Angel of Death

FOUR

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.”

“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.

As for the body, a wide red path wound like the yellow brick road back behind the counter to the meat locker. There, the butcher at last was hooked and hung among his stock. By the time Blautsmeyer’s wife discovered the scene, the blood beneath her husband had thickened to a syrupy brown.

The killer had dipped his left index finger – the prints were positively confirmed from three other locations – in the blood and written on the parchment-pale chest of the corpse, “Samael 5:2:356.”

Leland blinked away the scene. The only Wisconsin crimes that matched the priest’s murder were the two she had already been involved with.

Strange that I’ve worked both cases. I was only an assistant investigator five years ago. It’s like the killer has me targeted.

She shook away that idea. The long hours and gruesome scenes, the memories of poor Kerry and his homemade noose, the death of her partner – all of it was tumbling around in her head. Chronic loneliness had deepened to bona fide isolation. Perhaps she would go to Lakeland Animal Shelter to see if they had any calico kittens, but it would only be cruel to leave a kitten alone for so many hours a day. Besides, in the midst of all this welling inhumanity, she needed human contact. How late is Fred’s Burgers open? She checked her watch. Not tonight. Tonight, she’d hit the NCIC and get to bed.

Sighing, Leland switched to the National Crime Information Center computer network and began typing in information. While she did so, she thought back to that most puzzling clue: Samael 5:2:356. Debate about the other clues had quickly been replaced by speculation about that one bit of writing in blood. What was it? A Bible verse? A date? A license plate? A verse of poetry?

The Bible verse seemed most promising. Though there was not a book of Samael, there were a pair of books of Samuel. The first book of Samuel, chapter 5, had no verse 356, but one young patrolman, formerly a seminarian, calculated on a long night shift that, starting with Samuel 5:2, the first 356 words read thus:

When the Philistines stole the ark of God, they hid it in the temple of their god Dagon, and set it by the idol of Dagon. Early next morning, the men of the house of Ashdod rose to find that Dagon had fallen upon his face on the ground before the ark of the Lord. And they righted Dagon and set him in his place again. Next morning, Dagon had fallen on his face on the ground before the ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stumps were left on the idol. Therefore unto this day, neither the priests of Dagon nor his worshipers tread on the threshold of the temple of Dagon in Ashdod. The hand of the Lord was heavy on Ashdod, and he annihilated them and plagued them with genital boils. When the men of Ashdod saw these terrible things, they said, “Let us take the ark of the God of Israel away from us: for his hand is hard upon us and upon our god Dagon.”

The men of Ashdod called together the Philistine lords and said to them, “Where shall we hide the ark of the God of Israel?” And the lords answered, “Carry the ark of the God of Israel to Gath. And they carried the ark of the God of Israel to that place.

But when it arrived, the hand of the Lord struck the city of Gath with a terrible annihilation: and he struck the men of the city, both poor and rich, with boils in their private parts.

The people of Gath sent the ark of God to Ekron. But when the ark of God arrived in Ekron, the Ekronites cried out, “They have brought the ark of the God of Israel to slay us!”

So all the Philistine lords met again and said, “Send the ark of the God of Israel away, back to its own place so that it will not kill us or our people: for there was a terrible annihilation all through the city; God’s hand was very heavy on them.

The fact that the false god Dagon’s hands and head were missing was taken as an ominous sign. So, too, was the mention of tumors in the groin, which some interpreted as a reference to sexual perversion. A columnist of the Burlington Gazette irresponsibly speculated that the killer considered himself to be the ark of God, righteous and powerful but captive to the Philistines – corrupt society at large. As long as he felt trapped in this hostile world, the reporter said, the man would kill again and again, and be the Death that brought panic to the city. God’s hand was heavy upon him.

The young patrolman who had discovered these things had collaborated with the columnist and was suspended for it. He took the suspension as a sign, quit his field training, and went back to seminary. Leland’s remembrances were interrupted by a beep, and by a listing of violent crimes in the three-state area of Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana. Bleary-eyed, Leland scrolled through the accounts. Some involved decapitation, others amputation, and still others necrophilia, gun use…

She began to read the individual entries but glanced up at the list tally – the screen showed only five of four hundred eighty-two entries. She requested a crossindex of amputation and decapitation, and sat back as the computer began its contented grunting. The piggish sound reminded Leland of another speculation about Samael 5:2:356. One officer, speaking facetiously, said that since the corpse had been hung up among the pork carcasses, 5:2:356 must be a reference to the act, scene, and verse in Hamlet: “Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” A fitting enough verse, except that the butcher had been no prince, and the killer no singing angel.

Dead ends everywhere.

The cross-check came in, narrowing the field to two hundred thirty-one cases. Though the name “Samael“ had not been found on either the priest or the newspaperman, Leland’s recollections had piqued her curiosity. On a whim, she typed in a check for the name Samael. She leaned back and took a sip of coffee. Officer Greenberg had said Samael was the name for the Jewish Angel of Death.

“Mother of God.”

The screen blinked, producing a list of eighty-eight murders in the tri-state area, each of which included decapitations, manual amputation, and, somehow, the name Samael.

Angel of Death.