.
And I could see only one way to prevent it.
I took two steps forward and pulled the trigger.
In the past year, I’d seen too many people die up close. But this was very different. They had wrought their own demise—by their own hand, own carelessness, certainly by their own demons.
Now, Karl Dolezal lie bleeding across the cement slab at the foot of the Black Angel. And I was culpable.
His eyes locked on those of the statue. Hers black as stone, his black as glass. He struggled to throw wide his arms as if embracing her wings. All the while, his chest wound gushed blood that looked more black than red.
He muttered, “Do not weep for me, dear mother, I am at peace in my cool grave.” It took a second for me to realize he was quoting the inscription from the tree-stump marker over the buried son.
Then I heard a final word slip from his lips. “Teresa.”
As his life slipped away, I had an overwhelming sense Teresa Dolezal Feldevert was transporting his soul to hell.
CHAPTER 73
In a midnight instant, I, too, had become an angel of death.
I told the Iowa City police how I acted in self-defense using Karl Dolezal’s revolver. That seemed more prudent than a long-drawn-out explanation of why an unregistered firearm belonged to me.
The police had questions about the events leading up to me blowing a hole in my abductor’s chest. So I outlined a complicated scenario about disarming my foe, and how he had then resisted my plan to lock him in the car trunk by charging at me in the dark with a candlestick.
They wondered why the candlestick was so far from the scene of the shooting.
I shrugged. “It happened so fast, I don’t remember even pulling the trigger.”
Certainly, that part of my statement was a lie. Pulling the trigger is something I will never forget. Strange how an action that took a mere split second is now one of the paramount memories of my life.
Neither the police nor the media wanted to dig too deep. After all, Dolezal was a most unsympathetic victim—a delusional young man who believed a cemetery statue was urging him to kill.
They confiscated the firearm for forensic tests and determined from gunpowder residue and fingerprints that I had indeed fired the lethal shot. What puzzled them was that my fingerprints were on the remaining bullets in the gun. So I lied about emptying the firing chamber afterward to check whether any ammo was left, just in case my attacker had an accomplice lurking behind another tombstone.
Everyone told me how lucky I was to be alive.
; Yet I wondered if I had become another pawn of Teresa Dolezal Feldevert. Perhaps I wouldn’t have fired the fatal shot if our confrontation had not happened on her turf. Might I have fallen under her power? Or was I just making excuses, telling myself it was really her spirit that pulled the trigger? Maybe I was seeing ghosts to avoid accountability for my own actions. Or perhaps she was determined that someone, anyone—Karl Dolezal or me—die on her grave that night.
I shook those ideas aside, because I believe in news. I believe in facts. The paranormal has no place in my world.
Regardless, the episode changed me. Because when I killed Dolezal, a little bit of me died inside.
I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. What was the infamous quote from the German philosopher Nietzsche? He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.
So was I a newshound or a hellhound? I was no longer sure.
Father Mountain was the only one who knew the truth of what happened that night, but he was bound by the confidentiality of confession.
Not even Garnett suspected my sin. I wasn’t sure I’d ever tell him. The fewer people who know something, the easier it is to pretend it never happened.
“I’ve never killed anyone,” he said. “All my years in law enforcement and I’ve never actually drawn my gun in the line of duty. I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
I shook my head. No, he couldn’t. What I was going through was beyond his imagination. I worried about trying to build a life with someone while keeping that big a secret from him. And not just a secret, a lie. But I didn’t see much choice. I didn’t want to put him in the position of choosing between me and the law. I had no doubt he would chose me, but I also feared a choice like that might change him. And us.
I’m not denying what I did that night in the graveyard; I took responsibility in the confessional. “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry.”