A serial killer is loose in the Angeles National Forest. He is savage, ruthless and unstoppable. No camper, skier or hiker is safe. Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff Kent Wickham, who patrols the forest, is responsible for finding and stopping this vicious killer. He not only must battle a murderer, but also must fight elements within his own department to restore order to the most magnificent place in Los Angeles County. Kevin Wright Carney takes you inside a Los Angeles Sheriff's Department radio car and inside the life of a Deputy Sheriff. You will understand police work in a way that you never have before. You will be with the Sheriff's Department and join their quest to stop a human beast, The Beast of the Angeles.

The Beast of the Angeles

The Angeles Crest MurdersBy Kevin Wright Carney

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Kevin Wright Carney
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-3750-2

Chapter One

The Snow Monster

The dome of the silver foil tent shone in the clear moonlight and reflected the sparkling white carpet of snow which covered the meadow in the clearing. It looked like a metallic igloo. Two pairs of cross country skis and their poles stuck vertically in the snow outside the zip-down door.

The giant black-bearded man in the fur trimmed leather parka was standing by the tall dark pine tree and could hear the sounds of two voices coming softly from within the tent. He felt the biting cold of the air on his cheeks and in his eyes as he listened. The snow and furry hood of his jacket muffled the male and female voices which sounded to him like the deep secret tones of a couple in love.

The giant breathed silently through a face devoid of expression as he heard gentle laughter rolling across the moonlit meadow. He released his hold on a pine branch which sprang back up, throwing freshly fallen snow to the night air.

Feeling like the tiger of the snows, he began padding softly toward the tent, his footfalls silenced completely by the animal skins in which he had wrapped his huge boots.

He could see the pines which ringed the clearing, the blackness of their snow-laden branches providing the circle of shadow in which he had waited.

He felt the snow begin to fall lightly on his face and heard the gentle wind stir the night air as he walked step by silent step closer to the little bubble of life in the clearing.

He could see the glow of the lantern filtering through the tent's zippered doorway and could smell the pungent odor of kerosene despite the wind.

Concentrating on silence and depth of his breathing, he came up to the side of the tent and listened more intently. He could feel the faint radiation of heat from the tent on his face and clearly heard the voices from inside.

The alto voice of the woman, "Paul, this is so cozy and exciting. I feel so warm cuddling up to you out here in the middle of nowhere."

Paul's voice, "Yeah, it feels good just to get away from that plastic life in the city ... Cell phones, emails and such. Emily, I am so sick of people. It feels so good to be alone together ... Or together alone ... You know what I mean ... No one around but you and me."

"Let's just let the rest of the world go away tonight Paul," said Emily. "It's our forest."

The giant could not explain the hackles rising on the back of his neck when he hear the words "our forest." He felt anger inside as he heard the sounds of gentle kissing coming from within the tent, and the sounds of heavy breathing, and the rustling of sleeping bags.

He waited until he heard the sound of gentle moaning from within the foil bubble. He drew the large Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt and looked at it. He saw the moon and snow shining off its blade, making a fine white line along the razor-sharp cutting edge.

He reached down the side of his right leg with the knife and cut the leather thong that was holding the animal skin to his right boot. The skin fell in a square patch on the snow, exposing his mountainous black boot with an inch-thick hard rubber grooved sole.

He transferred the huge knife to his left hand and cut the other thong with a snapping sound that was muffled by the falling snow.

He reached a gloved hand out to the top of the silver dome and gently grabbed the plastic tubular supports where they intersected in a cross. He could feel the round thickness of the plastic through his supple leather gloves.

He heard the sound of moaning increasing in frequency as the wind began to increase in intensity. Whiteness shone through his peripheral vision as the snow started to fall more heavily and the clouds moved in to shroud the moonlight.

He saw that now the sharp blade of the Bowie knife shone a dull gray in the new obscurity of the clouds, belying its deadly purpose, as the giant deftly sliced through the top of the tent and cut through the plastic cross, like it was made of butter.

He saw the silver foil cloth float to the ground like a blanket being thrown over two sleepy children. At first he saw only one lump under its folding protection.

From under the foil cloth he heard Paul's loud voice, "Dammit! The damned supports came apart!"

Then he saw the lump separate into two lumps which lay side by side under the collapsed tent. He saw the two coconut shaped heads under the cover as the two lumps lay, not moving.

Then he heard Emily's female voice laugh in a deep, throaty giggle.

"Very funny!" he heard Paul's voice in reply, "I suppose we could just lie here like this all night and catch on fire when the lantern explodes."

He heard the tent's material rustle as the long arm of the Emily lump reached across to Paul's chest.

She said, "The lantern went out. Why don't we just go back to what we were doing for a while ... Enjoying our forest."

The giant stepped on the foil surface which was beginning to be drifted in snow. He looked at the coconut, which he knew to be Paul's head and raised his monstrous right leg. With a swift crunching squish, he brought his giant boot to the ground and crushed Paul's head. He felt the hydrostatic pop through the sole of his boot.

He heard the second shrouded coconut laugh again, "What did you do Paul? ... Knock the heater over?"

The arm-shaped bulge started to move from Paul's chest to his head when the giant brought his boot like a sledge hammer on the second coconut and flattened it with a dark, wet SQUARSH!

The snow was blowing furiously, yet the giant felt perspiration on his body as he dragged his prizes, one by one, through the snow.

Droplets of blood, little red and white hamburger-shaped pieces of brain and small white fragments of skull bone fell silently into the snow and were lost forever.

Chapter Two

Kent Wickham

Kent Wickham looked at himself in the full length mirror of the locker room at Crescenta Valley Sheriff's station, and shook his head. He was so glad to be back to work, and felt lucky to be working the canyon car so soon after his return. But, he hated the cotton class "B" uniform he had to wear in the mountains of the Angeles National Forest. He preferred the crisper, neater class "A" woolen blend uniform.

He rolled the tan cotton sleeves down over his long underwear shirt sleeves and looked at the faded green and yellow shoulder patch. "LOS ANGELES COUNTY SHERIFF" it read in yellow letters around a yellow embroidered star and brown bear on a green, half-moon shaped patch. He dusted a piece of lint off of his forest green trousers.

He thumped on the front panel of his bullet proof Kevlar vest and winced in pain, as the bruised and only partially healed tissue of his chest screamed at him, and nearly took his breath away. He didn't want any of the brass to know about his pain. If they knew, they'd make him work the desk again, and he did not want that. He leaned a big hand against the thick, mirrored glass, and breathed deeply until the pain subsided.

He stepped back from the mirror and looked at himself again. He was six feet tall and had sandy brown hair. He noticed how his hair was thinning on top but just accepted it as another marker of the passage of time. He stroked his dark brown moustache which was big, but neatly trimmed. He looked down at his stomach, which hung ever so slightly over his belt. If he could have changed any feature about himself, he would have changed that, but rationalized that his broad shoulders and barrel chest would offset that flaw in the minds of most people. He knew that because of his size and beefy appearance, few people in the field would ever try to challenge him.

He hooked his 480 radio to his belt and clipped the microphone to his shirt at collar level. The other thing he hated about the class B uniform was that it had no epaulettes upon which to hang his microphone.

He looked down to his side and saw the Beretta 92F semi-automatic pistol which rested in the holster of his duty belt. He had resisted getting the new Beretta and was one of the last to get it because of his attachment to his old Smith and Wesson model sixty-six, which wore the rosewood grips that Kent's father had made for him, before he died from cancer. Kent had loved that gun. It had saved his life, and he felt lucky with it.

He had waited six weeks to get it back from the crime lab after he had used it and was glad when he could again put it in his swivel holster. That gun had given him a sense of history, as he was one of the last cops to cling to his "wheel gun."

When he could no longer reasonably hold out, he went to the Beretta training at the old Biscailuz Center in East L.A., at the range where the old Academy had been. After firing that weapon for the first time, and knowing that his ammo capacity had jumped from eighteen rounds, counting reloads, to forty-six, no one could have pried that autoloader out of his hand with a crowbar. He had been converted.

He stepped away from the mirror and walked back to the wooden bench where he had laid his back-up gun. He lifted his shiny black left boot up onto the bench and picked the little gun up. It was a Smith and Wesson model 36 Chief, his last link to a wheel gun. It had a snub nosed two-inch barrel and only held five rounds, but Kent always believed a cop should carry a back-up in case some crook in the field managed to get his gun away from him.

Kent looked at the little gun and smiled as he thought of all the good-natured kidding he had taken from other Deputies about it. In addition to the shiny blue-black frame and barrel, it had a gold plated hammer, trigger and cylinder. Kent especially liked the white bone grips which fit his hand well, even though the white handles were against the Department's regulations.

He would laugh when the other Deputies would joke with him about his "stylin' an' a shy-leanin'" with his "pimp gun." He would always say, "Very funny, you rotten dogs," and smile. He was basically a good sport and enjoyed the attention of good-natured kidding. He had a good sense of humor and usually laughed readily at the host of stories his fellow cops always seemed to tell.

He slipped his back-up gun into his ankle holster and picked up his dark green nylon jacket with the black fur collar. He picked his badge up off of the bench and walked back to the mirror with it and the jacket in his hand. He took the six-pointed star, pinned it to the holder over the left breast pocket of his jacket and slid the jacket on.

His badge, number 2797, which he treasured above all material things, shone in the florescent light of the locker room. Inside the gold star was a blue enameled ring with gold letters that read DEPUTY SHERIFF LOS ANGELES COUNTY. The ring surrounded a gold disc with a silver bear mounted on the center. Kent had shined his badge so much that the hair had been worn off of the bear's body.

Kent turned his head to the left as he heard the door to the locker room slowly creak open. A cheap plastic Ronald McDonald hand puppet peeked around the corner of the door.

"Time to go to work!" the puppet said.

Carl "C.T." Trenner poked his head inside the locker room and said, "You ready to start earnin' your money again, home-boy?"

Kent looked at his partner and grinned, "I guess so, C.T.... I'm sure as hell tired of working that desk and answering telephones all day."

"Poor baby!" C.T. said with a smile, "I'll meet you out at the pumps and we'll go play real policeman."

Kent smiled at himself as C.T. popped back outside the door. He really was grateful to be finally getting back in the field and was particularly glad to get his regular partner back.

Carl Trenner had been Kent's partner for a year prior to his temporary rotation to Lost Hills station for the Malibu beach team. Kent had gotten severely injured that summer while chasing and killing a murder suspect and knew that C.T. had been worried about his condition.

He knew and appreciated that C.T. knew his personality well. He would often calm Kent's sometimes hot temper and would help keep him from getting a force beef by his calm demeanor and quick wit.

C.T. was a tall as Kent but was thin in build. He had chestnut colored hair and wore glasses with dark plastic aviator rims, which made his blue eyes look large to Kent. He had a moustache like Kent's and Kent liked it when other Deputies referred to them as the Siamese twins. Kent always looked forward to the times off duty when his family and C.T.'s would get together for dinner or a picnic.

He picked up his heavy black nylon bag which contained his booking gear, the vast array of Sheriff's Department forms and extra safety gear for the field. He looked at his bloodshot hazel-green eyes in the mirror one last time, walked out of the locker room, turned right and pushed open first one door and the another and stepped out into the lower parking lot.

He squinted in the morning sunlight as he walked out to the two rows of black-and-white radio cars. He felt the crisp cold morning air on his face. He looked to his left and saw C.T. checking out the four-wheel-drive GMC "Jimmy" utility vehicle. It was painted black with white doors and a white roof. On the doors were reflectorized circles with six-pointed Sheriff's Department stars inside and the motto, " A Tradition of Service" in black letters underneath. There was a Federal rotating light bar on the roof of the Jimmy and there was a single red spotlight on the front bumper, which Kent figured was there in case people in smaller cars couldn't see the red and blue lights atop the high roof. In front of each doorpost was a chrome spotlight so that each Deputy could light up an area at night or shine it into the rear view mirrors of cars during nighttime vehicle stops.

Kent walked over to the back of the Jimmy and rolled the rear window down. The back compartment was buff-colored with a gray carpet. He looked around at the Jimmy's interior. He saw a wooden box, which contained a set of tire chains and a box of road flares. He smiled when he saw the shovel that some brilliant individual has decide to paint white. There was a three-hundred foot coil of rope which Kent had found to be one of the most valuable pieces of equipment that they carried. He had used it numerous times when going over the sides of canyon roads when looking for stolen cars or rescuing fallen hikers. Although Kent believed in teamwork most of the time, he knew that sometimes there wasn't time to wait for the arrival of the rescue teams. He knew it was easier to obtain forgiveness than permission and as a result, had effected more than a few rescues on his own.

Kent's eyes fell on the white metal box with the red cross on it, which sat to the left of the wooden box. He knew how to use every piece of equipment and every bandage in that first aid kit. He had made it his business to learn first aid and even taught it at the American Red Cross. He knew it was important because medical help in the canyons was often more than an hour away.

Kent turned to C.T..

"Wanna drive?" he offered, hoping that C.T. wouldn't take him up on it.

C.T. looked up and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. Kent saw that C.T. had read the look on his face.

"Naw, you drive, homes," C.T. said. "You've been stuck inside for weeks. I'll book."

"Thanks, C.T.," Kent said.

Kent was glad. Even though he knew that booking technically put a deputy in command of a two-man car, he did not feel like writing paper. He just wanted to enjoy the renewed freedom of being back in the field. Besides, neither he nor C.T. ever worried about who was in command. They were a team in the truest sense of the word and one member would fill in the gaps left by the other. They were both also willing to make concessions to the other when one of them was feeling down.

Kent walked around to the driver's door, opened it and pulled himself up into the cab by grabbing the steering wheel. He felt the Jimmy dip slightly to the right as C.T. got in. They both closed their doors and Kent again enjoyed the feel of sitting high in the bucket seat. He appreciated the lofty vantage point that the high seats afforded him because he could see approaching danger in time to react.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Beast of the Angelesby Kevin Wright Carney Copyright © 2009 by Kevin Wright Carney. Excerpted by permission.
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