by M. Z. Kelly
“I don’t even know what case I’m working yet. I should get the details in the morning. How’s Bernie?”
She turned the phone, and I saw that Bernie was on the floor. His ears perked up when he heard my voice, and he came over as I took a moment, engaging in some doggy talk with him.
“He’s fine,” Mo said, turning the phone back in their direction. My other best friend in the world was in her thirties, African-American, and heavyset, with an addiction to wigs. I saw that she had a bright red topper, as she went on. “I got him some of them Schnitzel Snaps that he loves.”
“Just don’t let him overeat.”
“He’s already gained five pounds,” Natalie said.
“Maybe we should get him a doggy girdle,” Mo agreed.
It was their way of trying to get under my skin, something they were both experts at. We’d all recently moved into the Craven House in the Hollywood Hills. The residence was a landmark, because the former owner’s son had murdered the entire family there one night. The dilapidated, sprawling house was now sometimes used as a backdrop for movies. My friends had negotiated reduced rent on the place in return for them working security. It was a little bit like living in a haunted house, but I’d grown accustomed to the place in a short period of time.
The phone was turned slightly, and I saw that Otto was in the background. Natalie said something to him about cocktails before he scurried off. We’d found our resident manservant living in our attic after we’d moved in. He’d been employed by the couple who had previously rented the house and had stayed behind after they left, having no place else to go.
My friends had taken pity on Otto, partly because he’d agreed to act as our live-in butler, free of charge. I’d grown fond of him, after learning that he’d been fired as the headmaster of an east coast boys’ school a few years back. Our butler had dated a student’s divorced mother, something that violated the school’s code of ethics. The result had been the loss of a job he’d loved, and a life-long case trying to recover from a broken heart.
“We got us a situation that we might need your help with when you get back,” Natalie said, after turning the phone back in her direction.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Jimmy,” Mo said, again fighting for screen space. “He dug the dirt on a mobster named Lucky Scarfo and has gone missing. Myrna hasn’t seen him in a couple days and is going nuts.”
“Jimmy” was Jimmy Sweets, the owner of the PI firm where they worked. He gave the term lowlife new meaning, as in being something equivalent to pond scum on the evolutionary scale. Myrna was his bossy, loud wife.
“Jimmy’s missing, as in you think he’s dead?” I asked.
“Na. We think he’s probably just lying low somewhere, trying to stay out of the line of fire.”
“But we think he’s got some major dirty dirt on the mobster,” Natalie said. “And Lucky’s not somebody you wanna cross. I heard he’s meaner than a bull in a fat man’s rodeo.”
“If you think he’s in real trouble, you need to call the police. You might even want to talk to Leo about what’s going on.”
Leo was my former partner, who was still working out of Hollywood Station. He was one of the good guys, someone you could always count on to do the right thing.
“We’ll see how things go,” Mo said. “In the meantime, baby sis and me are busy with Dr. Doris.”
“She’s gone mega-viral,” Natalie agreed, referring to their Internet avatar, who dispensed dating and sex advice, not to mention peddling an aphrodisiac. A week earlier, my friends had photoshopped my head onto the virtual sex therapist’s voluptuous body, without my permission.
Natalie continued. “We got us over a million hits.”
“I hope you’re not still using my likeness.”
“You been retired. Tex gave Dr. D head, as in a new noggin, if you get me drift. Our new Dr. Doris looks kinda like a movie star.”
Tex was Natalie’s boyfriend, a brainiac with more gray matter than common sense, who had developed their avatar and website.
Natalie went on, mentioning that she had the “lady-hots” for Dr. Doris, adding, “If I ever decide to go to the fem side, I might give her a go.”
I started to end the call, when Mo mentioned her family situation. “My Uncle Fred’s gonna be here at the end of the week and stay with us for a few days. I’m just warning you in case you get back and he’s still here. He sometimes rubs people the wrong way.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s a human hemorrhoid,” Natalie said. “And he farts like a trooper with a broken pooper.”
“He ain’t that bad,” Mo said. “But he can be a little irritating at times.”
There was a knock on my door.
“I’ve got to run,” I told my friends. “Take care of Bernie, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
I ended the call and found Olivia standing at my door.
“Get dressed,” she said. “Something’s breaking on the case we’ve been assigned. It’s somebody they call ‘the Angel.’”
THREE
As we walked toward the conference room where the agents and profilers working the Angel case were gathered, Olivia told us she’d gotten some word about our new assignment when we were finished working with the feds.
“Bronson’s going to allow us to continue working Hollywood Station, but he’s assigning us a new lieutenant—Harry Byrd. Word has it he’s coming in to kick some butt.”
I groaned. “I’ve heard about him, and it’s nothing good.”
Olivia smiled. “You didn’t hear me repeat it, but one of our co-workers said we’ve definitely been given the bird.”
We were met by Special Agent Emma Collins, the head of the task force, outside the conference room where her agents had already gathered. After introductions, Collins led us inside, saying, “The Angel has been streaming live for the past half hour. Fair warning: this isn’t going to be pretty.”
We had no idea what she meant until we took seats at a table where about a dozen agents, local law enforcement personnel, and profilers were seated. A large monitor on the far wall was transmitting the horrifying images that Collins had warned us about.
A nude man, who looked more like the devil than an angel, was on the screen. His face was streaked with red and black paint, and he wore a shoulder length silver and gold wig. When he turned toward his victim, I saw that he had white wings, fully adorned with feathers, affixed to his back. The scene was like something out of a house of horrors.
My eyes then focused in on his victim. The young woman looked to be around twenty. She was nude and trussed up to the ceiling with ropes. Her screams sent chills down my spine as her tormentor used a knife to cut her face and breasts.
We got more details about what we were seeing from the head of the task force, as the images continued to stream live on the monitor. “This has been up on the Internet for about fifteen minutes. He sexually assaulted her before...” She took a breath. “...before this.”
“Do we have any idea about his identity?” Olivia asked.
Collins, who was probably in her forties, with dark eyes and long brown hair that was swept over one shoulder, shook her head. “We don’t have an ID on either the perpetrator or the victim. The stream is on a half-dozen websites, including Facebook. We’ve asked the sites to take it down, but, so far...” She exhaled. “...you can see that they haven’t acted.”
“Any way to trace where it’s originating?” I asked.
A man who introduced himself as Tom Wilson with the FBI’s cybercrimes taskforce answered. “The originating IP address is masked. The streaming is coming off the dark web and is being run through a host of servers, some overseas, that can’t be traced.”
We all watched in silence, feeling powerless to do anything. The horrific images continued for several minutes before the Angel walked over and smiled at the camera.
“It’s time to end tonight’s session,” he said in a deep, menacing voice.
“But not to worry, I’ll be back.”
The end came quickly after that. He used a knife on the woman’s throat that silenced her screams and ended her life. When it was over, he casually walked over and shut off the camera.
The room was silent for a long moment before Emma Collins addressed the group by introducing us. “LAPD detectives Kate Sexton and Olivia Quest have just been reassigned to our taskforce. They’re here because, as you all know, we believe the Angel began his reign of terror in Southern California. We’re hoping they can offer some insight if we can eventually link him to that area.”
At her request, the other members of the taskforce took a couple minutes, introducing themselves. I learned that, in addition to the FBI agents, some of the law enforcement personnel were from cities and counties where the Angel had been at work in the past. There were also a couple profilers in the group, including a behavioral specialist, on loan to the FBI from NYPD, named Hayden Kinnear. He told us he’d been following the Angel and offering his expertise on the case for the past several years.
“You said that our suspect began his killing spree in Southern California,” I said to Collins after the introductions. “What can you tell us about that?”
“I’ll defer to Agent Kinnear, since he’s the expert on the Angel,” Collins said, glancing at him before focusing on a stack of paperwork in front of her.
Kinnear was probably in his fifties, with wavy brown hair, streaked with gray, and steel blue eyes. He made apologies to the other members of the taskforce. “I’m sure most of you already know the history, so please bear with me for a moment.” He looked at Olivia and me. “We believe the Angel began his killing spree in the Bixby Knolls area of Los Angeles County back in 2006.”
The profiler used his laptop to project some images of that neighborhood on the TV monitor. “The Knolls is an iconic neighborhood in Long Beach, with most of the homes built before World War II.” He smiled. “You might know that it’s been the backdrop for several TV shows and movies over the years. Ironically, one of those shows was Dexter, a series about a serial killer.”
“I know the area well,” Olivia said. “I had a friend who lived there a few years back.”
Kinnear nodded as a two-story white house with blue shutters appeared on the monitor. “This was the home of Monica and William Montrose. On the night of January 13th, 2006, their daughter, Carrie Ann, age eighteen, was murdered while her parents were away for the night.” Several screen shots appeared on the monitor, showing the victim’s body. She was nude and had been bludgeoned to death on the bed in the master bedroom. “As you can see, numerous cuts were inflicted, indicating the torture session probably lasted several hours.”
“How do we know it was the work of the Angel?” Olivia asked.
“We didn’t know, at first. This killing was one of several that occurred in Southern California during the latter part of the last decade. At the time, the press referred to the crimes as the work of a killer they dubbed “the Midnight Intruder”. Since then, DNA evidence from multiple crimes in Southern California and several other states have been entered into CODIS, all linked to the Angel. We’re dealing with a killer who has been at work for over a decade and has killed in multiple states.”
CODIS was the FBI’s combined DNA index system, which collected evidence on crimes throughout the country.
“I take it there’s been no matches to anything else in the system,” I said.
Kinnear shook his head. “DNA evidence has been left at virtually every crime scene, but there’s been no hits to anything on file.”
“Meaning our suspect has no criminal record,” Olivia said.
“Unless it’s something minor or has somehow been missed. Most states currently take DNA samples for felony convictions and send it to the database.”
“How many states are we talking about?” I asked.
“The Angel had three victims in your area, before moving on to Texas in 2008, where he took that state’s first victim.” We saw several images of victims and the associated crime scenes flash across the monitor. “There were four victims in and around San Antonio before he went to work in Florida. Since then, he’s been at work in three other states, all of them on the east coast.”
“He’s also attacked men,” I said, having seen some photographs of male victims on the screen.
“Yes. In some cases, he ties up a husband and wife, and sexually attacks both victims, before ending their lives.”
I asked a question that I dreaded hearing the answer to. “How many victims are we talking about all together?”
Agent Collins looked up from her paperwork and answered. “Sixteen homicides have been definitively linked to the Angel, but there may be others that we’ve missed. Tonight’s victim will make his seventeenth known homicide.”
FOUR
The room was silent as Olivia and I felt the impact of what we’d heard slowly settling in. I’d worked some difficult cases in the past, but the brutality and length of time the Angel had been at work was like nothing I’d ever encountered.
“I take it there have been no prints or other evidence that might give us something to go on,” Olivia said.
“Nothing, other than his signature,” Kinnear said.
“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘signature.’”
The NYPD profiler looked at the monitor as he put up several new images. “The Angel usually takes one or more victims within seventy-two hours after the first killing, then kills again a few days later. There’s been several theories about his killing cycle, including some conjecture about past trauma he may have experienced and latency periods, but no one knows why he follows this pattern.
“The Angel also leaves something at almost every crime scene. Sometimes it’s a note about the killing. Other times it’s just a word...” He motioned to the monitor. “...like whore or bitch or pretender, something that shows his contempt for women. He’s also left roses on a couple of occasions.”
We saw the handwritten messages move across the monitor, all of them disparaging the victim. Several images of roses placed on the victims’ chests appeared, before a final image was displayed.
“This was found at the scene of his tenth victim,” Kinnear said. “As you can see, it’s a photograph of our suspect, dressed as he was tonight, with the signature Angel. This calling card has been repeated a couple of times since then.”
“The streaming of the killings,” Olivia said. “Has this ever happened before?”
“Tonight’s display was a first. It marks a turning point; a change in his typical behavior pattern. We believe the Angel craves attention and publicity, and there’s little doubt that what he did tonight has been seen by millions of people who will give him just that.”
“Why us?” I asked the profiler. “I take it you think he still has ties to Southern California?”
“It’s my belief that he does. It could be that he has family in the area and travels back and forth. If you pick up on anything during the investigation that hints at that, or seems even remotely familiar to your area, let us know.”
“What about motivation?” Olivia asked. “I’m assuming you’ve put together a general profile.”
“The Angel is probably in his early to mid-thirties. Based on the crime scene photographs, we think he’s around five-nine, with a medium build. He’s likely using facial appliances, as well as the paint, to conceal his identity. Our suspect is typical of a power-and-control killer. He enjoys the victim’s terror and loss of control to make up for his own failings. I personally believe the Angel has a psychopathic compulsion to kill. He’s very organized and probably has a history of childhood abuse, leaving him feeling powerless and inadequate as an adult.”
“And the sexual abuse?”
“It’s a form of domination and power, rather than a paraphilia.”
“What about the name he’s chosen for himself and the elaborate costuming?” Olivia asked.
“I can answer that,” a man
sitting across from me said. “Agent Kinnear’s profile is pure speculation. The behavior of our suspect is more typical of a visionary serial killer, one who believes he’s been chosen to carry out his killings.”
Kinnear smiled. “Professor Walling is an expert on serial killers at Florida State University. We have a slight disagreement when it comes to the topic of motivation.”
Walling was in his sixties, heavyset and balding, with a comb-over. “I’d call it more than a disagreement,” he said. “Agent Kinnear is dead wrong about what he just told you.”
“Can you give us your theory?” Olivia asked.
“Our suspect is psychotic. He’s compelled to murder at the direction of what he believes is a higher entity, such as God or Satan. That explains the elaborate dress, staging process, and the name he’s chosen for himself. His behavior is similar to the Son of Sam killer, David Berkowitz, who believed a demon ordered him to kill. We may even be dealing with someone who considers himself a fallen angel.”
“Whatever his motivation, he’s quite the delightful fellow,” Collins said, looking at Olivia and me.
I had the impression that Collins was attempting to move the conversation in a different direction, but Professor Walling ignored her and went on. “The good news is, a visionary killer is far less organized than power motivated subjects. The fact that he’s been at work for over a decade is a matter of incompetence on the part of the investigators, rather than his skill at committing his crimes.”
Collins was probably doing a slow burn over what the so-called expert had said, but didn’t give voice to what she was thinking.
“Anything more on a profile?” I asked, sensing the tension in the room.
We got comments from some of the other agents and profilers, before Kinnear said, “As I mentioned, he’s probably in his thirties, intelligent, and easily blends in with others. He likely works a job that allows him to travel. I personally believe he’s sociopathic, rather than psychotic. He lacks any compassion or remorse for his crimes. The murders are likely a matter of rising tension and a buildup of anxiety that isn’t satisfied until it’s relieved by the killing cycle.”