J King - Angel of Death

“How many killings is this for him?” the coroner asked. “Guessing?”

Leland shook her head. “I couldn’t say, yet. Three, at least, though he’s been out there a long time – five years or more. He travels a good distance before hunting, but once he arrives, he will kill. I suspect that’s why the murders haven’t been linked – one in Burlington, Wisconsin, the next in Gary, Indiana, the next in Pontiac, Illinois, then Woodstock, and so forth.”

“He’s a canny devil,” said a new voice: Detective Elwood of the Woodstock police department. The black-haired and neatly clothed man had met Detective Leland at the door and put her in Cabel’s charge until he finished interviewing the other parish priests. “He’s got to be brilliant to think of separating his crimes by jurisdiction so as not to get caught.”

“I don’t think he’s trying not to get caught,” Leland said. “He’s left plenty of evidence at each of the scenes and taken high risk victims in public places. I don’t think he has the presence of mind to be canny.”

“Well,” Elwood said, blushing just slightly along his clean-shaven jaw, “even a dog knows not to shit where it lives. I guess he’s no more canny than a dog.”

Leland blinked, amused. It had been a long time since a man had felt uncomfortable in her presence, desiring to please. She rather liked the feeling. “I think you’re right. We’re dealing with a stray who instinctively trots off into the sticks to do his business. I’d guess he doesn’t even drive himself.”

Elwood’s amazement was plain on his face. “Someone else drives him? And doesn’t ask why he’s all bloody?”

“He wasn’t bloody – he put on a coat before he left. I’m guessing the sleeves and body of the coat were long enough to cover bloody hands and clothes. He walked out of here carrying a black plastic bag, got on a bus or train, and rode home.”

“Leave the driving to us,” said Elwood grimly.

“Even when the dogs get here, I bet they’ll lead to a bus or train station,” Elwood said. “Damn it. This train stop’s a main feed into Chicago. He could have gone anywhere.”

“What about the ticket office?” asked Leland.

“Wouldn’t he have to buy a ticket?”

“You buy them on board,” said Elwood. “Hundreds of people every day buy them on board, unless they have a weekly or monthly pass.”

Leland took a deep breath. She glanced around at the church, wondering how long it had been since she’d stepped into one.

“Keep your boys busy. Get samples of everything he came in contact with. Check both sets of fingerprints against Father Mike’s personal possessions, and eliminate the priests’ prints. I’m going to take what we know and punch it into the Criminal Information Bureau and NCIC. I’ll bet we’re seeing just the tip of this iceberg.”

At last, Detective Leland was back behind her desk, hiding behind a redoubt of paperwork. John McHenry had liked being the man in the field and had often saddled Leland with the desk duties. She’d resented it then, but tonight – tonight, the benign stacks of forms were welcomed. None of them bled. None of them committed heinous acts. They lived in a flat and quiet world and feared nothing.

If I’m going to feel so lonely, this is the place to feel it.

The phone rang. Leland jumped. She grabbed the receiver and said, “Leland.”

“Detective? This is Elwood, from the Woodstock PD.”

“Hi, Detective. What’s up?”

“Just got the prints back from the doorknob. Something strange. Thought you’d want to know.”

“What is it?”

“The prints are the priest’s.”

“What?”

“They match prints we pulled off stuff in his room – private stuff. Even the communion cup.”

Leland sat, breathing quietly. “He used the priest’s hands to open the door?”

“Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks, Detective.” Leland hung up the phone and stared into space for a while. “Got to keep going, or I’ll never get home tonight.” Leland pulled her keyboard toward her and tapped into the Wisconsin Crime Information Bureau. She entered the vital characteristics of the crime scenes: decapitation and manual amputation, high risk male victims, gun use, necrophilia, male Converse basketball shoe prints at size ten, crimes crossing jurisdictions, use of public transportation. She punched in the data and pressed Enter.

As the computer grunted quietly within its casing, Leland doubtfully scanned the list she’d made. This offender was disorganized, psychotic. That was also comforting. To know this person was sick made his actions somewhat less horrifying. She understood mental illness, knew it was a thing of brain chemistry, not a matter of demons and monsters. This guy needed a doctor, not an exorcist. But if he’s psychotic, why’s he so tough to track down? In most cases psychotics were easier to find than psychopaths, more likely to do something obvious or stupid. But not here. Whenever the killer required a particularly subtle act – like riding the train or bus to and from the crime scenes, committing murders in different county and state jurisdictions, taking off his coat before killing and then putting it on again, cutting off hands and head to prevent victim identification and ballistics match-ups, carrying the dismembered parts in a bag beneath his coat – he was suddenly capable of doing it. Jeffrey Dahmer exhibited similar presence of mind when it was needed, and thus avoided detection. It was as though the guardian angels of these killers were especially adept at protecting them.

A slow scroll of matching cases began to slide up the screen, listing first the murder of editor Jules Koenig, and then the homicide of butcher Lynn Blautsmeyer in Bohner’s Lake, five years back. Leland watched intently, scanning the case information for new clues. Koenig’s case was too fresh in her mind to provide new insights, but Blautsmeyer’s…

Leland’s eyelids drooped with fatigue as she recalled that scene.

The sign read “Blautsmeyer’s Homemade Sausage” and pictured a wiener dog snapping at the last frankfurter in a chain of them. It had always seemed to Leland that the dog was part of the string of sausage. That image was enough to drive some customers away, and Lynn Herman Blautsmeyer’s missing index finger brought even more jokes – speculations of accidental cannibalism in Bohner’s Lake. Lynn was missing more than a finger, now. The young investigator drew a handkerchief from her pocket and opened the blood-stained glass door. Within, yellowed tiles and walls were stained with blood. Even to eyes unfamiliar with homicide scenes, the stains formed a portrait of the murder.

“Mother of God.” Leland positioned the cloth over her face.

In front of one old-style deli display, blood pooled in the shape and color of a liver. That’s where the killing occurred – a quick slash to the neck while victim and killer stood face to face. The two concavities on the upper edge of the puddle were from the toes of Lynn’s shoes. He’d stood just there. The blood had been a gushing spray. The killer had held the man up for some moments before pushing him over. Lynn fell back and cracked his skull where the larger pool was. The killer knelt beside him, knee prints in the blood, and used the cleaver he’d snatched from the butcher to hack off the man’s head and hands.

This was messy work. The killer had left fingerprints all over the body and clothes as he performed his inexpert butchery. He had done a ragged job of it, as if he had not known how difficult it would be. This might have been his first kill.

Once done, the killer went behind the counter and experimented with the shrink wrapper. Tangles of redspotted plastic wrap showed various trials with the machine. Once he had learned what he was doing, he apparently wrapped the hands and head and stowed them in an Igloo cooler that Mrs Blautsmeyer had reported missing. A very clear handprint hung like a sunburst on the tile wall above where the cooler had been.