In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti

Harold Angel was a community leader; he coached the subdivision little league team, sat on the board, organized the Neighborhood Watch and was generally a pleasant person to be around. He was doctor that owned his own mildly successful family practice and was respected by his patients, employees and others in his field. He lived with his wife and two children (a boy, 11 and a girl, 9) in a well-to-do suburb of the city in a modest two-level house that had the basement completely finished (a feat he accomplished nearly by himself and was quite proud of the results).

Harold Angel was in his late thirties with chocolate-brown hair that was destined to maintain its color well onto middle age and deep blue-green eyes. Through the organization of a morning jogging ‘club’ and evening jaunts around the block he was able to keep relatively trim and the weight set he had gotten for Christmas several years ago kept him fit. Regular outdoor play with his children kept him evenly tanned and helped to fade a tattoo on his forearm from his days serving in the military. It was no more than a blue splotch now, but he amused many people with the stories of what it might have been, how he had gotten it and other humorous details tailored to his audience.

Harold Angel loved children. He had no qualms about playing Santa and even learned how to make balloon animals to be a hit at the birthday parties. The best sleepovers happened at the Angel house, where bedtimes were strict but anything beforehand was fair play and as long as they were quiet they could stay up all night and still have a deluxe pancake breakfast the next morning (or afternoon, depending on when they finally decided to get up. Late sleepers got fresh food just the same as the early risers, regardless of the span of time between them).

Harold Angel was (to say the least) beloved by all who knew him.

Which is why on a balmy December morning when police raided his residence and arrested him on suspicion of multiple murders, the suburban community was rocked to its collective core with shock and disbelief. He was taken from his home in handcuffs under the escort of two officers and a smattering of media hounds that had picked up the police traffic. His face was slightly ashen; eyes tinged with red from being awoke in such an uncomfortable manner but he looked calm, almost stoic as he was helped into the back of a squad car.

Once the story officially broke the news stations went into frenzy: Here was a successful doctor, family man and well-liked suburbanite accused of butchering five people and leaving them to rot. None of the victims had any common trait that would link them together so, at first, they were chalked up to random killings, but an astute detective noticed something and had the bodies reexamined and found enough non-victim material to make a DNA match. Combined with a witness testimony identifying Angel leaving the scene with blood on his hands and a positive match from a sample lifted from his office was enough for an arrest warrant and subsequent trial.

The prosecution declared it a classic slam-dunk case in an interview on the courthouse steps after jury selection had been completed. The media ate it and any other tidbits it was flung up like a kid scarfing down McDonalds French fries. The news outlets had started referring to him as the Suburbanite Strangler, never mind that each of the supposed victims had been eviscerated in a most gruesome manner.

Harold Angel appeared in court each day in a dark blue business suit with a red-and-blue-striped tie his children had given to him last Christmas. The tie tack he wore was a tiny golden cross with a faux-diamond set at the intersection. He listened to testimony with a neutral stare, as if he wasn’t completely coherent or nothing that was said held any interested to him. It was noted that every so often he would make a note on a yellow legal pad and show it to his defense attorney who would nod or shake his head and go back to watching the testimony.

After two weeks of testimony and evidence the prosecution rested. What happened next sent the media into a frenzy that made the previous look like mere convulsive spasms.

The defense had unearthed evidence that the hotshot detective on the case had planted the DNA samples used to place Angel at the scene. It came to light that the only son of the detective had died under the care of Angel despite his best efforts to save him. The detective, broken by the loss of his child had began to think that the doctor’s ‘best efforts’ weren’t exactly such and had slowly-but-surely devised a plan to make sure the lunatic (the detective’s own words) would never be able to harm anyone again. The detective (who’s name was a surprisingly generic Donald Smith) took steps to insure that Angel was linked to the five bodies when only one of them might have actually been his doing. All physical evidence that was cataloged by the detective (read: everything) was rendered inadmissible, though the testimony for the one body was found not to be coerced and was counted as still in play.

With the only evidence linking Angel to four of the five bodies barred from appearing in court, those charges were dropped. The fifth case, however, continued forward. More evidence was presented as it was unearthed and it looked as if Harold Angel was heading straight for the injection seat on Death Row.

On December 31st Harold Angel was called to the stand.

The testimony, now sealed, was described as ‘captivating’, ‘moving’ and other adjectives that meant he managed to mold the jury as easily as a sculptor molded putty. He was, as he testified, only trying to save the woman as she lay with her throat cut and gasping for air. The blood on his hands was due to an impromptu attempt to staunch the flow, only he was too late: She died seconds later and he went to call the police. He would have used his cell phone but it had been stolen two days before (the defense presented a police report stating such), so he tried to locate a payphone. There were no 911 calls because he managed to find a patrol car and lead them to the body.

Witnesses testifying to Angel’s character and moral standing lined up by the dozens. Each resident of the subdivision told moving stories attesting to the generosity, kindness and absolute disbelief that Harold Angel could do any of the crimes he was accused of. Only after the thirteenth such witness did the judge finally call it to a halt and stipulate that everyone that Dr Angel had come across in his life thought that he was a ‘stand up guy’ and that it was no longer necessary to continue with the parade. After a few more testimonies the defense rested and the jury went into deliberation. Character witnesses notwithstanding it still looked like Dr. Angel was going to get the needle.

It took ten days of deliberation until a surprise ‘not guilty’ verdict came down.

Not one hour later Harold Angel’s name was put on the List.

After the trial the press hounded Harold Angel until the pundits found someone else to latch on to and drain of anything remotely interesting. Once the media had retreated he attempted to resume a normal life and found it easier than most: Those that had once been his friends continued to be so and only a handful of patients transferred out of his care. He stepped down from the subdivision board and moved to assistant coach of the little league team and stopped hosting sleepovers, but otherwise picked up where he had left off.

Nathan sat in the first floor of a house in Harold Angel’s subdivision with a clear view of the man’s front door through a window opened to the cold night air. He had a chair pressed against the opposite wall and a small folding card table to rest his arms on.

The rifle in front of him was a run-of-the-mill, bolt-action .308. The stock was black synthetic, studded for grip and a cheek rest that you could fall asleep on. Mounted on top of the combat-blued barrel was a Leopold scope that cost more than the average person made in a month and came complete with all the bells and whistles necessary for shooting at night. Nathan checked again to make sure that a round was chambered, fiddled with something on the scope and sat back down to wait for Dr. Harold Angel to home from his jog.

He almost missed him.

Harold Angel came jogging up his driveway, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his forehead against the moonlight. He stopped next to his car, checked his pulse and did a few warm-down stretches before climbing up the stairs to his house. A hand went into his pocket as he dug for his house key.

Nathan’s thumb flicked the safety and brought the rifle to bear, centering the diamond on the head of The Lord’s Priority.

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

Harold Angel stopped, turned, looked straight down the scope and grinned. When his lips moved it felt as if he was standing right next to the priest and whispering in his ear:

Oh it’s a bit too late for that…

Nathan jerked his head around just as the scope cracked and exploded, a dull thud that sent shards of tempered glass stinging at his face and burying themselves into his clothing. If he hadn’t propped himself up against the rear wall he would have fallen over backwards. Instead he dropped off the chair sideways and he began to claw the glass from his cheek, leaving the gun to rest on the folding table.

Harold Angel chuckled and went in his house to take a shower.

Once he made sure that he wasn’t blind and none of the glass had struck anywhere serious Nathan leaned against the wall and rubbed his face. In all the years of doing God’s work something like that had never happened. Ever.

He was going to need more than a bullet.

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