Rise of The Iron Eagle (The Iron Eagle Series Book 1) (10 page)

Valente nodded and smiled, “Yes, I served directly under her in a black ops unit for the last two tours of my hitch. While she is very, very beautiful, it wears off real fast when you see the military commander side of her.” Jim nodded, “I’ve heard that about her. She was busted out of the Corps a year or two ago wasn’t she?” Valente nodded sadly, “Busted out is the wrong word; she was railroaded, and she is none too happy about it.” “Do you keep in touch with her?” “We became friends after I left the Corps. I talk to her now and then but not much lately.” Jim smiled and dropped the subject. Steve was quiet as the exchange took place. He didn’t serve in the military, and Jim made sure to rub his face in it whenever possible.

It was pushing two a.m. when Javier called out to Valente. “Well, gentlemen, I have to get some work done. Thank you for the talk.” And with that he walked back into the kitchen. Jim took the last gulp of his beer as did Steve, and they agreed that it was high time to go to their homes and get some sleep. They bid good night to Valente and headed out. “So, I’ll see you in twelve hours at my office?” Jim laughed, Steve nodded, and the two went their separate ways.

Chapter Ten

‘His chiseled features, sea blue eyes,
and near-bald head with a Marine
style flat top and blond stubble caught
several of the ladies, and one of the
gentlemen officers, off guard.’

I
t was half past two when Francis heard rustling outside his bedroom window. It had woken him from a sound sleep and was loud enough to disturb him over the hum of the window AC unit. He rolled out of bed and put on his slippers and walked to the front window. “The damn coyotes better not be in the trash cans again.” He grabbed a flashlight and unlocked and opened the front door. He had a baseball bat in his hand; he didn’t want to waste ammunition on wildlife. He heard the rustling noise again coming from the far side of the house. He stepped off the porch and into the darkness, moving the light back and forth as he walked. He got to the edge of the cabin and shined the light into the area of the container. The doors were wide open, and the silhouette of a figure stood in the darkened opening.

He rushed back into the house and grabbed his shotgun and ran back out calling out, “Who’s there?” There was no response. He moved closer to the container and with each step he realized that it was a very large man standing with his back to him. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve trespassed onto the way wrong property, pal.” He lifted the shotgun and pumped the gun to load the chamber. There was no movement from the person. “On your knees. Now,” he ordered, but the man didn’t comply. “Raise your hands in the air and turn around.” There were a tense few moments as the man slowly raised his hands and turned toward Francis. When he turned, Francis couldn’t see his face, just a large man dressed in black facing him. “You see this shotgun? I can blow your head clean off from where I’m standing. Now you get down on your knees, then lie face down on the ground with your hands behind your head, or I will send you straight to hell.” “You first,” the man said and moved toward him. Francis pulled the trigger and heard only the click of the firing pin. Within seconds, the man had disarmed him and struck him with the butt of his shotgun. Francis looked up from the ground where he had landed and said, “Who are you?” “Justice” was the response, and then the butt of the gun struck Francis on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

Steve was running five minutes late as he rolled into Jim’s office for their meeting. Jim and Steve’s entire staff were there waiting. “Sorry I’m late, folks. I was caught up on a conference call.” He smiled and took a seat but nothing happened. Jim looked at the clock on the wall and said, “I have asked a young friend of mine to join us this afternoon. He’s with the LAPD and is new to homicide. We talked last night, and he had some interesting ideas on the Basin River Killer, so I asked him to join us. Let’s wait five more minutes, and if he’s not here we’ll get started. They all just sat there twiddling their thumbs when John came through the door, breathless. “I’m so sorry, everyone; I was all the way over in Santa Monica and lost track of time.” They remained silent.

To say that John was a magnificent human specimen was not doing him justice. He was dressed in a dark blue LAPD polo shirt with the badge over the left pocket, which was tucked into a pair of Levi’s that were beyond tight. His chiseled features, sea blue eyes, and near-bald head with a Marine style flat top and blond stubble caught several of the ladies, and one of the gentlemen officers, off guard. He stood in the doorway smiling, his shirt straining against his huge arms and chest. He was wearing a police issue black leather belt with his shield clipped to the right side, and his sidearm and handcuffs were on his left. He was wearing a pair of high top Nike sneakers, and at first glance he looked like a Nordic God.

Jim stood up from his desk and said, “Well, it’s about time…everyone, let me introduce you to Thor.” There was a little laughter in the room. “Jesus Christ, John. What the hell have you been doing for the past several years? You look great!” John smiled sheepishly and took a seat in an empty chair near Steve, who was looking at him with total awe. “Okay…all kidding aside guys, this is John Swenson, and he’s with homicide in West Hollywood and Santa Monica. Steve leaned over toward him and said, “You know how to make an entrance, young man.” He smiled as Jim continued. “Okay, John, all of these folks are members of my staff and Steve’s. We don’t have time for names, and the ugly guy who just spoke to you is Special Agent Steve Hoffman, FBI. I asked him to stop by and give us some tips. Let’s talk about the Basin River Killer. His latest victims were brutalized far beyond anything we’ve ever seen from this guy. Why the escalation in brutality?” Marcy spoke first, “It would appear that he doesn’t feel that he’s getting enough attention, and perhaps thinks that he needs to be more brutal to his victims to drive us harder.” Jim frowned. “Seriously…that’s what you think is driving the increased violence? The guy has been killing people for over four decades. I inherited this guy when I took this job twenty years ago. I think he knows that we’re looking for him. John, tell my people what you told me about this guy’s reason for killing.”

He stood up and addressed the room, “While this person is killing at random, there is a pattern in the crime scenes that I have been on in the last two years down in my area. This guy likes to watch his victims suffer. He gets off on it…Jim and I talked about it last night. The lack of sexual assault to his victims, male and female, and the types of victims that he grabs tell me that this guy isn’t doing this to get off sexually. His crimes may seem random, but they aren’t. He only picks homeless indigents, people that won’t be missed. I think that the guy has a God complex. He gets an adrenaline rush from the suffering of his victims. We all know that he has one particular body type that he seeks and that means folks with a few extra pounds.” Steve interrupted, “And, John, why do you think he wants them heavy?” John looked Steve right in the eye and said, “Too thin, and they die too fast; the same if they’re too heavy. He wants his victims to have a nice full BMI, so that he can take his time torturing them. He wants to hear their screams and pleadings. He wants them to beg him to allow them to live. This guy likes what he’s doing, and he has up to this point been very, very careful not to get caught.”

“Why do you say up to this point?” Jim asked. John still had his eyes fixed on Steve. “Well, I took the liberty of reviewing the case file last night after we spoke. When he took his last two victims, he took them early in the morning, and he killed them the same day.” Steve asked him how the hell he knew that. John smiled, “It’s all in the case file for this killing. The interviews that were conducted on scene have several of their homeless friends telling us they were with them at their camp until as early as four a.m. yesterday. Several other witness accounts noticed that the two men didn’t show up at the mission in Van Nuys, only a few blocks from their camp, for breakfast, which these two victims did daily. So if we take into account that it was approximately four a.m. when the last person saw the men alive, and their remains, no sense in calling them bodies, he hacked the hell out of them, were found by another transient at or before six p.m., it tells us that they were grabbed by the killer between four and six thirty a.m. yesterday.” Steve interrupted again, “How can you nail down such an exact time for their abduction?” “Oh, that’s easy,” said John. “In reading the interviews, several of the homeless said that the two men were always among the first at the mission for breakfast, and the mission starts serving at six thirty a.m.” “So, why doesn’t anyone report them missing?” came a question from one of the other CSIs in the room. “That’s an easy and obvious one. They weren’t gone long enough for anyone to make a report. They missed a meal, no big deal…while their friends noticed, there could have been any number of reasons, so no one is going to consider foul play over one missed meal.”

Steve piped up, “Interesting observation, and you got all of that from just yesterday’s report.” John nodded. “So you looked at the crime scene photos?” He nodded again. “What do you make of the fact that he only kept them for twelve hours when he has been known to keep victims for days or even weeks?” One single word was the response. “Heat!” Everyone looked confused. Jim asked, “What the hell does heat have to do with it?” John moved to the middle of the room. “In looking at the photos, the skin on their backs showed serious blistering and second and third degree burns. The burns weren’t inflicted intentionally by the killer. He had to have had them in a location that got very, very hot. I also noticed that their burns were ridged, as if they were pressed against some type of corrugated steel. I tried to see if I could get a match to the type of burn scars on the victims, and I found that they were consistent with the walls of a steel shipping container. Those containers, when they have outlived their useful lives on ships, are sold and, a lot of times, converted into mobile storage containers. The ones you can rent or buy. I looked at the photos of some local containers online and found that the burns matched the seams in several storage containers that are sold and rented out by local businesses here in the valley.”

Jim interrupted John and motioned for Steve to come up front. He walked over toward the door, and the two started whispering. “Where the fuck did you find this kid?” asked Steve. “Hell, Steve, two years ago he was working a desk in white collar crimes in the Rampart Division; I ran into him last night, and now he’s a homicide detective.” “Jesus Christ. This guy has ESP or something. We need to talk to him alone. Let’s clear our people out.” Jim nodded and the two walked back to their prospective areas. “Okay folks, this has been fun, but we need to get back to work. I want you to think about what John has told us and do a little more digging. John, can you spare a few minutes to speak with me and Steve?” John nodded and sat down as the room cleared out. When the last person had left, Jim invited John and Steve to join him in his office.

They walked down the stairs to the first floor. No one said a word. They walked in, and Steve was impressed. The office was immaculate. There was an oak desk in the center with a long sofa on the back wall and two nice fabric chairs. All the furniture was trimmed in oak and stained to match the desk. Awards and commendations that Jim had received over the years covered the walls, and there was a stool beside the window with an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. Jim sat in his black leather desk chair and invited the two men to sit as well. “Wow,” Jim said, and Steve seconded it. “John, you have seriously only been working as a homicide detective for two years?” He nodded. “You gleaned all of the detail that you just provided just by looking at some photos and doing an internet search?” He nodded again. “What else, John…what else do you know about this killer? You said he has made no mistakes so far.” “Yes, but he messed up this time.” Steve asked how so. “Well, it’s not a mess up that’s going to lead to his capture right away, but we now know that he places his victims into a storage container and that the container is outdoors.”

“Okay, John, let’s say that you’re right about the container. There are thousands of those in yards all over the county,” said Steve. “True… and that’s where he messed up. We can narrow the field by looking for remote locations where storage containers are outdoors.” Jim laughed and so did Steve. “You’re a smart kid, John, but even if we eliminate all of the containers in earshot of neighbors that still leaves thousands, if not tens of thousands, in remote locations.” “However,” John continued, “the last three killings have all been within two miles east or west of Tampa and Corbin in the San Fernando Valley. That tells me that the killer is killing his victims faster because of heat, and that he’s dumping them closer to his home location for ease of transport. This guy isn’t very strong. We can see that from the way he dumps the bodies. No one ever sees him. He sets up the bodies in some type of large box truck or van, then drives the victims to the scene. He then can roll the bodies out of the vehicle and move the sections around the way he wants. He cuts them up in part as torture, but, once dead, he keeps cutting to make them easier for him to move.” The two men just stared at him.