Here’s a poem by Jean Jones. Jean writes: A made for order Angel of Death poem based on reality”
And quoting for the UK’s “Telegraph” newspaper (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/6080582/Model-murder-suspect-Ryan-Jenkins-was-a-good-guy-businessman.html):

“Model murder suspect Ryan Jenkins was a ‘good guy’ businessman

But the manner of his death could have been scripted for TV: as police
investigated the murder suspect’s suicide at a secluded Canadian motel, they
launched a manhunt for the mysterious young woman had checked in with him. The
dramatic end came at an isolated motel at the edge of British Columbia’s
mountainous interior, on the outskirts of Hope, a town known for its giant
wooden carvings made with chainsaws and as the site of the first bloody Rambo
movie. . .

The motel manager said the woman paid cash for three nights and when the couple
didn’t check out, he unlocked the room and found him dead.

“I cracked the door and there he was, hanging there in front of me, feet
touching” the floor, Walker said. “He definitely wanted to die. I smelt death.”

THE ANGEL OF DEATH CHECKS IN AT A LOCAL MOTEL

“You did well, Ryan, you did well. I liked the business with the teeth and
fingers. Pretty through.”

“I’m so tired, so tired.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, tell me all about it.”

“There’s not much to tell. The killing went by quickly. It was cutting her up
that took up so much time and trouble.”

“I bet you couldn’t believe that they used her breast implants to identify her
body!”

“That bitch.”

“I told you to cut off her breasts.”

“I was done cutting.”

“Well, we’re safe now. Near mommy and daddy.”

“I want to go to sleep, to forget, to sleep forever. . ”

“That will come soon enough, darling. Listen, I need for you to get some rope
from the trunk of the car.”

“Rope?”

“We have one final thing to do.”

“And that is?”

“To wrap a pretty picture and story for the media. I mean, I have a reputation
to keep.”

“Who are you?”

“Let’s not go over that, shall we? Suffice it to say that I’m one of your
Calgary ‘girlfriends.’”

“But I don’t remember you.”

“But I do you. I like the spectacular ones, and boy, you are spectacular.”

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Get the rope and follow my instructions.”

“Will I get rest then?”

“Yes indeed, my darling, yes indeed. . . “