by Spencer Kope
36
Marco lies on his side, his hands fastened securely behind his back with not one but two heavy-duty zip ties. He’s gagged—a pointless gesture, all things considered. Tired from trying to hold his head up, it cocks to the side, the crown resting against the dry California soil. The tactile caress of the cool earth is almost comforting, a reassurance of the cycle of life.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
From his vantage point, he can see everything; which is, he imagines, exactly as intended. The big man named both Bear and Angus intends for him to see what he’s doing, see every moment of it.
The hulking figure is in high spirits, moving about as if preparing for some great spectacle that he’s very much looking forward to. It’s all a game, a festival. Pouring gas into a two-thousand-watt generator, Angus looks at Marco and announces that he got the portable unit brand-new from a tweaker who stole it from Home Depot.
“I gave him fifty bucks, and he just walked in, put it in a shopping cart, and wheeled it right out the door.” A look of mischief is in Angus’s eyes as he relays this to Marco as if the congressman is supposed to laugh with him and talk about how ballsy it was. When he doesn’t, Bear’s eyes grow suddenly cold—the lifeless orbs of something staring up from the abyss, something not human.
He watches Marco with those brutally cold eyes, then turns away.
A moment later, he returns with a pair of brand-new sawhorses, a circular saw with a pawnshop sticker still affixed to the blade guard, an impact drill that’s seen better days, and a cordless Sawzall with one extra battery pack. There are also some hand tools: a pack of chisels, a mallet, some files of different sizes.
He positions the various tools to create his work space as if the location and purpose of the tools are immensely important to what’s coming. Satisfied, he takes the Sawzall in hand and turns to face Marco.
With a maniacal look on his face, he holds the tool aloft, revving the blade. Then, with a sneer, he turns and walks into the nearby stable. A ruckus ensues, the type of noise generated by one not familiar with power tools but determined to use them nonetheless.
After about twenty minutes of this, Marco hears the distinct splintering of wood, a timber getting ready to give way. And not just any piece of wood, but one of substance.
A crack! shatters the air.
Something heavy crashes to the ground with the noise of a train wreck, breaking other things on the way. The ancient stable convulses and shakes. A cloud of dust drifts out the open door, suspended momentarily in still air.
When Angus emerges from the building a few minutes later, he’s covered in wood particles and old dust. The structure has taken on a decided lean to the right as if threatening to fall over at any moment. With the help of a bright yellow nylon rope, the big man drags a large timber from the building, heaving it a foot at a time in jerks and starts. The hundred-year-old beam is stout, at least eight inches on each side and a good twelve feet long.
The wood is dense and heavy, hard from age.
“See this?” Angus pats the timber solidly with his palm. “This is a special piece of wood. I cut it from the rafters myself—probably not the safest thing to do since the building is like to fall over, but I had to have it. The rest of the wood can come from elsewhere”—he pats the timber again—“this one is special.”
He studies Marco a moment, waiting for acknowledgment.
When no such sentiment comes, the mountainous man’s voice grows tight, as if displeased by the congressman’s lack of appreciation.
“It’s been in that building since before I was born,” Angus admonishes. “This timber might have been cut from old growth a hundred years ago. That in itself makes it special.”
His body language changes and he sounds almost nostalgic when he speaks next.
“Oh, this timber and me, we have history. Yes, we do. I carved my name right here when I was but a boy.” He runs his fingers through the deep grove where the word ANGUS is still visible and glances over at Marco. “I guess you can’t see it from over there, can you? No worries. I’ll let you see it up close soon enough.”
A broad smile creases Angus’s face.
Evil.
Maniacal.
* * *
After checking the oil on the generator and flipping the switch to ON, he pulls the starter cord once, then twice, and the engine sputters to life. It’s quieter than Marco would have imagined, but Angus still has to yell to be heard.
“Have you figured it out yet?”
He gestures toward the timber.
Marco just stares at him.
“I bet you have, haven’t you?” Angus grins broadly. “You know, I’ve been looking forward to this. If it’s not clicking yet, just wait, you’ll figure it out. I’ve got some more work to do, but you’ll see the bigger picture soon enough.”
The big man shivers with anticipation.
“It’s going to be so good,” he adds in a wondrous exhalation. “And”—he turns to Marco with all seriousness as if making a life vow—“I promise to stay with you through the night, through the whole ordeal. I do. I’ll light a little campfire, maybe play some music, drink some beer. Maybe you can have some. Do you like beer?” Angus quickly waves the question away. It doesn’t matter.
“I even brought my chair,” he says, suddenly remembering.
He hurries to the van, which is parked next to a nearby outbuilding, and rifles through the back, emerging a moment later with a folded mess of blue fabric. “This is my lucky chair,” he shouts, holding it aloft.
When he returns, his gait and mood seem to have grown suddenly somber, as if by regret or empathy. He contemplates Marco as if seeing every part of him with utter clarity for the first time. With a worrisome downturn of his mouth, he sidles up to the congressman and crouches, so they’re eye to eye.
It’s all a ruse.
Men such as Angus are incapable of empathy. Yes, they can wear it the way some might don a costume or slip on a mask, but it’s just as phony.
Placing a massive hand on Marco’s shoulder, Angus gives the congressman a gentle shake, the way one might comfort a distraught nephew. With sympathy in his eyes that could pass for genuine, he leans close, the rancid stench of old pepperoni issuing from his mouth in grunting huffs.
“Don’t worry,” he says soothingly. “I’m going to make you famous.”
37
Using a cell phone on speaker mode isn’t something one would normally risk when discussing a sensitive criminal case in public, but the coffee shop is mostly empty, caught between the breakfast and the lunch rush. Besides, it’s better if all of us hear the information at the same time rather than have Ross try to recall what he can after the fact. Time is running short and we can’t afford to have anything lost or jumbled.
Marco’s life depends on it.
Angus’s community corrections officer answers the phone with a flourish of words that encapsulate her name—Crystal Baum-something—her title, and her organization in a rapid-fire three-second string of words that would make an auctioneer proud. The CCO’s barrage momentarily stuns Ross, but then he identifies himself and explains the situation.
Jimmy and I have a side bet—a blueberry scone—that Crystal’s not going to give out any information over the phone, not without being able to verify Ross’s identity. I luck out when she immediately remembers him—their paths having crossed on other cases. She mentions meeting him at the courthouse and the police station, neither of which Ross seems to recall, but he plays along.
He must have made an impression on her.
“I’d like it warmed up,” I whisper into Jimmy’s ear, referring to the scone. He puts his finger to his lips and points at the phone.
“I’ve been Angus’s CCO for ten years and three prison stints. What do you need to know?”
“Everything,” Ross replies in a rush, but then settles on the basics. “How about a possible location, for starts. You guys still do residence checks, right?”
“Not as much as we used to.” We hear the sound of a filing cabinet opening and then papers shuffling. “I still try to do regular checks on all my clients, but the caseload is too much. We just don’t have enough CCOs.”
“But you have to approve his residence before he moves in, right?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t always mean they’re living where they say they are.”
“How about Angus? Is he living where he says he is?”
“I’m not sure,” Crystal replies with a hint of hesitation. “I’ve been to his apartment several times, but I’ve never actually contacted him. He has a roommate that tells me he’s living there, and I’ve seen his bedroom, which contains his personal effects, but other than the day he was released, I’ve never actually contacted him there.”
“When you visit,” I ask, “is it scheduled or a surprise?”
“Oh, surprise visits. Always. It’s the best way to make sure they’re complying with release conditions. In Angus’s case, that means no alcohol, no drugs, no weapons of any kind. He’s also supposed to be holding down a regular job, but we’re more flexible on that part. Some of these guys just aren’t employable. They end up in government housing, living off food stamps and other assistance programs.”
“Nice, our tax dollars at rest,” I mutter.
Ross chuckles.
We hear paper shuffling again, then Crystal exclaims, “Ah! Here it is.” Her voice is suddenly louder, closer to the phone. “Looks like he’s living in the Benton Park neighborhood, on Terrace Way. Got a pen?” When Ross tells her to fire away, she rattles off the street address and apartment number, which he scribbles into his old-school notepad.
“Is Angus employed?” Jimmy asks when Crystal finishes.
“He’s had several jobs with different landscaping companies, but none seem to last more than a couple of months. For the most part, he seems to be complying with his release conditions. I know that he’s a regular marijuana user, but we tend to look the other way for pot. His UAs keep coming back clean, so I know he’s not using meth, heroin, or any of the hard drugs.”
“How about his demeanor?” Jimmy asks. “How would you describe him?”
“Mean,” Crystal replies pointedly. “He’s dangerous, and not all that stable. I’m sure you’ve met the type. We release them back into society because they’ve served their time and we have no other reason to hold them, but we know full well that they’re going to re-offend. It’s a matter of when, not if.”
She grows quiet, then confesses, “That’s what keeps me awake at night. Wondering just how bad the next incident might be. In Angus’s case, that next incident would have likely been the murder of his mother … if the woman wasn’t already dead.”
“Murder?” Ross says. “His mother?”
“Dorothy Smit?” Jimmy blurts at the same time.
“Oh, yeah! He hated her. The woman had been dead for years by the time Angus got out of prison, yet he could barely speak her name without spitting.” Papers shuffle and there’s a silent moment as Crystal seems to be searching for something.
“Here it is,” she says, more to herself than for our benefit. “When he wrote out his formal request to attend her funeral, it was immediately denied. The official reason was officer safety concerns. The real reason was that he threatened to piss on her coffin.”
“Jeez,” Ross mutters, “model son.”
“You have no idea,” Crystal assures him.
“So, in your mind,” Jimmy probes, “is there any way he’d want revenge against Dorothy’s oncologist?”
“For what? Not saving her? He’d probably buy the guy a beer.”
I’m on my feet at this point; none of it makes sense.
“Let me explain it this way,” Crystal’s voice rasps forcefully through the speaker. “The first time I met Dorothy Smit was a month after Angus went to prison the last time around. She wanted me to know that she’d visited him, or, in her words, she’d gone to redeem his soul, which seemed important to her. In any case, Angus told her he was going to kill her when he got out, told her in the same tone and with the same face one might ask for a glass of milk. She wanted me to know in case something happened to her. She never went back, as far as I know.”
Crystal sighs. “When he was released, I asked Angus if he was going to behave himself. He told me, ‘Sure,’ saying that since his mother was already dead, he wouldn’t have to kill her. He seemed disappointed.” She pauses, perhaps wondering how such creatures exist. “Prison was never a problem for him,” she adds as an afterthought. “He’s a first-class animal, a top-level predator. If anything, he thrives behind bars.”
“Any idea why he hates his mother?” I ask.
“I can send you a copy of his psych profile if you want something disturbing to read, but I’m guessing you want the abbreviated version?”
“For now, yes.”
“Bear—that’s Angus’s nickname—was conceived, it seems, after a one-night stand that started in some bar that Dorothy couldn’t even remember, having frequented so many of them.”
“I thought she was married to this Michael Graves—”
“Yeah, she was.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, she was a bit of a free spirit. A party girl who took her sex, drugs, and alcohol wherever she could get them. It was a shame because by all accounts Michael—her husband Michael—was an okay guy. Steady job. No drugs. In the end, he hanged himself from the rafters in the garage with an extension cord. Angus found him. He was four.”
“Jeez!” Ross hisses.
“Yeah,” Crystal says, echoing his astonishment. “After that, Dorothy found God and Jesus, but some twisted form of it—cultish if you ask me. The more Angus and Michael junior acted out, mimicking the very actions they’d learned from her, the more she purified them in the mercy of God.”
“Purified?” Jimmy asks, the burgeoning horror evident in his voice.
“Uh-huh. She may have been a bit mentally unstable at this point, we don’t know. Several members of her church were later arrested for child abuse on a massive scale, including statutory rape. Instead of learning about Jonah and the whale, David and Goliath, and Lazarus being raised from the dead, like most Sunday schoolers, Michael and Angus learned that God demands penance, and penance means pain.
“One of the forms of ritual punishment that Dorothy used frequently involved strapping the boys to a mocked-up cross in the basement for hours at a time.”
“Like … crucified?” I ask, wincing at the words.
“Exactly, but with leather straps. She’d have them stand on a chair while she bound their wrists to the arms of the cross, and then she’d pull the chair away. There was a small block for them to put their feet on, but it was so far down that they could only touch it with their outstretched toes. Hardly a relief against the weight of their bodies and the strain on their stretched lungs.”
Crystal lingers on the thought a moment as if contemplating it for the first time. “I think she looked on the boys as if they were sin incarnate, especially Angus, as if he’d been the cause of her philandering rather than the by-product. She felt it was left to her to remedy the sin of their existence. She told the boys as much.”
Crystal sighs. “There were other punishments, of course. Other trials and tribulations, none of them having anything to do with the Christianity I know.”
“Doesn’t sound like my church either,” Jimmy replies.
“Don’t get me wrong. Dorothy punished herself too, but it was always the boys who took the brunt of it. In addition to being hung from the cross, they’d be forced to lie prone before it for sometimes a whole day. Other times they’d kneel and pray for hours.
“Angus once told his social worker that, during those times of prayer, he asked her God to take her, to strike her down like in the Old Testament. He prayed that she’d have a car accident or fall down the stairs or be butchered by a serial killer. He never prayed for a peaceful or painless death, only on
e filled with fear and agony. Eventually, he became angry at her God for not answering his prayers and began to imagine doing these things himself.”
Crystal pauses. “Are you sure you want to hear all of this?”
It’s Jimmy who answers, “We have to.”
After a hesitation on the other end of the line, Crystal continues, “Angus once admitted to one of his caseworkers that he practiced his mother’s death on neighborhood animals: small dogs and cats. He broke necks or strangled them. In one case he tied down a Chihuahua, doused it in gasoline from the shed, and burned it alive. He was never caught, but we were able to confirm that a dog was burned to death and dumped two blocks from his house. Angus would have been eleven at the time.”
“Was that on Tuttle?” Ross asks.
“On what?”
“Tuttle Street? His mother’s house.”
“I’m not familiar with that street name,” Crystal says hesitantly. “Angus and Michael grew up in south Bakersfield, mostly on Footman Avenue.”
I give Jimmy a look.
The Tuttle Street address has bothered me since we first found it in the medical records. Angus’s unmistakable malachite shine had been plentiful in and around the home when we found Noah, but only recently so. There was no long history, none of the deep layers and prolific quantities I’m used to seeing at a longtime residence. Nothing, that is to say, that would indicate he’d been anything more than a common and recent visitor.
“The boys were taken away by Child Protective Services several times,” Crystal continues, “but they were always returned. When they were finally pulled from the home for good, Michael was sixteen and Angus was fifteen. Of course, at that point, the damage was already done.”
After a silence, Jimmy asks perhaps the most important question. “What … would possess him to go after…?” He almost says Marco but catches himself. The CCO doesn’t know that Angus might be a suspect in the congressman’s disappearance, and right now that’s the way it has to stay.
“Is there any reason he might go after someone who had tried to help his mother, maybe during her illness?”