by Chris Carter
With his badge in hand, Hunter took the steps two at a time. All the officers at the house’s entrance were unnaturally quiet. The look on their faces was a mixture of sorrow and skepticism.
Double doors led them into a reception area that was bigger than Hunter’s entire one-bedroom apartment. It was a rich, sterile room, full of money and devoid of character – the kind of elegant space in which it was hard to believe people actually lived.
A strange, unidentifiable smell lingered in the air. The sort of smell that could make you sick if you were exposed to it for long enough.
A short and bulky man in a white Tyvek coverall noticed the two detectives as they stepped into the house.
‘Detective Hunter?’ he asked, approaching them.
‘Yes.’ Hunter turned around.
‘I’m Detective Martin, Thomas Martin, from the LASD Malibu/Lost Hills station.’
They shook hands firmly.
Malibu is actually an incorporated city in Western Los Angeles County. Any homicides committed in that city initially fall under the Los Angeles Sheriff Department jurisdiction.
‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked, looking around.
‘A fucking mess, that’s what we have. It started as a missing person’s call to the West Hollywood station.’
‘West Hollywood?’ Garcia enquired, surprised.
Martin nodded. ‘I suggest you guys suit up while I fill you in.’ He pointed to two coveralls on a table together with surgical masks and latex gloves.
Forty-One
‘A realtor called Reilly, Amanda Reilly,’ Detective Martin continued after Hunter and Garcia stood ready. ‘She owned her own estate agency called, funny enough, Reilly’s, in West Hollywood. This morning she didn’t turn up for work. Her work colleague . . .’ Martin snapped his fingers a couple of times as he tried to remember her name. ‘Aw damn. It’s on the report, I’ll check it later. Anyway, her colleague got worried. She said she’s never known Miss Reilly to come in late in over ten years they’d worked together, never mind not turning up.’
A tall and skinny black man, also wearing a Tyvek coverall, entered the reception area from the door at the far end of it.
‘Hey, CJ,’ Martin called, gesturing for him to join them.
‘What’s up, Tom?’ CJ said, freeing his nose and mouth from the surgical mask he had on. ‘Are these the Homicide Special guys?’
Martin nodded before turning towards Hunter and Garcia. ‘This is my partner, Detective CJ Simmons.’
‘Call me CJ, everyone does.’
They all shook hands.
‘CJ, what’s the name of the lady who reported Miss Reilly as missing. I can’t remember it for the life of me.’
‘Mrs. Riggs, Tania Riggs. The report’s in the car. I’ll go and get it before we hand the case over to you guys.’
Hunter noticed a look of relief on CJ’s face.
‘Miss Reilly’s car is parked back in West Hollywood,’ Martin continued. ‘It’s been in the same spot for two days.’
CJ took over. ‘The last Mrs. Riggs knew about Miss Reilly was that she was supposed to show this house to a prospective buyer on Saturday – early evening.’
‘So this house is for sale? No one lives here at the moment?’ Hunter asked, zipping up his overall.
‘That’s right.’ CJ nodded. ‘You know the protocol. So in the middle of the afternoon, a request was sent to our station asking us to dispatch a black and white unit down here to check it out. And then . . .’ CJ shook his head slowly without finishing the sentence.
‘And then all fucking hell broke loose,’ Martin picked up. ‘What’s in there’s just fucking insane. Someone had a lot of hate for this Miss Reilly.’
‘How do we come into all this?’ Hunter asked curiously.
‘That’s what I was wondering,’ Garcia added.
‘Forensics,’ CJ replied. ‘When they got here and had a good look at the body, the lead agent said that we needed to contact Homicide Special and ask for the two of you. Apparently, this case’s linked to one that you’re already investigating.’
‘Mike Brindle the lead forensic agent?’ Hunter asked.
‘That’s him,’ Martin agreed with a nod.
‘And the victim’s this Amanda Reilly?’ Hunter pressed on.
Martin and CJ exchanged a nervous look.
‘We can’t tell.’
‘OK, let’s go have a look.’ Hunter knew he wouldn’t get any more answers out in the reception area.
CJ smiled as he noticed that Hunter and Garcia were all suited up, but neither of them had a surgical mask. ‘I strongly recommend you wear the mask.’ He pointed to the one hanging from his neck. ‘And I hope you really enjoyed what you had for dinner today. ’Cos you’ll probably have it all back in your mouth as soon as you get in there.’
‘He’s right.’ Martin nodded sarcastically. ‘Have you noticed a terribly unpleasant bouquet in the air that sort of tickles your stomach?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Well, in there it’s fully matured.’
‘And if the smell doesn’t do it,’ CJ cut in. ‘Wait until you have a look at the victim.’
Frowning, Hunter and Garcia took the LASD detectives’ advice and grabbed a surgical mask each.
‘Through that door.’ Martin pointed to the door CJ had come through earlier. ‘There’s a round foyer. Take the door to the right of the stairwell and follow the corridor to the end. You can’t miss it; there are forensic agents everywhere.’
CJ and Martin were right. With every step, the smell got stronger and more sickening. They reached the last door and stepped into a nightmare.
The room was massive, furnished with delicate sofas and modern units. Mike Brindle and three other forensic agents were busy at work.
Hunter felt a sting in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it’d been caused by the nauseating and repulsive smell, or by what lay before him.
Garcia’s body convulsed as he tried to keep himself from being sick, but the combination of the stench together with the ferocity of the scene became too much for him. He quickly stumbled back out of the room and Hunter heard him empty his stomach by the door.
‘My God!’ Hunter closed his eyes.
Forty-Two
At first Monica didn’t know why she’d said those words to Hunter. They simply came out, as if she had no control over what she was saying. But just a minute after Hunter and Garcia had rushed out of the interrogation room, she had her answer.
The same sickening feeling she’d experienced just a few days ago inside Los Angeles Union Station came back, and it came back stronger.
A hurricane seemed to have started in her stomach as her vision blurred. The large mirrored window in front of her was substituted by grainy, flickering images. She blinked several times, trying desperately to get rid of them. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to be part of any of it. But she had no choice. Again, they lasted only a few seconds, but a few seconds was all that was needed.
As the images faded, she sat shivering and crying. Her breathing came in short, fast bursts and catatonically she repeated the words ‘please, no’ over and over again.
It took her two minutes to get her breathing back to normal and another two to stop shivering. On unsteady legs she stood up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked dreadful. Her hair was a mess. Her skin looked dry and badly cared for and her lack of recent sleep showed in her tired-looking eyes. She was wearing no lipstick, which made the scar on her lips more noticeable. Her coat looked dirty and old with tiny tears on the sleeves. No wonder both detectives looked at her as if she was a drug addict on a bad trip looking for some attention.
‘What am I doing here?’ she whispered to herself as if waking up from a strange dream in an unknown place. ‘I must be insane thinking someone would’ve believed me.’
She checked her watch and wondered what to do next. The detective had said that he’d send an officer to take her details, but no one had showed up yet. Maybe t
hat was a sign. Maybe telling others about the appalling things she saw wouldn’t help them. It wouldn’t help her.
Deep down she had hopes that if she could help any of the people she saw suffering, then, maybe, the images would go away and she could go back to having a normal life. But standing there, alone, in a police interrogation room, all she had were doubts.
‘I need to get out of here, this is crazy,’ she said as her eyes rested on Hunter’s card on the table.
Forty-Three
Mike Brindle was in a crouch position next to a large white leather sofa when he noticed Hunter standing by the door. Getting to his feet, he approached the detective in silence.
Brindle had been with the Los Angeles Scientific Investigation Division for over fifteen years, but the look in his eyes told Hunter that even he hadn’t seen anything like what had happened in that room.
They stood face to face without saying a word for a while before Brindle checked his watch.
‘I guess you take the prize,’ he finally murmured through his surgical mask.
Hunter narrowed his eyes and faintly shook his head.
‘Other than “yours truly”, nobody who’s come through that door has managed over forty seconds in here before losing their dinner,’ Brindle explained.
‘I didn’t have dinner.’
‘I guess he did.’ Brindle nodded towards Garcia, who had just re-entered the room. His surgical mask was back over his mouth and nose. His face was drained of all color.
‘What in the world’s happened here, Mike?’ Hunter asked once Garcia had rejoined them.
‘A lot of pain,’ Brindle said, turning to face the enormous river rock fireplace on the south wall. Just over a foot in front of it and tied to a metal high-back armchair sat the naked body of a woman. Most of the skin on the front of her torso, arms and legs had blistered, crinkled and burst open, revealing her bloody, now burned flesh. Parts of her body had completely carbonized, displaying a crusty texture and charcoal color, but all eyes were on her face.
Garcia felt his stomach play up again as they stepped closer to the body.
The skin on her face had been burned so badly that it seemed to have melted into crumpled and clustered lumps, like hot wax. Her exposed flesh and muscle tissue had severely wrinkled and hardened, as if her face had been deep-fried. Her eyeballs had exploded inside their sockets from the intense heat.
‘From what I’ve gathered so far,’ Brindle said, carefully sidestepping the small pool of blood, urine and feces that surrounded the armchair. ‘She was brought here on Saturday evening, tied to this chair and left in front of a blazing fire. She died long ago, but the fire was never turned off.’ He pointed to the fireplace. Heat still emanated from it.
Hunter’s stare quickly moved from the dead woman to Brindle. ‘The killer . . . cooked her?’
Brindle’s lips thinned as his head bobbed down. ‘Given her proximity to the fire, more like roasted her alive.’
‘This is fucking sick,’ Garcia commented, turning his head away.
‘This is a gas fire,’ Brindle continued. ‘Which means its intensity is controlled. Worst of all, it’s constant. It won’t die down unless somebody turns it off.’
‘Was it on when the body was found?’ Hunter asked, kneeling in front of the fireplace.
‘Yes.’ Brindle nodded. ‘But on a very low setting. Just enough to—’ he bit his lip ‘—simmer her. But look at the size of this fireplace, Robert. On its higher setting, it would feel like a proper bonfire.’
Hunter cleared his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to study the body for a moment. Garcia stayed a few steps behind. His right hand cupped over his nose. His face screwed up as if he’d tasted something sour.
The smell of burned human flesh is quite different from that of other animals because of our diet. Humans are the only animals who eat such diverse foods as meat, vegetables, sweets and chemically altered products. The combination of their smells gets embedded in the human flesh and then released, together with several toxins when the flesh burns.
Garcia felt something start to rise in his throat again.
‘We cut her loose,’ Brindle said, noticing Hunter’s look as he studied her severed restraints. ‘And that’s the reason why the two of you are here.’
Hunter’s brow creased in anticipation.
‘We’ve been here for a while. Her body and the scene have already been photographed. The two local detectives we thought would be taking the case had seen enough. The body was ready to be taken to the morgue.’
Brindle gestured for one of the crime-lab agents to come and give him a hand. Very carefully, they moved the dead woman’s back away from the armchair’s backrest.
‘And then we saw this.’
Hunter and Garcia repositioned themselves so they could have a better look.
‘Oh fuck,’ Garcia murmured through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Forty-Four
Hunter massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers, trying to rub away the headache he knew was on its way.
‘Shit,’ he said softly.
His eyes were focused on the victim’s back and neck. They had been badly scorched. But these were old burn marks. The skin had already healed, showing lumpy, leathery and irregular patches. But the surprise in both detectives’ faces wasn’t caused by the disfigurement. Halfway down her back, painted in red and about six inches long, was the number four.
‘There’s more.’ Brindle lowered her body back to the original sitting position before asking one of his agents to bring him the large evidence bag they’d collected earlier. He lifted the clear plastic bag in the air so Hunter and Garcia could have a look at its contents. Inside lay a badly burned skull.
‘This was found in the fire, after it was turned off.’
Garcia looked confused for a moment.
Hunter let out a deep sigh. ‘Father Fabian’s head?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’ Garcia’s eyes widened. Then he remembered what he’d read in the priest’s journal – My head is taken away to be burned.
‘We’ll have to wait for the test results, but I’d put money on it,’ Brindle replied.
Garcia turned his attention back to the burned woman. ‘What I don’t get about this is – how come it looks like she’s got different degrees of burns all around her body?’ He cautiously moved a step closer. ‘The skin on her torso, arms and thighs has blistered and ruptured open. You can tell that the exposed flesh has simply cooked, as you’ve put it.’ He nodded at Hunter. ‘But her lower legs, feet and hands have burned to a fucking crisp. Most of it has carbonized for chrissakes. And what in God’s name has happened to her face? It’s like different parts of her body have been exposed to different intensities of heat.’
‘And they have,’ Brindle admitted. ‘As I’ve said before, this thing at full tilt would feel like a forest fire.’ He pointed to the fireplace. ‘She was just about a foot away from it. I’m sure the killer was controlling the heat, torturing her, but because of her armchair sitting position, her lower legs and hands are about a foot closer to the fireplace than the rest of her body. That extra proximity could mean a rise of two, maybe three degrees Celsius. Given the probable amount of time she was exposed to such intense heat, the body parts closer to the fire would’ve sustained considerably more damage, as you can clearly see. Now, when it comes to her face—’ he shook his head with uncertainty ‘—I’ve seen enough burn victims, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. The skin on her face has crumpled into melted-looking lumps, like a dinner candle.’
‘Could the killer have used an accelerant?’ Hunter asked.
‘In my view, that’s the only explanation,’ Brindle admitted.
‘Something like cooking oil?’
‘Cooking oil?’ Garcia repeated in a disbelieving tone. ‘You think the killer smothered her face with cooking oil, placed her in front of a fire and watched
it sizzle?’
Brindle tilted his head and shrugged in a ‘who knows?’ gesture. ‘You’ll have to wait for the autopsy and the lab results to be certain, but something had to have helped the skin on her face burn the way it did, causing it to look like it’s melted away. Fire and heat alone wouldn’t have done it.’
‘Why not?’ Garcia asked.
‘Skin can’t melt,’ Hunter said, bending down and having a closer look at her face.
‘That’s right,’ Brindle confirmed. ‘I’m not gonna get scientific on you, but it’s a biological and physical impossibility. It’ll burn and carbonize, but it won’t melt.’ He paused for a second and rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand. ‘We checked the whole house, Robert. That’s all the blood we found.’ He pointed to the small pool under the armchair. ‘If this is the same killer who got to the priest a few days ago, there was no ritual this time. If there was, it certainly didn’t involve blood. It’s like this is an entirely different killer. His MO has changed completely.’
Hunter nodded, but saw no point in revealing to Brindle what they’d found out earlier in Father Fabian’s journal.
‘Anything from dusting?’
‘No prints yet, just a few fibers, but they could’ve come from anywhere in this house.’ Brindle shrugged. ‘There’re rugs, carpets, curtains and fabrics just about everywhere in this place.’
Hunter walked around the room, checking the furniture for anything out of the ordinary. He found nothing. ‘Who else has seen the number on her back?’
‘Only the people in this room,’ Brindle replied confidently. ‘The two Malibu detectives decided to wait outside while we cut her loose. They didn’t look too well.’
‘And you haven’t told them that’s the reason why we’re here.’
‘Nope. I told them the skull found in the fire was the reason I wanted you two to have a look at this case.’
‘Let’s keep it this way,’ Hunter said, approaching the door. ‘Have you found her clothes and bag?’
‘Not yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the killer took them with him.’