J King - Angel of Death

The gun is hot in his pocket but the knife is very, very cold.

Father Mike could not have asked for a more fitting end. He was a young priest, very caring and sensitive. Such attributes lay a cleric open to charges of homosexuality and misconduct with younger parishioners, but Father Mike had not let suspicions prevent him from his work with the youth of Woodstock and nearby Rockford.

When his superior, Father Clayton, had advised against his volunteer work at the Boys Club of Rockford and in the intramural basketball league of Woodstock, Father Mike had shrugged it off and said, “I cannot and will not abandon these kids to the streets just because gossip mongers want something to talk about. My ministry and message come first. If they want to ruin me, let them take up the matter with God.”

Some had, and others with the parish council, but Father Mike was innocent of any offense, and the conflicting stories’ lack of evidence only served to prove the fact.

Then, two years after the last such rumblings, a youth he had never known not only accused him of a crime he was innocent of, but also executed him for it. Father Mike had been willing to be martyred for his ministry and now, in the way of a true martyr, he had died for his beliefs without anyone but his killer knowing why. I am convinced that if he had seen Keith coming and known who and what he was, Father Mike would still have patiently counseled him, been similarly misheard, and would have died in much the same way. It was a rare and beautiful thing to have a serial murder in which victim and killer were so attuned that I had only to sit back and let the music of the spheres well up around me.

The radio in her squad car went off during the eulogy. Phil’s voice carried from the open window of the vehicle, across the frost-laced grass of the cemetery, and out to where Donna Leland stood beside the grave. Leland at first tried to ignore the sound, her eyes averted to the frozen broadleaf weeds that had been sliced neatly in half when the grave was dug. She looked at the chocolate earth, silent and respectful beneath the silvery casket, and wished Phil would have the sense to shut up. The whole department was up in arms about Detective McHenry’s death and the recent murder, but there were enough others on duty to see to anything that might come up.

Whatever had happened to the chance to mourn?

McHenry was a good man. Though she had spent most of her time patrolling, whenever he’d needed a hand, they were partners. He’d taught her all she knew about police work. Now she would be stepping into his position, alone. Her mentor – her friend – was gone, and she had been promoted: Detective Donna Leland now was Burlington’s first line of defense. Phil’s voice continued, shrill.

“Mother of God,” she murmured.

Leland’s white-gloved role in this affair could not be interrupted. She clutched the folded flag to her dress blues.

Louder, more strident, Phil’s radio crackle rose, carrying above the bowed heads.

“… another death investigation… a priest in Woodstock. Same MO, same signature… the Illinois cops want you to see the scene…”

The new detective uncomfortably cleared her throat. Her jaw flexed. Another murder. A priest. Now no one could deny this was a serial crime. Her attempts to tie the first case to the decapitation and manual amputation five years back had brought criticism from many of her colleagues, most notably the man whose remains were evenly distributed through the closed casket before her. The critics came back to one question – what had the killer been doing since the last murder in Bohner’s Lake? There were numerous possibilities. He might have been doing prison time for some lesser offense. Or, perhaps he had been institutionalized for mental illness, or gone to live with a relative elsewhere, entered a relationship that stabilized him for a time, faithfully took his medication, got a job, joined the army…

Now, she wondered if he’d merely been spreading his kills through various jurisdictions, in various states.

“… coroner is finishing crime scene work… still looking for the severed remains…”

“-would have wanted his able successor, Detective Leland, to tend to her duties,” the priest intoned above the noise of the radio. He gave her a significant look.

“It is the sort of man he was, that his duty to the department and service to the people came before all else.”

Leland returned the priest’s nod, pivoted, and headed for the squad car. The flag that had draped the coffin was still clutched tightly to her jacket. She circled to the driver’s side, climbed in behind the wheel, snatched up the mike, and said, “This is Unit Four. Where’s the crime scene, Phil?”

“St Francis in Woodstock, across the border. He killed a priest in the church.”

“Here is where he killed him,” said Bob Cabel, McHenry County coroner. The old man had a lean physique, attentive eyes, and a mantle of silver hair that he wore in a ponytail. Despite the cold, he wore a thin, shortsleeved button-down shirt and coarse-woven nylon trousers, cinched by a wide belt.

Leland looked from the old character to the bloodstained confessional. The puddle on the floor was the same deep maroon as the curtain.

“It was still warm when I got here,” said Cabel with some agitation. “Wasn’t an hour old then.”

The detective scanned the floor around the puddle. Tennis shoes had left red footprints down the side aisle, leading toward the chancel and altar. The rest of the sanctuary was filled with flashbulbs and cups of coffee and men in long coats.

“Anybody follow the footprints?” Leland asked.

“Outside, I mean.”

He waved away the thought. “They go to an alley behind the bookstore and disappear on the gravel. He must have taken to the road, or maybe he just hiked out. They’re bringing dogs out from Evanston.”

She nodded. “Sorry. You were saying…?”

The feverish light returned to his blinking eyes.

“Yes… he cut off the head and hands – I imagine he shot him first, since there’s a hole in the screen – and judging by the blood, took them up to the front of the sanctuary.”

“Blood on the altar?” she guessed.

“No,” the coroner said, silvery brows lowering over his eyes. “That’s the thing. Look at the prints. They don’t go straight. Some are darker, with puddles in front of them, like he stopped and stood, holding the head and hands.” They both took a moment to look along the line of footprints. The worn shoe soles wandered slowly away from the confessional, as much space between steps side to side as front to back. “He never got to the altar with the body parts. That would seem a symbolic act too tempting to turn down.”

“He was masturbating,” said Leland flatly. “That’s why his feet were so far apart. His ritualistic fantasy is not about God. It’s somehow about hands and heads.”

Cabel’s brows continued downward as he glowered at the footprints. “There was semen in the confessional, but we didn’t find any elsewhere.”

“Find the head, and you’ll find the semen,” Leland said. The words, once said, made her nearly retch, and she half-expected Cabel to do the same. He only nodded.

“Afterward,” prodded Leland, wanting to move on,

“where did he go?”

Cabel shrugged. “He went to the basement, poured out a bunch of garbage from one of the Sunday school rooms, washed his hands, climbed the stairs, went to the coat rack, and left through an alarmed door. It’s covered with bloody fingerprints.”

“Well, that’s something,” Leland said. “As to the rest of it, let’s see. He dumped out the garbage so he could put the body parts in the bag. He’s not organized. An organized killer would have remembered his own bag. Besides, he’s left too much evidence. Dismemberment like this is usually done to keep the victim’s identity secret, but here – everybody knows who this is. The head and hands are for fantasy use, that’s all.”