The Killing League

61.

The Messiah

The scene in Santa Monica was typical. Dozens of beautiful people wearing designer shirts and pants mingling with dozens of other beautiful people wearing designer jeans and costume jewelry, all in a sea of cologne, perfume and ambition.

Andrew Venuta stood in the small backyard, near the fire pit, smoking a joint with a long-haired, long bearded freak he’d just met.

It was some seriously good dope, though. Christ, he’d barely tokked his way through half of it and his brain was buzzing like a goddamned Stihl chainsaw. Shit, that was some sweet nastiness.

Andrew Venuta reveled in it. In everything. The fact that he had escaped the wheat fields of Nebraska and was even in Los Angeles to begin with. The fact that he had starred in a low-budget hit movie about a serial killer raping and killing his way through South America. And the fact that he was standing in the backyard of someone he didn’t know, smoking pot with someone he didn’t know, and probably waking up tomorrow in bed with someone he didn’t know. Hopefully, a hardbodied young woman that he didn’t know and most likely wouldn’t remember.

“This is great motherf*cking shit,” he said to the weird dude.

“Thank you,” the man said, his brilliant blue eyes staring at him with wayyyyyy too much intensity. Venuta wondered, how could a guy with this incredible pot be so tense?

There was a lot of good p-ssy at this party, Venuta thought. In fact, he’d been pretty close to sealing the deal with a short-haired brunette who’d just landed a part in a series on the WB. She was a little older than he was normally interested in, but he liked that. Maybe they’d do a little Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher type thing.

But they’d been interrupted by ol’ long hair here, who suggested they go outside for some Grade A pot. The actress had slipped away, but Venuta was never one to turn down free drugs.

Now, he chuckled slightly at the idea of his buddies back in Nebraska. They were probably getting off work at the meat packing plant, maybe downing some beers on the back porch of a shitty little house, talking about the Cornhuskers recruits and how they’d do this season.

Venuta drank in the moment, the crowd, and the drug’s power as it washed another gentle wave of narcotic goodness across his temporal lobe. It felt so good he almost went weak at the knees.

And then he realized that he was, in fact, kneeling. And that the freaky long haired guy was trying to pry his lips apart with something. Even in his brain dead stupor, Venuta realized it was the long haired guy’s cock that was being shoved into his mouth. He tried to stand up, but the little f*cker was strong and then his throat was full and he couldn’t breathe.

For a brief moment the lack of oxygen and the power of the drug combined to give Venuta a moment of pure, crystalline euphoria.

The euphoria slowly faded along with the last vestiges of his life.





62.

Mack

Assistant Director Paul Whidby steepled his large hands together and drummed his fingertips against each other.

“Interpret, please,” he said, gesturing at the file folders and crime lab reports spread out on the conference room table in front of him.

He glanced at Reznor, but Mack spoke first. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to go over well, and he wanted the shitstorm that he knew was going to erupt to hit him, not his old partner. He was retired, it didn’t matter. Reznor still had a career to worry about.

“Two of the murders, Dragger in Chicago and Nahler in San Francisco, match other victims in other suspected serial killer cases, albeit in different parts of the country.”

This was where he had to make a leap, and he knew Whidby wasn’t going to come along for the ride. “The other four murders, Judge Lyons, Dr. Mueller, the author Victoria Pugh and the journalist Tomlinson, all were involved in violent crime.”

Whidby rolled his eyes.

Mack plowed on. “Tomlinson wrote a series of exposés on cold cases that resulted in the arrests of two serial killers. Victoria Pugh’s books involve serial killers and homicide detectives. Judge Lyons presided over three mass murder cases. Dr. Mueller’s testimony helped put away dozens of murderers.”

Whidby looked at Reznor. “Please tell him to get to the point, I will not be late for a meeting with the Director.”

Mack’s temper got the better of him. “What I’m saying, jackass, is that someone is recruiting active serial killers and giving them targets. It’s like a game or a competition or something.”

Whidby threw his head back and roared with laughter.

“You’re a f*cking lunatic Mack!” he said. “Are you sure you’re not the one with brain damage?”

Mack lunged across the table, but Whidby had pushed himself away from the table. Reznor was between them.

“You’re a f*cking a*shole,” Mack said, his teeth clenched. He could take all the insults in the world, but Janice was off-limits.

Reznor pushed him back into his chair, and Whidby rolled back to the table, a smirk on his face. Reznor stood between them.

“I hate to interrupt this Love Fest, but I have a piece of information that neither one of you are going to like.”

Mack looked up at her.

“This is going to change everything,” she said.