Excerpt of Angel Killer by Andrew Mayne

Two SUVs are waiting for us at the airfield. Danielle, the
sweet redhead, finds an FBI jacket in an overhead bin and
hands it to me as I exit the plane. On the ride to the
cemetery I answer a few of her polite questions. Nobody is
talking about where we’re going. The driver, a special
agent out of the field office named Shannon, tells us we’re
going to get a briefing at the location.

He looks to be in his late thirties. He’s got a muscular
build and a shaved head. His eyes occasionally flicker back
at me from the rearview mirror. He’s asked me twice who
assigned me here. I explain that I’ve been sent as an
adviser, but decline to explain why. I already feel out of
place.

The sun has gone down and the sky is filled with dark,
slate-colored clouds. Drab houses with lawns of yellow
weeds give way to concrete and corrugated-metal buildings
set back in cracked black asphalt and gravel yards. There’s
a light rain that makes the roads slick. We pass through a
bend in the road, and the red and blue lights of the
emergency vehicles parked on either side come into view.
Two television news trucks are across the street with their
microwave masts pointed to their towers back near the city.

The cemetery is in an industrial area. There are a few open
fields and lots of neglected warehouses. A sheriff’s deputy
in a yellow raincoat uses his flashlight to direct us to a
parking spot. We get out and I help Danielle and the rest
of the team with their cases. Shannon does the same and we
carry them to the iron gates at the entrance.

Reporters and onlookers are standing behind the ropes
trying to get a glance as we pull up. Cameras flash when
they see our jackets. The FBI is here.

Wet and gloomy, the air has a cold nip to it. Perfect
cemetery weather. I’m grateful for the jacket Danielle
found me. Besides being warm, with “FBI” written across the
back in bold yellow letters, it’ll let me fit in a little
more than I would in just my hoodie and jeans.

At the gate, a detective named Gimbal wearing a drenched
suit and tie introduces himself to Shannon. He fumbles with
his umbrella to shake hands. “These your D.C. folks?”

Shannon nods. “Pretty much.”

I’m not sure if that was directed at me or not. I just keep
to the back and focus on helping. When Grandfather was in a
rage, or Father in a manic mood, I just did what Uncle
Darius did, move a piece of equipment or clean something.

The detective glances at our faces, then nods. A thick
black mustache almost covers his mouth. He looks like a
charter boat captain. “All right. Hurry up. Gladys can’t
wait to get the girl on the table.”

As we enter the cemetery, he explains that Gladys is the
county medical examiner, well respected and often brought
in for outside opinions. He walks us past the stone markers
toward what looks like a large catering tent. It’s actually
a wall of white fabric to block the crime scene from the
front road and the press.

“We’ve cleared the area, but please don’t pick anything up
or touch anything you don’t have to.” He knows he’s talking
to professionals, but he has to say it. “When we got the
GPS coordinates we had someone call the caretaker. He was
the first one on the scene this morning and didn’t let
anyone else in the cemetery.”

I look around at the grave markers. Most of them are small.
There’s none of the really fancy sculpture or stonework
you’ll see in big city cemeteries. Like the houses we
passed on the way in, this feels working class. Clean,
utilitarian, but nothing more. The dates are all over the
place. Some are recent. Some are a half-century old. The
recent ones tell me it’s the kind of place that could get
visitors on a Saturday morning.

Shannon turns around and gives us the field report. “We
called in local police to verify, then I came out here.
County did a preliminary forensic examination on-site and
drew blood samples before we contacted the parents of the
girl and showed them a photograph. They confirmed her as
their daughter. And there begins one of several mysteries.”
Shannon looks at the grass and realizes he’s resting his
foot on a grave marker. He pulls it away. “Chloe McDonald
was declared dead almost two years ago. Her body was found
in the bay three miles from here. She’d died from multiple
stab wounds. Killer still unknown. An autopsy had been
performed. There was no doubt about her identity, cause of
death and, well, the fact that she was dead.”

I notice the way Special Agent Shannon says the last words.
There’s a moment of hesitation there. He meant them to
sound forceful, but they weren’t. He has a sense of doubt
about everything. This can’t be the same girl, but it’s
gnawing away at him.

Obviously this is just some sick game the killer is
playing. However, I get the feeling that something about it
unsettles Shannon more than usual. Guys like Shannon tend
to like straight-up, predictable crimes. Bank robberies,
kidnapping for money, a murder of passion. It’s the kind
where the motives are the most alien that give them stress.

I suspect because it’s easier to think about things when
you can imagine yourself doing them. We can all fantasize
about the perfect caper, like how we’d pull off the perfect
bank robbery. But to try to understand the motivations of
someone who is just plain disturbed is much more difficult
and stressful. There’s no predictability there. We don’t
want to see any part of ourselves in people capable of
that.

We want to hunt monsters, not be them.

Danielle speaks up. “What kind of forensic evidence do we
have that it’s the same girl?”

Shannon walks us over to the edge of the white screen.
“Blood tests. We’re trying to do a hair sample too. As I
mentioned, the parents confirmed it was her. There are even
scars in the same spots where Chloe was stabbed. They had
no doubt.”

“What about fingerprints?” asks Danielle.

“Well, that’s a little complicated. You’ll see in a
second.” He nods to a deputy who waves us through a gap.
“When we found her, the first thing the examiner did was
take a core temperature and measure elasticity and other
signs of necrosis. This girl died less than twenty-four
hours ago.”

A field technician is taking photographs of the scene. I
blink from the light of the flash. As my pupils dilate, the
body of Chloe McDonald comes into focus.

Danielle gasps. I’m sure I do as well. It’s not the dead
body that unsettles us, it’s the look on her face. Mouth
open, eyes wide. It’s a look of sheer terror frozen in
time.

This is the gut reaction Ailes wanted me to have. I think
of him as a sadist for not warning me. He had to have
known. I’m sure on his desk or on his computer screen was a
photograph of the crime scene. But he didn’t show it to me.
He didn’t prepare me for this.

He wanted me to see what the Warlock wanted us to see. This
wasn’t watching from the wings, this was sitting in the
front row. The reaction is visceral.