by Chris Carter
‘Has forensics seen this?’
‘Not yet,’ Hunter replied. ‘I wanted you to read it first.’
‘Sure,’ Garcia said, picking up the evidence bag and walking over to his desk. As he sat down, he pulled open the top right-hand drawer, reached inside it and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. After gloving up, he turned his full attention to the envelope.
Forty-Nine
It was a typical American diner with a flickering sign outside that read ‘Donny’s’ in large red letters. The diner was located on a strip mall, just a few blocks away from the heart of the financial district in Downtown LA. Despite it being daytime, the inside was lit by the glow of neon and the sequence of lights from a large jukebox. All the booths and tables were taken, which wasn’t really surprising because the food was good and inexpensive, and the coffee much better than that served at many of the chain coffee shops found all around the city. Yes, Donny’s was constantly busy, and lunchtimes were the rush hour of the rush hour.
As a table for two vacated, Alison Atkins, the oldest of the four waitresses working the floor that afternoon, sprayed its surface with some disinfectant soap, wiped it clean with the cloth that she kept hanging from her work apron and signaled Rita at the door to let her know that she could seat two new customers. Rita immediately sent the couple that had been waiting for the past ten minutes in Alison’s direction.
As the couple walked past table seven, the second table to the right from the front door, they paid little attention to the man who was sitting alone at it. The man, in return, seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the loud chatter and constant movement that was going on all around him. To the outside world, it looked like the only thing the man was interested in was the double espresso sitting on the table in front of him, which he’d been stirring for the past thirty seconds.
The customer sitting at table seven had come to Donny’s diner about an hour earlier. As he’d got to the door, he’d smiled politely at Rita, the young waitress who greeted him, and asked for a table for one. No tables were available at that time but he said that he didn’t mind waiting, and wait he did, for almost twenty minutes. Once he was finally seated, he once again waited patiently for the waitress to come back to him and take his order, which took her close to another ten minutes. He did all that waiting with no irritation whatsoever, as if he had all the time in the world and not a worry in his life.
He finally stopped stirring, tapped his teaspoon against the edge of the espresso cup, placed it down on the saucer and brought the cup to his lips. He had to admit that the coffee at Donny’s certainly deserved its reputation.
‘Is everything OK, sir?’ Alison asked, coming up to his table and giving the customer her usual magnetic smile.
Alison had stayed true to the promise she had made herself all those years ago while sitting inside that Greyhound bus, heading to Los Angeles. She had completely changed the way she looked, her accent, her posture, the way she walked . . . everything. There was nothing left of the young Kelly Decker from Summerdale, Alabama. Alison had also grown up to be a very attractive woman. Her longish, copper-blonde hair sparkled with life under any light, even when tied back in a work-style ponytail like that afternoon. Her skin was soft and well cared for, and her piercing eyes shone with such distinction that it was almost impossible for anyone not to notice them. Alison had also been blessed with the sort of metabolism that would make her a billionaire if there were any way she could bottle it. No matter what she ate, she just didn’t seem to put on any weight – ever. Her long legs were strong and toned like an athlete’s, not from exercising at the gym or at the beach, she never really had time for either, but from the amount of walking her job required daily.
Donny, the diner owner, and all the other waitresses had lost count of the times a customer had slipped Alison a card with his/her name and number, and told her that she should be on the big screen instead of slaving away for peanuts pay and shitty tips in some greasy diner in South Central.
Alison would always take the card, politely smile back and thank the customer, and then throw it away when she got to the kitchen.
‘You know, Alison,’ Rita, and all of the other waitresses, had told her many times, ‘some of those people and offers could actually be real. This is LA, remember? Hollywood is just around the corner, girlfriend. It ain’t crazy to think that maybe some of these people mean what they say. This city is riddled with stories of stars who were discovered while waiting tables or working behind bars. Maybe you should think about giving some of them a chance? Wouldn’t you like to get the fuck out of this dead-end job and your shitty neighborhood? Go live in Malibu or something?’
Alison would always reply the same way.
‘I like this job, and I love the area I live in.’
That was actually true. Alison was very content with her life. But despite that fact, no matter how much time had gone by, no matter how different she looked, fear would forever live inside her. The last thing Alison Atkins wanted was to gain notoriety, in any shape or form. She didn’t need to be rich or famous to be happy.
The customer at table seven looked up at Alison and smiled back. In all honesty, his smile was just as disarming as hers.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Everything is just fine, thank you very much.’
The man had also completely changed his appearance from when he’d last eaten at Donny’s, but his transformation hadn’t taken years, merely an hour. In the past years, the man had become a makeup and prosthetic expert. He could make himself look as attractive or as ugly as the situation demanded. He could change his whole persona, including his accent, at the drop of a hat. He could pass for several different people in the same day and no one would ever know. Yes, the customer at table seven truly was a modern-day chameleon.
Today the man had chosen to have longish black hair that came down to his jawbone, dark-brown eyes that were framed by round spectacles, which he didn’t need, and a stylish goatee. His cheekbones looked a touch higher than they naturally were, and his teeth whiter and straighter, giving him a nearly perfect smile. He wore dark trousers with black shoes, a matching blazer jacket and an expensive-looking blue shirt.
The other three waitresses working the lunch shift had all tried flirting with the customer at table seven, but he seemed deep in thought throughout – eyes forward, blank stare, no frown. Their attempts went unnoticed.
Alison also found him quite attractive. There was something about him that she found rather familiar, but she couldn’t tell exactly what. Neither Alison, nor any of the other waitresses, could remember seeing him in Donny’s before.
Despite his eyes not wandering, he’d been observing Alison the whole time he’d been there.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ the man said, renewing his smile. ‘This has been tremendously selfish of me.’
‘What has?’ Alison looked unsure.
‘This place is so busy, there’s a line of people outside waiting for a table, and here I am taking all the time in the world just to finish a cup of coffee. I apologize. If you bring me my check, I’ll be out of your way in no time.’
His voice was firm, but tender at the same time.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Alison said with a shake of the head. ‘You can take as long as you like.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s dying down now, anyway.’
‘Really?’ He turned his neck to look around. The place was still heaving. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’
Alison smiled again.
It was the man’s turn to consult his timepiece. ‘No, actually, I really do have to go.’
‘No problem, I’ll get the check for you.’
While Alison returned to the cash register, the man calmly finished his double espresso.
‘Here you go,’ Alison said, placing the check on the table in front of him.
The man noted the amount, reached for his wallet, and placed a few bills on top of the receipt. Right then, Alison noticed two things. One – the man had p
ut down an extra twenty dollars. Two – his hands looked leathery and shiny, as if he had some sort of thin, protective plastic layer over them. She wondered if it was some sort of treatment for a skin condition.
‘Keep the change,’ he said, getting up.
‘Are you sure?’ She sounded doubtful.
‘Of course I am.’ The man winked so charmingly at Alison, she practically blushed.
In an impulsive move, something Alison almost never did, she threw a question his way, just as he was turning to leave.
‘I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’
The man looked back at her. ‘No, this is actually my first time eating here.’
‘Well.’ She returned the wink. ‘I really hope you’ll come back.’
Their eyes locked for a few seconds and the man nodded, courteously.
Alison never heard what the man whispered as he turned and walked toward the diner door.
‘You’ll see me a lot sooner than you expect, Alison.’
Fifty
As if handling some sort of dangerous and unstable substance, Garcia extracted the contents from the evidence bag carefully, before retrieving the single sheet of paper from inside the envelope.
The note had been folded in half to perfectly fit a regular business envelope.
Hunter waited while Garcia unfolded it and placed it flat on the desk in front of him. Just like the note sent to Mayor Bailey, this one had also been handwritten in red ink. Once again, the killer had used a ballpoint pen.
So you are the one who is supposed to be the best of the best. The so-called expert who’s been tasked with the burden of stopping me, huh? You are the one who is supposed to bring justice to the victims. The one who will look into my eyes and find out what I have become.
Well . . .
How’s that going for you so far, Detective Hunter?
Are we having fun yet, or am I moving too fast for you?
Are you still keeping count, or are the bodies piling up too quickly?
One thing I can tell you is that I am looking forward to the challenge. The question is, will you see only what you want to see, or will you prove me wrong, Detective Hunter? Because you haven’t seen anything yet. I am just getting started.
If you are wondering why I am doing what I’m doing, the answer is simple. I am creating history. Or, if you prefer, rewriting it.
Do you want to know who I am, Detective Hunter?
Do you really want to know?
Well, the clues are in the name.
FOR I AM DEATH.
Garcia read the note several times over before finally lifting his eyes to look at Hunter again, who was leaning against the edge of his desk.
‘OK. So what do you think?’
Garcia got to his feet, pushed his chair out of the way and approached the picture board.
‘Remember when we discussed the note that was sent to Mayor Bailey?’ he asked, indicating it on the board. A copy of the first two notes had been pinned side by side. ‘We both agreed that the third paragraph constituted a challenge of sorts, right?’ Garcia didn’t wait for Hunter’s reply. ‘Well, the way I see it, the whole of this third note, other than it being coated in arrogance, is nothing but one big challenge.’
Hunter scratched his chin. ‘OK, I’m listening.’
‘The problem is,’ Garcia continued, ‘the killer has now made it personal. Here, have a look.’ He walked over to his desk. Hunter followed. Garcia then indicated all five instances where the killer had referred to Hunter by name. ‘In fact, he has made it very personal, Robert. He went all the way to your home to deliver it.’
Hunter nodded his agreement, but allowed Garcia to continue without interrupting him.
‘Just look at this.’ Garcia returned to the picture board, unpinned the copy of the killer’s second note and brought it to his desk. ‘At the beginning of this new note he makes several references to his previous one.’ Garcia indicated each line on both notes as he mentioned them. ‘“Best of the best”, “So-called expert”, “Bring justice to the victims”, “See only what you want to see” and “Look into my eyes and find out what I have become”. The difference here is, on the previous note all of that sounded like an open invitation to the LAPD, or the FBI, or a special task force, or whoever. But not this time. This time all of those challenges are aimed at a specific subject.’ Garcia’s eyebrows lifted as he nodded at his partner. ‘You, my friend. Whether you like it or not, he’s bringing this fight to you.’
So far, Garcia’s assessment of the note had been right on the money with Hunter’s. Hunter wasn’t chasing this killer alone, and he was sure that the killer knew that full well. Nevertheless, this time the killer had made every single challenge personal to Hunter, not to a task force, or the LAPD, or the FBI, or even the UV Unit. The killer had, once again, been very careful when phrasing his written work to leave as little doubt as possible.
‘But I don’t think that this is “personal” personal.’ Garcia used his fingers to draw quotation marks in the air.
Hunter questioned by narrowing his eyes a touch.
‘What I mean is, I don’t think that this guy’s got a personal grudge against you,’ Garcia clarified. ‘I don’t think that this is someone you put away in the past, or someone related to anyone you put away in the past. I’m even willing to bet that your paths have never crossed before, Robert.’
‘Because if that were the case,’ Hunter agreed, ‘he would’ve made it personal on the first or second note. Why wait until now? And the second note wouldn’t have been sent to the mayor. It would’ve been sent directly to me.’
‘Exactly,’ Garcia accepted. ‘The way I see it, he would’ve brought this fight to the doorstep of whoever became lead investigator in this case. We were just the unlucky ones.’
Hunter made a face. ‘Aren’t we always?’
‘But now that he has a counterpart, he not only reiterates the challenges of the second note, he goes beyond it. He bullies.’ Once again, Garcia indicated on the note:
How’s that going for you so far, Detective Hunter?
Are we having fun yet, or am I moving too fast for you?
Are you still keeping count, or are the bodies piling up too quickly?
. . . will you see only what you want to see, or will you prove me wrong, Detective Hunter?
‘And then he threatens,’ Garcia added.
Because you haven’t seen anything yet. I am just getting started.
‘After the threats,’ Garcia continued, ‘he feels the need to explain the reason why he’s doing what he’s doing. Though it all sounds like bullshit to me.’
‘Delusions of grandeur,’ Hunter commented. ‘You know how most sociopaths are blinded by them. And because some truly believe that they are better, superior to everyone else, they also believe that whatever it is they’re doing can’t be understood by us mere human beings unless it’s explained. And even then, they still don’t expect us to fully understand the reasons behind their actions, or the complexity of their geniuses.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘How could we, when our intellect could never measure up?’
Garcia chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. ‘So this crackpot truly believes that he’s creating history?’
‘Or, as he put it, rewriting it?’
‘Yeah, but rewriting whose history?’
Hunter turned and faced the picture board. ‘I don’t know. His own, maybe.’
‘And what the hell is this crap at the end?’ Garcia said, bringing Hunter’s attention back to the new note. ‘Is this his attempt at being funny? Let me give you a clue as to who I am, and that clue is in the name – “DEATH”. Yeah, hilarious.’
Hunter wasn’t really sure what the killer meant by that, but he had a hunch that, whatever it was, it wasn’t meant as a joke.
Fifty-One
The stairwell that led down to the underpass reminded Alison of one of those old, black and white B-movies. The ones that weren’t supposed to
be scary, but were. Her footsteps echoed loudly against the concrete risers and all of a sudden she was painfully aware that she was alone, in a badly lit and isolated underpass.
Alison Atkins had missed her bus stop. She had done three double shifts at Donny’s in just as many days, and when she’d boarded the bus almost an hour ago she’d felt the same sort of exhaustion one feels after a long and debilitating illness. She’d sat alone at the back of the bus, as she usually did. Ten minutes into the forty-minute trip to where she lived, Alison had decided to rest her head against the window, just for a moment, so she could close her tired eyes. But it was OK, because she reopened them only five minutes later – or so she thought.
As she sat up and looked out the window, she was overcome by an uncomfortable feeling. The feeling that she was in a place she didn’t belong. She quickly rubbed the blur of tiredness from her eyes, turned her head around and looked out the window across the aisle from where she was sitting.
No, she didn’t recognize any of it.
She craned her neck and looked at the digital display toward the front of the bus.
She had definitely missed her stop.
‘Shit!’ she said between clenched teeth, quickly getting to her feet and pressing the ‘stop’ button.
A minute later, the bus pulled up to the next stop on its route.
Three passengers jumped out with her – two women, counting Alison, and a middle-aged man. The man, who appeared to be in a hurry, quickly headed west. The other woman, who looked to be about the same age as Alison, went north.
Alison paused and looked around. This was an ugly part of town. A part of town that she would never visit during the day, never mind at night.