Avenging Angel

"It looks like you have a mission killer on your hands," a familiar voice said.

Darrow looked up from his work at the woman who stood near his desk. Her face and body language, like her voice, seemed familiar, but he couldn't place her.

She was looking at the photos and reports scattered across the desk he was using. The San Francisco office of the FBI had loaned it to him. It was old and scarred, but that didn't matter once the reports and pictures covered it over. The woman took a long look at each of the visible photos: Victims with their throats slashed and their hearts hacked out. The perp was clearly not a surgeon. The wounds were sloppy, gaping, inelegant. "This is the guy who's been targeting gay club patrons?" she asked.

"Yeah," Darrow said. "We have five victims so far, and no leads."

The woman was dressed in an elegant suit -- skirt, blouse, jacket that showed off a trim waist and unusually broad shoulders. The effect was neat and polished, but spoiled somewhat by a courier bag she wore slung over one shoulder.

"Hmm," she said, giving one image and then another her intense scrutiny. "The definition of a mission killer is that he thinks he's doing God's work, am I correct?"

"More or less. God's work; the work of an overriding and important cause; the work needed to support a morally superior point of view."

"It's been a while since we worked on one of those," she said, and the way she said it triggered something in Darrow's mind. Then he realized who she was. "Julian?"

"Jillian now," she said, smiling and stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

Darrow shook her hand in greeting, shaking his head and smiling over her transformation. "When did you - I mean - you look great!"

"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that part," Jillian said.

"The part about you looking great?" Darrow asked. "Well, it suits you better than..." He paused, embarrassed.

"Don't stop now," Jillian teased him. "You never went easy on me before."

"What brings you back to my neck of law enforcement?" Darrow asked.

That might have been the most fraught question of all. Jules... Jillian now... had been Darrow's partner for three years, before taking a leave of absence for unspecified medical reasons. The two had worked well together, but had rarely socialized outside of work. Their cases had been boring - procedure, routine, the fine grinding of the wheels of justice. Jules had never said anything about wishing to transition - had never said anything about his... rather, her... sense of gender. Darrow wondered whether Jules hadn't trusted him well enough to tell him about it. Or maybe Jules hadn't understood it, himself, when they were working together? Or maybe he'd simply never thought it was anyone else's business?

Darrow thought back and tried to recall if he'd ever talked about his own personal life. Not that many people in the Bureau were homophobic - or transphobic for that matter - but he'd never liked to mix the personal and the professional. Perhaps that had also been true of Jules. Maybe that was why they had worked so well together. In any case, last Darrow had heard, after a prolonged leave of absence Jules had taken a posting in a different city - he was not too sure where.

"First of all," Jillian said, "I should probably explain."

"No, don't." Darrow held up a hand. "Your stuff is your own. You don't owe me any explanations."

"Because you respect my privacy? Or you don't want to hear about it?" Jillian's smile didn't falter but Darrow thought she sounded a little defensive.

"Respect your privacy," Darrow said. "Everyone has a life apart from work. If you're here on official business, it's probably just as well that we stick to whatever it is you need to talk about."

"Aw, Henry," Jillian said playfully. "Come on now. We're old friends."

Darrow just smiled at her.

"All right, fine, we don't have to talk about me. But what about you? Happy? Healthy? Got someone to all your own?"

"Oh..." Darrow shrugged. "It's all the same old."

"Right," Jillian said brightly. "Like falling in love with a contract killer and then letting him get away."

"I didn't let -- " Darrow narrowed his eyes at her. "How do you even know about any of that?"

Jillian leaned fractionally closer. In a quiet voice she said, "HomeSec has its eye on you."

Darrow's look grew guarded - angry and apprehensive, all at once.

Jillian laughed. "That's who I work for now. After I transitioned I got an offer from them and it seemed fitting to begin again fresh. So I... transitioned. Professionally, that is."

"So what does HomeSec want?" Darrow asked, his voice tight but neutral.

Jillian had a courier bag slung across her chest. Now she reached into the bag and withdrew a manila folder. "Actually," she said, "HomeSec wants your help." She placed the folder on Darrow's desk and flipped it open. She moved the top pages away and crime scene photos came into view. "It seems we might have a mission killer of our own."

Darrow became all business. Whatever game Jillian and HomeSec might be playing, it could wait. There was work to be done - from the look of the photos, pretty serious work. "What the hell is this?"

"Victims," Jillian said.

Darrow leafed through the stack of photos. "How many?"

"Eleven," she said. "We're pretty sure there will be more."

"But..." Darrow flipped through a few more photos. Each of them showed charred human remains - sitting at a table, lying on a bed, sprawled on a floor that was covered in ugly orange shag carpet. "These are victims, but not of a human perpetrator. This is a phenomenon known as spontaneous human combustion."

"How do you know?" Jillian said, watching him with a look that was - excited? Anticipating? Testing, maybe?

"Look at them. This guy at the table - "

"That's a female, actually but go on," Jillian said.

"Whatever, she's burned to a crisp. But the tablecloth doesn't even seem to be singed. And that nice chair she's sitting in, the upholstery is fine."

"A little scorched right at the points of contact, but essentially, yes - the chair is remarkably intact," Jillian said.

"And this guy... or is it also a woman?" Darrow held up another photo.

"That's a male."

"This guy on the bed - same story. Burned to charcoal, but the blankets and mattress are fine. Even the pillow looks fine."

"Again, a little scorching on the pillowcase," Jillian said. "Not what you might expect."

"And here... on the rug..."

"Yes, right, the rug is intact in all its hideous glory," Jillian said. "And that's not all. These are photos from only a few of the crime scenes. There's one I wish you could have been there to see - a man we found in the tub."

"He probably went there to contain the flames or try and douse himself and put them out," Darrow said.

"Uh huh, except for one thing - he was having a bath at the time. He was immersed in the water. It didn't help - he was just as thoroughly torched as these others. And the water was entirely clear. No trace of any accelerant there, or with any of the of the others."

"Well, okay," Darrow said. "That proves my point. Spontaneous human combustion is very hot, and very quick -- so hot it can reduce a body to ashes in mere moments, and so sudden that it's over before anything nearby, or even in contact with the body, has a change to ignite. Those are the signature elements of such a case, and that' what it looks like happened in each of these situations. So these aren't crime scenes, just sites for a very rare but natural phenomenon."

"Except for two things," Jillian countered. "For a rare phenomenon it seems to be happening an awful lot around the Bay Area. When's the last time you heard of eleven cases of spontaneous human combustion in one city within a span of four months?

Darrow whistled. "Jesus," he said.

"More like Son of Sam," Jillian said. She reached into the satchel and drew out another folder, which contained more photo. "Same crime scenes," she said. "This is why we know they are crime scenes."

Darrow shuffled through the second set of photos. "What the hell?" Each of them showed a message that seemed to be burned into a wall. "USURPER" read one in all capital letters. "FALSE WITNESS" read another. "IMPOSTOR" read a third.

"Were these scorched into the walls?" Darrow asked.

"More than scorched. Branded. Burned hot - hot enough to turn the plaster into ash. But like the victims, the burning was limited to a specific area. Even in the case of the wooden wall - this one here... " The photo showed the black letters burned into high wooden wainscoting. "You'd think the whole place would have gone up," she said.

Darrow set the second set of photos down on top of the first, with both the folders covering over the photos and papers relevant to his own case. "Okay. You win. This is much stranger than what I was working on."

"When I heard you were in town working on the mission killer thing, I thought I'd see whether you might be interested in working together again," Jillian said. "For old times sake."

"You want me to take this case?"

"HomeSec doesn't know what to do with it, so we're about to turn it over to the FBI anyway," Jillian said. "At first we thought it might be related to terrorism, or have something to do with espionage - purloined special weapons, restricted chemicals, that sort of thing. See, we're very secular and pragmatic at HomeSec. We don't really go in for people mysteriously bursting into super-hot flames that hardly even singe the carpet."

"Oh, but I do?"

Jillian actually cupped his cheek in one hand. "Sweetie," she said, "You're getting a reputation."

Darrow pulled away. "Let's keep it professional," he said. "And for the record, the misfit cases they've been giving me - it's not exactly my idea."

"Right," Jillian retorted. "But someone's figured out that you're good at it."

***

Two days later, after touring the crime scenes himself and visiting Jillian's office at the San Francisco branch of HomeSec -- where his former partner had boxes of evidence gathered from each of the sites -- Darrow felt as much in the dark as he had at the start of his impromptu partnership with Jillian. "Eleven victims," he mused. "All with less than flattering words burned into the walls of the rooms where they were found. 'Impostor' -- the killer's label for an anti-gay County Commissioner who was recently on a speaking tour where she railed against homosexuality as the thing that destroyed the Roman Empire. She also claimed that gays are now destroying America."

"Ironic, considering that what destroyed the Roman Empire was, in large part, a refusal of the wealthy citizens to pay their taxes," Jillian said. "And she was a Republican who preached as much about the evils of taxation as she did the dangers of gays... and trans people." Jillian gave a short, mock sorry shake of her head.

Darrow chose to ignore her in keeping with his resolution to keep their interactions professional. "Two were preachers," he continued, "one from an evangelical megachurch and the other from a smaller church - both of them made it a point on most Sundays to inveigh against the so-called 'gay agenda.' The words burned into the walls over their bodies were 'False Witness' for the one, and 'Hypocrite' for the other."

"The fat one got 'Hypocrite,' and we think it had to do with something he said on a right-wing radio talk show," Jillian said. "Something about 'Lust is one of the deadly sins.' I guess he forgot gluttony is another."

"Then there's a city clerk who refused to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples and reportedly harassed colleagues who did," Darrow went on. "One was a suspected gay basher who was implicated in several violent assaults but never charged..." His voice trailed off.

"I think we see a pattern here," Jillian said. "But how was it done? And why are words like 'Fake' and 'Fraud' branded into their walls?"

Darrow was burrowing through the photos like a bloodhound on a scent. "I'm more interested in a different word, though," he said, pulling out the photo of the cremated man on the bed. "The word that went with this guy, that was 'Fraud,' right?"

"Yes." Jillian produced the photo of the word, which was seared into thin word paneling in what looked like a study. The word was jagged, forbidding.

"And he died when?"

"The coroner thinks it was about a week ago. But he was kind of a loner, and wasn't missed until his landlord came into his room and found him. Given the burned condition of the body, it's hard to judge time of death using the normal criteria, so it could have been a day or so longer."

"And the mission killer's last victim was about ten days ago." Darrow shut his eyes, trying to remember the date.

"What?" Jillian asked.

"The case they brought me out here to work," Darrow said. "The mission killer targeting gay club kids. His last victim was... killed on the early hours of the thirteenth." He opened his eyes. "Yes, I'm pretty sure that was the date. And today is..."

"The twenty-fourth," Jillian said. "You think there's a connection?"

"I think it's possible that our mission killer caught the attention of someone he wanted to impress. Only, it was the wrong kind of attention.

"What are you talking about?"

"You said the 'Fraud' victim was found by his landlord?"

"Yes," Jillian said.

"Why was his landlord coming into his apartment?"

"I don't recall. Some bullshit story. A strange smell or a suspicious noise or something. It didn't fit the scene, so I figured it was a matter of a strong arm eviction, you know - an under the table sort of thing. Avoiding courts and sheriffs and so forth. The sort of thing that happens in neighborhoods like that."

"And where was that neighborhood, again?"

"That's the one near the Tendernob. In that section where there are still some tenements."

"Come with me," Darrow said.

"Where?" Jillian asked, following him as Darrow darted from the room.

"The Tendernob!" he called over his shoulder.

***

"Sir, all I'm saying is, if you know something you're not telling, you could get in a whole lot of trouble," Darrow said. The landlord's name was Denny - "Just Denny," he'd said, when Darrow had introduced himself a couple of days before, when he'd first visited the apartment in question.

"I told you, I don't know anything. I went in - he was toast. Thought I was going to have to replace that bed, but the mattress wasn't even scorched."

"That's nice, but I'm more interested in who came looking to see him that day," Darrow said.

"Huh?" Denny said. Jillian looked like she was mentally echoing him.

"Your story for why you went into his room doesn't make any sense," Darrow said. "I'm thinking maybe one of his friends came to you, worried about him. Looking for him. Needing to know where he was. Anxious, maybe?"

"Friends?" the landlord said.

"Someone who might have offered you money?" Darrow pressed. "Or threatened you?"

Denny bit his lip and stared at Darrow with a dumb, but not very convincing, expression.

"Look, I have reason to suspect that Mr... what was his name again?"

"Serge Varischenko."

"I have reason to believe that Mr. Varischenko might have been a serial killer. I think he was targeting young gay guys. I think he went to clubs, chatted people up, and once he identified a victim he convinced them to take him home. Once he was in their homes, he murdered them. He was quick and vicious. If I had the photo I could show you what he did to people. Slashed their throats. Hacked their hearts out. He was what we call a mission killer - someone who targets a certain group because he feels compelled to do it. Morally compelled, sometimes even commanded by God."

"Angelus," Denny said.

"What's that?"

"One time he was late with the rent, I told him to cough it up or he'd be on the street," Denny said.

Jillian, standing behind Denny, threw Darrow an "I told you so" look.

"But you didn't throw him out," Darrow said, as much to Jillian as to Denny.

"No. I just warned him. But he got very angry - he told me not to mess with the Angelus. I didn't know what that was, and he said it was an angel on earth, and it was him, and I shouldn't want to know more."

Darrow gave him a "And you let this guy keep living here?" look.

"Hey, look, I rent to all kinds," Denny said. "Once had a guy who claimed his roommate was Jesus. Of course, he lived alone. Who am I to judge?"

"Delusions that he was an angel, God's messenger here on Earth," Jillian said. "It fits."

"So what about his friend?" Darrow asked, leaning toward Denny in a way that seemed intimidating.

Denny gulped.

"Whatever he warned you would happen if you talked - well, it'll be a lot worse if you don't talk to us," Darrow promised him.

"His name was Freddie something. I don't think he was Russian," Denny said. "But he had this crazy look, this psycho look. I didn't want to mess with him. He said that he needed to talk to Sergei right away, got all in my face. Real nervous and jittery. He was sweating, pacing around -- playing with a knife. A knife! It didn't seem worth the trouble of dealing with him, so I let him into the apartment just to show him that Sergei wasn't home. But then - well, that's when we found him. The kid, Freddy or whatever, he quit raving, got quiet, and then he just took off."

Darrow nodded. "You might have saved some lives," he said to Denny. "Thank you."

***

Three hours later, back at the HomeSec offices, Jillian approached Darrow with a printout of a man's photo and criminal records data.

"Philo Frederick Guttenberg," she said. "Called Freddie by his associates. Ran with Sergei. He was also questioned in the beating of a gay man who had identified him and Sergei as the assailants, but the case went nowhere."

Darrow took the printout and smiled at it. "Bingo," he said.

"So, what are you thinking?" Jillian asked.

"These mission killer cases made sense, except for the timing of two of the murders. Randolph Patterson and Jerome Benshuga were both killed the same night, about two hours apart, but in different parts of town."

"Coincidence," Jillian said. "The one killing got put together with the others because of similar MOs."

"Yeah, maybe, but the MOs weren't just similar. They were exactly the same," Darrow said. "Throats slashed by a left handed individual... which, by the way, Sergei was. Hearts hacked out. And what the photos you saw didn't show... genitals mutilated."

"Hacked off?" Jillian asked.

Darrow shook his head, face grim. "Bitten."

"Bitten off? Christ." Jillian took in a slow, deep breath. "Okay, so? It was the same guy... what does that prove?"

"Only that he had to be working with someone else," Darrow said. "It takes time to stalk and seduce a victim. Sergei might have killed twice in an evening, but not within a two-hour window. Think about it - he spends the evening stalking one guy, kills him, and then... has to go over the scene and make sure there's no evidence to be found. Has to go home and clean up, because slashing throats and hacking out hearts is bloody business. Probably has to flood pretty good, too."

Jillian winced. "Please, Henry."

"Now, after all that, if he's in the mood for a second helping of mayhem he has to go out again, assuming it's still early enough, and identify his next quarry, and then spend however long getting close, winning the guy's trust. Then travel home with the guy... it's a lot of hours. Even if he managed to score two quick pick-ups, there's just not enough time between the killings for the rest, the cleanup and travel."

"So he had a partner," Jillian said.

"Someone who was working on his own mark," Darrow said. "Someone who got close enough for the kill, but ddn't do the deed because he was saving the victim for his friend the knife-happy dick chomper. He texts the killer with an address... spends an hour or so drinking with the intended victim, sweet talking the guy... hell, making out with him, for all I know... and then the murderer shows up, probably still bloody from his earlier kill."

"And he kills again," Jillian said. "But why work in tandem with someone else?"

"Maybe it's a mentor thing. The mentee wasn't ready to graduate yet. Maybe it's some kind of sick internalized homophobia thing in which this is their version of sex. They can't fuck each other, so they collaborate in fucking up some poor schmuck. Whatever, it doubles their pleasure and doubles their fun."

"And the pair decide that worked so well together that they're going to hunt together again..." Jillian said.

"Only, the killer, the master, doesn't show up, and poor little grasshopper freaks and bails. When the junior goon comes looking for his idol and role model, he finds out the reason things didn't go down as planned was that the mentor himself was cut down."

"By...?" Jillian asked. "Another mission killer?"

Darrow looked at her. "Try this: Avenging Angel."

"Another delusional killer?"

"Maybe not so delusional." Darrow stood up from the desk. It was Jillian's, but he's co-opted it for his own use.

"So now we go pick up Freddie?"

"If we're not too late," Darrow said, leading the way.

***

They were too late, as it happened, but not by much. Freddie lived with his mother in Oakland, in a tidy little house. Darrow pounded on the door, yelling for anyone inside to open up for federal agents. No one came to the door, but a man's terrified bleat sent Darrow into action. He gave the door two good kicks and it flew open.

Darrow and Jillian bustled into the house, service weapons drawn. They enterd the living room and saw Freddie. He looked just like his mug shot, except that he was now screaming for them to help him. Then they noticed another individual, a small, dark man who looked over at them and offered a calm, knowing smile.

"I don't know who he is, man!" Freddie screamed, pointing at the small man. "He's not supposed to be in here!" Freddie looked rumpled, maybe a little sleepy, like he had just jumped off the couch.

"Freddie, I need you to sit down and keep calm," Darrow ordered. Weapon pointed at the small dark man, he said, "Sir, get on your knees and put your hands on top of your head."

The small dark man just smiled. "Why would I do that?" he asked.

"Because if you don't, I will shoot you," Darrow snapped.

"Shoot a man? For standing here peacefully? And you wonder why cops get such a bad rap."

"We're not going to debate this with you," Jillian said, her gun also pointed at the small man. "Do as you're told."

The smile disappeared from the man's face.

"You're a suspect in a series of murders," Darrow warned.

The small man said nothing to this, but Freddie did.

"He made me do it! Sergei! It was all his idea! I was scared if I didn't go along with it, he'd kill me too!"

"I'm not talking to you, Freddie," Darrow said.

"Anyway, why wouldn't we kill them?" Freddie gabbled hysterically. "They were faggots!"

"Then why was it Sergei who burned?" asked Jillian sarcastically.

"Sir," Darrow warned, still talking to the small dark man.

The suspect scowled, and then it felt like someone backhanded Darrow - someone big. He hit the wall and then the floor. Dimly, he heard Freddie screaming. His eyes wee dazzled from the force of the concussion...

No. His eyes were dazzled by the tower of flame that stood in the middle of the room where the small dark man had been standing. Brilliant, searing, tall than a man -- impossible --

"Impostor," a terrifying voice roared. It sounded savage, unholy, all-powerful.

Freddy screamed again.

"Usurper! Arrogant miscreant!" the voice thundered.

Freddy's screams became suddenly more intense and frantic, and then there were two towers of fire in the room. Darrow saw Freddie's body erupt into brilliantly coruscating flames. His blazing form thrashed and staggered for a few horrifying seconds, and then went down. A moment later the flames dimmed and began to recede; the body was already thoroughly charred.

Darrow cast around for his gun, then heard a volley of shots. He looked toward the source of the reports and saw Jillian, bruised but steady, crouching on the other side of the room. Her firearm was in her hands and aimed right at the towering spout of fire that still roared in the center of the room. Another shot sounded and a spark of fire leapt from the gun's muzzle.

The living flame that stood before them didn't flinch. It must have been three meters tall. It radiated - not heat, but rather terror. Darrow felt himself overcome with fear to behold it. He scrabbled uselessly around, looking for his gun in a blind panic.

Jillian's gun fired a few times more and then clicked empty. Darrow heard her curse and then she was fumbling around, trying to find a fresh ammo cartridge.

The flaming tower extended an arm - an arm? Was it an arm? - and the wall over Freddie's couch blazed with sudden fiery letters. Its voice thundered once more:

"And now behold the most heinous of all sins!"

The word emerged from the brilliant flames that cut into the wall. Scorched and accusing, it smoked as the last glimmers of light faded from the blackened letters.

BYSTANDER

Then the tower of flame was gone, and the terror with it; the smoking letters emitted an audible crackling sound. Freddie's corpse was still and just as burnt black as the word. Darrow fell back, and covered his eyes with a trembling hand.

***

Between documentation, the attentions of paramedics, and endless on-site grilling from superiors in both the FBI and HomeSec -- Darrow smiled without humor at the pun as it occurred to him -- it took hours to get away from the crime scene. Darrow and Jillian agreed to meet at her office the next morning, but after a sleepless night he texted her before dawn and she agreed to a rendezvous. She suggested a tea shop she knew would be open early.

The place had a smoky aroma about it -- the tea of the day was something called hu-kwa. "This is why I love San Francisco," sighed Jillian, sipping at her cup.

"Did you get any sleep?" Darrow asked.

"No. Which is why I'll need this whole pot, so get your own if you want some," Jillian said. Then she caught his eye. "Kidding," she said. "Help yourself."

"I... think I'll stick to bland food for a while. Maybe raw food, for that matter," Darrow said.

"Young Freddie's demise hit you hard," Jillian said.

"And you?"

Jillian put down her cup. "It's like this," she said. "I never saw anything like that before, but I have seen some pretty... " She hesitated. "...intense, unusual stuff. Which, I guess, you have, too."

"Yes," Darrow responded. "But nothing quite so... "

"Disgusting?"

"Impressive. As in, it's made an impression."

"You're the one who said it was an angel," Jillian said. "Were you not prepared for what you saw? Because even I know that angels are supposedly terrifying."

"I'm more used to the domesticated kind," Darrow said, thinking of the people he'd met -- several of them, some of them friends and some perps he's apprehended -- who had made claims to being human incarnations of supernal beings.

Jillian poured fresh tea into her cup and then added milk. "It shouldn't take long to file the paperwork," she said.

"On something like this?" Darrow asked.

"Watch and learn," Jillian said. "Exotic chemicals. Terrorism with an anti-gay slant. It's not so hard."

"But that's not what happened," Darrow protested.

"So what? You think it's going to make the mystery any less stubborn if we file a bunch of forms that are either incomplete or come with thirteen pages of explanatory notes stapled to them? This case doesn't fit into any of the usual boxes... not unless we reshape the narrative a little bit so that it does fit. The sooner and neater it fits, the sooner we move on."

"Why?" Darrow asked. "Are you in a hurry?"

Jillian just looked at him, eyes assessing as they had been the other day when they had first become reacquainted. "There's work to be done," she said. "And to that end, I wonder if you would consider a transition of your own. HomeSec sees its share of these cases -- marginal, hard to categorize, harder to explain. It means getting vetted for a higher security clearance, but the pay is better. And anyway, I was happy to see that we still work well together. I thought maybe I could convince you to make it a permanent thing."

"I'm fine where I am," Darrow said.

"Are you sure?" Jillian said. "HomeSec..."

"I know," Darrow said. "HomeSec has its eye on me. I'm not sure I'm too thrilled about that." He stood up and reached for his jacket. "You gonna be able to get that to go?"

"Now you're the one in a hurry," Jillian said, gathering up her courier bag. Who knew what horrors it contained today.

"Well, you said it yourself," Darrow replied as they headed for the door. "There's still work to be done."