By J. Robert King
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She was smart enough to use the NCIC. I could play catch-up on deaths once I had met her and found out what she was like. I didn’t have to wait long. The Griffith cops were all over the place by noon that day, when the bar opened. I met a very fine fellow, a Sergeant Michaels, shift commander. I didn’t so much meet him, actually, but became him, implanted him in the memory of the rest of the department. I became the sergeant and sent for Leland. She arrived that night. It was nice to talk with her.
Her mentor – her friend – was gone, and she had been promoted: Detective Donna Leland now was Burlington’s first line of defense. Phil’s voice continued, shrill. “Mother of God,” she murmured. Leland’s white-gloved role in this affair could not be interrupted. She clutched the folded flag to her dress blues. Louder, more strident, Phil’s radio crackle rose, carrying above the bowed heads. “… another death investigation … a priest in Woodstock. Same MO, same signature … the Illinois cops want you to see the scene …” The new detective uncomfortably cleared her throat.
It will be a car accident. That much is simple on the Dan Ryan Freeway. Husband and wife both, at intervals, break into tears at how beautiful their wedding has been. That fact will make the moment’s inattention even easier to arrange. The difficulty is organizing a suitable end for such promising young lovers. He drives. The roads are dry and cold this January. The shoulders hold filthy snow. The sky is white like paper. His brown hair is combed back long, like a prophet’s, and his beard is coarse and reddish.
Angel of Death by J. Robert King