by Chris Carter
Hunter sat at his desk but didn’t turn on his computer. He found it funny how everything about his office looked exactly the same, and totally different at the same time. Exactly the same because nothing had been moved or touched. Totally different because something was missing. Actually, not something, someone – his partner of six years, Detective Carlos Garcia.
Their last investigation together, before the enforced two-week break, had put Hunter and Garcia in pursuit of an extremely sadistic serial killer, who chose to broadcast his murders live over the Internet. The investigation had taken them both to the brink of sanity, almost claiming Hunter’s life, and placing Garcia and his family in a situation he swore he would never allow to happen again.
Just before their break, Garcia had revealed to Hunter that upon his return he wasn’t sure if he would come back to work at the Robbery Homicide Division and the Homicide Special Section. His priorities had changed. His family had to come first, no matter what.
Hunter didn’t have a family. He wasn’t married. He had no kids. But he fully understood his partner’s concern, and he was sure that whatever decision Garcia came to, it would be the right one for him.
The Homicide Special Section of the LAPD was an elite unit created to deal solely with serial, high-profile murders and homicide cases requiring extensive investigative time and expertise. Due to Hunter’s background in criminal behavior psychology, he headed up an even more specialized group within the Special Section. All homicides where overwhelming brutality and/or sadism had been used by the perpetrator were tagged by the department as ‘UV Crimes (Ultra-Violent). Hunter and Garcia were the LAPD’s UV Unit, and Garcia was the best partner and friend Hunter had ever had.
Hunter finally leaned forward and reached for the button to power up his computer, but before he’d managed to press it the door to his office was pushed open again and Garcia stepped inside.
‘Oh!’ Garcia said, looking a little surprised as he checked the wall clock. ‘You’re earlier than usual, Robert.’
Hunter’s eyes flicked to the clock – 2:51 p.m. – then back to his partner. Garcia’s longish brown hair was tied back in a slick ponytail, still wet from a morning shower, but his eyes looked tired and full of worry.
‘Yeah, a little bit,’ Hunter replied.
‘You don’t look so tanned for someone who’s just been to Hawaii.’ Garcia paused and frowned at Hunter. ‘You did take your vacation, right?’ Hunter was the biggest workaholic Garcia had ever met.
‘Sort of,’ Hunter said, with a half-nod.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I took my break,’ Hunter explained. ‘I just didn’t go to Hawaii in the end.’
‘So where did you go?’
‘Nowhere special, just visiting a friend back east.’
‘OK.’
Garcia could tell that it hadn’t been something as simple as that but he also knew Hunter well enough to know that if he didn’t want to talk about a subject, he wouldn’t, no matter how much anyone pushed him.
Garcia approached his desk but didn’t sit down. He didn’t turn on his computer either. Instead, he opened the desk’s top drawer and began emptying it of its contents, placing everything on the desktop.
Hunter observed his partner without uttering a word.
Garcia finally looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, buddy,’ he said as he began emptying the second drawer, breaking the awkward silence that had taken over the room.
Hunter nodded once.
‘I thought long and hard about all this, Robert,’ Garcia opened up. ‘Actually, I spent every second of the past two weeks thinking about it, considering all the possibilities, measuring everything up, and I know that on a personal level, I’ll probably never stop regretting this. But I also know that I can never put Anna through anything like that again, Robert. She means everything to me. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her because of the job I do.’
‘I know that,’ Hunter replied. ‘And I don’t blame you, Carlos, not even a little bit. I would’ve done the same thing.’
Hunter’s heartfelt words brought a very feeble ‘thank you’ smile to Garcia’s lips. Hunter picked up on his partner’s embarrassment.
‘You don’t owe anybody any sort of explanation, Carlos, least of all me.’
‘I owe you everything, Robert,’ Garcia interrupted him. ‘I owe you my life. I owe you Anna’s life. It’s because of you that both of us are still alive, remember?’
Hunter didn’t want to talk about the past, so he moved the subject along as swiftly as he could.
‘How’s Anna doing, by the way?’
‘She’s surprisingly OK for someone who went through what she did,’ Garcia said, as he finished emptying the desk drawers. ‘She’s staying at her parents for a couple of days.’
‘She’s a very strong woman,’ Hunter admitted. ‘Physically and mentally.’
‘She is indeed.’
For a moment the awkward silence came back to the room.
‘So where are you going?’ Hunter asked.
Garcia paused and glanced at Hunter. This time he looked a little embarrassed.
‘San Francisco.’
Hunter was unable to hide his surprise.
‘You’re leaving LA?’
‘We decided it would be best if we did, yes.’
Hunter had not seen that coming. In silence, he nodded his understanding. ‘SFPD’s Robbery Homicide Division will be lucky to get you.’
Garcia looked even more embarrassed now. ‘I’m not staying with the Robbery Homicide Division.’
Hunter’s surprise turned into confusion. He knew how long and hard Garcia had fought to make Homicide Detective.
‘Special Fraud Division,’ Garcia said at last. ‘Equivalent to our WCCU.’
Hunter thought he’d heard wrong.
The WCCU was the LAPD’s White Collar Crime Unit, which conducted specialized major fraud investigations involving multiple victims and/or suspects. It dealt with offences such as embezzlements, complex grand thefts, and bribe and theft cases involving city employees or public officials. Inside the LAPD, the WCCU was better known as the type of unit detectives got stuck with, not asked to be transferred to.
Garcia lifted both hands in surrender. ‘I know, I know. It sucks. But at the moment that’s the only position they’ve got going. Anna also loved that it’s a less risky job. After what happened, I can’t blame her for that.’
Hunter was about to mention something when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, listened for about five seconds, then placed the receiver back on its cradle without saying a word.
‘I’ve got to go and see the captain,’ he said, getting up and stepping away from his desk.
Garcia did the same. They stared at each other for a long moment. Garcia was the one who stepped forward, opened his arms and hugged Hunter as if he were a lost brother.
‘Thank you, Robert,’ Garcia said, looking at Hunter. ‘For everything.’
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Hunter said. Sadness underlined his tone.
‘I won’t.’ As Hunter got to the door, Garcia stopped him. ‘Robert.’
Hunter turned and faced him.
‘Take care of yourself.’
Hunter nodded and exited the room.
Three
They were staring at him again.
The dark-haired girl and her friends.
They’d stare, giggle, and then stare again. Not that he minded. Eleven-year-old Ricky Temple was used to it by now. His hand-me-down clothes, bushy black hair, ultra-skinny body, pointed nose and umbrella ears never failed to get him noticed. Noticed and laughed at. The fact that he wasn’t very tall for his age didn’t help much either.
Five different schools in the past three years due to his father’s string of unsteady jobs, and the story had been the same everywhere. Girls would make fun of him. Boys would push him around and beat him up. Teachers would praise him for his high grades.
; Ricky kept his eyes on the exam paper on his desk. He’d finished it at least twenty minutes ahead of anyone else. Even though his eyes were on his paper, he could feel their gaze burning the back of his neck. He could hear their ridiculing giggles.
‘Something funny with the exam, Miss Stewart?’ Mr. Driscall, the eight grade mathematics teacher, asked in a sarcastic voice.
Lucy Stewart was a stunning girl, with vivid hazel eyes, fringed, straight jet-black hair that looked just as beautiful in a ponytail as it did when loose, and a captivating smile. Her skin was incredibly smooth for a fourteen-year-old. While most girls her age were already beginning to struggle with acne, Lucy seemed to be immune to it. Every boy in Morningside Junior High would do anything for her, but she belonged to Brad Nichols, or so he said. Ricky always thought that if he looked up the definition of asshole in a dictionary, Brad Nichols’ picture would be right there.
‘Not at all, sir,’ Lucy replied, shifting on her chair.
‘Have you finished, Miss Stewart?’
‘Almost there, sir.’
‘So stop giggling and get to it. You only have another five minutes.’
An uneasy bustle swept through the classroom.
Lucy’s exam paper was half unanswered. She hated math. In fact, she hated most school subjects. They were of no use to her. Especially when she knew she was destined to be a Hollywood superstar.
Ricky chewed on his pencil and scratched the tip of his nose. He wanted to turn around and defy her stare by looking straight back at her. But Ricky Temple rarely did what he wanted to do. He was too timid . . . too scared of the consequences.
‘Time’s up everybody! Drop your exam papers on my desk on your way out.’
The school bell rang and Ricky thanked God for it. Another week gone. He had the entire weekend to look forward to. He just wanted to be alone doing what he loved doing – writing stories.
Ricky changed into shorts before stuffing his books inside his faded green rucksack and grabbing his rusty bicycle from the rack by the school entrance. He couldn’t wait to get away from that place.
Taking West 104th Street, he cut through South 7th Avenue. Ricky loved the houses in this part of town. They were big and colorful with beautiful front lawns and flower gardens. Several of them had swimming pools in their backyards, a far cry from the squalid apartment he shared with his aggressive father in Inglewood, South Los Angeles. His mother had left them without ever saying goodbye when Ricky was only six. He never saw her again, but he missed her every day.
Ricky had promised himself that one day he would live in a big house with a large backyard and a swimming pool. He was going to be a writer. A successful writer.
Ricky was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of the other bicycles approaching from behind. By the time he noticed them it was too late.
One of the five bicycles leveled up to the left of Ricky’s front wheel, squeezing him against the high-curbed sidewalk. Out of panic, instead of braking, Ricky increased his speed.
‘Where the fuck you think you’re going, freak?’ the hooded rider shouted from under the blue and white bandanna that was covering the bottom half of his face. ‘You don’t belong in this neighborhood, you ugly and skinny fuck. Go back to your dirty slum.’
Two of the other riders were also screaming abuse at Ricky, but he was too scared to properly hear them.
Ricky ran out of room as his front wheel started to scrape against the curbstones. His whole body was shaking with fear. He knew he was about to fall. Suddenly, a second hooded rider leveled up to him and kicked out, hitting Ricky’s left leg and sending him and his bike flying over to the sidewalk. He hit the ground hard and at speed, skidding a full yard, enough to scrape the skin on his hands and knees almost clean off. His bicycle tumbled over him, landing heavily on his legs.
‘Woo hoo! Ugly boy fell off his bike,’ Ricky heard one of the kids say as they headed off, laughing out loud.
Ricky lay still for a moment, his eyes shut tight as he fought back tears. He thought he heard the sound of hurried footsteps.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ a male’s voice asked.
Ricky opened his eyes to blurred images.
‘Are you all right?’ the voice asked again.
Ricky felt someone lifting his bike off his legs. His hands and knees hurt as if they’d been scalded with boiling water. He looked up and saw a man kneeling next to him. He was dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie. His brown hair was wavy and pleasantly tousled above a prominent brow, high cheekbones, and a strong chin that was covered by a neatly trimmed goatee. His pale-blue eyes showed concern.
‘Who were those kids?’ the man asked, jabbing his chin in the direction that the gang had ridden off in. He had a somewhat angry look on his face.
‘What?’ Ricky said, still a little disoriented.
‘I was just on my way to pick up my son from school when I saw a bunch of kids bump you over.’ He indicated his car, which was hastily parked with two wheels up on the sidewalk on the other side of the road. The driver’s door was still open.
Ricky followed the man’s gaze. He knew that the kids on the bicycles were Brad Nichols and his gang of asshole friends, but he said nothing. It would make no difference anyway.
‘Hey, you’re bleeding,’ the man said with serious concern, as his eyes moved first to the boy’s hands, then to his knees. ‘You’ve got to clean that up before it gets infected. Here.’ He reached inside his breast pocket and handed Ricky a couple of paper tissues. ‘Use this for now, but we need to wash it with disinfectant soap and warm water pretty sharpish.’
Ricky took the tissues and dabbed them against the palms of his hands.
With the fall, his rucksack had opened, scattering his books on to the sidewalk.
‘Oh!’ the man said, first helping Ricky to his feet, then helping him collect his books. ‘You go to Morningside? So does my son.’ He paused as he handed one last book back to the boy, looking rather surprised. ‘You’re an eighth grader?’
Still in silence, Ricky nodded carelessly.
‘Really? You look like you’re about ten.’
‘I’m eleven,’ Ricky replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
‘Sorry,’ the man said, acknowledging his mistake and backpedaling as quickly as he could. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, but still. You’re quite young for eighth grade? My son is ten, and he’s just finishing fourth grade.’
Ricky placed the last book back into his rucksack. ‘I entered school one year earlier than most kids, and because of my grades they made me skip sixth grade.’ This time there was pride in his words.
‘Wow! That’s amazing. So I’m in the presence of a real child prodigy here.’
Ricky finished clearing the blood from his hands before looking down at his bike and its twisted front wheel. ‘Shit!’
‘That’s pretty damaged,’ the man agreed. ‘I don’t think you’re going to be riding anywhere else on that bike today.’
Ricky looked like he didn’t know what to do. The man read the boy’s uneasiness.
‘Listen,’ he said, consulting his watch. ‘I’m a little late to pick my son up from school so I have to go, but if you like, you can wait here and on our way back John and I can give you a ride back to your house. I’ll be five minutes. How does that sound?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be OK. I can’t go home like this anyway.’ Ricky began dabbing the paper tissues against the scratches on his knees.
The man’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Why not?’
‘If I turn up at home bleeding, with a broken bike, that gang of kids will look like heavenly angels compared to what my father will do to me.’
‘What, really? But it wasn’t your fault. They ganged up on you.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ Ricky looked away. ‘Nothing ever matters.’ The hurt in the boy’s voice was palpable.
The man observed Ricky for an instant as he picked his bi
ke up from the ground.
‘OK, how about if John and I drive you home? I’ll then speak with your father myself and tell him what happened. I’ll tell him that I saw everything and that none of it was your fault. He will listen to an adult.’
‘I told you, it won’t make any difference, OK? Nothing ever makes any difference. Thank you for your help, but I’ll be fine.’ Ricky started limping away, dragging his bike.
‘Hey, wait up, kid. If you’re not going home, where are you going, limping and dragging that heavy thing behind you? You really need to clean those wounds up properly.’
Ricky carried on walking. He didn’t look back.
‘OK, I’ve got a better idea. Hear me out,’ the man said, taking a couple of steps toward Ricky. ‘My boy, John, is a nice kid. A little quiet, but a nice kid, and he could seriously use a friend – and it looks like, right now, so could you. I can load your bike into the back of my car, we pick up John from Morningside, and I’ll drop you guys at his mother’s place. It’s not that far from here. She’s got a swimming pool and all. And she can also attend to your hands and knees.’
The words ‘swimming pool’ made Ricky finally pause and look back at the man.
‘I can then quickly run your bike to a shop. The same shop where I got John’s bike. I’m sure they can fix that wheel in no time.’
Ricky looked like he was measuring his options.
The man checked his watch again. ‘C’mon!’ He pressed his lips together for a moment. ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you, all John does when he’s not in school is read comic books and play games . . . alone. Here . . .’ the man reached for his wallet, took out a photograph, and showed it to Ricky. ‘You might’ve seen him around school?’