• The Killer- Part One



    Osvaldo “Oz” Fanelli stepped out of his Bentley, dressed in a Hugo Boss suit, Brooks Brothers double white shirt, diamond cuff links, double link gold neck chain, and $1800 Berluti shoes; his black hair slicked straight back, two inches over the collar – elevator inserts adding an additional two inches to his five foot one inch frame, a Gold Rolex Submariner on his wrist. He carried his 240 pounds fairly well – although he couldn’t get his arms straight down to his sides.  Pretty much anyone would agree that he looked like a barrel with an acne-scarred melon for a head – but no one would ever say so.


    He was feeling great this morning, master of all he surveyed, satisfied with his world.  He had just returned from a meeting with his accountants – a very interesting meeting.  They informed him that his business had averaged a daily profit of $7,320 over the last month.  “Not too bad for an Italian kid from Bronx who grew up mean and poor,” he thought.  He still wore an armless wife beater undershirt beneath his finery to remind him of where he had come from. If people criticized what he did for a living, so what.  It was legal under the constitution.  His only irritation this sunny morning was the permanent blood sugar monitor under his shirt to keep his diabetes under control.  “When are they going to get a wonder drug to cure this,” he thought.


    Suddenly he jerked and put his hand up to where his neck rolled over his collar, wondering what had bitten him.  Then he said: “Who’s there?” and collapsed on the sidewalk in front of his new 37,000 sq. ft. glass and steel building in Burbank. He landed on his back, eyes rolled up in his head.  His chauffeur immediately came to his aid, as did other people on the street – they tried to get him upright, but then started CPR when they noticed he wasn’t breathing. The paramedics came within ten minutes, but he was already dead, lying on his back, a small red mark on his neck.  On the ground was a little hypodermic needle with some tiny fins on the sides. Until this minute Oz had been the President of Down Deep Entertainment, the largest Adult Movie Production Company in the world.


    On a rooftop 465 yards away, Roger Smith broke down his carbon fiber rifle, and put it in a bag labeled “Palmer Plumbing”.  He checked that there were no marks or other signs of his presence and started down the outside stairs – dressed in his workman’s coveralls.  He had passed no one on the way in and only two disinterested people leaving the building.  Roger knew where every security camera was and made sure that he skirted them.  Clad in a flawless disguise that made him look 20 years younger.  He had lip read Oz Fanelli’s last words through his scope and smiled to himself.  “I think I know who was there – one of the devil’s friends to take you by the hand.”


    Roger got in his rented Chevy Malibu and drove in the opposite direction of the Kill.  He had checked earlier to make sure there were no street or overhead cameras in the area. His condo in Long Beach took about an hour and a half to reach.  It was a nice place in the 1.2 million-dollar range with a two-car garage – even a small view of the ocean.  And unlike most condos in LA it had a sub basement that could be easily sealed.


    Growing up in Brookfield, Vermont had made Roger tough.  His parents belonged to a church with no name and he was expected to dutifully attend – once during the week and all day Sunday.  He did so under the iron hand of his father until he escaped upon graduation from High School.  Even in those days he knew he was different.  He wasn’t antisocial, just quiet – and the depression that he had started to experience in the 10th grade made him seem introverted.  He never cried and seldom laughed.  At five foot six, he was called Pee Wee and Shrimp and Midget. By sixteen he was already deep into High School Chemistry and supplemented his learning with college texts.  The result was stink bombs and hydrochloric acid in the lockers of those that had picked on him.  His dad had long since showed him how to pick locks.  He was very careful not to get caught.


    He didn’t participate in athletics and had only a few classmates as casual friends, but took all of the college prep classes the school offered.  When teachers ask what he really liked, he replied, “I like the inventions in Popular Mechanics and Scientific American,” and then thought for another minute.  He added,“ Well, I like to get a good night’s sleep” – and he was serious.  He especially liked chemistry and physics and studied sleight of hand magic until he was an expert at misdirection.  He did have a trait that was annoying.  When listening to someone he blinked his eyes only about once every fifteen seconds, giving the impression that the person was under the gaze of a predator.  His eyes were a washed out blue, which also made people uneasy.


    His folks were icy parents, deeply religious with the Old Testament being their primary guide.  He was looking at the American Gothic Painting one day and decided that his dad and mom could substitute right in.  Occasionally they grounded him for minor infractions such as missing one of his chores – for days at a time – really grounded, not even able to go to school.


    His dad was a mechanical engineer and made sure that Roger knew everything about how to construct and repair any item in the house, the car, and other equipment.  Roger actually liked knowing how things work – he enjoyed learning.  His mother and father never praised him, never hugged him, and never told him that they loved him, not once.  But they were quick to criticize.  He had no cousins or other relatives – no family support, no family reunions whatsoever.  No interaction or knowledge of any family other than his parents – they told him they were the only members left of the family, and never shared any genealogy with him.


    He went to the University of New Hampshire to get a Bachelor’s Degree in Chemical Engineering and then to University of Connecticut for a Masters in Mechanical Engineering.  In the last year of his undergraduate studies, he married Nineteen year-old Sharon James, whom his parents did not like – and told he and her that they were making a mistake – then refused to come to the small wedding. The marriage broke up after six months because Sharon said he was emotionless, did not want a family and she believed that he had never loved her.  Roger thought that he had emotions, but she was probably right that he hadn’t loved her and he did definitely did not want children.


    The last year of graduate school, both his parents died, and he found really how distant they had been, since their entire estate went to the church.


    He immediately went to work at DuPont’s Delaware headquarters.  Over the next 30 years he was posted in fourteen of the ninety countries where they did business, many times being responsible for new product development.  He didn’t like supervisory roles and had turned advancements down whenever offered, but was known for a very good mind, practical solutions and someone who could be depended upon.  He also took a bunch of classes in electrical engineering during a three-year assignment in Belgium. And he learned conversational Spanish, French, and some Chinese.


    All this time he was alone, no woman in his life – but he fraternized with his fellow workers and enjoyed both his work and some association with them.  Most would say he was just a bit off. The friendships he made during each assignment did not carry over to the next.

    He liked to read and study and enjoyed his own company.


    Still suffered from depression and was finally diagnosed as Bi-Polar in Germany.  He got on Lithium Sulfate and Seroquel and was reasonably stable, although it did flatten his personality even more.  Occasionally he did suffer minor depression and had some manic episodes – during those manic periods was where he felt he had done his very best on his own personal projects.  After the first ten years with DuPont he bought the condo in Long Beach, for $250,000 in the name of a Bahamas’ Trust and rented it out.  He accumulated money both in his 401K and savings as the years went by – it surprised him that he had savings of almost four million after 30 years.   He had liquidated his 401K at age 50 and declined to participate in the program from that point on.


    As he turned 60, almost his entire career had been spent outside the US, a lot of it in South America.  The last three years had been spent in Indonesia.  He had at least six weeks home leave each year, but in the early years he just keep working and accumulating money, except maybe for a couple of weeks.  In the later years he took the time, but only came back to the states occasionally.  That was when he made the most progress on his own projects, if you could call them that.  He found in many foreign countries he could get the materials he wanted and could test the final products without someone looking his shoulder.  The false identities he used were never questioned.  Each year he sent items back and stored them in Wilmington, Ca. under an assumed name – someone who had died in Australia.


    He had purchased a lot in the industrial area and sent in items from all over the world.  In the 90’s, Custom’s was somewhat lax and he knew every trick.  He had an eight-foot wall built around his lot with concertina wire on the top.  Eventually he had ten empty stacked marine containers. But underneath the center one was another below ground, four feet on concrete on top.  There he had his materials – completely disguised and surrounded by additional empty containers on all sides.


    The complex looked like giant Lego pieces rusting away. If someone ever broke in they would find nothing – the underground container was impossible to find.  On top of that he had 24-hour electronic surveillance. The subterranean container was filled with every type of nuclear, electrical, chemical, biological, and mechanical weapon that he could find from his travels around the world.  He even had a Hellfire missile capable of bringing down a plane and a quantity of Polonium 210 – almost 200 times as lethal as arsenic.  And he had materials to build almost anything.


    There were current passports under different names for every country where he had been stationed.  His secure bank in Luxembourg paid all ongoing bills.  He did his very best to make sure that he was never photographed unless he was wearing a disguise.


    It was about time to start on his plan, which included retiring. Then the decision was made for him as DuPont shrunk its workforce –  he was given a buyout offer, which he immediately took, providing he could work anywhere he wanted for the last six months.  He chose Paraguay – he had some final personal items he wanted to finish near Ascension.  He eventually went to Bolivia after retiring, and had some specific dental work done – for very small amounts of money.  Then he faked his own death in a car fire and had the ashes scattered.  He found that in a third world country it was very easy.  The few tangible remains of his estate were donated to the Boy Scouts.  The many false ID’s, credit cards and passports he now had were detailed and bulletproof.  He had dozens back in Wilmington.


    The idea had come almost 25 years ago when he was at a BS session with some peers in a restaurant in Mendoza, Argentina – talking about what was wrong with the US government and US culture and why it was so frustrating not to be able to do anything about it – movies, television, tattoo parlors, the legal system and lawyers, drugs, immigration, pornography, government incompetence, politicians – on and on.  Roger thought, “Some day I will do something about this mess”.  From that moment he started planning and perfecting the equipment he would need.  He knew that there would come a time when he would go forth and use them – just to even things up a bit – to rectify some of the problems he could see in America.  He had thought about the moral implications of what he was planning and decided just not to think about it – at best his views were agnostic tending toward atheism.  He wasn’t sure about an afterlife, but he was curious.


    He made sure again that his identities couldn’t be traced. The overseas bank paid his credit cards and other financial obligations.  He even had a phony name registered with them and no traceable address. Eventually the authorities would start to look for someone with an engineering background, but they would never find him.  It took a lot of doing, but he finally found the right hacker – to get all of his college records and his employment records at DuPont erased.   As far as he knew there were no traces of his DNA anywhere other than in his condo and the Wilmington Underground Lab.  Roger believed he would eventually be caught, by someone smarter who could put all the pieces of the puzzle together, or when he made a mistake out in the field.  But he felt that would be down the road a bit.  For now no one on the planet knew he existed.


    He spent quite a bit of time researching how killers get caught.  There really were a few rules that he knew to follow.  1.  Work alone – no partners, or providers of services and products that could be traced.  He could rent cars if needed but only using one ID at a time and in full disguise and then substituting phony plates – always pay the final bill in cash and the credit card deposit collected and destroyed.  2. Minimum notes to the papers or police.  3.  Have contingency plans so that if things didn’t go right there were all kinds of escape routes or methods.  4.  Don’t keep souvenirs.  5.  Don’t hang around after a mission had been accomplished to see the results.  6. Never talk to anyone about the strikes.  7.  Plan activities way in advance with several rehearsals if necessary.


    Now Back to Oz Fanelli


    The next day after his death, the newspapers, radio and TV all headlined the assassination of Mr. Finelli.  No one seemed to know what poison had killed him, where the hypodermic had been manufactured or who might be the killer – the poison in his system was under investigation.  In the sleazy business that Down Deep Entertainment was in, there were many, many groups and individuals that certainly weren’t shedding any tears over his demise.  Oz’s chief competitor in the adult entertainment business, Mark Herrington, was now a Person of Interest, but that was dropped after a week.  The right wing TV and Radio people didn’t applaud his death, but indicated that overall life might be better without him.  The liberals weighed in – calling the death a blow against our constitutional rights.  The cops said they were following up several leads.


    Roger laughed, every single piece of equipment had been manufactured by himself, including the Hypo Dart – there was no way to compare any of his equipment to others manufactured – all materials had come from overseas.  Now he got ready to put the second part of this particular plan into effect.  Oz’s funeral was in six days – burial at Forest Lawn.  He knew it would draw a huge crowd including Oz’s three ex-wives and his current love interest, Miss Jamie Jensen, the owner of Sabrena Films, the tenth largest porn producer – specializing in offshore cyperporn.  He knew that Jamie would be in the front row.


    Fortunately Forest Lawn in Hollywood Hills had lots of dense foliage with few cameras of any sort. Roger found some thick bushes to crawl under almost 600 yards from the burial site.  With his specially designed rifle he was sure he could make the shot, using a yellow dot laser – which would insure a hit within a foot of the target.  About 11:30 he was all set, dressed in green camouflage that matched the hedge. He had parked his rental car about two blocks away in a quiet cul-de-sac with no visible traffic.


    The graveside funeral progressed as expected – he took the shot just as Jamie laid a rose on the casket.  She was leaning over at the time, and the dart hit her in the cheek.  Someone saw the dart and yelled that it was the Killer.  There was instant bedlam and a mad rush for cars.  Someone tromped over Jamie and her upper torso and the dart actually fell in the open grave.  Then Roger made four more quick shots at those he had identified as officers of companies in the porn business.  He only missed one.  It was total mayhem.  Roger just grinned.  The poison was a derivative of the Inland Taipan Snake from Australia and two other chemicals of his own design – a deadly neurotoxin mix.  It could not be reverse engineered or analyzed, but it brought instant paralysis and then death within 15 seconds.


    He quickly changed back into his George’s Air Conditioning coveralls and stored everything in his bag – completely new disguise. He understood that he was mentally ill – it would take that to do these horrendous things, but he didn’t care.  It was like someone who commits suicide – they have to be mentally distressed to actually proceed – same with him.  He been planning this for years and years and intended to have as much fun as possible.  He only wanted to eliminate and scare people who had themselves caused great pain.  He didn’t want to witness blood and guts, so the larger plans would be implemented remotely.  Roger got most of his information from the Wall Street Journal or other newspapers like the Los Angeles Times- which he purchased at verious news stands.  When he needed to use a computer he went to Internet cafe, making sure that he didn’t ever use the same one twice.  It was easy to use an offshore web account in Russia that could never be traced.

    A month went by, there was still an uproar because the police could not come up with a real perpetrator after eliminating their initial suspects.  The FBI entered the case, but had also come up dry.  Still lots of stories about the mayhem – and there were a dozen or so people who had confessed to the crime – nut cases – but they were quickly eliminated.  A few fringe groups including a Muslim organization stepped up to take credit for the hit – again they were ruled out.


    Then exactly one month after the Jensen killing, three tremendous explosions took place in the San Fernando Valley at around 11:00 AM. All were production and office facilities for adult entertainment production.  The total size of the three buildings was over 139,000 sq. ft.  One Hundred Seventy-One people were killed, but only 41 injured because the force of the explosion pretty much eliminated everyone within the blast radius as the buildings folded in on themselves. There were calls for a new police chief, intervention by some government agencies and a quick arrest of the person who had done this.   Newscasters began referring to the perpetrator as the Porn Vigilante.

    Roger watched the news on the evening of the blast.  He was called a madman, a lunatic, sociopath, psychopath serial killer, and a bunch of other names, which he did not particularly like.  Two months before the blasts he had packed about 1700 pounds of a substance much like the explosive C-4, in air ducts next to the structural supports of each of the buildings.


    The chemical makeup was somewhat different but was molded around support columns, fully disguised and with remote electric detonators.  It had taken him a week at each building to bring that quantity of explosives in under the guise of a Heating and Air Conditioning Company.

    Everything had worked just as Roger planned.  It was tough to avoid all of the cameras, but he found most of the blind spots. But to make sure, he had a superb disguise that showed him about six inches above his normal height and a complete transformation of his other features.  He never took his gloves off and made sure the slightest chance of a DNA sample was soaked with bleach.


    Now there was hell to pay.  Everyone blamed everyone else.  People in the porn business were terrified.  Some outright quit the industry.  The fundamentalists had a heyday, saying it was God’s will, and that the perpetrator would never be caught.  Roger sent the LA Times a note saying that in the next two months he would really strike.  Then there were wholesale flights of workers and the entire industry was in an uproar.   Roger, of course, did nothing, but send a letter again to the Times, letting them know that everything was now in place and that he was just waiting for the time to strike.  The industry even canceled their annual AVN awards (somewhat like the Academy Awards) in Las Vegas.  Some companies had announced plans to move production offshore.  Roger was happy.


    The next event happened exactly the way he thought it would.  Once the toll of lives and property had been accounted for, lawsuits started immediately.  The lawyers were suing the security companies that guarded the buildings, the architects and builders, anyone who had supplied building materials, the companies occupying the buildings for not warning their workers, and even the police and other municipal entities.  There were talks of massive suits in every paper.  It looked like a heyday for the class action lawyers – around 300 attorneys were looking to dip their beak into the money that would come from this disaster.


    The top tier of tort lawyers had set their annual meeting many months ago. It was to be held in Boca Rotan at the Waldorf Astoria Beach Resort.  The yearly meeting was for the biggest and best to compare tactics and to forge alliances so they could bring their clients under one class action umbrella.  Whoever filed first and collected the most plaintiffs might lead the pack and aggregate all claims under one suit.  Most of the 70 lawyers invited had cooperated and conspired together over the years.  Many had become multi millionaires in the last ten years because of successful actions against drug companies, hospitals and municipalities.


    One of their poster boys was former Presidential Candidate John Edwards, who had won a massive judgment against the Red Cross and others; his biggest settlement was $25 million.  The state of North Carolina eventually passed a law that eliminated a bunch of the suits that John Edwards was filing.  He took of 40% of any settlement, just like other tort lawyers.

    You could say that the meeting was sort of a Predator’s Feast. Many of the members flew in on private jets – big private jets – like a Gulfstream IV.  Just to attend cost $10,000.  The first meeting was set for 7:00 PM in the Waldorf’s ballroom.  It was a formal dinner with black tie.  Dinner was first and then a presentation about the industry by the president of this loose association.  You could have anything to drink that was made on the planet, including wine at $5000 a bottle. Roger knew all about this gathering of thieves.  He had been researching it for years, but not so anyone would find him.


    There were seventy-two of the wealthiest, greediest, immoral scum on the planet.  His goal was to take as many out as he could.  He didn’t want to use explosives – too many innocent people.  So he worked for three months in advance to put metal gas cylinders in the air ducts. Roger liked air ducts, there was lots of room to crawl around in commercial buildings. He wore a filter mask because of all the dust, mites and general debris in the massive ducts.  The canisters were just behind the upper vents that provided air conditioning to the room.  It was a very hard job and was difficult to get every thing placed just right.  The detonator valves needed to operate electrically and with little noise. The gas was heavier than air and would drift downward.  He had tried to see how the flow of gas would go in experiments with rats, but he still wasn’t sure, so he wanted an additional killer to inflict maximum damage.  This was a clear arsenic additive to be placed in each water glass or drink before the lawyers sat down.  The dose would cause death in about four hours as the time-release mechanism kicked in on the poison. Roger was concerned about this overall operation because there was no way to hide from all the cameras.


    At 6:30 some of the lawyers began to arrive, usually with a drink in hand from the bar.  Roger, disguised as usual and wearing server’s tux, was using his slight of hand to make sure that the colorless capsules he dropped into water and drink glasses were not observed.  He figured he had gotten about half. There were over thirty waiters to service the fifteen tables that had been set up.


    Each server had on a tux and fortunately for him, white gloves.  Roger knew that once the police work began, there would be a video.  There just wasn’t anyway to avoid it.  He had put some small charges in the digital recording device in the basement, but he was not sure it would completely work.  The gas would be released by a control device sending a radio signal to the air duct gas cylinders.


    At 7:10, the president, Big Bob Robins called the meeting to order, asking the members to raise their glasses to another successful year.  He said that they would eat first and then proceed to entertainment and speeches immediately after dinner – with an update of the LA bombings.  As soon as Big Bob sat down, Roger stepped outside and activated the gas canisters, which released a nerve gas of his own design (Much like Hydrogen Cyanide), heavier than air.  The canisters would take about three minutes to completely empty.  As people (yes there were three women) began choking and gasping, he knew they would try for the exit doors.  He had handcuffs to lock two of the four.


    Then he left, even though tempted to stick around and see the carnage he had been able to cause.  The next day the newscasters and newspapers were full of a mass murder.  Of the seventy-two attendees, 61 were dead, seven were in the hospital in critical condition and three were okay, one was drunk in his room and two still at the bar outside when the attack took place.  Seven waiters were also dead.  Roger felt some sympathy but realized there would be collateral damage.


    The press went completely crazy, stating that surely there was some record of the devices being put in place.  But the hotel video system was destroyed and there was no hard evidence that pointed to who did this horrible crime.  There were a few reporters who wondered if this was the same maniac who destroyed the adult video studios six months before.  The investigation rolled on with really nothing to report after a week.  Roger, with his careful planning, had left the resort, gotten into a rental car in a self parking garage five blocks away and driven back to New Orleans to drop it off – completely different set of identifications and a different disguise.  Final bill paid in cash, got his credit card information back and ask for both copies.  What to do next he thought?


    The answer came just a day or two later when six different law firms filed suits against the Waldorf Hotel, the city, and the food service organizations for not providing enough security.  Roger picked off two partners of the six firms as they met at an outdoor restaurant, and then got another one just outside his office.  The three others firms immediately dropped their suits.  He waited about two months and then got another particularly despicable attorney who had dropped his suit – just for good measure.  The class action lawyers were screaming at the top of their lungs and at the same time afraid to file any suits.  The general public seemed not to give a damn.  The politicians were going crazy along with law enforcement authorities.  Roger was compared to Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan and to mass murders who ate their victims.  Roger chuckled.


    Walking along Huntington Beach one day with his headphones on, Roger accidentally switched into a Rap Song that used the worst profanity he had ever heard.  He was going to switch away, but decided to listen for a minute.  Killa Cop was the rapper and he rapped that basically that all educated humankind should be erased and that the Gangsta Rap people should be the ones to do it.  The police were to be the very first target.  Really,” said Roger.  I think I have my next target.


    He spent about a month tracking Mr. Killa Cop’s movements. Then he waited in a rented white sedan until KC was headed home after a night on the town in Santa Monica with his homies.  He put a red light on his car as the limousine approached KC’s pad on a quiet street in Brentwood.  With a police uniform on he approached the car after turning off the red light.  As he came up to the chauffeur, KC spewed a string of expletives.  Roger said, “ Sorry to disturb you sir,” and sprayed Sarin Nerve Gas into the car and waited 30 seconds until the chauffeur/bodyguard, KC and his other two rap buddies, BLDMOUF and JIGLOW first went comatose and then died. Then he brought out one of his best inventions, a power cable unit that heated immediately to 529 degrees.  He cut into their pants slipped the cable around each of the genitals of the three and burned them off in about ten seconds – the heat cauterizing the wounds. Then he took an extra minute and quickly sewed up the mouth of KC, and the other two with rough twine.   In his altered mind Roger thought that was a nice touch and the ultimate insult to someone who claimed that much machismo.  As he took off his gas mask and backed out of the Limo he saw the red and blue lights of a patrol car pulling up behind him.  “Oh, oh, Roger thought, “I knew this would happen some time.”


    Finish of Part I

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