Brian Boyd pulled into the parking lot at Starbucks and looked for Mark’s car, but he didn’t see it. He figured he was early, so he got out of his unmarked police cruiser and walked into the shop. He ordered a cappuccino and waited for his name to be called while he looked around for Mark. The place was jammed with morning regulars all getting their coffee fix before heading off for their day’s events.
Patrick was standing in a corner near the bathroom, watching as the orders were being made. He had watched Brian put in his order, and Patrick had put in an order in Brian’s name when he saw him come in. Patrick stood in the corner watching Boyd as he stretched his neck looking in every direction for a man that would never arrive. The hostess called out Brian’s name, and Patrick stepped forward and popped the top off the cappuccino and poured a clear liquid from a vial in his pocket into the cup and put the lid down. Brian Boyd walked up as Patrick took the cup and said, “Excuse me, that cappuccino is mine.” Patrick looked at him and said, “No…it’s mine, slick. I ordered this before I ever saw your ass in the building.” Boyd got pissed and said, “I’m a fuckin’ LAPD captain. I’m on duty, and you’re going to raise shit with me over my coffee?” Boyd flashed his badge with a lot of bravado. Patrick had his hand on the cup and said, “I don’t give a shit if you’re the fuckin’ pope. It’s my beverage. Wait your damn turn.” Patrick released the cup as the hostess called out Brian again and put another cup on the counter. Boyd was so pissed at the response he started cursing a blue streak at Patrick.
Patrick grabbed the second cup, leaving the one he tainted for Boyd and said, “I’m sorry.” Patrick picked up the cup and handed it to Boyd and said, “I didn’t know you were a peace officer. I will pay for your cup of joe.” He pulled out a five dollar bill, and Boyd snatched it out of his hand. “I already paid for my drink, so I will take this as your gift offer. Now, get out of my face before I find a reason to arrest you.” Patrick moved up toward the front door as Boyd sipped the hot beverage looking around the restaurant. After about five minutes, Boyd had polished off the beverage and was sitting back in a corner of the shop alone away from other patrons. Patrick walked back and pulled out a chair in front of Brian’s table and sat down. Brian was livid and asked, “Just who the fuck do you think you are? I told you to get your ass out of this shop and out of my sight.” Patrick smiled and said, “But you’re waiting for me.”
Brian’s face lost all color. It was a combination of the drug he had ingested in his beverage and Patrick’s obvious knowledge of why he was there. “I’m waiting for who?” Brian asked with a little slur to his speech. Patrick looked at him sitting back in the chair and said, “I believe the proper term is ‘whom,’ and that’s Mark El Compo…right?” Brian was starting to sweat, and he tried to loosen his tie and coughed a bit and asked, “How do you know I’m waiting for Mark?” Patrick laughed. “Because Mark is unable to make it, so a friend sent me to finish you. You might have heard of him. The Iron Eagle.” Boyd grabbed his chest and was having trouble breathing. Patrick stood up and walked over to him and whispered in his ear, “Vengeance is a fickle bitch, ain’t it Brian? You’re already dead!” Patrick turned and walked out as a woman screamed, and Boyd’s body went crashing to the floor.
Jim and John arrived at Cantrell’s home at a little before nine. The house was very, very private and sat on a corner lot. John pulled his truck around the back of the house, and he and Jim entered Garrison Cantrell’s home and were greeted by the same thing Don Bartell had found the night before. They checked out the residence and found the garage and the plastic that was up. John looked on and said, “It seems Mr. Cantrell was expecting a guest.” Jim had a confused look on his face and said, “Why? Because he has plastic up in his garage? Shit. Maybe he was going to paint or something.” John forced out a laugh and said, “Yea…he was going to paint all right, only he was going to use blood.” John pointed to a corner of the room and blood spatter that was on some boxes outside the plastic. Jim looked on and said, “Well, he’s not the smartest fuck is he?” John shook his head, and they went out and got Steve’s body. They placed him in the garage on the plastic. They put his service revolver in his hand with a spent shell casing on the floor at his feet, and John took a vial of blood that he had Sara draw off of Cantrell, and he spread it all around. Jim asked, “What’s up with the shell casing? Steve didn’t get a shot off at Cantrell?” “I checked Cantrell’s wound before I left the lair. There is no bullet in his shoulder. When Charlie shot Cantrell, the bullet must have passed through.” Jim got a smile on his face and said, “Ah…but Steve and Charlie carried the same issue firearm, and the blood will confirm that Cantrell was shot with a Glock, and no one will ever find the bullet.” Jim smiled sadly at Steve’s body lying on the ground and said, “Steve, John is one straight-laced mother fucker, but he did good by you. You were right. He’s the best damn find you ever made at the Bureau. Rest in peace, my friend.” When they were finished, they drove down the street and made a 911 call that shots had been fired and waited for the police.
Sara, Gail, Barbara, and Jade were sitting together in the kitchen. They all had cups of coffee in front of them, but there wasn’t a lot of conversation. Barbara sipped her coffee, and Jade looked at Sara and Barb and asked, “How long have you two known that John is the Iron Eagle?” Sara told her since before she married John and commenced to tell her the story of Amber, John’s wife, who had been murdered, and that Walter Cruthers was her killer. Sara explained how Cruthers had abducted her as well and that the Eagle/John saved her. Barbara listened, and when Sara was done Jade asked, “And you, Barb?” “Since the night that he abducted me from my home so many years ago. I didn’t know then the Eagle was John, but I knew he was a cop. I figured out John was the Eagle before he revealed his secret to me after I got to know him and Sara.”
Jade took a drink of her coffee and asked, “And you two are alright with what he does as the Eagle?” Both Sara and Barbara nodded. Barbara said, “We are not just all right with it. We have helped him and will continue to until he dies, we die, or, God willing, we live to retire from this shit.” Jade looked over at Gail and asked, “How long have you known?” Gail was sipping her coffee, thumbing through a magazine too relaxed. “Officially…she looked at the clock, “Less than six hours. Unofficially…Steve and I talked about it a lot over the years we were married. He suspected that John was the Eagle, but he couldn’t prove it. Then after all that has happened over the past couple of years with what the Eagle and his men did to save this nation and tried to do to save the people of Los Angeles from the fires, we both just let it be.” Sara took a sip of her coffee and asked Jade, “And what about you now, Jade? You know my husband’s deepest darkest secret. What are you going to do now that you’re armed with this information?” The women looked on as Jade took a sip with a little shake in her hands and said, “I have always suspected that John was the Eagle. I could never put my finger on it. I just knew. There was something deep inside of me that told me he was the one behind all of these events. What am I going to do? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Am I going to help the Iron Eagle mete out justice? No…at least I don’t think so. I mean…he has done so much to save so many. I’ve seen his brutality first hand on my autopsy table. I don’t know if I could help him…I…I…”
Sara leaned over and put her hand on Jade’s shaking shoulder and said, “You answered the question. We all need to shower and dress. Gail’s husband is about to be found murdered in the line of duty.” Gail had tears in her eyes, and she looked at Sara and said, “Last night before Steve left, he knew he wasn’t coming home. We both felt it. We both had it weighing on us. He was suffering, Sara. He was losing the battle to ALS. This was his last chance to make a difference as an FBI agent.” She took a deep breath and let it out, bawling, tears running down her face. “And he did it. He died the way he wanted to, protecting a fellow officer. He gave his life for the good of the people that he swore to protect.” There wasn’t a
dry eye in the room as they broke off to shower and change.
Jim and John were sitting in his pickup waiting for the call. The police were at the house and so was an ambulance. John’s cell phone rang. “Swenson.” There were a few moments of silence, and John said, “Give me the address, Jared, and I will pick up Sheriff O’Brian. We are on our way.” He pressed the button on his phone to end the call and asked Jim, “Are you ready for this?” Jim shook his head. “Neither am I,” John said as he started the truck and headed for Cantrell’s home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Yea…the brain remains
conscious for up to a minute…”
The sea was flat, and there was no wind. The late morning sun was glistening off the water, and Jade sat down with her hair wet from the shower, her eyes red from crying. She sat nude, allowing the warmth of the sun to lap the remaining droplets of water from her skin until they were replaced with droplets of perspiration. She moved into the shade and sat down on a patio chair, put her head into her hands, and screamed and cried at the same time. She held the position for what seemed like hours, but it was mere seconds before she heard her cell phone ringing on the table in front of her.
She stared at the ringing phone, dreading answering it. She knew who it would be and what she would be called to do, and for the first time in her career, she doubted herself and her ability to do the job she had been elected to do. She had turned off her voicemail on the phone, so she would hear the call when it came in, and so she would be allowed the time to answer, composed. She dried her eyes and answered. Her tablet was on the table next to her phone, and she picked it up and typed in the information. She said, “I’m en route,” hung up the phone, then buried her face in her hands once more, and let out a deep primal scream of anguish and agony before dressing and heading for the crime scene.
John and Jim pulled up in front of Cantrell’s home. Jared was in the driveway waiting for the two men, and two FBI CSI vans were on scene as well. There were several sheriffs’ deputies who were working with LAPD on keeping neighbors and onlookers back as Jim and John exited the truck. John had his FBI windbreaker on, and Jim was in his sheriff’s dress uniform. Both men had showered and dressed before leaving the house with Steve’s body that morning. John walked up and shook hands with Jared as did Jim, and they were getting ready to walk into the house when Jade Morgan pulled up in the coroner’s car.
She got out of the car, cool and collected, and walked up to John, Jim, and Jared and said, “My CSI team is en route.” They all walked into the house, which was now taped off with crime scene tape. There were two FBI cybercrime team members working on Cantrell’s computers as Jared led them to the garage. “We found a spent shell casing over here, John. It’s consistent with Steve’s service weapon. He got a shot off. We don’t know if it was before or after he was shot.”
John and Jim knelt down and asked for gloves. John looked over, and Jade was with Steve’s body. John took the end of a pen he had in his pocket and picked up the casing. “An evidence bag, please.” He dropped the shell casing into the bag and handed it off to Jared. John said, “Where’s the blood from the killer?” Jared walked the two men over and everyone parted as John and Jim worked the scene quietly together. No one dared speak, and when they were done, they walked out into the garage where Jade was working on Steve, and John asked, “Any idea on a TOD?” She looked at the thermometer that was sticking out of Steve’s liver and said, “Not long. Based on my preliminary findings on scene, he was killed between midnight and six a.m.” John was standing over her and asked, “Cause of death?” Jim shot John a dirty look and said, “Well, gee, John, I’m not a coroner like Jade here, but I would say he got shot in the fuckin’ chest. Seems to me to be a sure fire way to die!” John thanked him for the obvious, and Jade said, “I will give you everything as soon as I do the autopsy, and I will do it as soon as I get Steve’s body back to the lab.”
Jim and John worked the rest of the scene and got called to the backyard. “We got a body here!” John and Jim walked out, and one of the officers had the lid off a compost bin that Cantrell had in the backyard. There was the body of a white middle-aged male, and John looked down at his face and said, “I can ID him. The man’s name is Don Bartell. He’s a California Probation Officer.” One of the officers working the scene asked, “What the hell would a probation officer be doing here?” Jim looked at him and said, “You don’t read the fuckin’ news, do you? You have your gun and badge, and you’re just on the fuckin’ job. Cantrell is on pretrial release for the murder of Mary Schultz, but you wouldn’t know that because you’re a goddamn retard. Get the fuck away from my crime scene. Go out and work the street and send one of my deputies out here who has a damn clue.”
The officer walked away, and John said, “Cut them some slack.” Jim fired back, “Oh, fuck no…” Jim stood up and called the officers from the outside to the kitchen of the house between the backyard and the garage and said, “Every one of you mother fuckers listen up and listen good. The bulk of you were still having your asses wiped by your mommas when Steve Hoffman and I were investigating violent crime. That man lying in there was one of my best friends. He died in the line of duty trying to protect the general public and some of you LAPD assholes from this psycho bastard. You better dot every I and cross every T in this investigation because that man in there deserves nothing less. Get educated on this killer, men, because he’s out there somewhere. He may be injured, but he might very well still be alive, and by God, I want every ounce of that mother fucker’s blood. Now get your asses to work.”
Jade had tears in her eyes as did some of the other officers, and John walked over to Jade and whispered in her ear, “Please take care of my friend.” She nodded emphatically. John said to all on scene, “Jim and I have to get back to our offices. We have a lot of people to talk to and a press conference to have about this scene. Keep your guard up, men. Cantrell is a cop killer, and he may very well still be hunting for you.” Jim and John walked out of the house and got back into John’s truck and drove away. John dropped Jim at his office and went on to his own to start the process of burying a hero.
John got home at half past five. Barbara had arranged for the girls to be taken by immigration from a location in Long Beach based on John’s instructions, and Sara was waiting for him when he walked in. “I saw the news conference. What you said about Steve was very touching.” “Not touching, Sara. True.” She nodded and asked if he was going to have dinner. He shook his head and said, “The Eagle has business to attend to. I will be late.”
The Eagle was fast and painfully efficient when torturing Espinoza, Martel, and Rogers. He drilled out their teeth and removed their finger and toenails. While fast and efficient, it did take several days, and their cries and pleas for mercy went unheeded. They were barely breathing piles of meat when he was finished with them. The Eagle took their half dead bodies up to the property he owned on Parson’s Trail in the Chatsworth Mountains and drove railroad spikes through their legs and forearms and left them nude, and still alive, for the animals to consume. The Eagle had just finished nailing Martel to two four by fours and nailing a steel cord across his throat, so he couldn’t move when a pack of coyotes began to circle around the tortured remains of his victims. The Eagle rose and said to the three, “I’m finished with you, now you can feed nature. MAY GOD NOT HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOULS.”
The Eagle walked off with a small tool kit in his hands and got into his truck. It was nearing sunset, and he sat with the windows down in the quiet of the night and heard the yelps and cries of the coyotes as they called out to others that food was to be had. He listened to the screams until they were drowned out by the savage tearing of flesh and the gurgle of blood as their throats were ripped out by the wild dogs.
The Eagle walked into the operating room where Cantrell and El Compo were being tortured three times a day. Each time one of the men would be on the verge of death, he wou
ld bandage their wounds, feed them, and give them medication to fight off infections. As soon as they began to recover, the torture started all over again. Each man was forced to watch as the other was being torn apart by the Eagle, their flesh stripped off their bodies, each man emasculated and fed his manhood.
El Compo was branded twice daily with the very iron he used for his slaves. The Eagle recorded every torture session, getting more and more details from El Compo on his customers and his suppliers. That information was supplied to ICE as well as the FBI, the immigration department, and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
Jim put together a special taskforce whose only job was to hunt down and arrest all of the perps. In the end, nearly five hundred people were arrested, and nearly two thousand people, mostly women who had been sold into slavery, were freed from their captors and abusers. The Eagle finished El Compo in the only way he saw fit.
“Mark El Compo, you have admitted to the rape, torture, and sale of women, young female children, and men into sexual slavery. You have also admitted to torture and murder of those that you felt were either undesirable or that you tired of in your own dungeon. If a hell exists, you most certainly will go there. I, however, have worked very hard to make your last days on this earth a hell unto itself.” The Eagle uncovered the industrial meat grinder, so both men could see it. El Compo could only make noises as his teeth had been drilled then ripped out one at a time. His flesh was blistered from the repeated branding irons used on every surface of his body including his face.
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