Black Angel

by Thomas Laird

I want to interview Carl Thomas and Philip Brandon and three other suspects, but they are deployed in a combat zone, so they are currently unavailable. I’m stuck on the notion that an officer has committed these atrocities because I know they have a greater length of leash to prowl about on, compared to lower ranked staff. Privates are more accountable for their every movement, but loftier staff can easily thwart SOP, standard operating procedure, and they can disappear from time to time.

  I’m living in a barracks in Kuwait City. Pete and I share quarters with six other NCIS investigators when we’re away from the ship. No one is home tonight as I head toward my bunk. I strip and flop in my bunk. I fall off into sleep immediately or almost immediately.

  I’m awakened by a burning odor. I fling myself into a seated position on my rack, and then I hurl myself off, onto the floor.

  I see the smoke it’s red, even in the dim light in our quarters here in the barracks that used to house combat Marines.

  Smoke. It’s a smoke grenade.

  Someone approached me while I was asleep and set off a smoke grenade beneath my rack. I feel the tingle down to my sphincter.

  Smoke. Just harmless smoke.

  But it could’ve been a live fragmentary grenade. It could’ve been the real deal.

  I almost want to piss myself, so I run into the head and relieve my bladder before I embarrass myself, even though there’s no one here to see the stain on my boxer shorts.

  Smoke. Fucking smoke. And he crept up close to me. Could have killed me in my sleep. He stealthed his way into an empty quarters—empty except for me—and he placed this grenade under my cot. The slimy piece of shit.

  I feel like a rape victim. This prick molested me. I never even felt his presence. He’s like the smoke of the bomb he put under my bunk. He’s a ghost, he’s vapor, he’s fog.

  Now he knows my name, he knows where I live, so he has to be in uniform to get past security outside.

  I run down and talk to the guard in front of the barracks’ entrance. I’m in my skivvies and nothing else. The young Marine flashes me a grin.

  “Can I help you, Sir?” he salutes, even though he knows I’m plain clothes and an NCIS dick.

  “Did anyone come through here in the last hour or so?”

  “Just you, Sir.… Been quiet as a morgue,” he grins.

  10

  Thomas was WIA, wounded in action, and therefore has a disability check coming in every month. We checked the mailman in Walworth for a forwarding address, but he didn’t have one before we left Wisconsin.

  It’s very late summer when we get the call from the postmaster in Walworth, informing us that Carl Thomas has a new address, and it’s a PO box in Chicago. We track the PO box down, and it’s in a postal station on the near north side, not far from where Mary’s apartment is. We have to stake out the box in eight hour shifts. The Captain figures that Thomas’s flight constitutes probable cause to bring the ex-Marine lieutenant in for interrogation. We don’t have anything to hold him on, but we can delay him with us for a while, at least.

  We take the night shift. I ask for it because I don’t think Thomas will want to venture out and about in the daylight. He’s like one of those legendary vampires—he’s a creature of the night. Night was when he did the girls and their families, with or without Philip Brandon, whom we are now also trying to trace.

  It’s a pretty downtrodden hood where his PO box is located. Lots of street dudes and dudettes. They come in various colors and nationalities; there is no preponderance of race or ethnic background here, on Clark Street, not far from Wrigleyville.

  It’s 9:40 p.m. We’ve been here since 8:00. We weren’t supposed to come on duty until midnight, but Jack called and suggested we get dinner and then go on shift. We went to a McDonald’s and came directly here after only forty-five minutes. Both of us seem to think Carl is going to come for his check. According to the Feds we called, it was sent six days ago. We called his bank in Walworth, and the check has not been cashed yet. He may not yet have endorsed it or picked it up. We’ll just have to wait, at least a few days. If he’s coming, I figure he’ll come soon. He’s not wealthy, and he has to eat, even if he is a creature of the night.

  I’ve continually wondered why two bright sociopaths have turned out to be as worthless as they are. Maybe they’re easily bored. Perhaps killing is the only thing that keeps them entertained. Intelligence is not always directed at productive endeavors. The smart ones are also the hardest to catch.

  We listen to classic rock, some station that Jack picks out.

  “You seeing anyone?” I ask him.

  There is a lobby in front of the postal station. Post office boxes are available to walk-in traffic twenty-four/seven/365. All he has to do is walk right in.

  “No. I assume you’re still with the queen of the Feds,” he smiles.

  “More or less.”

  “Still keeping it casual?”

  “Her idea, Jack.”

  “That’s a flipside, no?”

  “It ain’t my idea.”

  A good-looking blonde, leggy and tall, walks into the PO. She walks toward a box we can see her through the glass door because the inside is well-lit, to control the strong-arms and the muggers.

  “What’s the box number?” Jack asks.

  “Twelve twelve,” I reply.

  “She seems to be in that vicinity, does she not?”

  The box Thomas has is on the left side, near where the blonde is standing and fiddling with the lock.

  “Let’s go check her out.”

  “My pleasure,” my partner says.

  We get out of the navy blue LTD and walk across a streetlighted Clark Street. Traffic on the sidewalk right now is nonexistent.

  I open the door and immediately flash my badge at the attractive, lanky blonde. She’s wearing a halter top to maximum effect. She’s generously endowed.

  “What? What’d I do?”

  My heart sinks a bit as I see she’s still got the key in 1213, one box off.

  “We thought you might be having difficulty,” Jack smiles.

  Then she relaxes.

  “I didn’t know cops helped ladies in distress at the post office,” she flirts to Jack.

  “We do all kinds of things you may not know about. ‘To protect and serve.’ It’s on all the cars.”

  Jack notices I’m staring at him. But I walk out the door, leaving her with him inside. I walk back to the car and get in on the driver’s side. Within a few minutes, my partner returns.

  “Got her number, bro.”

  “Congratulations, Jack.”

  “I got her box open no pun intended.”

  I have to laugh at him, and then we settle back for the long eight-hour shift to unfold.

  *

  Thomas never shows. Jack tells me he’s calling the blonde tonight since we’re off shift. It’s our day off. We have to watch overtime, since Pearce is very strict about the abuse of it.

  Mary is working late, on the next hot August night. There’s nothing on TV, and my Dad has turned in early at 9:30 p.m. So I get in my Cavalier and drive over to Clark Street from our northwest side house.

  McAdams and Corley are on duty, but I get out of the Cavalier and tell them to take a few hours’ dinner break. There’s no sense all of us watching for this asshole.

  It’s a half-hour later, 10:42 p.m., when the bike pulls up to the curb. It’s Thomas. I call in for backup, but I see he’s in a hurry, so as soon as I make the call for reinforcements, I’m out of the car and crossing Clark Street.

  He’s already on the way back out. He spots me, runs to the bike when I’m fifteen yards from him, and then he tears away from the curb as I reach out to haul him off the bike. I’ve missed him literally by inches.

  I race back across the street and I jump in my Cavalier. I call his direction in with my portable phone. Then I take off after him down Clark Street. I see him stopped at a light just a block in front of me. When it turns green, he squeals his tires and turns
left, and he’s almost horizontal to the ground on his Yamaha.

  My Chevy is no match for his motorcycle. If squads don’t cut him off, I’ve lost him again.

  But as he speeds toward the next big intersection, a red light stops him again. Of course I’m wondering why the hell he’s stopped at a red light at all, why he hasn’t flown through all the lights.

  Then two squads have him pinned and halted at the next major intersection.

  I arrive and jump out of my black Cavalier.

  When he’s turned around, hands handcuffed, I see it’s all been a game. It’s not Thomas. I look at the bike again. It’s identical. It even has the same plates.

  “What can I do for you officers?” the smiling biker says.

  He looks like Thomas too, even close up. Same height, same color hair, same build.

  “You have ID?” I ask. The two uniforms stand by their two squads, now, away from us.

  “In my back pocket, Officer.”

  He’s still smiling and I want to send his teeth into his stomach.

  I take the wallet out of his jeans. It has a license that reads “Adam Johansen.”

  “You serve in the Corps?” I ask him.

  “No. Never did. High blood pressure. Four F, you know?”

  *

  When we question him in the station, we find out nothing. He denies knowing Carl Thomas. But he has the paperwork showing that he legally owns the Yamaha that Carl rode first.

  “Where’s Carl?” I ask.

  Jack is here now with me. I called him on the way to the Loop.

  “I have no clue,” he smiles.

  “You lie once more, and I’ll make you hurt but I won’t leave any bruises,” Jack warns him.

  “I bought the bike from him two days ago. He comes up to me in a bar. He’s starin’ at me like I’m a long lost fucking brother of his. He says we could be fuckin’ twins, we look so much alike. He tells me what a stroke of fuckin’ luck it is, runnin’ into me. I don’t know this guy from dick, you know. But he keeps starin’ at me like I’m some kind of fuckin’ miracle or something, like it’s his lucky fuckin’ day. He’s won the lottery. He says, ‘You wanna have a real hoot, a real howl? I want to pull a prank on some friends of mine. Just drive your bike past the P.O., and watch what happens, next. You’ll laugh your ass off.’ And I’m fried enough to do it. So here the fuck we are, huh?”

  *

  We send fliers out to every bank and check cashing service within a twenty-five mile radius. We’re betting he’s here in the city.

  We arrested wise guy Adam Johansen for obstruction of justice, and we impound the Yamaha as evidence in a homicide case. It’s all bogus, and his lawyer will likely spring Johansen within twenty-four. I don’t give a shit. I wanted to inconvenience him for messing with us, and this is my little gesture.

  We’ll have to hope someone eyeballs the real Carl Thomas, or that he’ll take that check into a bank or a check cashing service. I’m inclined to think he’s too sly to get caught. We couldn’t catch him in Kuwait; we may not catch him here. The sad truth is that sometimes these monsters get away with it. We’re all familiar with the Zodiac killer, out on the West Coast. Sometimes they’re too bright to get nabbed, and other times it’s just dumb luck. We work under the law of statistics—most maniacs get jailed and smoked.

  *

  Mary is amused by the story of my false pursuit on Clark Street.

  “I like the intelligent ones. I like the challenge.”

  “Yeah. He challenges us, so it means he isn’t done partying.”

  Her grin vanishes.

  “Likely you’re right, Will. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I understand what you meant. And he won’t be able to meander about as easily as he did in Kuwait, or with his first job here in Chicago. Every cop in northern Illinois is looking out for him. At least we have that advantage.”

  “He could still strike again.”

  “Yes. He could.”

  “But you’re correct. Everyone’s got the dogs loose. Parents have been warned about keeping an eye on their daughters. It won’t be such easy pickings. He’ll have to be very careful.”

  I’m watching her pretty face, here in her bed in her apartment.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “What, Will? What were you thinking?”

  “How.”

  “How what?”

  “How he selects them. How he gets close to them. I couldn’t come up with anything when I was working with Pete. I can’t come up with it now. It’s very frustrating.”

  “What did the Kuwait victims have in common?” Mary asks.

  “Their age and the fact that they were Kuwaitis.”

  “Are you cracking wise?”

  “It’s obvious, yeah, but that’s all we could tie to them. They were oil people, both families.…”

  “And the Chicago family? The Milans?”

  “The old man worked for British Petroleum, BP. Shit ,” I tell her.

  “Could be coincidence, Will,” she grins evilly.

  *

  “How do Carl Thomas and Philip Brandon connect to the oil angle?” Jack wonders aloud. “They have no family, no personal beefs with the petroleum crowd that we know of.”

  “But oil is the common denominator. It’s no coincidence, like Mary joked about.”

  “No. It ain’t no joke. Texas tea is involved somehow.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe what, Will?”

  “Maybe they’re getting even for Desert Storm.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Maybe they’re taking it out on the families of the petroleum barons,” I say.

  “Then why not hit the big-wigs? Why not hit the Saudis and the White House and the Congress? Why not hit bigger targets if you’re making a statement?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s hitting mid-management, the little guys. Maybe he wants to throw a scare into the guys above, first. Who knows what this swinging dick monster has in his feverish little brain. Maybe he doesn’t need a motive at all.”

  “No. You’re right, Will. It’s a starting point. It’s a place to begin.”

  *

  The check from the G is cashed at a northside check cashing service on Broadway and Jackson. We race toward the location, but the call was made twenty minutes after the cashing, so by the time we arrive, he’s long gone.

  *

  We start to concentrate on Brandon again. It’s the third week in August when Cyril finally calls us.

  “I’ve cracked the motherfucker,” Cyril says over the phone. “I own this son of a bitch!”

  *

  “The code was simple. I gave him too much credit. It was the same code they used in that movie A Christmas Story. Except it was a little refined. He was using letters instead of numbers. I got through on the clusters of vowels and…”

  “Save it,” I tell him. “It’s all way the fuck over my head anyway. Just tell me.”

  We’re in Cyril’s apartment because he cannot be seen in the company of cops.

  “They’re a society-like thing. They have a chat room and they talk about the murders. They like brag about it, man. The dude in Vermont and the ape in California. And your two boys, Thomas and Brandon. They communicate, I’m saying. I checked out this chat room. They talk in that same code. They giggled gleefully, like, talking about tearing out those kids’ eyeballs. It made me want to hurl, Will.”

  “They ever talk about why they’re doing this?”

  “It’s a strike.”

  “A what?” I ask Cyril.

  “A strike. They’re calling it a fucking strike at the heart of the establishment.”

  “You mean it’s about…”

  “Everybody knows what Desert Storm was about, Will. No offense, I know you and that partner of yours, Pete, were both there. But it’s about nothing but that black gold under the earth. And that’s what it’s always about lately. They’re striking at evil,
they say. Drawing attention to the corruption that goes right up those fucking derricks.”

  11

  We do some calling around on Thomas and Brandon. We talk to some of their college professors and a few of their high school teachers. Neither of them was well-liked by anyone who remembered them and only a handful of their previous instructors actually recalled either ex-Marine.

  What they said, by consensus, was that Thomas and Brandon were both intelligent, both argumentative, and that both of them were loners. What Cyril has given us is that they were picking out targets even before they entered the Corps. They had talked about the relative ease of taking out a family if that family wasn’t wealthy enough to have hired security on their property. The Kuwait families were headed by men who were lower management of American oil firms. One worked for Shell in lower mid-management, and the other Middle Easterner worked for Amoco. The American, Mr. Milan, worked for Texaco. None of the four fathers could afford armed guards or electrical security on their grounds. That was Thomas’s plan, apparently. Hit the low-level workers first, and then work your way up. It was the modus operandi for numerous series killers—you worked your way up the feeding chain as you got better and better at doing the murders. When you felt accomplished enough, then you’d worry about getting past security guards and electronic fences.

  We have of course contacted petroleum products employees in the Chicago area through their employers and management. We’ve warned them to report any suspicious characters who hover near their homes. We’ve also told those with adolescent to young teenaged daughters to be especially wary. Jack and I didn’t have to do much explaining about the young females because these guys read the papers too.

  The FBI nabs a suspect in Vermont. They’ve taken him into custody, and they’re bringing him to Chicago for questioning regarding the murder in Vermont and the killings here in the city. Mary is the bearer of the news. Her boss has allowed her to share the information with the Chicago Police Department, since the local crime is in our jurisdiction. Mary has simply bypassed Captain Pearce and told me to tell him. I told Mary about chain of command, but she simply shrugged it off.

  “Consider this my gesture of good faith with you and your department,” she smiled.