The supposed nineteen-year-old had had no Social Security number when he enrolled, but the file indicated it had been applied for. His place of residence was listed as Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In the space for parents’ names was the phrase “Ward of State.” The enlisting officer’s comments included the notes that,
“William is a level-headed and solid-seeming young man. He should do well in combat.”
“If he weren’t delusional,” Leland told herself grimly. He would be listed as MIA the very next year. The file also indicated he had an interest in covert operations, including strike-force tactics and disguise and camouflage maneuvers. “He says he would like to be a spy.”
A spy for the Marines.
But how could he have gotten from MIA in 1992 to killing in Burlington in 2008?
The phone rang so loudly she leapt up from her seat. Her heart hammered. “Hello? This is she. What? Another one? Mother of God. Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.”
It was no joy to kill you, my friend, but it was your time.
Yes, you slept peacefully. You might not ever have woken up enough to know what I was doing. Or, perhaps you thought I was raping you and decided to hold still until you realized you were strangling. I should have known you would bite down on my thumb when I held the penny in your throat. Of course, I wouldn’t have guessed you could bite it clear off.
Now that I think of it, it was probably the thumb more than the penny that suffocated you. I could see the bone and sinew jammed in your teeth. You tried to spit the thumb out, but it was stuck. You tried to pry it out, but I was sitting on your stomach by that time. My own agony was terrible. I can’t imagine what you were going through, to look up and see me sitting there on top of you, holding the stump where my thumb used to be and waiting for you to suffocate on the penny and the thumb, both.
You probably thought me mad. Or, you thought I did this so you couldn’t testify against me. In truth, I did it because it was your time, and as an embezzler, you deserved to die at the hand of a confidante, choking on a penny, victim of a crime that was anything but calculating and economic. In fact, I suspected even then, as my blood dribbled from your mouth and my hand, that this had not been a test from God. It had been a trap. I’d been proven guilty. At last, the prosecution would have a crime that only I could have committed.
I waited for five minutes after you stopped moving, even felt for a pulse with that thumbless hand of mine.
“I’m sorry, Derek. I hope I’ve given you a good end.”
I caressed one of your bloated cheeks, incidentally smearing the blood there.
Enough of this self-indulgence.
I stood and went to the adjoining cell. They lay asleep, black bundles. I prodded Lawrence. “Hey, wake up. I need you to call a guard. I’ve just killed Billings.”
SON OF SAMAEL SLAYS CELL MATE
AP International
Photo and Story by Blake Gaines
The accused killer of four in Burlington, Wis., has struck again, police say.
Derek Billings, the cell mate of the so-called Son of Samael, was found dead late last evening in the Racine County Jail. The cause of death is yet to be determined. Sources in the corrections department say the man seemed to have strangled on the Son of Samael’s thumb. The thumb had been bitten off in a fight. It was removed from the man’s throat for surgical reconstruction. Billings was awaiting trial on a charge of embezzling over forty million dollars from his company, Halliburton. Other prisoners on the cell block said Billings and the Son of Samael seemed to be “friends.”
Joseph Lawrence, in the adjacent cell, said the Son of Samael “woke me up and said, ‘Call a guard. I just killed Billings.’” He said he was surprised because the cell mates had been “thicker than thieves.”
The Son of Samael will be moved to solitary confinement. He is undergoing reconstructive surgery at St Mary of Mercy. An intern who asked not to be identified said the delicate and time-consuming surgery would cost taxpayers “in excess of forty thousand dollars.” He went on to say, “In some countries, they cut off a thief’s hand. In America, a murderer gets it sewn back on.”
FOURTEEN
When Donna and Doctor Gross arrived for their next interview, Azra lay abed in St Mary of Mercy. He slept. The head of his bed was raised, and the fluorescent reading light flickered, otherworldly, above his bowed head of black hair.
Two guards were in the room. Men in blue. They crouched, red-eyed, in their chairs. In low tones, they had been talking of the school referendum up for vote in a few days. At intervals, they regarded the prisoner, strapped to his bed – bandages, sheets, and restraints all merging into glowing robes.
“Hi, I’m Gary Gross, the psychiatrist,” said the doctor to the guards. His teal shirt had been replaced with mauve, but otherwise he wore the same non-uniform he had worn before. “This is Detective Donna Leland, citizen advocate of the accused.”
The two deputies looked up a moment from their discussion, and the one with a mustache nodded. “Let’s see some ID.”
Dr. Gross fished for his wallet while, sweet and weary, Donna Leland dug in her tweed jacket. “I’m Detective Leland of the Burlington Police, the one who tracked him down. I’d like you to wait outside. I can handle him. There’s only one door to the room, and a five-story drop to the parking lot outside the windows. He’s not getting away.”
Shrugging reluctantly, the older guard handed the two IDs back to the cop and the shrink, picked up a clipboard, brought it to Leland, and said, “Sign here. If he gets away, he’s your responsibility.”
She signed. “Always has been.”
Doctor Gross passed them, approaching the accused. Azra had become thin and sinewy. The corners of his eyes were tightly pinched – the corners of his lips, too. Despite all his talk of angels, despite the media speculation of demons, Azra looked increasingly human. Frail. Confused. Betrayed by even his own mind. He was ceasing to be Azra Michaels and was becoming William B. Dance.
Doctor Gross sat, settling his legal pad and Bics on the bedside table. On the opposite side of the bed, Donna pulled up a chair. The psychiatrist reached gently toward Dance. “Wake up, Azra. It’s Gary. Donna’s here, too. We’d like to speak to you again.”
The prisoner’s eyelids slid slowly upward, fluttered for a moment, and then stared fixedly at the cart by the foot of the bed. He gave no notice of the doctor or Donna.
“Sorry to wake you,” Doctor Gross said, withdrawing his hand.
Azra turned his dream-clouded eyes toward him. A weak smile came to his face. “Good morning, Father.”
“I am not a priest,” said Gross gently. “I’m a psychiatrist. Doctor Gary, remember?”
Azra blinked in affirmation. “That’s what I meant. I’m not used to waking up.”
Donna leaned in with a small frown, her hand settling on his bandaged thumb. “Give yourself a moment. A lot has happened.” She was trembling, and her eyebrows knitted above bloodshot eyes. “Once you’re ready, we’d like to talk to you.”
“Yes,” said Azra, stretching as best he could within the constraints. “Hello, Donna. I’ve been dreaming of you.”
“Good dreams, I hope,” she replied, her voice trembling now, too. “No nightmares.”
Azra’s eyes clouded slightly. “I guess I’m awake enough for questions.”