Little Angel

Vera Klein

I had always dreamed of being in the FBI. It’s unusual, I know. From the time I was a little girl I was fascinated with criminology. Of course, at that age, I didn’t know what it was called exactly. I knew that Barbies and my little pony never interested me. I watched hours of those “to catch a killer,” type shows. More than was healthy for such a young age probably. But it all turned out okay.
Here I was, a 26-year-old fresh recruit. I made it. Only a few cases under my belt, but I already felt like I had seen a lot. I had higher aspirations though, so I hadn’t completely made it. I want to be a part of the Behavior Science Unit. Currently, I’m an investigator. I’ll need a few more years of field work to be considered for a promotion to BSU.
I had been working awhile. I got acquainted with my team members over that time. My partner was Bruce Banner, no lie, that was his name, like the super hero, he was a hulking (I’m sorry) man. I found it hard to understand how he got any cases done, he must be in the gym most of the day, every day. But he was the sweetest guy. Truly a gentle giant.


Bruce threw down a folder on my desk. Picture edges protruded out the sides, lots of them. Not a good sign. Pictures meant crime scenes. A sign of a lot of victims. A sign of a serial killer.
“We’re going to Pennsylvania. Local police have requested help,” Bruce said. He looked down at me with those soft, concerned eyes of his. “It’s not pretty.”
“It never is,” I said. I picked up the folder and flipped through it. Gruesome. Diabolical. Sickening. “They’re all men.”
“You noticed that too.”
“Unusual. Sexual assault?”
“No sign.”
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“There’s over a hundred stab wounds in each victim.”
“Anger?”
“Can never tell with these sickos. I would say anger if it was an isolated incident, but sometimes they just get off with penetration, like the stabbing is something sexual. Could be for pleasure as much as it looks like anger.”
“The bodies are all in heavy woods.”
“That’s of no help. You’ve never been to Pennsylvania, have you? Trees everywhere. Rare to even see a rooftop through the pine. These rural towns are covered in forest. It would be more helpful if the killings didn’t take place in the woods at all.”
I flipped through the pictures some more. Maple leaves and pine cones painted red. Fallen logs with bodies slumped over them on their stomach, as if the killer turned the body over to stab it in the back after stabbing it in the front, after death. I looked closer. The bodies in the different pictures were always contorted and laid out in different ways. It wasn’t done exactly the same each time, close, but not exact. The killer wasn’t obsessive compulsive. They weren’t a perfectionist. Arms were folded under the bodies in some pictures, in others they weren’t. I noticed something.
“The hands are always cut off,” I said. “I think.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know what to make of that.”
“Are they left at the scene?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t done to take as a trophy.”
I flipped through the pictures for a long time, looking for something, anything.
Bruce touched my shoulder lightly. “Enough Vera. We’ll have time to look at them on the plane ride over. Let’s go.”