Satan's Arrow

By Richard Webb

The method of operation (MO), of this killer is complex and gruesome. All of his victims are women between the ages of twenty and thirty and they are all attractive brunettes, either artists or patrons of the arts in and around the Washington, D.C. area, and their bodies are found in secluded areas in the counties surrounding Washington, D.C. In all the cases, the women are abducted and taken somewhere to be raped and tortured, later taken to the place of execution where, in a satanic ritual, they are sodomized and then crucified upside-down, and then killed by an arrow through the heart.
The killings had begun thirteen years ago and then suddenly stopped with the fourth victim. After an apparent long cooling-off period of eleven years, the killings begin again two years ago and the F.B.I. task force was augmented.
Special Agent Adrian DeWinter, sixty-two, and the most experienced and successful agent in the field is appointed Lead-Investigator, and special agent Vivian Dubary, twenty-nine, is made Co-Investigator. A new murder, with the victim discovered in Rock Creek Park, in Washington, D.C., yields only moderate leads. The psychotic killer is meticulous, but is partially identified by a family of hikers.
Vivian goes undercover as an artist at the popular Torpedo Factory Art Center in Alexandria hoping to attract the murderer, while Adrian, with a close-nit team, investigates the Satanic Church, leading to an apparent dead end. The (UNSUB) unknown subject, is cornered in two shoot-outs with police and, on both occasions he kills them all with a powerful hunting rifle, no witnesses, but the task force is slowly closing in.
In the meantime, Adrian is contacted by the Society for Paranormal Analysis and is informed that a four-year old girl, Becky Williams, may be a genuine case of past-life memories, a reincarnation of Cameron Summers, the fourth victim thirteen years ago. As Adrian explores this direction on his own, Becky reveals vital information leading to the identification of the murderer. Combined with Vivians undercover operations, the investigators successfully identify the killer. But without solid evidence they have to resort to a dangerous trap which leads to an exciting violent end.
Filled with horrible serial murders; police shoot-outs, factually based F.B.I. investigation methods, a delving into the world of art, Satanism, and a case of genuine reincarnation, Satans Arrow is a paranormal thriller with unique twists and turns, entry into the dark dimensions of a psychotic mind, and an interesting surprise ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514449905

Richard Webb

With a strong, unique, yet sensitive voice, Richard Webb brings to life the intricate and accurately detailed story of an investigation of a brutal serial killer in his novel Satan’s Arrow. Author of the bestselling novel America’s Most Dangerous, the science fiction classic Mantis, and the cult classic Cotton Girls, Richard chose the vocation of a full-time novelist fifteen years ago after a twenty-five-year career as an independent commercial property and casualty insurance agent and president of Atkinson & Webb in Fairfax, Virginia. Yet he has always been a writer—first as a reporter during college with the Mercury Newspaper in Richmond and later as a regular contributor to Action Magazine in Washington DC. He has a degree in history and an MBA. He lives in Alexandria, Virginia, where his vocation keeps him at his desk for twelve hours a day. Satan’s Arrow is his second published mystery-thriller about a serial killer. His novel combines deep and thorough research for accuracy and the development of complex true-to-life characters with a dramatic, thrilling plot. Satan’s Arrow explores the emotional stress on serial killer hunters and the dark and gruesome character of a full-blown psychopath yet has an unusual paranormal twist—the reincarnation of the killer’s fourth victim from eleven years ago, the four-year-old Becky who is beginning to have past life memories. Richard grew up in Arlington, Virginia, where he was always the editor of the school newspapers and often editor of the school yearbooks too. He has written twelve novels and, as a university-trained historian, is currently working on a historical novel. His next publication will be Blueprint for Terror, an exciting atomic thriller based on the real and terrifying possibility of a terrorist obtaining nuclear material for a bomb.

Book preview

Chapter One

DARK DIMENSIONS

Monday, October 13

He hath bent his bow and set me a mark for the arrow. He has caused the arrow of the quiver to pierce my soul.

—Lamentations

It was still early in the morning, Monday, October 12, Columbus Day, a three-day weekend. The trees in the mountains were at their peak of autumn colors, and leaves were beginning to fall on the surface of the pristine Thornton River. It was a warm morning with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of wood smoke from his mountain cabin a half mile downstream. Adrian DeWinter was midway in the water casting his line upstream into a pool holding trout.

He and his wife, Mary, had built the cabin as a weekend retreat back in the eighties when Adrian had first joined the FBI. Now Mary had been dead from cancer for five years, their two children were grown; and at the age of sixty-two, Adrian was still in the FBI as an investigator in the serial killer unit of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes (NCAVC), headquartered at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. He lived in a large old house in Arlington but spent his weekends flyfishing in the rivers and streams near his cabin in the mountains.

A fish struck his line and made a leap in the water. It was a good-sized rainbow trout. Adrian set the hook, and the fish made a run upstream against the current, bending his rod like a longbow. Adrian gave it some line, keeping just enough tension on the rod to stay in control over the trout’s tenacious fight. He played the fish delicately for ten minutes, allowing it to tire itself out; then he carefully reeled it in, capturing it in an old wood-framed net that he wore around his shoulder on an elastic strap. He estimated the trout to be ten inches long, then gently released it back into the stream without removing it from the water. He made a note in his leather-bound fishing log and then checked the line and casted a little further upstream.

His cell phone rang in a plastic pocket on the inside front of his waders. The call was from Vivian Dubary, his co–lead investigator on a special task force investigating a high-profile serial murder case in the Washington metropolitan area.

Agent Dubary, what brings you to the mountains so early in the morning on a day off? he said.

Sorry, Adrian, your day off is over. There’s been another murder.

Oh god no, replied Adrian. Same MO, you’re sure?

Exactly the same. She was found last night on a wooded hill in Rock Creek Park. Deputy Assistant Director Baker got the call from the park police around 6:00 a.m. He called me first to check it out, make sure it wasn’t a copycat before we called you in. Baker knows how long you were in your office on Friday night. Didn’t want to disturb you if wasn’t the real thing.

And it is the real thing. Are you on the scene now? he asked.

Yeah, and forensics is here. And the Latent Prints Operation Unit, they’re here too. The police have taped off the scene of the crime to a perimeter of about two acres, said Vivian.

Give me the directions, Adrian said, making notes in his fishing log.

Half mile south of the zoo on the left just past the Beach Drive exit. You’ll see all the patrol cars, she told him.

Okay, I can be there in two hours if the traffic on 66 isn’t bad. Have forensics and the Latent Prints Unit scientists go in first before the photographers. I want footprints if there are any, no matter how faint. And of course we want any fingerprints, but don’t move the body until I get there. She’s upside down like the others?

Exactly like the others. One arrow through the heart, she answered.

Damn it! That makes four more in two years—eight altogether. Is Baker on the scene?

Negative. He’s at Quantico now. He’s playing golf with Director Meacham in Bethesda. He said for you to call him at noon.

All right. And one more thing. See if they can determine exactly where the unsub was standing when he fired the arrow.

You got it. See you when you get here, Vivian said, and then she clicked off her phone.

Adrian returned to his cabin to change clothes before driving to Washington.

Vivian returned to the scene of the crime and gave orders to the various units on the task force. She examined the body up close while one of the scientists was measuring the angle of the arrow that penetrated the victim’s heart.

The method of operation (MO) of this serial killer was complex and gruesome. All of the victims were women between the ages of twenty and thirty. They were all attractive brunettes and were either artists or patrons of the arts. They lived in and around Washington DC, and their bodies had been found in wooded areas: Prince William County in Fairfax, Loudoun County, and Frederick and Montgomery Counties in Maryland.

This was the first body found in Washington DC. In all of the cases, the women had been abducted and taken somewhere to be raped and tortured, and the girls had been injected with propofol. Later the girls had been taken to the place of execution. There they were sodomized in some kind of ritual, then crucified on a cross upside down. Their feet were tied and nailed to the horizontal beam, and their hands were tied behind their backs. After the cross was lifted and set upright in a posthole, the women were killed by an arrow to the heart.

The killings had begun thirteen years ago and suddenly stopped eleven years ago with the fourth victim. Then there was apparently a long, rare cooling-off period of eleven years with no murders. Two years ago the killings had started again, and the federal task force was augmented.

Adrian DeWinter, who was sixty-two, had been appointed lead investigator; Vivian Dubary was made co-investigator. The task force was made up mostly of FBI agents and police detectives from Washington and all the counties in Maryland and Virginia where the victims had lived or had been found. Maryland’s and Virginia’s state police were also involved. It was not the largest task force ever formed for the apprehension of a serial killer, and very little progress had been made toward identifying the murderer.

Adrian had been a regular investigator on the original task force thirteen years ago, but after the killings had stopped, the task force had been reduced. Adrian had moved on to other locations. He compiled an impressive record of successes with those other cases, and in spite of his age at sixty-two, he was the logical choice for lead investigator on the augmented task force.

Even at his age, he was strong and healthy. Six feet tall, he weighed two hundred pounds, and his hair was still light brown with a little grey on his temples. He was considered rather handsome by the females and described as distinguished looking by the men. He had joined the FBI at the age of thirty, having earned a master’s degree in psychology and spending three years as a policeman for Arlington County. Over the years, he had passed up several offered promotions in order to remain in the field as a hands-on investigator, but he was considering retirement after they solved the Crucifixion Killer serial murders.

Vivian had joined the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime Unit straight out of law school five years ago. Now she was thirty and also had an impressive record of arrests and convictions on the Violent Crimes Apprehension Program’s (ViCAP) Behavioral Analysis Unit. She was also a winner of multiple awards for her skill on the pistol range.

This was what she thought was the reason for her appointment two years ago as co-investigator. Her outstanding performance in the qualification tests were rated expert, and she believed she had been chosen because her physical skills offset Adrian’s fading performances, particularly on the firing range.

The truth was that Deputy Assistant Director Grady Baker believed in computers. He wanted someone who could compensate for Adrian’s lack of computer expertise. Adrian, by his own confession, was computer challenged. But he was highly intuitive while Baker had no intuition at all, and he knew it. Baker was a by-the-book administrator, and he saw computerization as the future hope of law enforcement. Vivian was expert on computers as well, and that was the skill that had earned her promotion over so many others who had more experience on the job. Baker was also considering who would make a good replacement for Adrian should he retire before the Crucifixion Killer case was solved. Vivian fit the bill.

Vivian was five feet eight with long dark brown hair and a pretty face. She had a strong but shapely body. She wore very little makeup but had perfect soft skin and dark blue eyes which made her quite attractive. She had surprised herself by joining the FBI, but her success had quickly moved her up the ladder. It was rare for a female to be appointed co-investigator, particularly on a high profile case such as this one. She was understandably anxious to prove herself, and she modeled Adrian’s methods with a high degree of respect and loyalty.

She was using a magnifying glass in the tradition of Sherlock Holmes, inspecting the shaft of the arrow. It’s made of carbon, manufactured by Bear like the others. That won’t lead us anywhere, she said to someone standing behind her.

That’s why I love this case. said John Bradshaw, director of the Latent Prints Unit (LPU), it’s a real challenge. This psycho leaves no clues behind that will lead us anywhere. He’s meticulous, even takes their clothes with him.

Adrian says he’s growing overconfident. They always do, Vivian said, and that’s where they slip up. This bastard will make a mistake, and it’s our job not to miss it. Adrian says it’s our ‘one good chance.’

How is he growing overconfident? he asked.

Well, for one thing, he’s moving back further each time he unleashes the arrow. He’s starting to show off his skills with a bow, she said. And look at this place. It’s a favorite drinking spot for students. A homeless woman looking to camp up here found the body. She reported it to the park police headquarters less than half a mile from here. They got here before the body was cold, right in the city—now that’s getting bold.

Bradshaw laughed. He had been on two dates with Vivian against Bureau policy and was infatuated with her. Not too shabby, your reasoning. Let’s hope you’re right, he said. We need a break soon, or we will all have to start looking in the wanted pages.

This could be the one, she replied. What have you got so far?

We have some friction ridge impressions that look like they could be sneakers. We’re spraying them now and ought to get some good photos.

Well, that’s something anyway. In the past all we got were boots—Sears and Roebuck stuff, nothing designer—good enough for testimony but not deep enough for plaster casts, she said.

We have a good catalog of sneakers, but these will probably turn out to be generic, Sports Authority type, purchased anywhere, he said. Then he suggested, Listen, I’ve got a nice log to sit on and a thermos of coffee from Starbucks with an extra cup. Take a break and join me for coffee. Let the scientists do their thing.

Vivian could not resist. She went with Bradshaw for coffee and to wait for Adrian.

An hour later, Adrian climbed the hill. By the time he reached the murder scene, he was breathing heavily. You okay? asked Vivian with a slight smile.

My heart checked out fine. I’m just a little out of shape, he replied. Then he asked, When was the time of death? Have they determined that yet?

Around midnight, and there was a full moon last night, clear skies. He could have seen what he was doing with a flashlight.

And the body was found around 2:00 a.m.?

That’s correct, so there may have been witnesses, Vivian answered.

The woman who found her, have you interviewed her yet?

Yep, got it on video. She’s homeless and often comes up here to sleep. She saw no one, nothing but the body on the cross.

No other witnesses have come forth? Adrian probed.

Not a soul. He was careful about that, but this is where a lot of kids come to drink. He’s starting to take risks, said Vivian.

Prints? Adrian asked.

The Latent Prints Unit has some friction ridge impressions from where he apparently shot the arrow, about fifty feet back—sneakers this time, not boots.

Our psycho is a bow hunter, but that probably means nothing. The last kill was done in May.

John Bradshaw joined them. He was a large good-looking man who wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. He offered Adrian a cup of coffee. Bradshaw was addicted to coffee and liked to share his addiction. When we get the body to the lab, we’ll check her fingerprints there, he said, but I think this guy must wear gloves. There were no prints on the arrow.

The press has obviously been up here all morning, Adrian said. No point in expanding the search into the woods. He must have carried the lumber up here prior to bringing the girl. He most likely took the same path I came up and then dug a hole for the cross and took the posthole digger back to his car. If he had her at home, then he must not live too far away from here. It gets dark around eight o’clock now, right? Adrian was thinking out loud. His question was rhetorical. He accepted Bradshaw’s coffee and looked around for the leader of the forensic science team. Where is Carol Wheat? he asked.

Carol’s down at their van checking on the origins of the lumber. It seems our guy changed his supplier on this one, answered Bradshaw.

Vivian, I want her report by Tuesday morning. I’ve got to write a report for Baker and the powers that be. This won’t be pretty. It’s the fourth kill in two years. Let’s hope we can ID the girl soon, said Adrian. And Bradshaw, he added, prints by 9:00 a.m. on Tuesday with any matches you find.

All of these victims were clean types—no prostitutes, no run-ins with the law, Bradshaw pointed out. I seriously doubt that we’ll find fingerprint matches, even with our new computer and National Law Enforcement Teletype System.

Well, check her body for tattoos, said Vivian. We might find a match with the missing persons lists.

I found a tattoo on her shoulder, a Harley-Davidson logo, Bradshaw said.

Use that for missing persons, said Adrian, but other than that, keep it secret from the press. It amazes me how many people want to confess to these murders. I get a half-dozen call-ins and letters every week. But if the real killer makes contact with us, that will give us a way of confirming it.

Most of the guys are working the motive angle. What is this guy’s obsession? asked Bradshaw.

He’s totally psychotic. That’s his obsession, said Adrian. He’s acting out his sickness, his insanity, by filling a psychotic need that we’ll never understand. His motive is he’s crazy. The problem is, except for forensic evidence, his obsession is the only thing we have to go on, and so we naturally make conjectures on the motive. Here we have sex and some kind of weird ritual, sadistic compulsions, and a fixation on brunette artists. It’s extremely complicated and brutal. But we can’t just get carried away with the motive and waste too much resources and manpower. We need to focus on identifying the son of a bitch.

Bradshaw and Vivian exchanged glances that said, Maybe Adrian himself is getting a little crazy over this case.

Adrian finished his coffee and disappeared into a crowd of forensic scientists that had gathered in front of the crucifixion. They were preparing to take the body down.

------------

October in Old Town Alexandria is always beautiful. This is the historic section of Alexandria near the Potomac River waterfront where the two-hundred-year-old houses cost a million dollars and up, and large old trees line the narrow streets. The leaves had turned to warm colors of brown, red, yellow, and gold, falling on the brick sidewalks and streets with every autumn breeze.

In the center of Old Town was King Street, lined with hundreds of shops, boutiques, the courthouse, and dozens of restaurants. This was the main avenue for tourists and locals walking their dogs. Many proprietors of shops and restaurants would set out bowls of water on the sidewalks for thirsty dogs. This was Washington DC’s oldest neighborhood and home of eighty-two art studios in the Torpedo Factory Art Center. Two blocks south of King Street was Prince Street, the home of the Williams family.

It was the morning of Columbus Day, and three four-year-old girls were having a pretend tea party on a plush oriental rug in the living room of the Williamses’ house. Becky Williams served pretend tea to her friends Heather Montgomery and Marsha Feldman while their mothers sat at the dining room table drinking coffee and talking. Heather passed around a saucer of oatmeal cookies which they were pretending to be cake.

Emm, this cake is so delicious, said Marsha in a serious tone that mimicked her mother, you must give me the recipe. Marsha was a beautiful little girl with long brown ponytails. She was dressed like a little lady in a pink dress, but she wore the classic colorful sneakers of a modern girl, green with pink laces.

The recipe is an old family secret passed down from my great-grandmother yesterday, said Becky.

To Becky, everything before the present was called yesterday.

Oh, when? asked Heather. She was blond like Becky and had a pixie face that resembled Peter Pan’s Tinker Bell emphasized by her short haircut almost like a boy’s.

Yesterday, when I was Cameron Summers, replied Becky. I lived in my own house, and I had a cat named Little.

Little the cat? laughed Heather. That’s a funny name. How old were you when you were Cameron?

I was twenty-six, said Becky, but my hair was brown, and I had two brothers who were still in school and still lived with my Mom and Dad.

Wow! exclaimed Heather. But I like it blond, ’specially when it’s all frizzy.

Me too, agreed Becky. Have some more tea.

She pretended to pour tea from a plastic teapot. The girls’ mothers in the dining room were listening in on their play.

I don’t like it when Becky starts talking about Cameron Summers. She began it a few weeks ago. She just invented her out of nowhere, said Becky’s mother, Anna Williams.

But a lot of children have make-believe friends, said Theresa Montgomery. It’s only her imagination.

Becky doesn’t say Cameron Summers is a friend, said Anna, she says she was Cameron Summers. She told me that when she was Cameron, she lived in Georgetown. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. How does she even know about Georgetown?

They’re only playing, said Alma Feldman who was a psychiatrist for the city health services board. And four-year-olds can surprise you with their imaginations.

Well, there is no one named Cameron at the day care center. I don’t know where she picked it up, said Anna. But when I asked her when she was Cameron, she said, ‘Oh yesterday.’ It really bothers me.

Becky took a bite of her cookie. She was a pretty little girl with large blue eyes and long, curly blond hair. She overheard her mother and then whispered, Mother doesn’t like me to be Cameron, so we’d better make it a secret.

Okay, whispered Marsha, but were you pretty?

Oh yes, like a princess, and sometimes I drank wine.

Yuk! I hate wine, whispered Heather. It’s sour like cheese.

The girls giggled.

I was an artist and painted beautiful pictures of flowers and rivers and pictures of Little.

They all giggled again.

What’s going on in there young ladies? called Anna Williams.

Nothing, Mommy, Becky called back. We need some more tea cakes, that’s all.

You aren’t talking about Cameron Summers again, are you? asked Anna.

We’re talking about Halloween, Becky lied. I’m going to be a wicked wizard, she told her friends.

"I’m going to be Ariel in Little Mermaid," said Marsha.

Oh, I’m going to be Cinderella when she goes to the ball, Heather added.

The mothers looked at each other with surprise. They knew Becky had lied. Anna Williams looked as though she was about to cry.

I’m sure it’s nothing, said Theresa, but maybe you should talk to Pastor Hall, our parson, about it. He is good with children, and I’m positive it would make you feel better. Alma, you’re a doctor, a psychiatrist. Have you ever seen anything like this before?

I don’t want to upset you Anna, replied Alma, it’s probably just a very active imagination. However, there is a school of psychiatry which uses a technique called past life regression therapy to uncover traumas from what they believe to be previous lives. They believe in reincarnation, and there are many cases of children who consciously recall parts of what they consider to be past lives.

But I don’t believe in that. That’s like believing in possession. We are Christians. We don’t believe in reincarnation.

Reincarnation is a Buddhist and Hindu belief, said Alma, but I’ve read that there over twenty million Americans who do believe in it.

Do you?

I believe in the subconscious mind, and it is more active and creative than people give it credit for.

So you think Beck is simply making Cameron up to get attention? Howard and I give her tons of attention, Anna said.

It will probably just go away. It’s harmless, like a make-believe friend. Alma replied.

But Anna Williams was not appeased. She appeared to be very upset. But why would Becky lie about it? She never lies to me, and how does she know about Georgetown? She told me a few days ago that when she was Cameron, she grew up in McLean. How would she know about McLean? Howard said he never mentioned Georgetown or McLean.

She could have picked that up from watching TV, and then she just wove it into her fantasies. The mind is a wondrous thing, Alma explained.

Theresa Montgomery seemed upset too. I think you should talk to the Parson, she repeated. If anything is wrong, he’ll know what to do.

All right, I will do that, Anna said. It certainly couldn’t hurt.

Becky daintily poured another round of imaginary tea, and the girls giggled over their secret.

Chapter Two

A DAGGER TO THE HEART

Tuesday, October 14

The intuitive mind is a gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.

—Albert Einstein

At his desk on Tuesday, Adrian began to read the written report on the last girl killed eleven years ago before the ten-year break in this series of murders. He was thinking that perhaps the killer had stopped killing then because he had made a mistake that had brought the bureau closer to identifying him.

The victim’s name was Cameron Summers. She was twenty-six, an artist who had graduated in fine arts from Virginia Commonwealth University. She had grown up in McLean, a town in Fairfax close to Langley, where the CIA is located. She had been living alone in a basement apartment in Georgetown, and her paintings had been on display at the Georgetown Terrace Gallery Café on P Street near Wisconsin Avenue. She had been living in Georgetown for only six months. Her body was found in the woods of Catoctin Mountain State Park near Thurmont, Maryland, six days after she was reported missing.

Same basic MO, she had been anathematized and abducted, raped, beaten, then crucified upside down in some Satanic-like ceremony on a cross made of four-by-fours, and finally shot through the heart with an arrow. Semen had been obtained from her body, so the FBI had DNA from the killer.

Where had he taken her for the six days before killing her? He had, of course, read the file many times before. But at that time, he had been just one among many investigators, not lead investigator as he was today. He was thinking now that their best clue was this eleven-year cooling-off period. Why did he stop—if in fact he had stopped—and where had he been all this time? There was the possibility he had moved and had continued killing with a different MO. Adrian thumbed through the file looking for the FBI report on any international killings that had any commonalities with the Cameron Summers MO.

We have samples of his DNA and one possible fingerprint. There was nothing from the Law Enforcement Teletype System indicating he had been killing overseas. However, there had been some serial killings in Europe where the perp used a dagger to the heart for the victims, but no rape and no crucifix. The dagger killer had never been caught. His final victim five years ago was from Paris, France, and had been an art student. There were some other similarities. The girls had all been attractive brunettes, artists between the ages of twenty and thirty, and the killings had been directly to the heart. Other serial killers active during this period used strangulation or knives, and most of them had been caught. So again, Where was our guy? Adrian mumbled out loud.

If he had been in jail or prison, the DNA would have singled him out, he said. Our fingerprint is just partial and could have been made by a clerk at the hardware store where he bought the spike. He thought, There were no prints on the arrows. That was an indication that our unsub was meticulously careful. This was not unusual in serial cases. Most serial cases showed careful planning.

Serial killers are relatively rare, comprising less than one percent of all murders, Adrian thought. They often stop for a while or stop altogether before they are caught. They find other diversions, Adrian said out loud. Diversions, he repeated. Our guy tortures and rapes his victims, then sodomizes them, and is obviously sexually obsessed.

Are you talking to yourself again? asked Vivian who was standing behind him. Better watch out, that’s a sure sign of geezing, she said laughing.

"How did it