The Hunter

by Chris Carter

  First published in Great Britain by Simon and Schuster, 2013

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Chris Carter, 2013

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Chris Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47112-800-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  THE

  HUNTER

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 1

  ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ Detective Scott Wilson of the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division said, as if he’d just heard the world’s unfunniest joke.

  Wilson was standing inside Captain William Bolter’s office, staring at the piece of paper the captain had just handed him.

  ‘You’re dumping a suicide case on me, captain?’ Wilson asked, still looking dumbfounded.

  Captain Bolter was in his mid-fifties, but looked at least ten years younger. Tall, strong, and sporting a full head of peppery hair together with a thick mustache, the man was a menacing figure, respected by everyone in the force. He looked at his detective and shrugged matter-of-factly.

  ‘What are you complaining about?’ he said, returning to his seat behind his large and very messy desk. ‘I thought you all liked easy cases.’ He nodded at the piece of paper in Wilson’s hands. ‘They don’t come much easier than that. The woman sliced her wrists and bled to death in her bed. It’s an open-and-shut case.’

  The law in the state of California stipulated that suicides had to be initially treated as homicides; therefore, a homicide detective would have to attend the site and commence investigative procedures to rule out foul play. Once that was done, the investigation, as far as the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division was concerned, could be closed and archived. It would be the work of twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

  ‘Yeah,’ Wilson said, placing the piece of paper back on the captain’s desk. ‘I love open-and-shut cases, but suicides are a hell of a lot of paperwork, captain, and you know it. Paperwork that needs to be done and filed ASAP.’ He pointed to the main detectives’ floor. ‘I’ve got fourteen open homicide investigations sitting on my desk right now, captain. I’m up to my eyeballs in crap. I barely have time to take a piss, and you want me to throw one, maybe two days away because some rich bitch topped herself?’

  ‘Well, somebody’s got to do it.’

  ‘Give it to Perez,’ Wilson suggested. ‘He loves paperwork.’

  ‘Perez is in hospital. He took a bullet last week, remember?’ Captain Bolter shook his head. ‘Sorry, buddy. You’re it. I’ve got no one else.’

  A knock came to the captain’s door.

  ‘Come in,’ the captain called out.

  The door was pushed open by a young man in his mid-twenties, wearing a dark suit that looked rather uncomfortable on him. He was about six-feet tall with broad shoulders and a very powerful-looking physique. His youthful face had a certain serenity to it, the kind that suggested trustworthiness and determination. His eyes possessed a penetrating quality easily associated with self-confidence, but not the cocky kind.

  ‘And who the hell might you be?’ Captain Bolter asked, narrowing his eyes.

  The young man stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and approached the captain’s desk. ‘My name is Robert Hunter, sir, I’m your new detective.’ He handed over several signed forms he had brought with him.

  ‘Wrong floor, kid,’ Wilson said, pointing at the door again. ‘This is the Robbery Homicide Division – the big boys. You’re probably looking for Commercial Crimes or Support. Both of those are two floors below.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Yes, I know, thank you, but I’m on the right floor, and in the right division.’

  Wilson chuckled. ‘You’re joking right? You don’t even look old enough to shave.’

  Hunter wasn’t surprised by Wilson’s skepticism. In average it took a LAPD officer at least six years of street-crime-fighting before he was allowed to put in a request for a detective’s position. If successful, it would then take a detective another four to five years, together with an impressive track record and a captain’s recommendation, before he’d even be considered for a position with the Robbery Homicide Division’s elite. And even then, very few were accepted into the RHD. The division was considered to be the top of the ladder when it came to being a LAPD Detective. Wilson had never heard of anyone younger than thirty-something reaching that position.

  Hunter was also well aware of that fact. His main goal, once he’d joined the LAPD, was always to make Detective for the Robbery Homicide Division. Deep inside he had to admit that he was very proud of having scorched through the ranks at record speed.

  Captain Bolter had forgotten all about the new detective who was supposed to be starting today. Some sort of prodigy kid with a PhD in Criminal Behavior Psychology, who, according to what the captain had been told, had turned down a position with the FBI to join the LAPD.

  The captain quickly flipped through the forms. The young detective’s records sure looked impressive, and all the documentation seemed in order.

  ‘Is this for real, captain?’ Wilson asked, pointing at Hunter. ‘Baby-faced, pretty-boy, bible-salesman-looking kid-in-a-cheap-suit here is joining the division?’

  Hunter frowned and looked at his suit. He liked that suit. It was his best suit. His only suit.

  ‘That’s what the paperwork says,’ the captain agreed, placing the forms down on his desk.

  Hunter turned and faced Wilson. ‘Robert Hunter,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, detective . . .?’

  Wilson ignored the newbie’s hand. ‘Yeah, I’m sure it is.’ He was still looking at Captain Bolter. ‘Damn, are we recruiting out of kindergarten now, captain? Is the department that despera . . .’ He paused, his eyes settling on the piece of paper he had placed on the captain’s desk just moments ago. ‘Problem solved,’ he said, shrugging at Captain Bolter and reaching for the note.

  The captain hesitated for a split second and then shrugged back as if saying ‘why not?’.

  Wilson turned towards Hunter. ‘I’m Detective Wilson, but you can call me “Sir”,’ he said, handing the note to Hunter. ‘Welcome to the Robbery Homicide Division, pretty boy. Enjoy your first easy case, because it will only get worse.’ He paused before reaching the door. ‘Oh, and do me a favor – get rid of that cheap suit, will you? You look like an idiot.’

  Chapter 2

  The apartment was on the twenty-eighth floor of a towering block in Cypress Park, a working-class neighborhood in Northeast Los Angeles.

  Hunter exited the claustrophobic elevator and found himself at the end of a long corridor with brick walls, lined with doors on both sides – twenty-four in total. A strip of tube lights that
ran down the center of the ceiling kept the hallway bright. The apartment he was looking for was number 2813, located about halfway down the corridor on the right-hand side. A uniformed officer was standing just outside the door. He looked bored. Hunter proudly flashed his new and shiny Detective’s badge at him and pushed the door open.

  The first thing he noticed was that the safety chain hung from the door, its wall mounting dangling from the chain’s end. The doorframe had cracked and splintered where the four screws had once secured the metal mounting to the wood.

  ‘We had to kick it open,’ a senior police officer standing in the living room explained.

  Hunter turned and looked at him.

  ‘I’m Officer Travis,’ the policeman said. ‘My partner and I were patrolling just a block from here when we received a call from Central Bureau’s dispatch to come knock on the victim’s door. Her mother, who is confined to a wheelchair, had been unable to get in touch with her for three days, which I know, isn’t that unusual, except for the fact that the daughter visited her mother every Monday without fail. Had done so for the past two years. According to the mother, if the daughter were going to be even a little late, she would always let her mother know in advance. If her car had broken down or something, she would’ve called. This afternoon the mother called the station worried sick. The daughter is bipolar, which can sometimes complicate things.’

  Hunter’s eyebrows arched.

  ‘Anyway,’ Travis moved on. ‘We came by, knocked, but got no response. We called the building’s superintendent, who unlocked the door for us, but the safety chain was on, and there was this faint smell of putrid meat coming from somewhere inside. Obviously something was wrong. That was when we rammed the door and broke in. We found the daughter in the bedroom.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder, pulling an ‘I’m sorry’ face.

  ‘Had she attempted suicide before?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘If she had, it wasn’t mentioned.’

  Hunter nodded and allowed his eyes to circle the living room for an instant. It was spacious enough, decorated on a budget but with plenty of style. A black leatherette sofa, positioned at the edge of a fluffy black and red rug, faced a shiny black and white TV module. There was also a glass and chrome four-seater dinner table, a chest of drawers that matched the TV module, a stylish black console by the window, and a very elegant bookcase with no books, just decorative artifacts like vases, glass bowls and candle holders.

  Crossing to the other side of the room, Hunter slipped on a couple of blue, plastic shoe-covers, a pair of latex gloves, a mouth and nose mask, and pushed the bedroom door open. Officer Travis followed him in.

  The air inside the bedroom was hot, stuffy, and heavy with the sickening smell of dead flesh as it entered rotting stage.

  Hunter’s attention was immediately drawn to the queen-size bed with its headboard pushed up against the north wall. Lying on the blood-soaked bed sheets was the naked body of a five-feet-six brunette woman. From the note Detective Wilson had handed him, Hunter knew that she was only thirty-three years old. Her name was Helen Webster, and she was a self-employed interior designer.

  A Medical Examiner was standing by a dresser unit near the window, quietly speaking on his cellphone. He quickly terminated the call as he saw Hunter and the officer enter the room.

  ‘Are you from Homicide?’ he asked, looking a little dubious.

  Hunter nodded and quickly introduced himself.

  The doctor looked surprised but he refrained from asking the detective how old he was.

  Hunter approached the bed, being careful to avoid the large pools of dried blood that had formed on the floor. The curtains on the window to the left of the bed were speckled with blood, and so were both bedside tables. Hunter noted the pattern, before his attention reverted back to the woman.

  Blisters, caused by the release of gases from body tissues, had already started to form all over the woman’s body. Her skin had taken on a greenish-blue color, but body bloating was still in its very early stages. That, together with a few blowflies buzzing around the bed, told Hunter that she’d been dead for at least thirty-six hours. She was lying on her back. Her legs were close together and stretched out. Her arms were wide open, as if she was ready to hug a long-lost relative, but her wrists had both been cut horizontally. Two large and deep incisions that had clearly severed the main blood vessels in the forearms.

  ‘Rigor mortis has come and gone,’ the ME said. ‘From the state of the body I can tell you that she’s been dead for no less than thirty-six hours, and no longer than seventy-two. We’ll be able to get a better time frame after the autopsy.’

  Hunter nodded, still studying the body. ‘What did she use on her wrists?’

  ‘This.’ The doctor showed Hunter a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a blood-covered utility knife. ‘It was on the floor by the right side of the bed,’ the doctor clarified.

  Hunter bent down to get a better look at the woman’s hands, wrists, and arms. ‘She’s been photographed, right?’ he asked. ‘Is it OK if I disturb the body a little, Doc?’

  The doctor nodded before shrugging. ‘Suit yourself. My work here is pretty much done.’

  Hunter used his index finger to clear some of the dried blood from the woman’s wrists, and took his time examining the cuts.

  ‘The incisions were deep and precise,’ the doctor offered. ‘Even before the autopsy I can tell you that they have severed both the radial and the ulnar arteries. Blood loss was intense and fast. Over fifty percent, I’d say.’ He indicated the pools of blood on the floor. ‘Which would have caused her to go into hypovolemic shock, leading to heart failure.’

  ‘Was there a suicide note?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘None that we have found,’ Officer Travis replied.

  Hunter found that peculiar but carried on studying the woman’s hands and fingers.

  ‘Now,’ the doctor said, approaching the body. ‘Let me show you something interesting.’ From his coat pocket he produced a pen-sized Maglite and a small magnifying glass before using his thumb and index finger to pull open her eyelids. ‘Have a look,’ he said.

  Hunter moved closer.

  Travis followed.

  Her corneas were cloudy and opaque, which was expected, but the eyes and their lids were dotted with tiny red specks.

  Hunter frowned. ‘Petechiae?’

  The doctor looked back at him, impressed. He wasn’t expecting a detective to recognize the condition he was looking at, especially such a young detective.

  ‘Pâté . . . what?’ Travis asked, trying to look over Hunter’s shoulders.

  ‘Petechiae,’ the doctor repeated. ‘They are tiny hemorrhages in blood vessels. They can occur anywhere in the body, and for a number of reasons, but when they occur on the eyes and eyelids like we have here, it is usually due to blockage of the respiratory system. In other words – suffocation.’

  Hunter stood up again and started looking around the room.

  ‘What?’ The officer’s gaze moved from the doctor to Hunter, and then back to the ME. ‘But you just said that she died from severe loss of blood and heart failure. Are now you telling me she was strangled?’

  ‘Not to death,’ the doctor clarified. ‘She did die from blood loss from her wrist wounds, which led to heart failure, but this indicates that she suffered some sort of severe blockage of the respiratory system prior to death.’

  Travis chewed on his bottom lip and looked at Hunter once again, who was now having a look inside a shoebox on the floor by the dresser unit.

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Travis asked with a slight headshake. ‘That she first tried strangling herself or something, gave up halfway through, and then went for “plan B” – slicing her wrists?’

  ‘No,’ Hunter replied, checking some drawers. ‘Someone else knocked her unconscious by suffocating or strangling her, before slicing her wrists and staging the suicide scene. This . . .’ He indicated the body on the bed. ‘Was a homicide.’


  The officer’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘A homicide? But the only way in or out of this apartment is through the front door.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder again. ‘It was locked from the inside, remember? The safety chain was securely in place. We had to kick the door in. The windows in here don’t open due to safety regulations. This is the twenty-eighth floor, way too windy. If somebody killed her, how did he or she get out?’

  ‘That’s the part I still need to figure out,’ Hunter said.

  Travis rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you do.’

  Hunter could easily tell what Officer Travis was thinking: why did they have to send a rookie?

  But Travis wasn’t finished yet. ‘And you are basing this homicide theory of yours simply on that pâté-whatever thing? Little blood dots on her eyes and eyelids due to oxygen restriction? Maybe it’s a sexual thing- erotic asphyxiation. Have you heard of it? Some people are into that. It’s supposed to heighten the ecstasy. Look, I’m sure that you would love to impress your captain, but I don’t think this is the case . . . sir.’ Travis put a lot of emphasis on that last word.

  Hunter knew he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone in that room. He was the lead detective in the investigation, and that gave him the right to call the shots as he saw fit, but since this was his first ever investigation as a RHD Detective he decided, just for the sake of clarity, to better explain his reasons.

  ‘You said that there was no suicide note, right?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Travis confirmed.

  ‘Well, that’s problem number one – in ninety-nine percent of suicide cases, there’s a note. It follows an overwhelming feeling of guilt that comes with every suicide act. Victims will, inevitably, feel the need to explain their decision to go down such a drastic road. That note is their last ever statement in this world and, believe me, they all want to make it, even if it’s only an ‘I love you mom, and I’m sorry’ line. You said that the victim visited her wheelchair-bound mother every Monday. Had done so for the past two years. Trust me, she would’ve at least wanted her mother to know the reason why she decided to end her life.’