Little Angel

Vera Klein

I got off the plane late at night with Bruce. We got off at Philadelphia International Airport. It would be about a thirty-mile drive from here to the small town just outside the city where a killer has had free reign for two months. I hoped to put an end to that.
“Want to get a hotel room for the night?” Bruce asked.
“Rooms,” I responded. Couldn’t blame him for trying.
“Yeah. Of course, that’s what I meant,” he corrected.
I smiled and nodded at him, as if to say ‘sure’. He smiled back, then snapped his fingers in sarcastic disappointment. He was only playing. But he did like me. He’d given me enough clues since I started for me to know. I liked him too. But not really in that way right now. I wouldn’t say never, just not right now. I had to focus. I had to make it to the behavior science unit.


The next morning, Bruce walked out of his room shirtless, muscles bulging. He was sweating, must have already got done with his workout. He went to get some of the complimentary coffee. I found it a little rude to walk around in public like that. Not the place, or time. Was it so hard to put a shirt on? But I guess if you work for it, you’ve got to flaunt it. I did like what I saw. That didn’t stop me from hurrying him along. When he returned from getting coffee and he put his suit on, a deputy picked us up and we were taken to the local police station to meet the sheriff.
We walked into the quaint police station. There couldn’t have been more than ten hired policemen for the entire town. There were two police cars parked outside, only space for three others. Inside there was a woman at the front desk and one other officer at his desk writing. It was quiet in the streets all the way through town and you could hear a pin drop inside the police station. The deputy escorted us a few feet to the only closed off office in the place. Knocked and the sheriff waved us in.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand to shake the sheriff’s. “Vera Klein. FBI. This is my partner Bruce.”
“Hey, nice to meet you folk. Sheriff Dowling. Eddie Dowling.” He shook our hands. “So, you’ve seen the pictures and files I sent to you?” He asked.
“We have,” I responded. “Do you have any suspects? Any leads?”
He shook his head. “Wish I could say that I did. No. Notta one. Jesus. How could someone in our town do this? Everyone knows everyone else. It just can’t be.”
“Maybe they didn’t. Are there any new people in town? Any unusual people? Any that have passed through that you can remember? Anything that we can go on to decide where to start.”
“Christ. Not the unusual type you’re talkin’ about. The killer type. This just don’t happen ‘round here, ya know?”
The killer type, I thought. Apparently, sheriff Dowling had an image of what a ‘killer type’ was in his head. His image of that type of person was likely not very accurate. Often, they were the best at camouflaging who they really were. “But it has. And we’re here to help find out who did it. We need your cooperation. Anything at all you can think of?”
“There was this man the other day…” A pause.
“Okay…”
“… It’s just I know his family. Went to church with his mother and father, when he was just a little boy…” A pause.
“You’ve got to stay impartial. If he did something, tell us.”
This was hard for him to say. He was literally almost hyperventilating. “I don’t want to ruin his life, ya know?”
“If he’s the killer, then he’s ruined plenty of others’ lives. What did he do?”
“He walked into the general store down the street, grabbed a six pack and ran right out, didn’t even pay. It was a big thing. Took the whole day to handle. Eventually, we made him pay and let him go. Do you think that was a mistake? Think he coulda done it? Think he done it after we let him walk?”
Jesus Christ, I thought. Big jump he’s making there. Is this town really that subdued, and I can’t believe I’m thinking this, that boring? No wonder someone is running around killing everyone. “I think you handled it just fine,” I said. “Can we see the crime scenes?”


Sheriff Dowling escorted us around town, from crime scene to crime scene. All in the woods. I pulled out the map of the area with the scenes marked on it. They all encircled a giant pond.
“Miss. Klein,” Dowling said. “Miss. Klein, not that way.”
“I want to see the pond. All of the murders take place fairly close to the perimeter.”
“Good observation,” Bruce pointed out. “What do you think it means?”
“All bodies. All body parts. Accounted for. Not a dumping site for those things, but maybe the murder weapons are underwater.”
“You’re thinking we request divers.”
“Maybe.”
We walked to the pond. It was massive. It was split into two large masses, thin in the middle. Like an infinity sign. We walked over a small stone bridge where it thinned out to get to the other side. We walked along the bank. There was nothing out of the ordinary, at first. About thirty minutes after beginning our search we encountered something disturbing.
“What is it?” Dowling asked. “Whatcha find?”
I kneeled down on my haunches, overlooking heartless mutilation. It was rats. Goddamn rats. But this was done with a cold-heart. Entrails littered the grass. They were everywhere. Heads. Legs. Little rat jackets of skin.
“A juvenile,” Bruce said.
“Probably,” I respond.
“You think a juvenile is really capable of all those killings?”
“Wait. Whatcha all mean a juv’nile?” Dowling.
“An early sign of a disturbed individual – of those unusual kinds I was talking about – is animal mutilation. Normally children. This is the kind of unusual behavior I was talking about.” Not shoplifting beer, I thought.