Brutal and bizarre killings happening near a quiet Southern California town bring a local Christian cop and a federal task force together to unearth the truth beneath these crimes.
Does evil exist? Is it prowling the hills of Southern California? A Federal task force is determined to find out the identity and origins of a mysterious killer.
Bo is a code name for the nation's most obscure, long lived and mysterious killer. The man tracking Bo for over a decade knows everything there is to know about him, except his identity and whereabouts. His hand picked task force, nicknamed the Yellow Jackets, is comprised of violent, get-the-job-done, former cops. They have taken over a small police station in a quiet Southern California town following the most recent murder. A local Christian cop is pitted against the task force because of his relationship with the most recent victim, who he was trying to evangelize. After accepting a position with the Yellow Jackets, his differing perspective on the case challenges their predominant theory that the killer may be a werewolf. Bo's mysterious movements and habits allude to a deeper evil than mere killing.
Bo Wulf by Fred Tingler
1 Frank
Falling off the wagon was always easy. It was that long, arduous climb back up that Frank always dreaded. But he knew he would do it again. He always did. Failure, success, failure, was his pattern. Looking at his lap, he could make out his tools and materials in the dim dashboard lighting. He tore open the tiny bag of powder and poured it into the spoon.
In Frank's thirty-one years he had become something that no one would have dreamed possible for the geeky high school kid with thick glasses. He had become one of the area's biggest drug dealers. His once short, blonde hair was now an unkempt, dreadlock mess. Laser eye surgery dispensed with the glasses, and his flashy attire was a far cry from the button down white shirts and high water slacks of his youth. The cigarette lighter came to life. Trying not to spill the spoon, he heated it over the tiny flame.
By this point in Frank's life, he had turned away from the world of drug dealing a half dozen times. Each episode played out the same. He would walk away, get the junk cleaned out of his system, do a little talking to God and things would seem better. But life would get tough again. He'd be back at the junk and he'd start dealing. Frank shut off the flame as soon as he saw the fluid in the spoon boil. He sucked the potent mixture into the syringe.
He had been down so many roads. Dealing in drugs, stolen items and human flesh. He'd even sold himself a time or two in order to pay for a fix. He'd dabbled in robbery, forgery, the occult and even a failed attempt at assassination. His most recent effort to leave this lifestyle behind followed his survival of a shotgun blast to the stomach from a displeased crack-head eight months ago. He uncoiled the thin, well used chord and tied off his arm. He zeroed in on an acceptable vein and gave it a gentle thunk with the back of his middle finger.
Now things were different. He was in constant pain from the improperly repaired gunshot wound and even his back alley doctor would no longer help him with medication. On top of everything else, that jerk cop he'd been talking with made him feel guilty about his life. The guy kept talking about sinfulness and divine forgiveness from some mythological creator. It all sounded wonderful, suspiciously wonderful. It couldn't be true. He held up the syringe and admired the glint of the moonlight off its needle. "But this," he whispered, "this wonderful elixir." It was most assuredly real, it was the only truth he needed. This was the prescription.
Whoever this fabled God person was, he or she never took the time to smile upon Frank. But maybe, just maybe, the next time Frank talked to God, he would ask for forgiveness rather than answers. Maybe. And maybe this God would forgive him, or maybe he'd laugh in Frank's face. Regardless of who controlled Frank's destiny, things were about to get better.
As he applied liberal pressure to the plunger of the syringe, the venerable heroin rushed into his bloodstream to frolic with his senses and bring blessed relief. By the time the needle was pulled from his arm, he could already feel the relaxing pull of the numbness he sought. He slackened and sighed.
He could already hear the voices. Ah, the divine voices. The gentle voices usually told him everything was all right. They comforted him, quieted his mind, and gently messaged his conscience. The voices assuaged his guilt and reassured him that his distasteful life and his dubious decisions were all justified.
As his body became heavy, he heard something different. The normally comforting voices sounded angry. Even more odd, they called him by name. Frank never really accepted the voices as real, but now they were specifically identifying him. A foreboding chord played through his slack body. The irate voices pronounced judgment upon him. Panic set in as he started hearing noises. Physical noises, approaching.
2 James
James was in his office reading the weekly department newsletter obits, calculating how long cops live after retirement. The bleak statistics were quite unimpressive to a man close to completing his career.
His rugged face and thick gray hair gave the appearance of a man with many hard miles, more than his fifty-four years. His tough face was lightly speckled with pock marks from a relentless case of teenage acne and scored with a few light, but distinctive scars earned on the battlefield known as the streets of Los Angeles. As leader of the Culebra Task Force, innaffectionately known as the Yellow Jackets, he was now one of the most powerful law enforcement officials in the country. Yet he dwelt ever more upon the great release of retirement. Perhaps this was due to his mandated professional obscurity. The incredible achievements and remarkable record were familiar to only the scant few who could be counted as his superiors.
He hoped his post-retirement plans would prolong his existence, unlike the predecessors about who he now read. His free hand tapped a small stack of brochures on his desk. Panama, France, Germany. Maybe one day he would …
Hardy burst into the office, "We got one boss!"
James did not ask, "One what?" He knew precisely what the one was. James had his coat on and was heading out the door before the discarded newsletter made it to the floor. He followed in Hardy's wake, down the hall to the Chief's office.
Hardy was a huge white man in his very early thirties with a shaved head and a very serious disposition. He always sported the same Diamond Head Hat routinely worn by the rest of the team, but none were as attached to theirs as Russell Hardy. He also wore the same black tie, black slacks and white shirt as James. Hardy's wide frame easily made way for James as they briskly headed for the office of the Tehachapi Chief of Police.
Chief Bradley Rowland was just hanging up the phone as James and Hardy entered, "How the hell did you hear already?" he asked rhetorically. “I just got the call.” Irritated, he did his best to address the intruders calmly, “Looks like another bear mauling," he grumped. Like James, the Chief was certain these were not wild animal related, but he positively did not buy into James' theory. "This time, it's in the foothills near Pasadena, just north of Altadena." He furrowed his brow expectedly, "You'll be on the move I suppose?"
James nodded, "We'll check out the scene first, and find a suitable new office. Probably in Altadena. I would like to stay near the hills. The city incorporated not long ago and has its own police station, so I should not be too much of an imposition."
“Hmph,” Rowland responded. "I'm not gonna miss ya," the Chief spat. He was serious. Rowland respected James as a cop, but hated the Special Orders that came with him. Those mysterious documents granted him all sorts of special privileges and powers. When James arrived here in Tehachapi, he made it obvious he was trying not to step on anyone's toes. Too obvious. It was clear that everyone's toes were his to abuse.
James smiled at Rowland's comment, "You're going to miss me all right. You know you love me. It will be just like when your kids leave home." James and Hardy made for the door. "When we are gone, you will roam the halls, looking for our toys lying around. Lamenting about the great times we had," the last word was almost cut off by the closing door.
3 Maggy
Leaving home this crisp morning Maggy was invigorated. She had eaten a wonderful dinner the night before, slept well, woke refreshed and enjoyed her favorite breakfast of fresh cinnamon toast and a slice of pizza from the aforementioned dinner. What made the air smell extra sweet was the realization she was finally over Paul. It was difficult to forgive him for so abruptly terminating their relationship in favor of a woman who was more interested in sharing his bed than sharing his life. How could she have ever loved someone so shallow?
Hating him, she knew, was self-destructive for her psyche as well as morally repugnant to her theology. At twenty seven, she knew enough of life to know that Paul would reap what he had sown. His life was in the hands of God and would come to ruin or prosperity regardless of what Maggy Richter had to say. Forgiving Paul had not been easy, nor had it been quick. After three weeks of crying and ranting, she finally succumbed to the inevitable conclusion that Paul was gone and that she would not want him back if he begged. Through much prayer and discussion with her beloved brother, she managed to rely upon the strength of God, and finally forgave Paul.
She avoided thinking about the new graffiti on Paul's car, but she knew she would eventually seek his forgiveness on this issue.
Maggy decided to trot by the park where the birds seemed especially active, singing and flitting about. As she drew in and expelled a full measure of fresh morning air, she noted that dozens of birds were bursting forth from one of the park's more picturesque trees, about a hundred feet away.
With her attention focused on that tree, she witnessed what appeared to be a young homeless man drop from the lower branches and crash onto the ground. The young man deftly sprung to his feet and dusted himself off. Acting disoriented, he quickly assessed his surroundings and achieved a firm grip on his whereabouts. He jogged off toward the north without noticing Maggy and disappeared amongst the park's flora. Like a distant memory, he was gone.
She continued past the park, her previous rhythmic saunter replaced by a more subdued, yet still happy, gait. Her thoughts dwelt upon the remarkable scene of that young man dropping from the tree. What kind of night would some nut have, that would end with him sleeping tree-bound?
4 The Haunted Forest
Detective Tamar Shakhar saw them coming up toward the crime scene. He easily recognized the beige, Italian leather jackets and Diamond Head hats indicative of the Yellow Jackets. James led the way, followed by two people Tamar recognized; Norman Cheney, the muscular, black man who was James' right hand, and Mei Guo, the tiny Chinese woman with steely eyes. The third he did not know, but was the biggest white man Tamar had ever seen. Tamar's broad grin was framed with a thick, black mustache and goatee. His ample Middle Eastern nose cast a blunt shadow across his recently whitened teeth. The bright sun glistened in his tightly curled, short black hair. When the Culebra Task Force got close enough, Tamar greeted James with a heavy Egyptian accent, "Hello, Dr. Jones, terribly nice to see you."
James hated the Indiana Jones nickname, and Tamar knew it. Irritated, James chided, "Shouldn't you be blowing something up in the name of Allah?"
Tamar pretended shock. Dropping his fake accent he replied, "Dude, that's not a polite thing to say to an Episcopalian."
Squinting in the bright sun, James surveyed this area of the foothills affectionately known by locals as the Haunted Forest. He smirked and asked Tamar, "Whaddaya got, Camel Jockey?"
Hardy recognized the friendly style banter, these two knew each other.
Once again pretending shock, Tamar adopted a surfer accent that made him seem far younger than his thirty-nine years, "Huh. That's Wave Jockey to you, Old Dude." Dropping all accents, Tamar turned and headed up the hill toward the victim, "As all these stories begin," he gestured up the rise, "a couple of hikers found the body. They were coming down from a trail further up and ran across this mess. They saw some local wildlife chowin' on the victim and thought it was a dead animal till they saw a hand." As the ground leveled, other detectives, cops and a couple of park rangers came into view, all huddled around something.
James looked at Tamar, "I presume you were called in on this one to rule out homicide, and it was you who thought of calling me."
"Ah yes. You are correct. You taught me what to look for." Tamar turned toward the accident scene and began walking slowly. The rest of the law enforcement representatives dispersed and fanning out in several directions to search for evidence. "As I said," Tamar continued, "It's a mess. We don't know where he was killed, but it wasn't here."
James stopped, "Mine are always Killed On the Scene."
Tamar motioned James to resume following, "I know. But, there are many other reasons I had you called. He was killed elsewhere, but he was dined on here. The bites and other marks are consistent."
As they made it to the body, James crouched at its side. Hardy glanced at the body and continued north toward the trees. Norm and Mei investigated the ground around the victim.
Tamar pointed out the marks that looked suspicious, "See the bites along the cavity? There was more cutting than ripping and tearing. You said bites like that look more like an omnivore than a carnivore." He waited for confirmation but received none. He continued, "Any sign of normal footprints may have been obliterated by the scavengers, but the absence of a sizable pool of blood makes me certain he was killed elsewhere. But there's no sign of dragging. If this is your guy, he would have had to carry the victim in."
James nodded, "Which means the footprints would be deeper, which means it's even more odd that . . ."
"That the guy left no footprints," Tamar finished.
“Exactly," James concluded. He looked around the scene and saw Hardy returning. Distracted, he continued, “My guy rarely leaves footprints. Darndest thing."
Tamar nodded, "And your guy never kills in one place, and eats in another?"
"No," James answered as he continued to watch Hardy approach. "It's always been in the same place. This is quite puzzling." As Hardy approached from the trees, James gave him a sideways glance and asked, "You find it?"
"Yeah," Hardy's deep voice boomed. "About fifteen feet up. No branches below that."
James sighed. He did not like change. When things change, it means you know less than you thought you knew. But Hardy found the tree. That was the clincher. This was one of his.
"Find what?" Tamar asked.
James stood and looked around to ensure none of Tamar's detectives were in earshot, "Blood on a tree.” James held his hand up to indicate a great height, “We think our guy jumps high into a tree and wipes blood on the bark and branches."
Tamar looked quizzical, "How do you know it was a person? A fifteen foot jump? Not likely."
"Handprint," Hardy uncharacteristically interjected.
Tamar was interested, "A handprint? You said it was fifteen feet up a tree with no branches.” He gestured, “A man could climb that?"
"I did not say climb. I said jump," James said with a smile.
Not buying it, Tamar asked, "Assuming that was achievable, if you got a handprint in blood, you must have a fingerprint, eh?"
"Yes,” he nodded. "Sometimes, but our boy is not in the system." Seeing Tamar's look of disbelief, James turned to Hardy, "Show him." Hardy's face protested, but James calmingly offered, "It's okay. Show him. Treat him," he looked around again, "like a member of the team."
Though Russell Hardy disagreed, he obeyed and motioned Tamar Shakhar to follow. They marched through short brown grass until they were about three hundred feet away from the body. Just as they reached the thin tree line, Hardy pointed half way up one tree as he continued moving. Tamar focused on the tree as they drew near and noted a discoloration. Had his attention not been drawn to the stain, he would not have noticed.
They stopped near the base of the tree, "James says treat you like one of the team. I don't know why, Detective, but here goes." Hardy ensured they were alone then pointed to various aspects of the discoloration. "It's usually to the north of the mauling," he looked at Tamar, "James prefers we call them maulings to folks outside the team." Though Hardy's unhurried manner of speaking might have made him seem dim, his directness and choice of words demonstrated his intelligence. "There's almost always one or both handprints on the opposite side. Usually partials. The tree is very lightly scared where gets a foothold, and sometimes superficial scaring where he wipes his face on the tree, maybe biting it."
As Hardy spoke, Tamar circled the tree and could see all the details just as they were described.
Squatting a few feet from the base of the tree, Hardy motioned toward the dirt, "Usually I find more of these on the ground." With his other hand, he produced a clear evidence bag with several bloody pieces of bark. "He must not have been too angry this time."
Looking at the wooden shards, then back up at the tree, Tamar asked, "You buy James's theory?"
"Yes."
Expecting a more elaborative answer, Tamar turned to Hardy and reiterated, "Even though it is the most outlandish thing anyone has ever heard?"
"Yes." His face was like stone as he stood.
As Tamar made to walk back to the body, Hardy called to him, "Detective? I've been with James for two years. I've seen over a dozen of these. Those and the evidence from others. Nothing else fits. And I've seen things that have no explanation." Pointing up to the blood stain on the tree, "Do you have an explanation for this?"
Tamar looked up. "No," he conceded. "But my Christian beliefs leave no room for a human's transformation into any animal. Let alone a wolf."
Motioning Tamar to follow, Hardy walked about twelve feet north of the tree. He crouched and pointed to two small divots in the ground. They were the width of a human foot and approximately three inches long. Someone had jumped from the tree, landed on the fronts of their feet and dug the toes in as they pushed off the divots to continue forward motion. Hardy offered, "There are no other footprints."
Tamar looked at the divots, then at the tree, then the great distance between the two.
Hardy a ked, "Your Christian beliefs leave room to explain this?"
Tamar shook his head, they certainly did not.
5 The New Office
As Hardy drove the black Lincoln Town Car away from the hills, James hammered away at his laptop in the back seat. James was currently accessing the local phone directory, "Cops, cops, cops. Where the heck? Oh, it's under “police”. Who the heck would do that?"
Norm Chaney, sitting in the front passenger seat, laughed. Hardy laughed too, though he did not see what was funny.
James dialed his cell phone. When there was an answer he said, "Yes, hello. My name is Chief Rowland. I'm the Chief of Police over here in Tehachapi. Could you connect me to your chief please?" This deception was normal protocol for James. Chief Rowland already knew James would use his name because it was the same procedure used on him some months ago. James nodded at the phone, "I see. I see. Could you please tell him it is a matter of grave importance?" Pause, "Uh huh. Uh huh. Very well. I understand. And your name?" James' eyebrows went up, "Smitty? Excellent, how formal,” James nodded as if the person on the other side could see his mocking approval. “Smitty, I would really appreciate it if you would put me through to him. Let me say again, it is a matter of grave importance." Another pause, "Totally. I see your point Smitty. All right then. Now, if you would please take a message you can give him a little later? When it's more convenient?” James smiled, “Ready? You have to write this down Smitty. Okay? Now I'm going to go slow. Ready?
"Chief Rowland requests a special meeting between your chief, wait, what's his name?" Nodding, "Okay. A special meeting with Chief Clepper Buck Clepper and a gentleman I'm sending there right now." Norm was starting to laugh. James continued, "Got all that Smitty?" Nodding, "Good, good. Now I want you to do two things. First, look up “grave importance” and figure out what it means. Second, I want you to tape the message you wrote to your chief's door. I do not want it to get damaged when my guy gets there. Do you understand, Smitty?" James did not smile, "No?” He held his hand to his chest in mock shock, “How would it get damaged?" He waved his hand in dismissal, "Oh that. Well that's easy. If I am not talking to Chief Clepper Buck Clepper in about 45 seconds, my guy is going to drive his car right through your desk. And I am afraid that little piece of paper might get lost in all the comotion."
Norm loved that line. James nodded, "Yes I'll hold."
James nodded approval at the luxurious, brand new office of Altadena's Chief of Police. Approaching the large oak desk he held out his hand, "Chief Clepper, I am Federal Investigator James Shoviak. That is show-vee-ack." The fifty-five-year-old Clepper did not acknowledge James, but continued to scowled. James retracted his hand, "Awfully kind of you to see us sir, I think I will have a seat."
Norm and Hardy flanked the door. James looked at the chief and decided there was no need for small talk, "I work with a federal task force under the umbrella of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your offices are situated within the area which I currently need to explore. I come here outfitted with my own team and weapons, I will only ask you to provide me with a decent sized office, space for my people and freedom to verbally request resources when I see fit. I expect the latter, however, will be kept to a minimum."
Chief Clepper rolled his eyes, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his slightly graying temples. He then demonstrated his proficiency with profanity while asking James precisely what gave him the authority to threaten his employees.
James sighed, "If you are referring to Officer Smith at the front desk, he has already been counseled on proper telephone etiquette as well as maintaining formality." James removed his hat, "In addition, as the son of a career sailor, I can assure you that your language neither offends nor impresses me. I would, however, recommend we maintain at least the minimum professionalism during our initial meeting." Refocusing, James continued, "I have in my possession, special orders which..."
"I know all about your special orders," Chief Clepper interrupted. "After you impersonated a Chief of Police with your call, I got a hold of Brad to find out what the . . ."
James clapped his hands together, "Oh. Brad? So you two know each other." He smiled, "This is great. Chief Rowland must have already caught you up. So I am like family already."
Chief Clepper was not amused, "I know about your special orders. I know why you are here." He leaned forward and accused, "And I recognize your name."
James feigned concern, "Not from bathroom walls, I hope. I find the poetry creative but somewhat vulgar."
Buck Clepper leaned further forward and scowled, "You're the Werewolf Hunter?"
James tisked, "No," he shook his head. "There are so many negative connotations and ridiculous stereotypes from such a title. I am merely a humble investigator, trying to catch someone who commits murder in a consistently bizarre and fantastic way."
"But, you do think you're hunting a werewolf," Clepper demanded.
James sighed, "Chief, you are now in a position to become privy to classified information that is for-your-eyes-only as far as your department goes. Unfortunately," James conceded, "it's also need-to-know and there's not much you need-to-know at this point."
Clepper was visibly irritated, but maintained a professional guise, "I see." He leaned back, openly displaying his disgust, "How then, sir, may I help you?"
James smiled, "I will attempt to add as little gray to your rich, dark hair as possible. I need an office and space for my six investigators. I need solitary access to your crime lab on an as-need basis. I will share as much data with you as I can, but I anticipate that it will not be much." His tone turned more serious, "I will ask that you discontinue investigating this case and turn over any pertinent evidence and information to me as well as observing media silence on this entire issue."
Clepper was unimpressed, but resigned, "Will that be all?"
"I doubt it," James responded as he rose.
"Brad said you were a royal pain." Clepper grumbled, "He also said you had a chief removed for lack of cooperation."
"True and false. I am a pain. But it was obstruction, not uncooperativeness."
"Tell me one thing," Buck Clepper demanded, "that makes you think we're dealing with a freak here."
James sat back down and looked in Clepper's eyes, "For you only?" Clepper nodded and James continued, "All of the victim's hearts were eaten. On the spot. Right out of the body. The marks on the chest cavities," James paused, "are all from human teeth."
Clepper closed his eyes for a moment, "I don't believe you."
James rose and said, "I do not blame you," as he walked out the door.
Chief Clepper's scowl followed the retreating man. Norm stepped forward, "Chief, I'm Special Investigator Norman Chaney. We'll have other briefing materials for you as soon as we get moved in. We typically try to keep the local police chief apprised of developments and the majority of our movements."
"Thank you," the chief pretended politeness. "That will be all."
Norm stepped further toward the desk, "May I make a query, Chief?"
Disapprovingly, the chief said, "You may."
"Chief, you didn't ask to see the special orders."
Clepper rolled his eyes, "Chief Rowland told me all I need to know."
Norm looked humbly at the Chief, "I recommend you read them sir. They not only grant Federal Investigator James Shoviak certain powers and privileges, but they also grant you certain rights."
Clepper fiddled at his desk as if he were about to work on something, "All right. Have a copy on my desk by 0800."
Norm smiled ever so slightly while maintaining respectfulness, "I'm sorry sir, that won't be possible. We are not allowed to copy these documents. I'm afraid you can only access them from, and read them in the presence of Federal Investigator Shoviak."
Clepper sighed, "That so?"
Norm nodded, "Afraid so, sir."
Clepper rolled his eyes, "Then for now, I'll subsist upon what Chief Rowland has told me and kindly ask you to get the hell out of my office."
Hardy was already out the door as Norm responded with a slight bow, "Yes sir. Thank you for your time sir," and followed Hardy out of the office, out of the building and into the car where James waited.
James was already shuffling paperwork inside his briefcase. He did not look at Norm and Hardy as they got in, "You give him the spiel about reading the orders?"
"Yes sir," Norm answered as he buckled up.
"He want to see them?"
"No sir."
"They never do," James continued rifling his briefcase, "they never do."
Norm turned to Hardy, "You get us hooked up, big man?"
"Yeah. There're places in Altadena that look good. I'd like to stay out of Pasadena if possible. Too much traffic.” He put the car in drive, and pulled out. Hardy preferred arranging the living accommodations. He typically grouped the rest of the team close together in a similar area, and himself off somewhere more distant. He said he liked his privacy. What he really liked, was high ceilings. The higher, the better.
6 Maggy's Place
As the end of the day drew near, Maggy left her job with the same exuberance she did every Monday through Friday afternoon. Maggy gave her job over to God whenever she entered that building, and forgot about it when she left.
Whistling, and almost-skipping, she left work behind. Deciding to pass by the park, she stopped and reminisced about the remarkable scene she had witnessed when her day began. That bizarre young man falling from the tree. How very odd that was. Odd indeed. She stared at the tree as if waiting to see him expelled again. "Silly," she thought, and resumed her journey home.
Maggy had a nice two bedroom apartment with a good view. She never quite understood why she felt so strongly about having a two bedroom place, but all things considered, she was happy with her home.
Arriving home, she was greeted by the sound of her ringing phone. Shedding her purse, shoes and watch, her own voice wafted from the other room, extolling the virtues of leaving a message on the answering machine. She recognized the caller's voice. “Sis,” the depressed voice muttered, “call me when you get home. I can't believe this. It's awful. Gimme a call.” He sounded upset. Dinner was going to have to wait.
7 Back in the Forest
The next morning, James, Hardy and Norm were back in the Haunted Forest. Hardy used a rope ladder to climb the tree where the marks were found.
The task force was on the scene twenty minutes when Detective Tamar Shakhar trod up the hill. As he approached the spot where the body had been the previous day, Tamar called out to his old friend, "I figured you'd be back up here nice and early."
"Well,” answered James, "this guy does not seem to sleep much, so neither should we."
Tamar laughed.
James squinted at him, "Why are you here? You didn't bring us croissants and lattes."
"No," Tamar pulled out a note pad. "We've ID'ed the victim. Frank Abotacola. He had quite the record in Temple City and Pasadena. He grew up near here. High-schoolers used to come up here and drink all the time. Frank's yellow Toyota pickup was found in a parking area down the hill. We found some drug paraphernalia and an untouched six-pack of expensive beer. No real sign of struggle and no blood, but the windows were down and the doors were locked. It looks like he was yanked out the window." Tamar looked around, "I know you're taking the case over, but I have some of my guys searching between here and there to see if they can spot where he was killed."
"That's fine," James said.
Tamar cleared his throat, "And I've got a slight problem." He waited for James to ask. When he did not, Tamar continued, "I've got a cop who refuses to cede the case. Says he knows the vic. Says he was working on him."
James raised his eyebrows, "Working on what?"
"Evangelizing him. Drawing him to God."
"Oh. Evangelizing him." James mocked, "Then the poor guy probably committed suicide."
"No matter how you look at it," Tamar interjected, "my guy ain't goin nowhere. Says he'll take leave and investigate it on his own if he has to."
James smiled thoughtfully, "Oh does he?"
"Yes, he does. Says he was so close with this guy. Feels determined to solve the case."
"Hmph," James hmphed. "I respect that." James started nodding.
Tamar also nodded, “Yeah. There's a lot to respect about this guy.”
“He sounds very promising,” James conceded.
“He sure is,” Tamar agreed. “I'm sure he'll start rocketing up the chain once he sets his mind on it.”
James continued to nod, “Sounds like he would be an asset no matter where he worked.”
Tamar's eyebrows went up, "Woe, James. Don't go thinking you can steal this guy. He's one of my best."
James chuckled, "Well. Now that you have made him seem so ... unattractive," he stroked his chin. He pointed at Tamar, "Tell you what. Have him come to my new office, provided by the affable Chief Clepper Buck Clepper, at 1500 and I will have a talk with him."
"You steal this guy and you'll have my boot up your backside."
James laughed, "Now is that any way for a polite Episcopalian to talk?"
Off in the distance, they heard, "James!!" Both James and Tamar twisted their heads in the direction of the excited cry. Hardy was calling from atop the rope ladder and yelled, “Another one!" Norm was already running in that direction.
"What?!" James was off running. Tamar followed.
James got to the deceased male just after Norm. It was about one hundred yards from the location of yesterday's body. The gaping hole in the chest and empty cardiac cavity told James that he was up against yet another anomaly. Two victims in two days, and deposited in the same location. James told Tamar, "My guy has never killed with less than a month since the previous. Usually more than a month. Sometimes a year."
Huffing, Tamar said, "And there's no large pool of blood."
Norm finished the thought, "So he was killed elsewhere?"
"Maybe," said James. "I am beginning to wonder if this is a copycat," he opined hopefully.
Norm shook his head, "Naw, impossible. We got the lid so tight on this, no one could get all the specs."
James was frustrated, "Well, we are missing something. This is too different."
James knelt to examine the body. Putting on a glove, he probed the wound. Everything looked consistent on the chest hole. What am I missing?
Hardy huffed and puffed up to the group. As he tried to catch his breath, James noticed Hardy's face was spattered with what appeared to be his own blood. "What the heck did you get into, boy?"
Hardy wheezed, "Fell. Rope...ladder. Ina...hurry. Missda...rung. Hitda...dirt. Hard."
"C'mon boy," James exclaimed. "What ..."
Hardy held up his hand to stop the questioning as he regulated his breathing, "I found another tree."
"What?!" James was exasperated. "I guess this is ours." He cursed.
8 Steve
Maggy saw Steve approaching. She knew she was not going to like whatever it was he had to say. Slightly disheveled and hopelessly out of fashion, he looked tired. As the Director of the Pasadena Office of Juvenile Probation in Altadena, he had seen it all, dealt with it all, heard it all and it was all still there. He looked tired because he was tired. She pretended not to notice him as he came and stood by her desk. He waited for her to stop working on the computer. Because he was waiting, she intentionally took longer. Just a little game she played.
“Maggy?” Steve asked as if he were interrupting. “I have a special favor to ask of you." He shifted his stance uneasily, "Child Protective Services called and asked for some help. They are trying to remove a child from a home and the mother is being combative.”
Maggy shook her head, “And...? How does this involve me? I'm a Juvenile Probation Officer, not a CPS rep.”
“I know,” he said. “But, they are in the same building as us and they called asking for your help.”
This cannot be good, “They asked for me?”
“Well. It seems the mother is refusing to let go of the child. They don't want the kid getting hurt, and the mother keeps screaming, "Jesus save me! Jesus help me!" So CPS thought maybe you could talk to her.”
Maggy sat up straight, “CPS thinks I'm Jesus?”
Before Steve could respond, she interrupted, “I mean, I am totally flattered and everything, but I can't possibly fill those sandals. I mean Jesus was God and everything. Where did CPS get the idea I was God? Because they are way off.”
He did not use it himself, but could recognize sarcasm when he heard it. As a veteran supervisor, he had learned not to respond to such banter, “No Maggy. They were hoping that you could deal with her on a more personal level. You're familiar with all the God talk stuff, so maybe you can calm her down. It's real important to get the kid out of there because the older sibling is dealing drugs out of the house and the mother is refusing to listen to reason. And we can't go to the police.”
Maggy sighed and hung her head. This is wrong, but what the heck. Maybe I can help. I'm always asking God to use me, maybe this is one of those times. She extended her hand toward her boss, never making eye contact, and he handed her directions to the dysfunctional household. She knew this situation was ridiculous. She knew she could even claim discrimination for religious reasons. But that would be even more ridiculous. She looked at the directions and noted a ten dollar bill under the paper, “This my raise?”
“No," he said as he walked back to his office, “I'm buying you lunch. I appreciate you helping out.”
She chuckled and thought, "Sometimes he surprises me. He better not make me respect him. That'd really make me mad."
9 Cabrillo
Peter Cabrillo bowed before his idol, rose and lit the tiny ceremonial cauldron. The concoction he burned was a recipe of his own. Cedar, frankincense, pine needles, granular resin incense, sandalwood, cinnamon, sage, myrrh and charcoal tablets for a good burn.
He bowed again, then stretched his hands over his head as he stood. He went up onto his bare toes as his spine and shoulders cracked from the elongation of his six-foot frame. Bringing his hands and heels down, he bowed again. With a tiny set of tongs he extracted a chicken heart from a jar of oil, shook off the excess fluid and dropped it into the cauldron. It immediately burned a bright orange, almost blinding in the dimly lit room. He hissed, "Let us dominate the hearts of the cowards."
His unbuttoned cotton shirt slid easily down his arms and he tossed it aside. He leaned and stretched to his left and admired the tattoo along side his bicep of an animal being attacked by a pack of wolves. The animal was heavily damaged and frightened. Peter stood at attention, spun his back to the altar and dropped to the ground and did one hundred pushups. The first thirty were performed so fast his hands came off the ground. When he finished, held the up position for a moment and went down for one more. On the way up, he flung his upper body away from the floor, tucked his feet under himself and popped up straight.
He turned back to his altar, approached it again and bowed. Retrieving the tongs, he extracted a cat's heart from the oil. His sweat rolling down the tongs, he carefully placed the meat into the cauldron, the sputtering and crackling echoed throughout the empty dojo. "Let us destroy the hearts of the unworthy."
Still breathing heavily, he leaned and stretched to his right. He admired yet another tattoo. This one of a wolf clutching the back of a lion and sinking its teeth into the lion's neck. The lion was helpless, rearing up and twisting, blood flinging as it tries in vain to dislodge its attacker.
Peter stood at attention, spun his back to the altar and dropped to the ground in a ball. He rolled to his back and began a furious set of fifty crunches, then fifty sit-ups followed by fifty crunches. He lay flat on the ground, heaving to get oxygen into his starved lungs. Quickly regulating his breathing, he raised his feet, kicked and flipped himself upright.
He turned back to his altar, approached and bowed. Grabbing the tongs once more, he extracted a chunk of meat from the oil. He approvingly rotated the piece and looked at all sides. "Ah. So easy to find, yet so difficult to acquire.” He savored its look and color, he dwelt on the moment, perspiration dripping from his face. He then dropped the piece of human heart into the cauldron. He deeply breathed the smoke into his recovering lungs. Exhaling with intense verve, he groaned, "Let us feast on the hearts of our enemies!"
He squatted in front of his altar, extending both arms while flexing. As Peter tightened every muscle in his back, its artwork took on a most magnificent and frightening look. The massive tattoo of a wolf's head covered his entire back. The fiery, sinister eyes narrowed as Peter's shoulder blades protruded. It bore its great red fangs which dripped saliva as it scowled at unseen prey. Peter stood and brought both hands behind his head and ensured the hair-tie securing his thick, black locks was tightly in place. Dropping his arms, he pivoted, presented his back to the altar, flexed again and began his routine.
His sequence of moves were angry and lengthy. The fast-paced maneuvers lasted about forty-five minutes. Peter's preference was to substitute growls, roars and barks for the traditional "Kiah" that other martial artists voiced when performing their power moves. His routine was filled with hate for his imaginary opponent, or his imaginary victim. He was fearsome, tenacious and strong. More than anything, he was fast.
His routine completed, Peter stood in the center of the room with his back to the altar. It took a few minutes before his heart rate and breathing were close to normal. He pivoted like a soldier and marched toward his altar, stopped, bowed and knelt.
"Dear god, gracious bestower of wisdom and power. Grant me insight. Grant me strength. Grant me power. Grant me victory. Transform me. Transform your servant."
10 Phil
Being deep in thought, Maggy walked well past the corner where she should have made a right turn. Well, at least it's a beautiful day. I'll just turn down the next available right, and that should still get me to my appointment in plenty of time.
She walked by a construction site for a large municipal building. The city was doing great financially for the last fiscal year. Now Mayor Alvin Moore was pushing to replace or expand many of the old county buildings that were handed over to the city when it incorporated. She found herself strangely fascinated by this emerging building. She rarely went this way to go anywhere, but it seemed the building had gone up pretty fast. As she passed, she noticed a dirty, but ruggedly handsome young man bludgeoning nails into place with unusual ferocity. As she continued on, he stood erect, breathing hard, and brushing the black, tangled mane of hair from his face. Even at sixty or so feet away, she could tell he was heavily muscled under his rather wrinkled and tattered black tee-shirt.
As he stretched, he noticed she was looking at him. She noticed that he noticed her and was so flummoxed she failed to notice a hefty break in the sidewalk over which she immediately tripped.
At once, a burly construction worker rushed to her and gently hefted her to her feet. He picked up the bag she was carrying, "Are you all right?" he asked.
She looked over and saw that the young man was still staring at her. She barely noticed (redundant) the burly man continuing to hold her arm, insisting she needed his aid. "Hey Missy," he condescended. "How about a little kiss for my troubles?"
She ignored the bully, but noticed that the intriguing young man was still looking at her. She found something mesmerizing about him. She was not used to anyone staring at her.
The heavily built man tugged her slightly and insisted again. She jolted back to reality and blurted, "No," and tried to struggle free. He pulled her in closer.
As she protested, she saw the young man standing next to her. The young man ordered, "Phil, let her go."
"Bug off, rookie," Phil responded.
The younger man insisted, "Now!"
Phil was infuriated that this weaker specimen would dare talk to him this way. He shoved Maggy aside and stepped closer to the smaller man, "You need to know when to listen Junior." He towered at least six inches over the fellow. Easily six and a half feet tall, Phil was as stocky as a tow truck. A solid mixture of fat and muscle, Phil looked capable of picking up a house.
The young man maneuvered between Phil and Maggy. Phil dropped Maggy's bag and looked down into the young man's eyes. Phil was not an aficionado at reading eyes, but what he saw frightened him. This kid was definitely unintimidated by Phil's superior size and dangerous reputation.
The boy looked up at Phil. He gritted his teeth as he seethed, "I said back off."
Smarter than he looked, Phil turned and walked away, waving off the younger man and feigning disgust to save some face.
Though Maggy had not shown fear, she was genuinely afraid when Phil held her arm. His grip was like cement. She accepted the young man's hand as he helped her back up. She dusted herself off and tried to act as if she had not noticed the small trickle of blood from her knee.
The young man managed not to show the thrill he felt when she accepted his hand while he helped her to her feet. He also managed to conceal the shock of his unworthiness for touching her. He felt what could be considered grief, or even fear, that he should never have even considered coming in contact with her. But like a dog, painfully and bravely pulling at its chain to reach what it wants, he endured the despair for the brief thrill of the privilege of touching this incredible creature.
As he looked at her, he felt embarrassed for threatening Phil in front of this beautiful lady. He picked up her bag and handed it to her. She offered to shake his hand in thanks, but he refused, feeling unworthy. He waved her off with a humble gesture and tried to turn and leave but could not take his eyes off her.
Bewildered at his odd expression, Maggy looked into his eyes. She saw fear and pain. This and the dark, tired circles did not mesh with his earlier display of unflinching bravado.
"I'm sorry," he broke his gaze with her and looked toward his feet, "I have to get back to work." He turned and walked away.
As he walked away, Maggy realized this was the same young man she had seen fall from the tree the previous morning. She smiled, wondering what this guy was; nut or knight.
She chuckled again, turned and left. She had work to do too.
11 Moving In
Chief Clepper had reluctantly agreed to let James have, what amounted to, the west half of the building. There was a spacious office intended for an Assistant District Attorney when construction was complete here at the new Altadena Justice Center. There was enough space outside the office for several desks. In fact there were already eight desks in that area and James claimed six for his staff. Chief Clepper did not like James being there at all, but this area of the building was not yet being used and he hoped James and his hooligans would be out of there before the rest of the Justice Center was scheduled to be manned. Plus, this would isolate James from the indigenous staff while still allowing Clepper to keep an eye on them. James was happy with this arrangement and immediately moved his meager office supplies into his new office. Norm, Mei and Hardy took over their respective desks as well.
Norm knocked on the door to James' office. After receiving permission to enter, Norm walked in and closed the door. Cautiously, he approached James with an opened manila folder. The folder had a strip of red tape, called a flag, across its mid section denoting that the folder contained lab results, "You're not going to like this James."
There was little James liked of late, so Norm's assessment worried him only slightly. He stretched out his hand as if to take the folder, "What now?"
Norm retained the folder, "Well, our boy Frank appears to have had heroin in his blood."
James was shocked, "What?"
Norm was shaking his head too, "He wasn't a junkie, but he had been in the past. Looks like he had just taken the hobby back up. The needle mark on his arm was fresh and solo. But this still breaks the pattern."
Finally taking the folder, James looked over the labs. Shaking his head, he said, "This guy doesn't look healthy at all. Besides the heroin." More head shaking, "What the hell's going on here? Everything has always been so consistent. What the hell?"
Norm took the folder back, "Don't know sir. But this brings up an interesting question."
James cocked his head, "And that would be?"
"How did Bo feel the next morning after his heroin-laced meal?"
James raised an eyebrow, just one eyebrow, "How indeed?" James sat back in his chair and pondered aloud, "Our guy's blood has always been chemical free, which makes me think it may have affected him a great deal. He may have gotten a little whacked out, and that could explain vic number two."
Norm nodded agreement, "Doc will be in town tomorrow. It'll be interesting to see what he thinks."
James rolled his eyes, "Or at least it'll be entertaining."
They both laughed. James said, "Run tests on the frags," wanting the bloody wood fragments analyzed.
Norm winked, "Already being done."
“Excellent,” James winked back. “Always thinking ahead.”
“Thanks Boss. Oh, Stanley's here.”
“Ah, Special Investigator Stanley Goodwin has decided to grace us with his presence.”
“You're the one that authorized his vacation.” Norm chuckled, “You'll have to hear his story about New Zealand.”
Since all of Stanley's stories revolved around inappropriate behavior with women, James was not interested, “Just put him to work.”
Norm smiled, “You got it boss,” and headed back to his own desk.
James was already lost in thought a moment later when Hardy knocked. James cranked out a, "What?" to the interruption.
Hardy peeked in, "The movers are here boss. They have the board."
His mood changed markedly, "Excellent. Bring it in."
Hardy swung the door the rest of the way open allowing two delivery men carrying the three foot by four and a half foot board to enter.
James gesticulated toward an empty wall and the workers muscled the heavy, two inch thick board into position. One looked in James' direction, "This good sir?"
James had been pretending to resume paperwork, he looked up, at the board which displayed a large map of the United States, "That'll be fine fellas."
Nodding, the workers lowered the board, leaned it against the desk and began attaching the mounting hardware. James busied himself clearing the top of the desk.
Out in the common office area, Hardy was directing the rest of the delivery men as to which boxes to place on which desks. Each desk had three boxes. Two of which were swiftly unpacked by the workers, one which was left for the desk's occupants to unpack.
The board now firmly mounted on the wall, the workers left James' office. Two other workers immediately entered hand-trucking hefty file cabinets. James directed the placement of the first securely locked cabinet, and another just like it. They hefted, and left with the district Attorney's desk. Then the workers who had mounted the board, wheeled in a very large foot locker. It was a heavy, yellow, metal chest that made a loud "clunk" when placed on the ground just under the map.
The file cabinet guys came back with James' favorite piece of office furniture; a beautiful mahogany centennial desk. As they left, the other guys came back in with the final piece of office furniture, a large gun safe. James directed it placed near his desk and dismissed the workers with handshakes and thank-yous.
When the delivery men left, James locked the door. He approached the newly mounted board and shoved two pinkish push pins into Southern California, right near Pasadena. Two bodies, two pins.
He loosened his tie and pulled a necklace out from his shirt, and examined the keys. Dangling the keys, he selected a small brass one and disconnected it from the chain. He shoved the key into a barely perceptible brass keyhole right around Tulsa, Oklahoma. Turning the key, he unlocked and opened the board to reveal another US map. This map had over fifty pins.
Each colored pin had a colored thread leading to and from that spot. The colored thread matched the color of the pin, most of the time. When the color was different than the pin, the thread color changed to the pin color as it left that pin for the next chronological/geographical location. It was a code system only James fully understood.
James pushed two more pinkish pins into the same Southern California location as on the cover map. He grabbed an olive colored thread which dangled from an olive colored pin jabbed into Tehachapi, pulled it taut around the new pinkish pins, tied it and cut it off. "The next thread," he thought, "will be fuchsia. Now I have to find some dang fuchsia thread." He reattached the brass key to the necklace, and guardedly eyed a tiny silver key.
12 Lunch
"Marshall?" called the gruff boss-man. The young man stopped his hammer in mid swing and turned. Standing next to the fiftyish supervisor was the beautiful woman from the day before. She had a bag, and what looked like were two hot beverages. The boss was hurried to get on with whatever he normally does, but wanted to make sure this young lady was properly dealt with, "That him?" he asked her.
"Yes it is," she smiled.
The supervisor summoned, "Marshall? Come over here please," though polite, it was obviously not a suggestion, but an order.
Marshall did not need to be ordered, he hurried toward them, “Yes?"
"Marshall, this fine member of the community claims you performed a public service yesterday," the older man queried.
Marshall nodded, but seemed confused, "Uh, I guess."
"Yes Lou. That's him" she said. "He was very brave and chivalrous, protecting an innocent woman from harm." Maggy was careful to not mention that she had been protected from someone else who worked here.
"Well, well. That's the kind of stuff we like to hear about our guys," Lou said as he slapped Marshall on the shoulder. As Marshall looked at the spot where he had been hit, Lou continued, "Construction workers get such a bad rap. We always like to see someone doing good. Especially for someone like you ma'am.
"Marshall, why don't you take a lunch? Escort Miss Richter off the site for safety purposes and be back on the clock about 12:30." He pointed to Marshall's chest, "Sound good?"
"Ye, yes sir," Marshall stammered.
"Good," said Lou. "I've got business to attend to. You kids stay out of trouble." He walked away.
Maggy turned to the unkempt young man, "Well, Marshall. It looks like you're mine for the next hour."
"Zev," he barely managed to say.
"Pardon me?" she asked.
"That's my first name. Zev."
"Zen?"
"No, no. Zev, as in Zevid. With a "V". Zev Marshall."
"Well, Zev "with a V" Marshall, I'm Maggy Richter." Zev looked at his hand as if agonizing over the thought of extending it to shake hers, but she handed him a cup of coffee instead. "I wanted to say thank you for coming to my rescue yesterday. I brought you some coffee. Do you drink coffee?"
"Uh, yeah. Sometimes."
"Good," she said. "I also brought us some bagels. Do you like good bagels?"
"Uh."
"Good," she laughed. "Now, your boss wanted you to get me out of here for my own safety."
"Uh, yeah. Uh, follow me." Though visibly nervous, Zev led Maggy to the exit of the construction site.
13 Marty
He could not cede this case, it was too personal. Frank was so close, ready to accept that God was real. But now Frank had gone off meet God, ill-equipped to face judgment. Marty Richter could not help but feel at a loss. What could he have done better to put this guy over the edge? What could he have said? This was all very troublesome. One thing that bothered him almost as much was his feeling of wanting revenge. Marty wanted to catch this monster and put him away forever. Not for justice, but for retribution. Marty knew that only God could grow a heart. He knew that somehow this all fit into God's grand plan. But he still could not help but feel that he could have sent this guy to the other side with a prepared heart. Ready to meet God, with Jesus as his advocate.
Marty stopped alongside a building and leaned. Suddenly overcome by sorrow, he covered his face with his hands, pushing harshly against his eyes, trying to prevent the rush of tears. He began to sob. The gravity of the situation overcame him as he imagined God's disappointed face, condemning another lost soul to damnation.
Marty ran into an ally and stayed in the shadows until he regained control of himself.
