Rise of The Iron Eagle (The Iron Eagle Series Book 1)

by Roy A. Teel Jr.

  Jim made his way back down into the basin and to the bodies. His team arrived within ten minutes, and he put a call in to the coroner as well. “Okay people, let’s process the crime scene. We all know what and who we’re dealing with here, so let’s do a very clean job.” He grabbed Neil Baldwin, one of his sketch artists, and asked him to go up and take a report from Reginald. Neil started up the embankment but Jim called him back and met him halfway. “Oh, and be polite to him. He is quite a unique personality. I just got verbally bitch slapped by him in the nicest way.” Neil smiled and told Jim he would do his best and started up the hill.

  Jim walked back over to the bodies. The two men, one Latino, the other Black, were each put on display. Their nude bodies were arranged over trash and broken pieces of wood. Their torsos had been cut in half and laid next to each other. The Latino’s torso was under the upper half of the Black and vice versa. Their hands and feet had been removed and were placed on the wheels of two shopping carts next to each body. Their faces were contorted, and their bodies badly beaten into almost a jelly consistency. The Killer always left a calling card. Jim called for his forensic team to get samples and photos as he looked for it. He scoured the area very carefully and was just about to give up when he saw a small brown skin-colored roll under the tent five feet from the victims. He called one of his team members to bring him a pair of gloves. He grabbed the roll with a pair of tweezers. “Skin?” asked the forensic investigator. He nodded. “Do you want to read it here?” Jim looked around; he knew the killer was in the area…watching. There were so many places that he could be hiding in plain sight. He shook his head. “No…I’m not going to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction.” He bagged the skin and placed it in an evidence bag. He knew the note was nothing more than a taunting of him to catch the killer. He had read every one since he started searching for the killer nearly two decades ago. He signed off on the note sample and headed for his car. He placed it in a paper bag and drove it back to the station. When he got in he went straight to the lab and placed the roll on a glass table with bright white lights under and over it. He gently unrolled the scroll of human skin to see the message written in his victim’s blood.

  “My dear, Detective O’Brian. It was great seeing you today. I left this Swine for you to remove from the river. Filth must be dealt with. We must keep our environment clean. You of all people know that I am doing my part to clean up our river. You must do yours.

  Until next time, BR”

  Always a taunt with a hint but never anything solid to go on. The profile they worked up on the Basin River Killer had changed over the past two decades that Jim had been working on the case. The profile was much more difficult because the killer didn’t have a specific gender or race that he hunted. The crime scenes, however, were always the same, and the manner in which he tortured and killed his victims varied little. His profile had the killer as a white male between the ages of 55 and 64, between six foot and six two with a thin to medium build. What he did to his victims required a great deal of privacy and also either a sound proof location or a rural one. They had found tire tracks at several of the dump sites but nothing unique. His notes were always written on the skin of his victims. Sometimes he would kill singles, other times doubles but never more than that. And this was the first killing in nearly a year. Jim was starting to think, hope, that something had happened to him, but he was alive and well.

  When the rest of his team arrived at the lab, they met to discuss their findings. He knew that they would need to wait for the autopsy report to get an official cause of death, but he already knew what it was. They died from loss of blood due to amputation. The son of a bitch started sawing off body parts while his victims were alive and conscious. What Jim didn’t know was that someone else intercepted the call to the crime scene and was also watching the goings on.

  Francis walked across the park from the basin after he saw Jim leave with his note. He was disappointed that he didn’t read it while he was watching but those disappointments happen. “He’ll read the next one in front of me,” he mumbled to himself as he walked over to the corner of Tampa and Victory into a medical building parking lot to his van. He casually got into his van and pulled out of the lot onto Tampa and headed north toward his home in the San Fernando Valley hills. Behind him, a black Chevy Silverado turned out onto Tampa following the van from a long distance. The truck had GPS, and the driver had slid a small transmitter under the steel frame of the van. He didn’t need to worry too much about following close, he just meandered along Tampa watching the arrow on his GPS make its way up the road, making a few turns, until it stopped at 15 Parson’s Trail, lot number 7768859.

  Once Francis’ van had stopped, the driver pulled the Silverado into a Wendy’s restaurant and ordered a meal with a chocolate frosty and sat in his truck looking at the blinking arrow on his screen. He also had a police computer mounted on the dash, and he plugged in the license plate number of the van. Marcus Statler. Valencia, California. He and his wife had been reported missing many years ago according to the data on his screen. There were no wants or warrants on the plate, and its registration was nearly five years out of date. He picked up the radio in his truck. “Dispatch, this is Swenson. I’m taking a dinner break. Over.” “10–4 Swenson. You’re Code 7. Out.” He finished his meal and went into the restaurant to use the bathroom. It was getting dark as he approached his truck when he heard a familiar voice calling to him from a distance. He turned around, and it was Jim O’Brian. “John?” He walked toward Jim and the two men met in the middle of the lot. There was a quick exchange of handshakes and Jim asked, “How the hell have you been? I haven’t seen you in months.” He smiled and started to walk Jim back to his car. “Hi Jim. I’m sorry. I’ve been buried with a couple of cases. I also took some vacation time. How are you doing?” Jim asked if he was still working white collar crime downtown. John smiled, “No…I was promoted…um…it will be two years next month. I’m working homicide.”

  “I had no idea. The last time I saw you, you were the lead detective in money crimes. Congratulations on the promotion. I haven’t seen you at any crime scenes that I’ve been on.” “You probably won’t. I’m working West LA and Santa Monica. It’s been pretty slow, thankfully, nothing too hair raising. I hear you. Can’t say the same.” Jim laughed, “Nope, I’m on my way home from the office. We just found two new victims of the Basin River Killer.” John nodded as they walked, “Yea, I heard the call come over the scanner. What do you have?” “Two males, hard to put an age on them. One Latino, the other Black, both mutilated. Waiting while the coroner works the scene with my people. Are you going over?” “I haven’t received a call to investigate that one, Jim. Do you need help? I can call in and ask to be assigned to the case if you like.” “No. My team is wrapping things up and will head back to the lab. It would be nice if you could stop by and take a look at the note.” “Skin again?” Jim nodded. “Let me guess. It was written to you.” Jim nodded again. “He’s getting even bloodier in his killings. I’ve been doing this for a lot of years, John. I don’t have the coroner’s cause of death yet, but I could see it in their faces. He really made them suffer.” “He enjoys watching his victims suffer, Jim; he gets off on it.” “There’s never any sign of sexual assault.” “That’s not why this guy kills. He doesn’t do it for sexual arousal; he kills for the adrenaline rush. He likes the power he has over them. He says he’s ‘cleaning the river,’ but what he’s really doing is playing God!” “A God complex?” “Oh yea, classic. You don’t have that in your profile?” Jim shook his head. “It never crossed my mind. I think I’m going to ask Steve Hoffman to come in on this one and do a profile. Hey…what do you say? You want to come down to the office tomorrow and meet with Steve and me? The things you just said about the killer leave me thinking a new pair of eyes might help us revise the profile on this guy.”

  John finished off the frosty and said, “You bet. I’ve never worked with Ste
ve, but I’ve heard that he’s a brilliant profiler.” “He is, but he’s been distracted with Barry’s death and trying to profile The Eagle. Actually, we’re both working on that one. I just admitted to him today that I knew that Jill Makin and Barry were related.” “Really? I didn’t know that you and Barry were that close.” “Yea, we worked together in the U.S. Marshal’s Service over twenty years ago. We were partners of sorts until I was shot and left the department.” “I remember the newspaper story when you were shot. I’m sorry to hear about Barry.” There was an awkward pause and then John continued. “Um…I know you put a lot of time into the Basin River case and those notes. I read a few. He’s been elusive.” “Taunting me is more the word for it. He wants me to catch him. He’s going to slip up eventually, and we’ll get him.” John threw his cup in a trash can next to Jim’s car, “I think you can count on that!” Jim looked at him strangely. “What do you mean?” “Sooner or later, they all slip up.” “Well, you have that right. I just hope we can get him into custody before another person suffers at his hand.” John nodded and said he had to get back on duty. “No problem. Can you come by tomorrow about two p.m.?” “You bet, Jim. I’ll be there. I’m happy to give you my two cents worth and to meet Special Agent Hoffman.” “Great!” Jim had a big smile as he got into his car, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be safe out there.” John extended the same to Jim and walked back to his truck. He called in and cleared the Code 7 and started driving up Tampa toward the hills with the Parson’s Trail location blinking on his GPS.

  Chapter Nine

  “This whole mess is just getting

  to me. Of course, the kid is

  welcome. You never know who

  can shed new light on old ideas.”

  Francis had pulled the van around the back and was hosing it out when he heard the sound of a vehicle on the access road. He didn’t give it a lot of thought and just finished up and then pulled the van back in front of his cabin and went inside. He took off the black sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt he was wearing until he was down to a pair of black shorts and a black t-shirt. The logo on the front of the shirt had a happy face on it in bright yellow with the slogan, ‘Have a Nice Day!’ He placed the clothes on top of a hamper in his bedroom and started the shower.

  The Eagle pulled up the access road until he could see the lights of the cabin in the distance. He parked well out of sight and walked up the road to the front of Francis’ home and surveyed the layout. He looked at the steel gate but saw no latch. He was sure it had a transponder, and, sure enough, he located a small antenna connected to a garage door opener. It was a very common model.

  He could hear water running in the cabin and the sound of singing. “So Francis likes to sing in the shower,” he said as he walked back to his vehicle. He pulled a case from the passenger seat and walked back to the steel gate protecting the cabin. It was dark, and he was dressed in full black body armor, as well as having a pair of night vision goggles on top of his head. He opened the case and pulled out a laptop. He accessed the Internet, bringing up the owner’s manual for the garage door opener that was connected to the gate, as well as all existing codes to operate it remotely. It took less than thirty seconds. The shower was still going when he pressed the enter key on the laptop, and the gate started to creak open. He heard the shower shut off as the gate started opening and heard the sound of a large vehicle heading in his general direction. The Eagle moved into the brush across from the open gate and waited.

  Francis stepped from the shower clean and refreshed. He grabbed his towel and began drying off when he heard his gate opening and a vehicle on the access road. He calmly walked over to his bedroom closet and took out a Remington twelve gauge shotgun. He had it loaded with .410-000, triple-aught, buck shot. It had great close up kill capability and was perfect for home defense. He put on a pair of shorts and a shirt and walked toward the front door. He slowly opened it and looked toward the open gate. He could see lights coming toward his cabin. He placed the gun on the edge of his porch and walked out to the gate. As he approached, a county fire truck came rambling by. He waved while standing in the middle of the road, and they stopped. A fireman stepped from the vehicle in full gear, approaching Francis. The engine was still running with its high beams and orange and yellow running lights on. It was like Christmas. The sound of the engine made it hard to hear. A large shadow passed between the light and darkness in the direction of the house, but Francis was too distracted to make much of a note of it.

  Francis motioned and when the firefighter was right in front of him he asked if everything was okay. He yelled that everything was fine, and that they were on maneuvers and trying out some new equipment that the department had just installed. The firefighter explained that they were equipping all units with remote transponders that would allow them to scan garage door codes and open them remotely in the event of a fire and evacuation situation, so they could see if there were people or vehicles in the garages. “This is new technology, so we’ve been out here doing some testing at our training facility with different transponders. Is there a problem, sir?” “My gate is open, and I didn’t open it,” Francis said loudly but calmly. “Sorry about that. It might have been us. The unit scans arbitrary yet common remote codes. It has a pretty long range, so it might have been us. He pulled the radio on his coat close to his mouth, and Francis could hear him ask if they still had the unit operating. Francis looked around for the source of the shadow and saw two coyotes heading toward his home through the darkened light. The driver shut off the engine and several firefighters approached the two men. The driver called out, “I didn’t get that last call. What’s up?” “I was trying to see if you still had the remote unit on.” The driver nodded and walked back to the truck and pushed a button, and the gate on Francis’ house began to close. A smile of relief grew across his face. “Thank you so much for stopping guys. I was afraid that someone was trying to break in.”

  They told him it was fine and asked if he wanted them to reopen his gate just to be sure. Francis nodded emphatically, and they allowed the unit to open it again. He thanked them and started back toward his driveway and the open gate. The truck started up and drove off. Francis waved at them as he walked back across his yard. He was relieved and picked up the shotgun from the front porch and walked back into his cabin, closing the gate behind him from a button inside the front door.

  It was half past eleven when Jim called Steve to see if he could meet with him tomorrow to work on a profile of the Basin River Killer. He got voicemail and left a message to call him back. He was done for the day and drove over to Santiago’s for a beer. It was a weeknight, and all was quiet in the bar. He ordered some chicken wings to snack on and sipped his beer, trying to wind down from the day’s events. Valente came over to the table and sat down with him. “How are you doing, Detective O’Brian?” Jim smiled and put his beer down. “How is it that you speak perfect English and your father does so poorly?” Valente laughed. “My father doesn’t like the American vocabulary, not to mention that the English language is so difficult to learn. In Spanish, we have a simple spoken and written structure. It’s not hard to understand at all.” “Where did you go to school?” “I graduated from East Beverly High and went to college at UCLA.” “You graduated from UCLA?” Valente nodded. “What did you study?” “English.” Jim busted out in laughter. Valente followed. Javier was seated behind the bar and looked over at the two laughing men. He yelled out to Valente, “Valente…. cerveza mesa la dosis!” Valente pushed away from the table and said, “Si…papa,” and picked up the beers for table two. Jim saw Steve walk in the front door and yelled out to Javier, “Javier, dos cerveza, por favor.” Steve walked over and sat down, asking Jim when he started speaking Spanish. “Hey, I can do a lot of things you don’t know about. What brings you out at this late hour?” Steve was sitting in the chair across from Jim. Actually, when he sat it was more like a controlled fall. “I just wrapped up a call with Washington an
d need something to wash the taste of politics out of my mouth.” They laughed. The beers came, and they toasted a long day and sat quietly drinking.

  After a few minutes Jim said, “I ran into an old friend this evening while I was driving back to Chatsworth.” “Okay.” “He’s been a detective with LAPD for quite a few years, and he used to work a white collar crimes desk but was recently promoted to homicide.” “Anyone I would know?” “I doubt it. Name’s John Swenson.” Steve shook his head, “Never heard of him. Homicide, huh? Good for him. I don’t recall the name from any of the scenes we’ve been on lately.” “You wouldn’t. He works West Hollywood and Santa Monica.” “Oh…tough beat.” He said it laughingly and Jim nodded. “I invited him to come down to the station tomorrow to talk with us while we work up a new profile on the Basin River Killer. I thought since he’s a rookie to homicide he could learn a thing or two.” “I don’t get paid to train multijurisdictional agency personnel.” “Oh…don’t get an attitude, Steve. Shit. I figured since we’re going to be there with our teams the kid could stop in. Besides, he has some interesting ideas on the killer.” “Well, shit, Jim, why didn’t you just say that…hell, he can work up profiles for some of our other cases, too.” He took a drink of his beer and then apologized. “This whole mess is just getting to me. Of course, the kid is welcome. You never know who can shed new light on old ideas.”

  Jim ordered two more beers, and Valente brought them to the table. “Steve Hoffman, I want to introduce you to Valente Santiago. Valente, this is Steve Hoffman, or should I say Special Agent Steve Hoffman? FBI, Los Angeles field office.” “Nice to meet you, Valente.” “It’s one a.m., Javier,” Jim bellowed, “can Valente sit with me and my amigo for a few minutes and talk?” Javier looked over at the three men with a disapproving eye. “Si,” he responded wearily. “Gracias.” “So,” said Valente, “what’s the topic of conversation?” Steve seemed surprised by his good English, and Jim smiled and recapped Valente’s UCLA experience. “Impressive,” said Steve, “so are you going to follow in your father’s footsteps and take over the bar?” “He wants me to, but I really want to go to law school.” “That’s a noble ambition. I take it your father doesn’t agree?” Valente shook his head. Steve asked if he had put in any applications for law school. Valente nodded and said, “I just received an acceptance letter from UCLA.” “A very good school,” Steve responded. Jim started laughing, and Valente looked at him like he had three heads. “I’m sorry, Valente. I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing at my amigo. He graduated from UCLA School of Law many, many years ago.” “So, you’re a lawyer?” Steve shook his head and told him he worked for the FBI.” “What do you do at the Bureau?” Steve sighed, “I work in the Behavioral Science Office of the Los Angeles Homicide Division.” Valente looked at him oddly and asked how a law degree qualified him as a behavioral specialist. Jim couldn’t help himself, “Yea man…how does that qualify you as a profiler?” “I have a MSW from UCLA with an emphasis in criminal behavior.” “Ah… so you’re trained in matters of the mind.” Steve nodded. “Why bother with law school?” “At the time I was going to school, it was part of a package deal I had with my employer.” “Did they pay for your education?” “Pretty much, after my masters program.” “Wow…who did you work for?” Jim just smiled. “The FBI. There was a time when it was part of the requirement to be an agent; you had to have a law or accounting degree. All of that has changed now, but then it was part of what the Bureau wanted in its agents.”