Avenging Angel: A Kingman & Reed Novel

By Bill Zahren

There’s a night stalker loose in Sioux City who believes she’s on a mission from God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Jun 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781545605097

Book preview

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CHAPTER 1

Monday, May 8

It was nearly 1:00 in the morning, and Gabrielle had almost given up for the night when she saw him. She was confused at first; the car didn’t fit the driver. William R. Benson? Driving a late-model Chrysler 200? The nice car, though far below his usual Mercedes standards, didn’t prevent Gabrielle from recognizing Benson. She had a keen memory for faces, and pictures of Benson were frequently in the Sioux City Sentinel-Leader. He was famous for donating to everything from prison Christian ministries to playgrounds to a new addition to his church, and for jetting off to Africa to help the heathens there; the list was long.

What is someone like Benson doing here on Lincoln Avenue? Gabrielle thought. This is the part of Sioux City where the sluts and shrine prostitutes paraded their goods, their whorishness glorifying Satan. If the Evil One didn’t have this country in his grip," she thought, "these loose women would be rounded up and stoned. They knew how to deal with harlots in the Old Testament. In fact, the American government’s perversion led God to anoint me to administer His justice.

As soon as she saw Benson, she felt God’s hand on her, guiding her. She felt the joy that came from knowing she would serve the Lord tonight. Blessed was she, the favored one of the Lord. Gabrielle felt the switchblade pressing against her calf inside her right boot. She had spent hours and hours sharpening the blade and practicing her swift kill move, all the time feeling the God of Moses reaching out to her. Here am I, Lord, use me.

She moved silently across the street, around the back of a porn store and up an alley to bring her within ten feet of Benson, who drove slowly along Lincoln as if inspecting the immoral buffet before purchasing. A prostitute whose short shorts exposed half her ass cheeks approached the car as it slowed. Gabrielle acted quickly. She stepped out of the shadows and walked to Benson’s car, beating the whore to his passenger-side window by a few seconds. The other woman turned in a huff and strutted away, her cellulite-filled ass cheeks waggling as she walked.

Hi there, Gabrielle said, making sure to lean in to give Benson a clear view of her breasts dangling free under her spaghetti-strap top. She licked her lips. Looking for a date?

His eyes went right to her tits. I think I am, he said. Gabrielle imagined his penis hardening with arousal. She kept smiling even through a wave of revulsion. She felt her switchblade hot against her calf. Soon, soon we glorify God.

How much for a half and half? Benson asked, using street language that meant a blow job and sex.

Fifty, she answered, and I’ll make it memorable.

Hop in, he said, unlocking the door.

Gabrielle got in, but Benson stayed parked, mesmerized by the movement of her tits under her top. Do you want me to suck your cock right here, or are we going somewhere? she asked.

I know a place, he said, coming out of his trance. Your tits are hot, and the rest of you isn’t bad either.

Gabrielle put her hands on her legs, bringing her right hand achingly close to her switchblade. I can’t wait for you to pound me, she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her growing hatred for the hypocritical Pharisee. He was no better than the youth pastor in her childhood church who accused her of dressing slutty and encouraging the boys. Benson stared at her. She recognized his lust and saw Satan in him. The wages of sin is death.

Benson pulled out, turned two corners and drove into a parking lot behind a building two blocks north of Lincoln Avenue. This should do for starters, he said, unbuckling his pants. I don’t have a lot of time.

Gabrielle smiled at him. I usually get the money up front.

Sure, he said, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill and handing it over. And if you’re good, there’s another where that came from. I haven’t had a decent fuck in weeks.

Oh, I’m good, she said, taking the money. By now Benson had his pants down causing his erection to stand straight up. Nice, she said, maybe I should suck that for you. She felt a wave of nausea brought on by the memories. Four boys taking their turns with her as the fifth distracted the church camp counselor. They tore at her flesh, ripping her virginity away. A flood of righteousness drove away the revulsion as she tucked the fifty into her boot next to the knife handle, which she grasped in preparation.

That was the deal, Benson said as she moved forward and opened her mouth. He leaned back, put his hands at his sides, and closed his eyes. Gabrielle pulled out the switchblade, flicked it open, and raked it across his neck in one fluid motion. Surprise flared in Benson’s eyes. Blood sprayed from his slashed throat onto the dashboard and steering wheel. Gabrielle leaned forward and drenched her upper chest with blood propelled by Benson’s slowing heartbeat.

Washed clean by the blood of the Lamb, she said into his dying eyes. She flashed the blade down and severed his penis in one stroke, using Benson’s body as a surrogate for that of her rapists. Benson’s body was still quivering as Gabrielle left the car, the switchblade safely replaced in her boot next to Benson’s fifty-dollar bill, now stained with his own blood. She pulled a carefully folded, ultra-thin, black plastic poncho out of her back pocket and had it on in seconds. The poncho extended down to mid boot level, rendering her blood-soaked body virtually invisible in the low light of the parking lot. After using a handkerchief to wipe the parts of the car she had touched—door handles, inside and out, and the armrest—she ran four blocks north without meeting any cars; nobody was awake at two thirty in the morning in Sioux City, Iowa. She reached her eight-year-old blue Toyota within minutes. Popping the trunk—she had removed the trunk light bulb earlier—she pulled off the poncho and put on a set of black coveralls. She got in and drove east toward her house in Morningside. As Gabrielle turned onto Gordon Drive, she unzipped her jumpsuit enough to smear Benson’s still-warm blood on her hand but waited until she turned onto her home street before smearing it on her face. The suburban streets were as dead as Benson. She reveled in the smell of justice.

Blessed am I to be selected by the Lord to serve his judgment, she said out loud. She parked at her house and went in the back way, eager to offer her worship and receive her reward.

+++

At 3:02 a.m. Tom Kingman’s phone emitted the special tone assigned to text messages from Jessica Yoshida, a Japanese-American fine artist who preferred to work at night. Tom had met Jessica, whom he called JYosh, when he interviewed her for a feature story on the local arts scene for the Sioux City Sentinel-Leader. Sometime after their interview, he had convinced her to have a police scanner going in her studio when she painted at night and to text him on the rare occasions that she heard something he might be interested in covering as the crime beat reporter for the paper. He flopped over and pawed his nightstand until he found his phone, pulled it to his eyes, and saw the text banner: JYosh.

Stabbing. 182 Alexander Street. the message said.

Tom rolled himself out of bed. Jessica wouldn’t text unless it was newsworthy, and most any murder in Sioux City was newsworthy. The metro, known to locals as Siouxland, wasn’t Mayberry, Hooterville, or even Bumfuck Nowhere, but it wasn’t exactly South Central L.A. either. Siouxland had its share of assholes, murderers, and rapists, too, just far fewer than a lot of other places. So when scumbags did come out of the woodwork, it made the news.

Nobody knew Jessica was Tom’s source, not his best friend and coworker Skip Ensley, mentor and publisher Bear Pennington, or even his new forbidden-fruit love interest, assistant Woodbury County Attorney Hillary Reed.

He thought about Hillary as he pulled on his jeans. They’d been forced to work together investigating a multistate drug ring about a year earlier, and the collaboration had blossomed quickly into friendship and then romance. Given their adversarial jobs—prosecutor and reporter—sometimes Tom reported things Hillary would rather not be made public, and sometimes Hillary refused to provide information Tom wanted. They’d agreed it wasn’t a deal-breaker for their relationship, which had proceeded at a glacial pace. A couple of weeks ago in Council Bluffs they had said I love you to each other for the first time, marking a major milestone.

Contemplating his relationship with Hillary carried the disheveled Tom all the way out to his 2015 Mustang parked in his detached garage. He entered his code into the keypad that both controlled his security system and opened his garage door. He had doggedly saved for five years to be able to buy the car of his dreams. A bonus for breaking the drug story he’d worked on with Hillary finally allowed him to make the purchase. The Mustang was entirely black, including its wheels and the galloping pony logos on the nose and tail. Black tint over its headlights and taillights completed the car’s stealth vibe. No other inanimate object came close to the importance of his Mustang. If he was honest, a few animate objects ranked below the machine as well.

Ten minutes later Tom turned onto Alexander Street, two blocks north of Lincoln Avenue, just as his 1980s rock satellite radio station finished a classic from AC/DC. In Siouxland, if you wanted to score drugs ranging from weed to meth and even heroin, or if you wanted to find a hooker, you went to Lincoln Avenue.

He drove up Alexander until he saw the blue and red strobing police lights. He could plausibly claim that someone had seen the lights and called the media. He parked in a dark corner of the lot, his Mustang virtually disappearing when he killed the lights. He walked toward a car that sat in the middle of several spotlights with its doors open and coveralled technicians poking around the interior.

Hey, Sergeant White, Tom called as he got to the edge of the police tape, and a uniformed officer held up his no one allowed here hand. The perimeter cop turned toward Detective Sergeant Andy White just as the detective turned from the car toward Tom. As White shaded his eyes against the spotlights with one hand, Tom waved and took a couple of quick photos with his cellphone. He gave thanks for the ever-improving optics that made his photos at least web quality. Since the SCPD had been kind enough to light the car up like a heart patient on an operating table, he also took a thirty-second video for the paper’s website.

Andy White was well named. An almost fluorescent Caucasian with snowy hair, he was about forty-five and thin, like Tom, but five inches shorter than Tom’s five feet eleven. The detective was something of an enigma. Often labeled a loner, he got results best when left to work solo in his quiet, methodical way. Tom recognized him as an introvert, someone who drew power from solitude, but not a loner.

Tom was more of an ambivert—half introvert, half extrovert. Hillary tended toward the introverted end of the personality scale, a deep thinker and book reader who savored solitude, much like White. The SCPD wisely let White work alone because he got results. Despite being quite introverted, White was among the most likely of anyone on the police force to talk to Tom.

Ah, Jesus, White said. The Media. Like I don’t have a big enough shit sandwich already without News Boy showing up, something you always seem to do when something like this happens.

Always nice to see you too, Andy, Tom said, using the inappropriately personal Andy making them even in the I don’t like being called that by you category.

Why the hell are you here, aside from making my life shitty? Andy asked as he approached the taped barrier.

That’s my primary goal, of course, Tom said. I actually got a tip from a passing seven thirty-seven headed for L.A.

Andy gazed up at the sky. Goddamn flyover country. He dropped his head, shook it, and waved Tom into the area. The patrol officer at the tape reluctantly let him pass.

First, White said as Tom approached, as usual, if you dick with me, I’ll burn ya. I’m letting you in here because you bothered to show up, and so far you haven’t made me regret our relationship. And second, on this case I have a feeling we’ll need the public’s help at some point.

You forgot that we’re bffs and Facebook friends, Tom said, approaching the detective who stood about halfway between the edge of the tape and the car.

Only you can be a smart ass at three thirty in the morning fifteen feet from a corpse, News Boy.

It’s a blessing—and a curse.

Andy and Tom weren’t bffs or even Facebook friends, but they did have a lot of mutual respect. Despite his quiet demeanor, Andy had more public relations savvy than most members of the Sioux City Police Department. He knew that giving Tom heightened access, within reason, helped them both. Tom got the story, and the department took care of its public image and avoided the angry protests that popped up around the country. Tom knew how to do the dance as well, making sure the relationship remained mutually beneficial to the paper and Andy and, by extension, the police department—within reason. He had also won some respect from Andy by helping weed out a bad cop and shorten the reign of a buffoonish police chief in the aftermath of the now-infamous meth case. Andy hated bad cops. Dirty was dirty in his eyes, whether it wore a badge or ass-dragging, gang-banger pants.

What are you working on these days? Tom said. He knew from past encounters that Andy always had at least one classic car restoration going. He’d restore them, drive them for a while, then sell them and start another project. He’d developed a strong reputation as an expert restorer in Siouxland. His hobby also connected him with a vast network of car guys eager to help one of their own solve crimes.

Sixty-nine Camaro. I found it in a farmer’s barn. Pretty bad shape, but a solid frame and salvageable engine. It will be a beauty when I’m done with it. Way better than that Mustang you drive, Andy said.

Hey, don’t go insulting the Mustang, Tom responded. Besides, you’ve restored Mustangs before.

Yeah, but those were from the sixties and seventies. This new stuff, and yours with the turbocharger .… Andy shook his head.

Tom laughed. Car nuts scoffed at his car’s 2.3L turbocharged engine, saying he should have purchased the V8 version of the car. But he got a rush every time the turbo kicked in. It offered more than three hundred horsepower without the environmental angst and gasoline cost associated the bigger engine. What do we have in this Chrysler here?

A bartender from one of the Fourth Street bars found it while walking to his car after work. Knife wound to the throat, Andy said, walking Tom over to the car and stopping outside the serious crime scene radius, about ten feet from the vehicle.

Tom could smell the blood and hunched over to look through the passenger-side door, which stood open. The dash glistened with blood, and there were big splotches on the inside of the windshield and drivers-side windows. It looked like someone had shaken up a six pack of strawberry soda and popped the tops. He figured it took a double carotid artery slash to cause that kind of red fountain. The body slumped back in the seat, its head propped between the headrest and door frame. Tom could see the victim’s undone pants and his shirt soaked in blood. Crime scene technicians carefully poked, prodded, tweezed, and scraped samples throughout the car.

Jesus, Tom said. Ever since he had met the religious Hillary Reed he followed every use of the Lord’s name with a mental is that a curse or a prayer? In this case it was some of each.

An honest-to-God murder right here in Sioux City, Iowa, with a knife, not a gun. This probably makes you hard, huh? Andy asked.

Look who’s talking.

Andy held up his hands. Hey, I’m just a cop. I just chase bad guys. I wouldn’t be angry if they all retired, crime ceased, and I could work on my cars all day.

And I just report on it and make you the hero or the goat. We all got our roles. Who’s the victim?

I’ll tell ya, but you gotta promise to keep it out of your web story until eleven, Andy said. We still gotta tell the next of kin. But, having it out there later this morning will work to my advantage in ways I’d rather not go into. I’ll call if there is a delay in finding the next of kin, but I doubt there will be. I’ll send out a news release with the identity at eleven so you can have it online before the TV news people do their noon show. I’ll tell you now, so you can do all that research shit you do and write it ahead and be ready. Just for showing up here tonight and future considerations. That’s the best I can do. Deal?

There are always future consideration strings.

Deal, Tom agreed. Even though he didn’t get much of a jump on the name, he had gotten inside the police tape and wanted to protect that level of access.

If you’ve got a stiffy about this murder, you’ll really need some baggy pants when you hear who it is, Andy said. Would you believe William R. Benson?

Get out of here, Tom said, shock registering on his face. "Captain of industry? High-dollar philanthropist, evangelist, supporter of domestic violence shelters, missionary to Africa? The poster boy for Christian generosity and civic concern? That William R. Benson?"

The very one, Andy said, amused at the impact the news had on Tom. We found his wallet with I.D. and about two hundred dollars in cash. Robbery doesn’t seem to be a motive, off the record.

That’s like killing the pope in this town. There’s gonna be wailing and gnashing of teeth over this one. Why the hell was Benson down here? Tom glanced around, took two beats and turned toward Lincoln Avenue, located two blocks to the south and toward the Missouri River that ran along downtown Sioux City. He put that together with the undone pants and—

Light bulb.

You don’t think he was cruising Lincoln Avenue for a hooker, do you? More likely he was trying to minister to the sinners.

It’s a big mission field, true, said Andy, yet here he is, wearing some blue-collar workman’s uniform in a rented car with his blood sprayed over the interior, and he has his pants down. Maybe Bill had some secret predilections.

The outfit argues for cruising for drugs or whores, but you usually do that with your pants zipped and belt buckled, Tom said. Too bad I can’t quote ya. Predilections is a good word, even for an English major like you.

I told you I majored in English and then figured out I needed to eat, so now I’m an English major with a Criminal Justice degree who restores cars and reads Chaucer. I’m complicated like that, Andy said.

Tom chuckled despite the macabre scene before them. Thin line between complicated and bipolar.

This deal gets even weirder, Andy said.

This, I gotta hear, Tom said, making a show of getting his narrow reporter’s notebook ready.

Off the record?

I hear that every day of my life, I swear.

Seriously? Going off the record for the cause of death?

Gotta. No way I can let this get out right now.

You’re killing me, Andy. I can see from here someone slashed his throat, but yeah, I’ll forget we talked about it, but I might confirm it another way. Deal?

Works for me.

Okay, what’s so weird?

We’re pretty sure the guy picked up somebody. Whoever did this … cut his dick off.

CHAPTER 2

Tom wrote his story at home minus the victim’s name—police found the body of a white male believed to be in his fifties— and uploaded it and his photos and video to the Sentinel-Leader server. He emailed the early web editor and managing/city editor Jack Marx a note saying the story was ready, and he would update it when police released the victim’s name at eleven. He also sent notes to publisher Abraham Bear Pennington and coworker Skip Ensley, bringing them up to speed. He didn’t mention that he knew the victim’s name already. He texted Jessica, Murder, going to be big news, thanks for the tip. He’d reward her with a twenty-dollar convenience store gift card, as per their understanding.

Just a gift to a friend in the eyes of the Internal Revenue Service.

The question of who would want to kill William Benson tumbled through Tom’s brain for a bit. People like Benson, who had wives and reputations to protect, presented a low-risk robbery target for hookers, especially the desperate kind who prowled Lincoln Avenue. The whores knew that for guys like Benson the loss of the contents of their wallets didn’t justify the risk of reporting that they had been robbed by a prostitute. Having to admit they picked up a hooker—who then robbed them—dramatically dissipated the victims’ eagerness for law enforcement. A guy with Benson’s kind of money and rep would chalk a robbery up to bad luck and go home.

Andy said he wasn’t robbed. But if a ho stabbed him, she would have grabbed the wallet before she bailed, and she wouldn’t pause to cut his dick off. That’s crazy train stuff.

Tom drifted off to sleep while contemplating why the God Hillary believed in allowed people to get stabbed and have their penises cut off. At around 7:00 a.m. the prospect of working a major story drove him out of bed. As he showered and shaved, he decided to call Hillary. She’d been preparing for a trial since they returned from Council Bluffs. During those two weeks their contact had become less and less frequent. Tom hadn’t seen Hillary in person for a solid week. By now she’d be suited up and ready for opening day of the latest Woodbury County criminal trial, which probably started around eight thirty or nine. The competent-yet-humorless Ron Jackson was lead prosecutor on the case against forty-three-year-old Randy Turner, who stood accused of raping and killing twenty-two-year-old Briar Cliff University student Tamara Kristoff a year earlier. Hillary was relegated to assisting, second chair in prosecutor-speak. Geoffrey Skip Ensley covered courts for the Sentinel-Leader, so he would be sitting in on the trial.

Tom the reporter and Hillary the prosecutor appeared to be a classic case of opposites attract—or perhaps Hatfields and McCoys—but they had gradually discovered they had a lot in common. Tom had found himself relying on Hillary’s deliberative, strategic mind and calm, in-control demeanor that inspired his nickname for her: Alpha.

Hillary’s nickname for him, Cowboy, came from his tendency to improvise and shoot from the hip. While others scowled at Tom’s seemingly ill-considered decisions and actions, Hillary saw his method behind the seeming madness. More often than not, his calculated risks paid off. She appreciated Tom’s ability to go with his gut and think on his feet. Tom’s go-with-the-flow personality had helped Hillary loosen up and inject a little yippee ki-yay into her professional and personal life.

Tom flashed back to the moment, two weeks earlier, when Alpha and Cowboy had declared their love for each other at the end of ten days at Tom’s parents’ house in Council Bluffs. They’d stayed in separate bedrooms while in Council Bluffs, but they had taken their relationship to a new level of fully clothed kissing and caressing, plus a moment of what the movie ratings system would call brief nudity. Tom had been surer than ever that he loved Hillary.

And then reality set in.

Hillary had returned to Sioux City ahead of Tom to help prepare for the trial. Tom had stayed a few days longer to wrap up the story of murder and mayhem inside the Omaha corporation. Hillary was already absorbed in her trial, and now the Benson murder had the potential to consume a lot of Tom’s time. Their professional lives were complicating their personal relationship, again.

So far their physical interactions had been R-rated at most. He suspected Hillary’s faith might offer some obstacles to taking their relationship further, due to the ban on sex before marriage that some Christians observed. He was okay with go-slow mode. Not that he didn’t want sex—he wanted Hillary more than any woman he’d ever dated—but he valued her companionship even more than the prospect of sex, a first for him in a relationship. He didn’t want a rush to the bedroom to ruin a good thing. Still, given their declarations of love and Hillary’s statement that she considered sex an act of love, his expectation of consummating the relationship had grown. Despite that, Hillary seemed increasingly distant. Is she having second thoughts? Tom pulled out of his deep thinking about Hillary at 7:46. He tapped her number on his cellphone.

Hello? she answered.

It’s me, Tom, he said, desperate to read her tone. You’re probably busy, but a couple things. First, good luck with your trial. You should be in the first chair, but don’t get me started on that.

I’m just glad to be at the table, she said.

Second, there was a murder downtown last night. He gave her the overview.

Wow, she said. Tom waited for