Page 27 of So Wicked

“No, they don’t. Well, this killer isn’t only targeting bad vets. He’s killing good vets too. If that’s you, then you deserve to go to prison for punishing innocent people. If that’s not you, then please help us clear you so we can find the person whoiskilling good vets before they kill another good vet.”

Jack sighed. “I was at a treatment center.”

“A treatment center? What kind?”

“For PTSD. It’s… not a treatment center, I guess, just a mental health clinic that caters to people suffering from post-traumatic stress. I… I’ve been going there a few times a week. I was there last night, and I was there Sunday night. They had a birthday party for one of the other people in my group.”

Slade blinked. “Seriously? Can you verify that?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, you can call Roger. He’s my battle buddy. We’re supposed to support our recovery together. You know, call each other if things get real bad.”

“Why the hell didn’t you just tell us that? Why make up some shit about being at work?”

Jack shifted. “I didn’t want to tell you that I was seeing a psychologist.”

Faith couldn’t help but feel a bit of sympathy. She wasn’t a big fan of psychologists either, considering that her favorite one turned out to be a serial killer.

“I get that,” she said, “but would you rather we believe you were a murderer?”

“I don’t know!” Jack cried. “I just… I was mad. And scared. And… it’s just not fair. Like… where were you guys when Shooter was killed? I kept calling and calling and asking you to find justice for him, but… I guess I just didn’t trust you. I thought you’d already decided I was a murderer, and I don’t know. I was mad, and I figured, you know what, if I have to go to jail even though I didn’t get to be the one to kill her, so be it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Slade muttered. “What’s Roger’s number?”

Before Jack could give Slade the number, the door opened, and a uniform said, “Detective? We…” He glanced at Jack. “Can I speak to you two for a moment?”

Slade frowned. “Is it important? I’m with a suspect right now.”

“Um… he might not be a suspect anymore.”

Faith’s heart sank. She had a feeling she knew what the uniform was going to say. Slade sighed heavily. “Damn it. All right, just hit us with it.”

“We found another body, sir.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The singer on the radio crooned softly, asking God to send him an angel. The Angel in the room floated to the corner and disposed of the used syringe in a bin marked MEDICAL WASTE. There was no risk of death from the trace amount of pentobarbital left on the needle, but bloodborne diseases were always a risk, and even a simple infection could become very dangerous if one was unlucky.

Ralphie had been unlucky. The poor boy should have had another three years or more, but that doctor took him away from the Angel too early. Now he was a real angel, his spirit happily floating around in Heaven. Because, of course, all dogs went to Heaven.

How could they not? They were such pure creatures. They existed for no other reason than to love and be loved by men.

The Angel’s brow furrowed. Someone else had said that. Was that Shakespeare? It sounded like Shakespeare.

The Angel hummed a soft tune and caressed Ralphie’s picture in the locket. There were many other pictures of Ralphie around the apartment, along with all of his favorite things from life. His water and food bowls still stood on the kitchen floor to the left of the refrigerator. His leash still hung on the handle of the coat closet. His favorite toy—a bone-shaped rope toy that was bright green once but now dull and faded—sat on the Angel's desk.

“Never understood that,” the Angel muttered. “Why he liked that rope toy instead of a chew toy or something.”

The answer became clear almost immediately. Chew toys were popular with dogs because they mimicked the pained squeals of prey. Ralphie wouldn’t like that. Ralphie liked all creatures. He would never hurt anything.

“He was a good dog.”

The Angel stared at his picture for a moment longer before opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a new syringe. The next one was smaller. She would need a smaller dose, maybe ten cc’s. The Angel wasn’t sure it mattered if there was too much pentobarbital, but it was very difficult to come by this drug without raising suspicion. The Angel had one hundred twenty cc’s, and there was a strong chance that there would be no more after that. They was probably seven or eight more. Then the Angel might be done.

There were other ways to kill people, of course, but the Angel wasn’t sure it was possible to get away with killing people in any other way. And anyway, it wouldn’t send the same message.

The message was important. People needed to know. They needed to understand why.

The Angel had missed the chance to get Ralphie’s killer. Dr. Rogers had done the job himself by hooking himself to a rock-climbing anchor without testing the anchor first. It had snapped, and the good doctor had fallen three hundred feet and shattered his skull on some rocks in the Badlands of New Mexico.

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