Angel of Death

By D.W. Smith

The justice system of the United States prohibits a person from being tried for the same crime twice. Once acquitted, that person is considered not guilty of the crimes with which they were charged, therefore free to resume their life, pick up where they left off, as if nothing ever happened, right? Well, of course, not everyone agrees, and someone in the Peach state is taking the matter of crime and punishment into their own hands.
Over the last eighteen months, a string of grisly murders have criss-crossed the state of Georgia, with the victims sharing the common trait of having recently been acquitted of high-profile capitol murder cases. Dubbed the Angel of Death by the papers, the killer is viewed as a lawless vigilante by some, and as an emissary of righteous justice by others.
Rachel Emory is a strikingly beautiful woman whose past is filled with violence and tragedy. Already painfully shy and introverted, she is further withdrawn into her own prison of shame and self loathing after being charged with the murder of her controlling and physically abusive, police officer husband.
Acquitted of all charges on the basis of self-defense, yet still branded a pariah in her hometown of Macon, Rachel wants nothing more than to become invisible and be left alone by everyone. Her prayers fell on deaf ears, as she suddenly finds herself firmly in the crosshairs of none other than the Angel of Death.
Barely escaping her initial encounter with this shadowy executioner, finding no sympathy with local law enforcement, Rachel finds a welcome ally in the form of a private investigator, Cody Houston, a rugged ex-cop with a tenacious attitude and a kind heart, who makes it his mission to protect Rachel from the vigilante, no matter the cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.W. Smith
• Release date: May 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301867745

D.W. Smith

D.W.Smith lives in Box Springs Georgia with his wife and the three youngest of their six children.

Book preview

The night was clear and pleasant, blanketed with softly glowing light from the fat full moon slung low in the sky above. But the distant rumbling and bright flashes on the horizon were an ominous indication that the picturesque setting would soon change dramatically.

Ron Harrison was feeling great. No, not merely great, better than that—he felt exhilarated, jubilant, on top of the world. It seemed as if everything he’d touched lately had turned to gold, making him think of himself as a modern-day King Midas.

Driving along the deserted two-lane highway in his ’94 convertible Corvette, weaving from the center stripe to the shoulder and back again, Ron chuckled to himself and shook his head. Even now, it was hard to believe. Just a few short months ago, it had appeared that life as he knew it was over.

He had it all: fame, money, and women. Whatever he’d wanted was his for the taking. But all of it had been swept away in one brief, regrettable moment of rage and jealousy, sending his ideal life crashing down around him in a jumbled mess. He had changed from the beloved idol of millions to a despised, allegedly murderous villain practically overnight.

Ron was known to baseball fans everywhere as Heat Harrison, a nickname he’d acquired in deference to his hundred-plus-mile-an-hour fast ball. Heat had pitched for three teams during his eighteen year major league career, with ten years in Boston, three in Kansas City, and the last five with the Braves. He’s excelled as a professional baseball player, and had been the recipient of every award and honor a pitcher could win. Among his many achievements were fourteen all-star selections, four CY Young’s, three World Series championships and five no-hitters, one of which had been a perfect game. Last week, he had received the most prestigious honor of all, induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

After leading the Braves to the world championship in ’89, Ron had retired. He’s decided to stay in Georgia and buy a large, spacious house in suburban Marietta, just outside of Atlanta. He divided his time between his job as an analyst and color-commentator for a national television network and his other, more enjoyable activities—drinking, partying and chasing women, the latter of which had ultimately led to his downfall.

Women were Ron’s one weakness. He couldn’t ever get enough of them. Every time he was with a woman, no matter how captivating and seductive she was, he always saw another he wanted more, a trait that had been the principle cause of each of his three divorces. It was the challenge that he loved, and the conquest. When he saw a woman who caught his eye, which was often, he made it his goal to have her, and when he’d achieved that goal; he left in search of the next conquest. It was this same single-minded pursuit of achievement and his sheer determination that had made him one of the all-time winningest pitchers in baseball.

It was easy for him; women adored him. He was forty-three, looked five years younger, had immaculately coiffured black hair peppered with a few strands of grey on the sides, which he thought made him look regal and distinguished, a full well-groomed mustache, and a pair of crystal-clear blue eyes that drove the girls crazy. At six-foot-four, and trim, evenly distributed 230 pounds, his physique was a valuable asset in attracting and impressing the fairer sex. From the age of eighteen onward, Ron had been an insatiable womanizer. Even marriage hadn’t curbed his voracious sexual appetite. He had thought that he would never be satisfied with just one woman, figuring he was destined to a life of one-night stands. But all that had changed one fateful, unforgettable night, the night he met Jennifer.

Jennifer Anne Streetman worked at a club called The Lion’s Den, an establishment patronized exclusively be men. She was a stripper, though she preferred the more prestigious-sounding title of exotic dancer, but the fact of the matter was, regardless of what name you attached to it, her job was to remove her clothes in front a bunch of horny, drunken men, and to gyrate her naked body, enticing her aroused audience to open their wallets and shoe their appreciation in the forms of fives, tens and twenties. The Lions Den was a classy joint, not at all like the run-down dives on the south side. It catered to the upscale and affluent, providing a discreet and clandestine night’s entertainment for some of Atlanta’s wealthiest and most well-known gentlemen. It had been there that Ron had first laid eyes on her, on the night he would forever remember.

Ron had gone for a night out on the town with Reggie Mobley, his long-time friend and former teammate on the Braves. They were celebrating his divorce from his third wife, Cyndie, by getting drunk and going from club to club in search of a good time. It was well past midnight by the time they had ended up at The Lion’s Den, both already three sheets to the wind, They had sat and talked about baseball, drank beer and talked baseball some more. The lights had dimmed and Jennifer sauntered onto the main stage as Kiss began performing Heavens of Fire over the club’s sound system. Ron glanced up at her and become entranced, unable to take his eyes off her, forgetting all about baseball, beer, and his friend.

To this day, Jennifer remained the most beautiful woman Ron had ever seen. She had a mane of long, straight, silky platinum hair that touched the small of her back, full pouting lips, high cheekbones with an aristocratic nose in between, and wide-set eyes that were as blue and alluring as a deep, tropical lagoon. Her body was taut and curvy and generously endowed in all the right places, as lean and sculpted as a fine work of art. She’s been tall, statuesque, and had carried herself with a subtle, sultry elegance. For Ron, it was love at first sight. She had noticed his heedless, infatuated stare almost immediately, and cultivated his unblinking attention with her eyes and lips, both teasing and inviting. As she left the stage after her last number, she looked right at him and gave him a playful wink.

It was too much for him to resist. Ron had stood up, telling Reggie, I’ve got to meet her. Making no attempt to hide his bulging erection, he had pulled aside the first waitress he saw, and told her, while slipping her a hundred dollar bill, that he wanted to talk to Sunny Daze, Jennifer’s stage name. The waitress took his money and led him to the dressing rooms behind the stage. Another hundred to the bouncer at the door got him in. He found her sitting at the brightly-lit makeup mirror, still nude. Usually cool and smooth-talking with the ladies, Ron was surprised to discover himself uncharacteristically timid and nervous. But she was warm and receptive right from the start, soothing his flustered mind with skillful, practiced ease. They carried on a long memorable conversation, and he’d left the club with her phone number and the promise of a date the following night.

After that first date, their relationship took the fast track: weekends at the beach, cruises to the Bahamas, skiing in the Rockies and a trip to Hawaii. He showered her with lavish gifts, expensive clothes, fine jewelry, and a car, anything her heart desired. They ate at the best restaurants attended the most exclusive parties, and socialized with all of the right people. Concerned, Reggie tactfully tried to tell him to slow down, to take it easy, but by then it was too late. After more than forty years of emotional detachment, he, Ron Heat Harrison, had fallen in love.

Jennifer was unlike any other woman he had known, wild and unrestrained, carefree and vivacious, sensual and intelligent. A large part of her appeal was in the fact that his assets hadn’t overwhelmed her; his charm, good looks, wealth, and status didn’t impressed her the way it did the other women he’d dated. Her unprecedented indifference only served to make him want her that much more. In their whirlwind three-month romance, Ron asked her to marry him at least a half-dozen times, and each time she put him off. He constantly tried to get her to move in with him, but she had vetoed that idea too, saying that she needed her privacy. The closer he tried to pull her to him, the further she pushed him away, until finally, the inevitable happened—she broke up with him.

Ron remembered that fateful day too well, a day of infamy etched permanently into his mind and without a doubt, the worst day of his life. He supposed that he should’ve seen it coming—Lord knows everyone else did—but he had worn the blinders of love, had been oblivious to even the most blatant signs Jennifer emitted such as telling him that she had met someone new and was getting on with her life, and suggesting that he do likewise. She had grown tired of him and dismissed him like a petulant child. She made up her mind about the subject, and no amount of pleading or cajoling on his part was able to change it. He made a fool out of himself over her, and she had blown him off.

If he had accepted her decision then and there, cut his losses and moved on, chalking up the whole ignoble episode as a painful yet valuable learning experience, then the entire sordid affair that followed could’ve been avoided. But he was unwilling to accept the rejection, and chased her, determined to win back her affections. His amorous pursuits resulted only in her slapping him with a restraining order. Despite the order against him, Ron still stalked her, even going as far as to follow Jennifer and her new boyfriend, an emaciated, long-haired, wanna-be rock musician. He had heard the guy perform once with his band, The Night Breed, when he had followed them to a tiny, dilapidated club where the band played. Their music sounded about a melodious as a train wreck, and Ron had gotten the hell out of there as quickly as his legs would take him. He had never understood what she saw in him; he was skinny as a tail and sickly looking, physically repulsive, and devoid of talent, Ron’s complete opposite. But he had one thing that Ron didn’t: Jennifer.

Finally, claiming that she was afraid he was going to kill her, Jennifer had him arrested. Ron realized that is was truly over. After bailing himself out of jail, he became a recluse, not setting foot outside his house for nearly two weeks. Robbed of his dignity, wallowing in self-pity, he moped around the empty house in his boxer shorts, drinking tequila and crying over her. It was the lowest point in his entire life. Finally, after ten days in this pathetic state, he faced his image in the bathroom mirror, drew himself up, shaved, put on fresh clothes, and ate his first decent meal in a week. Then he got into his car and drove to Jennifer’s apartment.

Ron did not go there with the intention of killing her; that was the God’s honest truth. He only wanted to tell her that she needn’t worry about him anymore—as if she ever had—that he was over her, and to have a good life, see you around, etc. He could’ve relayed this message over the phone, but he needed to tell her face-to-face, for his own peace of mind. He wanted her to see the genuine sincerity on his face as he spoke those words.

But when he made the left turn into her complex, he saw her with the rock musician and something inside him snapped. He whipped into a parking space well away from the two lovers and sat, fuming as he watched them. It was nearly dark, and they hadn’t spotted him, since they were too wrapped up in each other to notice much else. As he watched them fondle each other in shameless passion, he felt red rage a pure hatred envelope him. After what seemed like an eternity, the two separated, and the punk into her car, a brand-new corvette, the same one Ron had bought Jennifer for her birthday, and drove off. That image, the one of the long-haired asshole driving the car that Ron had bought, pushed him over the edge into a chasm of murderous fury.

Ron could scarcely recall the events that followed. Even immediately after it happened, Jennifer’s death seemed like a bad dream, disturbing and surreal, like it hadn’t really happened. But, like a nightmare coming true, it had.

His mind replayed the whole gruesome scene in slow motion, as it had countless times since the unintended deed: Jennifer opening the door too quickly, a delighted smile on her beautiful face, probably expecting to find that her unkempt Romeo has returned to steal one last kiss. He hopeful visage turns to a mask of panic and fear as her eyes behold Ron instead. She backs away quickly from what she sees in his eyes and tries to slam the door on him. He throws his superior weight against the gambit, knocking the door wide open and sends her flying back in to the room. She hits the floor and is back up immediately, racing for the phone. He tackles her just as she reaches it, and she pulls it to the floor with her as he lands on top of her. She fights ferociously, biting at his hands and scratching at his eyes with her long, sculptured mails. She tears a long, deep furrow down his cheek, but he doesn’t feel it. He grabs the handset of the phone and winds the spiral cord around her nick twice, pulling it with furious strength. She struggles, he eyes bulging and her face turning blue as she tries to dig her fingers under the cord. He continues to strain against the cord as her struggles weaken and finally cease. As if coming out of a daze, Ron looks down and sees Jennifer’s horrified eyes open in an accusing, dead stare. He sees the cord biting into the soft flesh of her neck, with his hands holding it tightly on each side. He gasps in shocked disbelief and releases the cord, scuttles back away from her corpse, and wipes his hands furiously on the legs of his pants in disgust. What have I done? He thinks, appalled and nauseated. Panicky, he looks around the room, licking his lips, trying to figure out what to do next. If they catch you here, you’ll get the chair! His mind screams. His nerve breaks, and he sprints out the door, fleeing the grisly scene.

By the time the news of Jennifer Streetman’s death hit the airwaves, Ron had fled the state, holing up at his parent’s ranch in Wyoming. Of course, by that time the Atlanta police had already pegged him as their prime suspect and ere eagerly seeking him for questioning. He called Reggie for help, and his friend took the next flight out to see him. Reggie convinced him that it was in his best interest to turn himself in, and together they took a plane back to Georgia, where Ron turned himself in exactly one week after the murder, with his loyal and supportive friend by his side.

Ron had vehemently proclaimed his innocence throughout the intense, four-hour interrogation. During his stay at his parent’s home he had concocted an alibi, and although it was shaky at best, it was all he’d been able to come up with. He claimed absolutely no knowledge of the murder and denied ever going to her house that night. The police treated his pleas of ignorance with obvious skepticism, but their doubts as to the veracity of his story paled in comparison to the way the media treated him.

Prior to the whole ugly affair, Ron had been the media’s darling, always providing them with a photogenic smile and a witty sound bite. But the press was a fickle ally and turned on him instantly; after all, tales of tragedy and despair sold more papers and got higher ratings, especially when the person involved was famous. Like shards, the reporters and newshounds smelled blood in the water and tore his life apart in an all-out feeding frenzy. Every aspect of his life, both public and private, was uncovered and laid bare for the whole world to inspect. Reporters interviewed practically everyone he’d ever known, no matter how obscure or irrelevant they might be, and most of them were. He remembered every one of them. They would be sorry they had used their brief moment in the spotlight to trash him unconscionably by recounting stories that cast him in a bad light. Some even made up stories. All of them had as much as declared him guilty before he had even been charged.

Ron’s carefully cultivated public persona wasn’t the only aspect of his life to suffer. Almost immediately, his financial status, which hadn’t worried him in over twenty years, began to take a swift, spiraling nosedive. First, Robert Kruger, chairman of the United Broadcasting Network, whom Ron had worked for, announced after Ron’s arrest that the network was dropping him from all scheduled engagements and suspending his contract indefinitely. Then his main source of income, his many lucrative endorsement deals, dwindled down to nothing as each of his sponsors pulled all present and future advertisements featuring Heat Harrison. What money remained in his bank account was quickly depleted by his high-profile team of lawyers and consultants. Broke, accused of murder, reviled by his once adoring public, Ron almost decided to confess and get it over with. Almost.

But he marshaled his resources and rose to meet the challenge, as he had done so many times when the game was in doubt and he was on the mound. The fact that his life was on the line, and that it he lost there would be no more games tomorrow was irrelevant. He was a fighter and a winner, no matter how bleak the situation was. Throughout the entire six-month farce of a trial, Ron remained optimistic and confident, despite constant polls showing that 70 percent of those surveyed believed him to be guilty.

There were tense moments, of course, like when the prosecution unveiled their surprise witness, that nosy old woman who lived two doors down from Jennifer and testified that she’d seen Ron’s Corvette tearing out of the parking lot around the time of the murder. Other than that, the prosecution’s case was purely circumstantial. The amassed a mountain of scientific evidence, fingerprints, hair, and fiber, blood, stuff like that, at which Ron’s team of hired guns hammered mercilessly. He took the stand in his own defense, over the strenuous objections of his attorneys, adamantly insisting that he knew what he was doing. He’d spent much of the trial reading the face of the jury, and since they wanted a reason to acquit him, he gave them one.

Ron was proud of the presentation he gave on the stand. It rivaled even his best performance on the field. Faced with seemingly insurmountable opposition, he stepped up to the rubber and threw a perfect game. He put on his best public face, made himself appear to be a helpless victim of the media and the justice system, and didn’t crack under the prosecution’s intense and relentless cross-examination. The six-man six-woman jury swallowed his testimony hook, line, and sinker; he saw the sympathy and compassion in their collective gaze.

The jury returned to the courtroom after only eight hours of deliberation. Ron vividly remembered his racing heart and sweaty hands as he stood in anticipation of the verdict. When the foreman said not guilty, he collapsed in his chair with tears of jubilation and relief streaming down his face. His lawyers, friends, and people he didn’t even know swarmed around his table, shaking his hand and congratulating him. Even one of the jurors came over to him and handed him a shiny new baseball for his autograph, a request to which he enthusiastically acceded.

Suddenly, Ron Harrison became Mr. Popularity again. From the moment he was vindicated, people began lining up in hopes of catching a ride on the Heat Express. Talk shows, reporters, journalists, and publishers besieged him, everyone eager to be the first to acquire his version of the trial in his own words. He remembered thinking how ironic the whole scenario was— the same people who had made a fortune digging up dirt on him during the trial were now trying to make even more off him by pretending to be on his side and buddying up to him in hopes of getting his story. They engaged in an all-out bidding war for his favor, and Ron sat back and watched, waiting to see who would come up with the best offer.

Eight weeks after the end of the trial, Ron agreed to a book deal with the highest bidder, McCormick Publishing, who offered him a $50 Million contract, plus an $11 million advance. Upon signing the contract, he immediately embarked on a two-month tour of the country, appearing on as many national and local talk shows as possible, promoting his future book release and trying to rebuild his damaged celebrity status. Although the polls still showed that more than half the population believed him to be guilty of Jennifer’s murder, those numbers had been steadily declining since his acquittal.

Rocketing through the humid August night with the top down and the wind whipping through his hair, Ron saw the large stone mailbox that marked the entrance to his house about a quarter mile ahead on the right, and smiled. It felt good to be home again. During his sixty days on the road, the thought of sleeping in his own house, on his own bed had filled him with a homesick yearning. Not that he wasn’t enjoying his recent surge of popularity, albeit controversial, but he was eager to take a break, to relax and give his road-weary body a much deserved rest.

Ron had gotten back into town three days ago, on Wednesday evening, and was now returning from the surprise party Reggie had thrown him at his house. He was very drunk, having polished off a fifth of Crown Royal by himself. Reggie had tried to get him to stay and sleep it off there, but Ron had stubbornly insisted that he could drive the fifteen miles to his house easily, with his eyes closed.

He slammed on the brakes. The ‘vettes tires screeched noisily as the brakes locked and he slid past his driveway, leaving two smoking, ten-inch-wide trails of black nearly sixty feet long. He slipped the gear into reverse, backed the car up ten feet, stopped, put the car back in drive, and pulled into his winding, tree-lined driveway. He stopped well short of his garage. Ron shut off the engine, deciding that in his current inebriated state it was best not to risk damaging either his car of his house while pulling into the garage. Ron shut off the engine, pushed the door and fell out of the car, landing on the driveway. He stood up, brushed himself off, took three wobbly stops, stumbled over his own feet, and promptly hit the pavement again. This- time, he stayed on the ground, shaking his head and trying to clear the alcohol-induced fog that clouded his senses.

After about ten minutes, the spinning in his head ceased, and he tried to erect himself again, leaning heavily against the car for support and stability. He finally regained his footing and lurched unsteadily toward the front door. Ron staggered onto the porch and stopped at the door, grabbing the knob to keep from falling over as he fished for his keys in his pocket. He bent over, putting his eyes level with the deadbolt. The key wouldn’t go into the keyhole because his hand wasn’t cooperating, so he brought his other hand up, grasping the first, and slid the key home with both hands. He had to fight with the lock, wiggling the key while twisting it back and forth. The key was his spare, not often used, and it did not fit as perfectly as the original.

Ron pause, staring at the key sticking out of the lock and frowning. Having