by M. Z. Kelly
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Working with the feds is sounding better and better. So, what’s the latest with the Angel?”
Olivia brushed her bangs back and exhaled. “Nothing good. You’ve probably heard our case is front and center with all the national media outlets. Everyone here says Hyland’s getting lots of pressure from on high, and nothing’s breaking.” She checked her phone. “We’ve got a meeting in a few, so we’d probably better head for the conference room.”
When Olivia and I got to the hallway leading to the conference room, I heard someone calling out from behind me.
“How’s it hanging, Buttercup?”
I knew, from the baritone voice and the moniker he’d chosen for me, that it was Joe Dawson, even before I turned around. “Don’t tell me, you’re working our case?”
“The brass decided that Hyland’s out. Greer and I are number one and two now. And just FYI, we’re the real reason you and your friend were assigned to the Angel case.”
John Greer was also an agent, Joe’s boss. “You mean you knew the agents working the case were going to be replaced all along?”
Joe smiled, exposing his perfect teeth. My friend was handsome, in his early forties, with sandy hair and blue eyes. “Poindexter wanted Greer from the beginning, and Greer wanted me. Once we finished up our work down south, I told him I was up for the case, as long as you came along for the ride. It seems your new chief was more than happy to oblige.”
Chuck Poindexter was the assistant director of the FBI. Both John Greer and Joe Dawson had worked lots of high profile cases in the past, so it stood to reason he wanted them assigned to the case. What he’d said about Bronson also seemed likely.
Olivia came over, and I introduced her to Joe. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, taking his hand.
“It’s all true, and worse,” Joe said, smiling. He looked at me. “And, just for the record, Kate dumped me.”
“No one dumped anyone,” I said, shaking my head in annoyance as Olivia smiled.
Joe was already moving toward the conference room where the other agents were gathering as he said, “And, she’s a lousy liar.”
The meeting began with John Greer introducing himself and Joe, and telling the taskforce that Agent Hyland had been reassigned. The FBI supervisor was in his forties, with brown hair fading to gray. He wore the standard issue FBI dark suit and had the regulation high and tight haircut.
The meeting was just beginning when Professor Walling spoke up. “I think this taskforce has been off track from the beginning.” He looked at Eva Valdez. “And we’ve wasted a lot of valuable time going over old cases.”
“I take it you’ve got a better idea how to proceed, Professor Whaling,” Joe said with a smirk.
“It’s Walling, and I’ve already given this group my profile of the Angel.”
“Don’t tell me. He’s about sixty, overweight, with a bad comb-over.”
There was muffled laughter from the other agents, including Hayden Kinnear, who lifted his brows as he smiled and looked in my direction.
I forced myself to look away from the handsome profiler as the professor defended his dignity. “I won’t sit here and listen to ad hominem attacks by this...” He looked at Joe. “...this blowhard.”
“Now I’m the one suffering,” Joe said, meeting the professor’s eyes. “And it’s about as ugly as it gets.”
“Enough,” Greer said. “Let’s stay on track.” He shuffled some paperwork and went on. “I don’t have to tell you all that the press is all over this case, and the director expects some action. Agent Dawson and I have spent the past day getting up to speed on everything, so I’m not interested in covering old ground. Does anyone else have suggestions on how we proceed?”
“I have something,” Eva said. Professor Walling groaned, and she made a point of looking at him. “Maybe you want to go comb your hair or polish your profile until I’m finished.”
“I’ve had it with this charade,” Walling fumed, gathering up his papers and stomping out of the room.
“You’re my kind of gal,” Joe said to Eva after he was gone. “Let’s hear what’s on your mind.”
The profiler-turned-author cleared her throat and began. “There’s a 2012 case from Clearwater, Florida. The victim was Joann Raye Morris. The Angel broke into her home, probably sometime after midnight. As with other victims, he raped and tortured her before the homicide.
“A neighbor told the investigators that he saw a man leave the following morning in a brown sedan that was parked on the street. Unfortunately, he didn’t get a plate or anything worthwhile on a description of the suspect.” She glanced at the paperwork in front of her and exhaled. “The victim was nineteen and had recently moved back in with her parents. She was three months pregnant.”
“I remember looking at that case a few weeks back,” Kinnear said. “Wasn’t there someone who claimed he had information on the suspect?”
Eva nodded. “The case had gone cold until a couple weeks later when a psychologist from Polk Correctional Institution called the investigators, telling them that an inmate claimed he had information about the murder. One of the Clearwater detectives went there and interviewed...” She checked her notes. “...Tyler McAndrew. Long story short, the inmate refused to say what he knew unless they could guarantee him an early release. Since that wasn’t an option, he refused to talk.”
“Is McAndrew still in Polk?” Greer asked.
“Yes. He’s serving twenty years for aggravated assault. He’s got five years left on his sentence.”
Greer massaged his wide brow. “I’m not sure that we can offer him anything to get him to talk, either.”
Joe looked at him. “We sure as hell can.”
“What have you got in mind?”
“A presidential pardon.”
ELEVEN
“I used to sell cars in my spare time while in college,” Joe told his boss. “All the customer really wants is that new car smell. The rest is just details.”
“As we all know, those details are where the devil makes his home,” Greer said.
“Not in our case. The devil lives in a big white house, where he has the power to wave his magic pitchfork and grant someone his freedom. Why don’t you make some calls? In the meantime, I say we head for Florida and promise this McAndrew idiot his freedom, and maybe even a new car, if he can tell us who the Angel is.”
“He might be just blowing smoke,” Hayden Kinnear said. “Looking for an early out.”
“You got a better idea?”
The profiler shook his head and looked at Greer. “It’s probably worth a shot.”
“Wheels up in twenty,” Joe said. He looked at me. “I think I heard that on some TV show about the FBI.” He chuckled. “Hey, maybe we should call the Angel an unsub.”
***
Joe used his influence with Greer and managed to get a small working group to go with him to Florida, including me, Olivia, Eva Valdez, and Hayden Kinnear. While we were in the air, he got word from Greer that a presidential pardon wasn’t a guarantee, but wasn’t being ruled out either.
As we all gathered around and learned what his boss had said, Joe told us, “I think we should tell McAndrew that a pardon is in play, depending on what he says. We should get an idea pretty quickly whether he’s just trying to play us.”
“What do we know about McAndrew’s crime?” Kinnear asked.
Eva answered. “It was a domestic violence situation. He barricaded himself in his apartment and beat his girlfriend within an inch of her life before he eventually surrendered. She suffered some permanent disabilities and brain damage from her injuries.”
What she’d said struck a nerve with Olivia. “I say we find a way to get what we can out of him and let him rot in prison.”
Joe smiled. “You must have read my playbook.”
After the impromptu meeting ended, I wandered off and took a seat at the back of the plane to do some reading.
Joe came by a few minutes later and took a seat across from me.
“So, how are you really doing?” he asked.
“I’m doing...” I thought about my mother and the brother who was unknown to me. I took a breath, gathering my thoughts. “...I guess I’m about the same. I’ve got a brother I’ve never met who’s homeless, and a mother who had a stroke.”
There was concern in his tone. “Your mom, is she okay?”
“I think so. Robin’s taking care of her. She’s going to need some physical therapy.”
“I’m sorry.” He then asked about my brother.
I filled him in on what I knew about Daniel, then asked, “And you, how are things with the world’s greatest FBI agent?”
He chuckled. “Business as usual, with the exception of my daughter.”
I knew that Joe and his daughter had been estranged, but had recently made up. “What’s going on?”
“She wants to be a fed.” He smiled. “Where did I go wrong?”
“Good for her. It sounds like you’ve had more influence over her than you thought.”
“Maybe.” He studied me for a long moment. “So, what’s the latest with you and...? I forget his name.”
“Ross, and we’re history, even though we were just friends.”
He smiled. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”
I exhaled. “Don’t make me give you the speech about our jobs and friendship again.”
He held up a hand. “No speeches are necessary...” His smile grew wider. “...for now.”
I changed the subject, feeling uncomfortable over the direction of the conversation. “What are your thoughts on our suspect?”
He took a moment, his gaze drifting off for an instant before coming back to me. “I read the background and briefing reports last night, looked at the streaming video. I think this guy is a different breed than what we usually see.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s been in the wind for a decade, so he’s clever enough to avoid detection. He’s got a compulsion to kill, but he’s also an exhibitionist whose MO is changing. That’s our best bet.”
“That’s pretty much what Olivia and I thought. Eva Valdez has a theory that he’s got a partner, possibly female.”
“Could be.” He glanced over at Olivia, who was chatting with one of the other agents. “Your friend seems nice. I heard things haven’t gone so well for her.”
“She had a detective go off the reservation and was demoted. It’s been tough, but she’s a survivor, and one of the best detectives I’ve ever known.”
We heard the pilot announcing that we would be landing in ten minutes. We buckled up as Joe said, “Time to rock ‘n’ roll, Buttercup.”
TWELVE
Polk CI was about an hour and a half northeast of the airport in Sarasota. The prison was a typical medium security facility, with the standard gray walls and electronic doors that clicked and whirred as we entered the secure perimeter.
We met with Tyler McAndrew in an interview room down the corridor from his housing unit. As per our earlier discussion, Joe and Eva took the lead after we all settled in at a table across from the inmate.
After introductions, Eva got right to the point. “We’re doing some follow-up on a homicide...”
“Joann Morris,” McAndrew said. “I know who killed her.”
The prisoner was a big guy in his forties, with thinning brown hair and dark eyes. I knew from skimming his sentencing reports that he was six-five, two-fifty, but it looked like he’d put on at least thirty pounds during his prison stint.
“How did you know we’re here about Ms. Morris?” Eva asked.
“It’s not every day I get a visit like this.” He smiled, displaying brown, crooked teeth. “I saw what he did to that girl.”
“How is that?”
His smile grew wider. “We got Internet, ways around the firewalls.”
Eva took a breath and continued. “So, what can you tell us about Joann Morris?”
“Not a thing until I get a guarantee that I get out of this shithole.”
Eva brushed her dark hair back. “You’ve got to give us something more to go on, then we’ll see what we can do for you.”
McAndrew studied her for a moment, before his gaze went over to Joe. “I know what he did to Morris. If you want him, get me out of here.”
“You heard the lady,” Joe said. “This game starts with you playing a card, then we’ll see.”
“I ain’t talking.”
Joe shrugged. “It’s your life, you can spend another ten years in here for all I care.”
“I only got five to go.”
Joe shook his head. “You just lost your good time credits.”
Prisoners earned credits for staying out of trouble while in custody, giving them an earlier release date. It sometimes cut their custody time by as much as a third. Joe was playing a bluff, and McAndrew’s reaction told me it was working.
The inmate leaned forward and lowered his baritone voice. “You son of a bitch.”
Joe smiled. “My pedigree isn’t the issue here, but your freedom is. I’ll go to the warden on my way out of here and have him revoke every privilege, point, chip, or credit you’ve earned in this shitter since the day you arrived. Now, I suggest you start talking unless you don’t want to see daylight until sometime late in the next decade.”
Our prisoner was quiet for a moment, no doubt considering his options. “The girl was raped and tortured. The Angel got in the house through an unlocked door at the side of the garage.”
What he’d said was consistent with the reports, something that had been held back from the press by the investigators.
“And?” Eva said.
“And, nothing. You want a name, I want out of here.”
“You know who the Angel is?” Joe asked.
“Maybe.”
His response was a tell, something that any law enforcement officer would immediately pick up on. I felt Eva’s obvious disappointment as she said. “We need more.”
“That’s all you’re getting.”
Joe stood, along with the rest of us. “Have a nice decade, asshole.”
We were at the door, pressing the buzzer for the guard, when McAndrew called over to us. “Wait.”
Joe looked at him, then glanced at me and lowered his voice. “He just got a whiff of that new car smell—or maybe just the smell of freedom, Buttercup.” He called over to McAndrew. “What is it?”
“The girl, the one who was murdered. She was pregnant.”
That fact was also held back during the investigation. We all walked back over to McAndrew and sat down. “Go on,” Joe said. “Tell us what you know—all of it.”
The prisoner smiled. “My freedom.”
Joe’s blue eyes bore into McAndrew. “Listen carefully, son. I’m only going to say this once. This case is what you would call high-profile. A lot of people are interested in seeing it solved, including someone who lives in a big white house.”
McAndrew’s smile grew wider. “The President.”
Joe nodded. “Tell us what you know and maybe you’ll get that get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“I want it in writing.”
Joe exhaled and shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re holding all the cards here, including the fact that you have details about the murder of Joann Morris that only her killer would know about. The way I see it, we’ve got enough here to go to the DA and charge you. Now, start talking. The pardon is still in play, but only if you tell us everything—NOW.”
McAndrew folded his arms and exhaled, not looking at Joe. After a long moment, he finally met Joe’s eyes and said, “All right. There was a prisoner. I met him when I was up in Jacksonville, waiting on my sentence. He gave me a name, someone who helped the Angel get into Morris’s house. He was there when she was murdered.”
“Who is the Angel?”
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is the guy that told me everything is Wa
de Langston. He was housed with Johnny Drake. Drake was the one who worked with the Angel.”
“Where is Drake now?”
“From what I heard, he’s dead.”
“And Langston?”
“Don’t know for sure, but from what I seen on the Internet, he’s living in New York now.”
“It sounds like you’re busy on the Internet a lot, googling people and watching murders being streamed.”
He shrugged. “I got time to kill.”
“There’s no doubt about that.” Joe rose from the table, along with the rest of us.
“What about my pardon?” McAndrew yelled, as we headed for the door.
Joe turned back to him. “I’ll give you the President’s number. Give him a ring and tell him you wanna cash in your get-out-of-jail card.”
Our prisoner let loose with a string of obscenities as we left the room.
“What happens now?” I asked Joe.
“I’m going to do Mr. McAndrew’s victim a favor. I’m stopping by the warden’s office and cancelling his good time credits. After that, we find Wade Langston.”
THIRTEEN
The Angel was on the hunt, his prey on the sidewalk less than a hundred yards ahead. He slipped on his sunglasses and shrank down behind the wheel of his van. There was no chance his target had seen him, but, after all this time, the Angel had learned to take no chances.
The hunting process had grown easier over the years, both because the prey was easier to take and his process had been perfected. The girl up ahead was like all the others. Tall, with dark hair and a slender body. She was a woman-child, probably no more than eighteen. Her hair was tussled by the breeze, the afternoon sunlight glittering off the wayward strands. She stopped, studying her phone for a moment, unaware of her surroundings.
As the predator moved in, he remembered reading somewhere that, for other serial killers, there was a killing ritual; a consistent process of finding a victim, carrying out the execution, and then posing the body. The so-called experts called it a “signature”.
