Angel of Death

NINE

Detective Leland was filling out a time-study form when the phone rang. She started at first, but then smiled tightly. Maybe it was Azra. The phone sounded again. It didn’t matter who or what it was. She was happy for anything to end the tedium.

“This is Detective Leland.”

“Samael will kill again tonight.” The man’s voice was utterly neutral in tone.

Happy for almost anything to end the tedium. “What?”

“Tonight in the old warehouse west of town, between Route 11 and the tracks beside the White River, 10:30 p.m.”

“Who is this?”

The click was almost soundless.

“Hello? Hello?”

The dial tone buzzed in her ear. She let the receiver slump away, her hand loose and clammy around the plastic. Her other hand lifted and quietly pressed the switch hook.

Tonight. It hadn’t been the killer on the other end. The man had been too cogent, too precise. Besides, the killer had never wanted to gain attention. He was not the sort who was seeking publicity. Maybe it was a prank – except that the name Samael was known only to a handful of cops, the Feds, and the killer…

And his accomplice.

What if the call had come from the organized half of the crimes?

Leland hit*69.

The phone rang. It hadn’t sounded like a cell phone, and the station had caller ID set up for all the pay phones in Burlington. The phone rang. It had to be a landline, probably from somewhere nearby. The phone rang. The phone rang. The phone rang.

Leland hung up. “Think! Think!”

Serial killing teams were rare. Occasionally brothers or cousins would band together, gather up handcuffs, rope, and duct tape, and kill a handful of hitchhikers and prostitutes before they would get caught. Gacy said that some of his construction employees had aided with his crimes. It was likely, too, that his wives knew what he was doing. Then, there were the D.C. shooters, the ex-sniper Malvo and his young companion, like an evil Batman and Robin. But a disorganized killer working with an organized partner?

She dialed again.

“Hello, boss? Leland here. I’ve got an anonymous tip on our killer. Another slaying tonight at the old Badger Cigar warehouse by the river. Ten thirty. Yeah, I think it’s legit. That’s what my gut says. Yeah. How many squads can I have within three blocks? Yeah, that’s what I thought. A sharpshooter or ten would be nice, too. It’s a pretty big site to cover. I’ll call up to Milwaukee, Racine, Kenosha, see who they can spare. No, I’d like to brief everybody at seven tonight. I’ll give the details then. Yeah. I hope so, too. It’s time to get this guy. Thanks. Bye.”

Again, her hand descended on the switch hook and held it a moment. It shook slightly as she lifted it. She dialed out, and punched in another number.

“Hi, Blake Gaines, please.” Her heart pounded audibly in her chest. “Yes, hi, Blake. Detective Leland here. Yes, it’s full detective now, thanks. Remember when you took those crowd shots for me? No, they’ve not turned up anything yet, but a favor’s a favor. It’s payoff time. Yeah – not just big, but huge. No, only you. Come to the station tonight by six forty-five. Tell nobody else. I don’t give a damn about the desk editor. Yeah. It’s because you’re the best. Bring high-speed film and a tripod, no flash. If all this goes well, you’ll have a frontpage photo, and we’ll have evidence of a crime in the offing.

“Oh, and if you tell anybody else or fuck this up in any other way, I’m cutting you loose and charging you with obstruction. Yeah, you’re welcome, too.”

I see you, Keith McFarland. Good. Take the train to Woodstock. Yes, I will sit beside you. No one can see me, anyway.

It is our last train ride together. Then we’ll hitch to Burlington. Some kind soul will take us as far as your warehouse. I’ll make sure he is supposed to die tonight, too, and make sure he is nice and juicy for you. He’ll take us to your warehouse, and your pistol will convince him to accompany us farther – all the way inside. That wet, window-riddled old place will be the perfect scene for your final kill.

You will die tonight, in the very act. There will be a cop at every window of the building once we go in. A cop at every window, and one very important cop inside. She will shout to you, “Freeze! Police!”

You will not freeze, of course. You’ve listened to no one but me these past fifteen years. You’ll finish the killing, and they will shoot you down, ninety bullets, one for each of your victims. Most will hit your chest, but enough will go through your head to rip it clean away. That’s fitting.

And what of your hands? Oh, I have something really special planned for your hands. Leland couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She pressed her back against the brick wall and took a long, deep breath of the dank air inside the warehouse. There are five squads within three blocks, and twenty plainclothes men on the street outside. Four of them have sniper rifles under their coats. The Racine and Milwaukee sharpshooters are in place all along Route 11. You’ve even got a couple guys in canoes on the White River, for Christ’s sake. Canoeing at ten-thirty on a March evening – that’s not conspicuous. Still, Samael’s a disorganized psychotic. He’d kill in the station house if the mood struck.

They’d already done a sweep of the old, crumbling warehouse. The owner had been more than willing to cooperate. They found nothing but rows of musty crates, nailed closed, padlocked closets, and a few intrepid rats. The perimeter had been up since eight o’clock, and anyone who crossed it would be called out by the spotters. As long as her earpiece was working, she’d know before the killer arrived.

She, and Blake beside her. He stood so still in the darkness that she had almost forgotten about him. Only the wave of a hand before her face reminded her. She glanced up to see his wiry hair glowing greasily in a wedge of moonlight.

He mouthed, “Anything, yet?”

She shook her head.

He nodded. He shifted the collapsed tripod from one hand to the other. Even Blake’s ego was an insufficient shield for the photographer tonight. The sweat on his brow looked like lizard scales in the moonlight. This would be a very cold place to hole up if one were a reptile. This killer was a reptile, a subhuman predator who had been protected by sly instinct – and by whomever held his leash.

“A car just turned the corner on Origen,” came a whispered voice over the radio. “Three men are getting out. Bunchy coat on the one. There’s a tall, thin guy with dark hair, a short guy with dark hair, and then the guy with the coat – blond, medium build. The coat guy goes first across the street, looks both ways. The short guy next, and now the tall one. I can’t see if any of them is packing. The coat guy is looking around, nervous. They’re heading for the east door.”

“Got it,” she whispered into the mike. Then to Blake she said, “East door. Let’s go.”

Blake quietly snapped the tripod to his side and followed her as she stalked out between the crates, across the damp floor.

In the headphone, the commentary continued.

“Looks like the short guy has a key. There must be a gun in the other pocket of his coat. The blond is saying something. It sounds like pleading.

“Ah, the door is open. Still no gun visible. We could arrest now, but they might be legit-”

“No. No evidence. Wait to see where they’re going, and then keep close.” Leland navigated a maze of rough-sawn crates and rusted piping. “Let’s see if we can separate them. We don’t know which one is the killer, and we don’t want to force his hand.”

“The short one just shoved the blond guy inside and followed, the tall guy behind. Still no gun.”

Leland slowed, hearing a voice ahead. She held out her hand, stopping Blake behind her and going into a crouch behind a set of steel barrels. Both held deadly still, ears straining in the cave-like air.

“M-Move!” barked a man’s voice, the sound growing louder with approaching footsteps. “I-I-I’m j-just about d-done with you.”

Leland whispered, “They’re moving toward us. They’re going fast, like they’re heading a little distance. Still no gun. Radio silence until I give the word.”

She waved the photographer down, but he was cautiously spreading the legs of his tripod and pulling the cap from his lens. They were in deep shadow here, and perhaps Gaines could stand in plain view and not be seen. Some ID shots would be welcomed, especially since she couldn’t make out the features of any of the three men.

Her Colt was in her hand, she realized. It, too, felt cold and reptilian. As Blake quietly cranked a lever on his tripod, she leveled the pistol toward the space where the three men would pass. There was a beam of moonlight thrown across the path from one of the windows. Perhaps when they stepped in that, she would see whom she dealt with. Her heart thundered. The snick, snick, snick of Blake’s camera was loud against the quiet flap of three pairs of feet. Leland held her breath and steadied her aim.

If they hear that cricketing noise, I might have to shoot. The blond man stepped into the shaft of light. Shadowy blueness filled the hollows, crags, and lines of his face. It might have seemed an evil face, corpulent and lit from beneath, except for the sheer terror on it. Then he was gone from the light. Next came the short man, hands rammed down into his pockets. His step had a hitch in it. His face, glowing for a moment, was wan and expressionless, a mask of skin. His dark hair formed a greasy drapery around his head.

He, too, disappeared into the darkness as he passed. The snick, snick, snick of film continued. The last man, tall and confident, strode easily into the puddle of light. It splashed up his lean figure and lighted a handsome, assured face. He looked directly at the chittering camera, and then at Leland, giving her a knowing wink.

Azra? Sergeant Michaels? What’s he doing? How did he find out about the sting? How did he insinuate himself into the killer’s confidence? Questions crowded through her. Why didn’t he tell me he had this lead?

The camera ceased as the three men swept onward. Leland stared numbly after them. They rounded a corner of crates ahead before she could croak into the microphone: “The situation’s changed. There’s a cop with them. The tall one. He’s from Indiana, out of his jurisdiction. They’ve rounded a corner. They’re going toward the north wing. Send five men through the west door to back up. Send ten more to the windows of the north wing. Nobody shoot until I give the order.”

As the headset crackled with acknowledgment, Leland glanced up to Blake, who was quickly collapsing the tripod. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice trembling. Good, Donna’s here. I knew she’d respond to the anonymous tip. That’s why I’ve not materialized – don’t want her to ID me. She’ll be inspector after this goes off. Imagine her surprise when

“W-Wait here,” you say.

You’re excited. You’re going to hyperventilate. Steady, Keith. You don’t want to screw up this one. He’s your last. Yes. Take it easy. There, the key’s in the lock. There, it’s open.

You kick back the door into the storage room. The stench in there is incredible. Your john gets a lungful and gags. Puke shoots out in a column from him. It hits you. This is better than I had hoped. You kick him in the crotch. He’s still puking as he crumples. You shove him into the room.

The other ones are watching. Those that still have eyes are watching. The ones on the left shelves are just skulls now. The ones in the back of the pantry have maggots beneath their pinned eyelids. The rats scurry away from them. The ones on the right, though, they watch you. It is fitting. They should see your last kill.

You slide off your coat and hang it on a peg on the doorjamb. You reach into your pants and pull out your pistol. A gun in your pocket, and you are happy to see him.

The john is done heaving. Wiping his mouth, he looks up to you. “Please. Please. Do whatever you want. Just don’t-”

Your muzzle touches his forehead, and he begins to shy. The bullet cracks through him. He sprays as he rolls to the floor.

Ah, and now for the hard work of cutting that head off. You put the hot pistol back in your pants, just beside its partner in crime. A knife is in your grip, and you begin to cut. If only you can hold off until the head is free in your hands, the kill will be about perfect. Of course, it all would be done in a second if you only used the ax I’ve hidden behind that bin of hands you’ve got over there. In fact, I think I’ll go get it.

“A gunshot. It’s going down,” hissed Detective Leland as she bolted around the corner. “Get in here! Everybody!”

Blake followed her for the first ten paces but stopped behind a waist-high crate and flung out the legs of his tripod.

Detective Leland rushed onward. The shot had come from that open storage closet ahead. There was movement just within the doorway, but no way of telling who was who.

“Freeze!” shouted Leland, “Police!” She fetched up behind a crate fifteen feet from the black doorway. Open cement stretched from her to the dark space where the killer worked. “Come out, now, or we’ll fire!”

Don’t listen to them, Keith. You’ve almost got that head off. Yes. Cut, cut, cut.

“You have until the count of ten!”

Don’t listen. They always-Good! Now, pick it up, slide it on.

“Nine… eight… seven… six…”

You like it, don’t you?

“… four… three… two…”

The ax comes down violently.

It is an extraordinary measure, I know. It is more than I am supposed to do in orchestrating a death, but Keith’s death needs to be extraordinary. Your hands are severed at the wrists, and they fall with the blond head atop the corpse.

“… one!”

Good boy, Keith. Now, jam those wrist stumps in your pockets – that’ll slow the bleeding. Good. And go after the lady cop. She was supposed to die tonight, but instead she’ll get a promotion. Go on ahead. I’ll stay here and clean up for you.

The short one staggered out the door. His hands were deep in his pockets. He drew forth double pistols.

“Fire!”

The blasts from Leland’s Colt were drowned out by the roar of other weapons emptying their magazines into the man. His head was gone in the first heartbeat, only a dark cloud above his shoulders. His body jiggled as entry wounds sprouted all across his abdomen. He seemed yet alive, his gun-toting hands clearing the pockets.

Except there were no guns – and no hands. His wrists ended in grisly stumps, like those of the other victims. Other victims?“Cease fire!” Leland shouted into the mike as the bullet-riddled body went down, a heap of meat.

The reports crackled to silence. Leland paused a breath, slid a new set of bullets into her Colt, drew her flashlight, and stood up behind the crate. She leveled the smoking barrel of her gun toward the wedge of darkness and held her flashlight far out to one side to keep from getting shot. The light shone into the storage closet.

Color suddenly came to the black space. Blood, mostly. A body -

“Mother of God, no, don’t let it be Azra,” Leland gasped out beneath her breath. She staggered forward. But it wasn’t he. The body was wrapped in a bulky coat. It lay, headless and handless, across the threshold. If that isn’t Azra, then where -?

A pair of hunched shoulders moved in the shadows beyond.

“Stop what you’re doing, raise your hands above your head, and come out!”

The man did not respond. He continued whatever work he was doing.

Slow and nervous, Leland advanced to the door. Her flashlight caught patches of the man’s shirt, blood draining from at least two bullet wounds. He was oblivious. He seemed to be churning something. Leland knew those shoulders. She knew this man…

Twelve years ago, she had walked to a different door, but the cell beyond it had already been emptied. There hadn’t been even a body swinging from the lamp grate. Kerry had already been pulled down, already lay in the sanitarium morgue, cold on steel. She had been too late twelve years ago.

Perhaps she was too late now.

Between gritted teeth, Leland growled, “Come out, Azra. You’re surrounded.”

There was still movement, but no sound. Leland strode steadily toward the space, finger curled around the hot trigger.

Keith’s hands will end up on the bottom of this bin. By the time they sort through all the others – Keith’s hand collection – his will be stale, too.

She’s almost to the door. I’d better stop before she sees motion in the crate.

“Sergeant Michaels, is that you?”

What? How can she see me?

I straighten. My body is casting a shadow against the shelves of maggoty skulls.

She can see me? What’s gone wrong?

This is a cardinal sin – to fall in love with a human. I raise my bloody hands over my head and turn around. Just before her gasp, I hear the click, click, click of photographs being taken.

“Down on your face. You have the right to remain silent…”

My power had been waning ever since that night in January, but now my descent was complete. My shadow told the story. I was unable to dissolve away into nothing, to slough off the body of Sergeant Michaels.

“I said, lie down on your face, hands above your head,” Detective Leland shouted.

I dropped, incredulously, to the cold concrete and felt the warm wicking of blood into my pant legs and the keen, hot jab of a spent bullet under my right knee. It was only then that I knew I had become completely mortal – flesh and bone, descendant of the mudman. The union of angels and humans brings only abomination.

“Down! All the way!” barked Detective Leland. She kicked away shell casings as she approached. The little brass cylinders made a tinkling bell sound on the cement. The camera answered with cricket calls. I lay down, across the blond man’s legs. His corpse shifted. A sputtering moan came up through the sawed neck. Keith’s body lay face down nearby, except that he no longer had a face. One of Donna’s boots dropped smoothly between McFarland and me, and I lay there, hands laced behind my head.

Her other boot descended beside the first. With it, I heard shouts from behind her to watch for a trick.

“Azra, what the hell is this…?”

“You shouldn’t be able to see me,” I said, trying to explain. “This was supposed to fix everything.”

“Mother of God, don’t say it. Don’t say it,” she whispered. “But how could it be anything else? How could I be so stupid?”

She was beside me, now, gun trained on me. I held still. Some impulse of my new flesh knew to do that much. Hold still, and live.

The boot beside me shifted. I felt her knee pressing into the small of my back. She pulled one of my bloody hands down, behind my back, and then the other, and clamped the handcuffs so tight that my fingers began to swell.

My body was suddenly heir to all the pangs, twinges, and mortal frailties of any flesh. I trembled. She shifted, her knee still on my back, and pulled one of my feet up toward her. Through the thin knit of my dress sock, I felt the broad band of the ankle cuff snap into place. With a jangle of chain, both my legs were bound.

There were other boots around hers, now, and the long shadows of sniper rifles fell in bars across me.

“This is Squad Four, Detective Leland. We’ve got our suspect. Bring in the ambulance crews, Phil – he’s got gunshot wounds.”

Only then did I feel the injuries – two slugs in my back, just below my right shoulder blade. The ache was dull and ragged. It hurt less than the place where Donna had knelt. How strange that these human bodies are at once so fragile and so insensate. It would have been easy enough to die without ever feeling it or knowing it.

“…yeah. We’re all breathing a sigh of relief about that. Still, he got two others. Yeah, notify the coroner. There’ll be a set of death investigations. No, no officers down, but two civilians, and a bunch of remains, in various states of-” She stopped talking, staggered away, and was sick over a set of crates.

I could only lie there and breathe. If I had been an angel still, I would have risen and enwrapped her in my arms. But all I could do was lie there and breathe and know she was more sickened by me than by all those skulls.

“Sorry, Phil. Yeah, I’ll be okay. Yeah, it’s just a bad sight down here. Yeah. Leland out.”

Someone else approached, knelt beside me, and set a metal kit next to my head. “Sir, I’m going to be looking at your back. You’ve been shot. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

He shifted and cut my shirt away. After a pause, he flipped open the kit and brought out a small bottle, some cotton swabs, a roll of gauze, a roll of tape, and a small pair of scissors.

As the man set to work sealing the outer wounds for the ride to the hospital, Donna stared down bleakly.

“So, Azra, explain this.” Her voice quivered. She was pleading. “Mother of God, Azra. Explain this.”

I breathed raggedly. “I cannot.”

Her voice rose in intensity. “You know what it looks like, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

The man who was gently dressing my wounds said,

“You do have the right to remain silent.”

And then, I was not just still, but silent.