by Chris Carter
If the object of their affection were to die all of a sudden, then so would that ‘sense of purpose’, substituted by a void so deep that it could potentially tear them apart inside. So why kill them?
History has shown that in most cases, when that had actually happened, it hadn’t been a planned action. They hadn’t set out to kill the one they were stalking. What happened was a return to that volatile individual who struggled to control his/her emotions. In short – a thoughtless, impulsive act that resulted in the death of the one being stalked. And that was nothing like this killer had shown so far. No, this killer was well prepared, methodical, very clever, resourceful, and if he’d begun clocking the police response time three months before the actual murder, he no doubt planned well ahead. Impulsiveness . . . thoughtlessness . . . simply didn’t come into his equation.
‘Sonofabitch,’ Garcia said, ripping Hunter away from his thoughts.
They locked eyes.
‘Maybe there’s a different reason why Tanya can’t remember having another one of those conversations with anyone else.’
‘And what reason would that be?’ Hunter asked.
Garcia pointed at his computer screen. ‘You’ve got to come have a look at this.’
Twenty-Seven
Cassandra closed her living room door behind her, dropped her handbag by the dark-gray sofa and slowly made her way into the kitchen. In there she retrieved a glass vase from one of the cupboards, filled it with water and placed the colorful bouquet of flowers she had brought home with her inside it.
No, the flowers hadn’t come from a secret admirer, nor had they been sent to her by Mr. J. Cassandra had bought that bouquet herself; truth be told, even after twenty-one years, her husband still surprised her every now and then with unannounced little gifts – sometimes flowers, sometimes chocolates, sometimes an invitation to a romantic dinner, or tickets to an opera, or a ballet, or even a Lakers game, since Cassandra was a big LA Lakers fan. No matter the occasion, though, the card attached to the bouquet, or whatever gift he had brought home with him, would always say the exact same thing: You make me the happiest man on earth. With all my love, today and always. J.
The memory brought a sparkling smile to Cassandra’s lips, mainly because she considered herself to be a very lucky woman. Despite the years, Mr. J was still a very handsome man, tall and square-jawed, with a shaved head and dark eyes that were so full of expression, he could make himself understood with a simple look. Physically, unlike so many of her friends’ husbands, Mr. J had never let himself go. His frame still showed signs of all the physical training he did when younger, with strong shoulders, a flat stomach, and lean, muscular arms. Cassandra had never failed to notice the playful looks that other women, including most of her friends, would give Mr. J every time they were out, but she had never seen her husband reciprocate any of it. He was always polite towards other women, but never flirtatious.
Once, and only once, after she had rejected his advances in bed years ago, Mr. J had calmly asked her if there was someone else. If she had fallen for another man. If she had stopped loving him.
‘Please don’t be silly, honey,’ she had replied. ‘Of course I haven’t fallen for anyone else. Of course I haven’t stopped loving you. I’m just not in a good mood tonight, OK?’
That had been true then, and it was still true today. Cassandra had never fallen for anyone else, and she had never stopped loving Mr. J, of that she was absolutely sure. How could she? He was a good, kind and loving husband and a terrific father to Patrick. He had always treated her with dignity and respect. He listened to what she had to say and he truly valued her opinion on every aspect of their family life. Yes, a lot had changed over the years, especially after her son had hit his teens. That had been when Cassandra had felt the lowest in her life. She had lost her mother just a year before that and, for some reason, once her little boy started looking more like a young man, she found herself struggling with depression, a condition she had always kept a secret from absolutely everyone. A condition that had distanced her not only from her husband, but from all of her friends as well. Cassandra wasn’t sure if it had been coincidence or not, but just as Patrick entered his senior year in high school, she finally began to get a grip on her depression and was slowly but surely crawling out of that dark hole. With every passing day, she was becoming more and more like her old self.
Cassandra checked the wall clock in the kitchen – 7:24 p.m. She had thought about going out for dinner, maybe a nice Italian, or even the new Mediterranean place that had just opened a couple of blocks from her house, but she discarded the idea on the drive back home. She didn’t feel like sitting in a restaurant by herself, and though she could invite one of her friends to go with her, tonight she was in a more ‘homey’ mood.
She walked back into her living room, placed the vase with the flowers at the center of her dining table and returned to the kitchen.
‘OK, let’s see what we have, shall we?’ she said out loud, pulling open the fridge door. ‘Umm.’ Cassandra screwed up her face as her gaze moved from shelf to shelf. Her fridge was packed full, but nothing in there seemed to excite her too much.
‘You know what?’ she began a conversation with herself. ‘I’ve had a tough week, and it’s Saturday night, the international night of “no-home cooking”. If I’m not going out, how about if I get it delivered?’ She closed the fridge door and thought about it for all of two seconds. ‘Yup, that sounds like a plan to me.’
Cassandra walked over to the kitchen counter and opened the last drawer on the left. From inside it, she retrieved a handful of to-go menus.
‘Pizza? Nope. Mexican? Umm . . . nope.’
As she discarded them, she returned them to the drawer.
‘Italian? . . . Possibly.’
She put that one to the side.
‘Healthy salad? Umm . . . not tonight. Burger and ribs? Nope. Japanese?’
This time the ‘umm’ came out with a singing intonation. Cassandra unfolded the menu and quickly scanned the offerings.
‘Chicken teriyaki sounds nice. Maybe even some sashimi.’ She pressed her lips together and felt her mouth salivating.
Decision made.
‘But first things first,’ she said as she returned all the other menus back to the drawer. ‘What I really need right about now is a large glass of wine.’
This time Cassandra didn’t need to think about it. She knew exactly which wine she would go for. To-go menu in hand, she walked back into her living room and from their large and well-stocked wine cabinet she chose a bottle of 2002, Hourglass Estate, Cabernet Sauvignon. As she pulled the cork from the bottle, she brought it to her nose and gently breathed in its aroma – spring flowers and berries.
‘Oh yes, absolute heaven.’
Cassandra poured herself a glass, but didn’t sip it straight away. First, to better define its tones, she wanted to let the wine breathe for a minute or two. Meanwhile, she could order her dinner. She walked over to the sofa and grabbed her handbag. As she searched inside it for her cellphone, she found the note that some creepy psycho had left stuck to the back window of her car. She hadn’t really forgotten about it, but as her fingers brushed against the white piece of paper, the memory of the words inside it came back to her and the skin on her arms turned into gooseflesh.
Have you ever felt like you’re being watched, Cassandra?
‘Urgh,’ Cassandra said, shaking her shoulders as if to dislodge the uneasy feeling. She quickly grabbed her cellphone, dropping the bag back on to the floor. Instinctively, she looked around her living room before walking over to her front door. She knew she had locked it. She could see the security chain safely in place, but paranoia made her go check it. The key had been turned all the way inside the lock until it could rotate no more.
‘Fuck! How can such a silly and stupid note make me feel so unsettled?’ Cassandra asked herself, but the truth was, she knew exactly why – for the past three or four weeks, way before she’d
got that note, the feeling that she was being watched had been shadowing her like a dark ghost. Almost everywhere she went – to work, out with friends, dinner with her husband, it didn’t matter. Wherever she was, she would suddenly feel like someone had their eyes on her.
Cassandra knew that everyone, every once in a while, felt like they were being watched. She had felt that way a few times in the past, but this was nothing like anything she had ever experienced. This was a dark, soul-choking feeling, as if evil itself was doing the watching.
Cassandra rushed over to the dining table, picked up her glass of wine and had a healthy couple of sips. She knew that that was no way to appreciate such a beautiful wine, but right then she needed the alcohol a lot more than she need the palate experience.
She returned the glass to the table and checked her cellphone. No messages. No missed calls. Mr. J had promised her that he would call if his return plans were to change. So far, nothing, which meant that he should be back home by tomorrow at the latest. That notion brought a lot of comfort to her.
Cassandra had discarded the two previous notes she had received while working at the WomenHeart charity shop as some silly prank. Because of that she had never mentioned anything to her husband, but this time, whatever this was, it had gone too far. She had already made up her mind that she would show Mr. J the note that was left on her car. That’s why she had kept it in her handbag, so she wouldn’t forget it.
Cassandra reached for the Japanese restaurant to-go menu and was about to dial its number when her doorbell rang. She paused and frowned at the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Ding-ding.
‘Are you kidding me?’ she said, putting down the menu and consulting her timepiece – 7:36 p.m.
Ding-ding.
Holding on to her phone, she approached the door and peeked through the peephole. Standing outside, staring straight at the door as if he could see through it, was a uniformed, LAPD officer.
Cassandra’s frown intensified three-fold. ‘Who is it?’ she called, without unlocking the door.
‘Ms. Jenkinson?’ the officer asked. His voice was calm but firm.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Officer Douglas with the LAPD Valley Bureau. I was wondering if I could have a word with you, ma’am.’
A couple of confused silent seconds went by.
‘A word with me about what?’
The officer took a second, as if he needed it to steady himself.
‘It’s about your husband, ma’am. John Jenkinson.’
Something in the officer’s tone of voice made Cassandra’s heart skip a beat.
‘What? What about John? Is everything OK?’
A new, quick, silent moment.
‘If possible, ma’am, I think it would be better if we talked inside.’
Cassandra felt as if the room was closing in on her.
‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered as she quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open. ‘What happened? Is John OK? Where is he?’
Cassandra couldn’t see the officer’s eyes, as they were hidden behind mirrored shades, but his facial expression was dark, solemn.
‘It would be better if we could sit down, Ms. Jenkinson.’
She searched his face again, but again, all she found was a dark wall.
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Please, let’s have a seat.’
‘Yes, OK, come in,’ she finally said, fully opening the door and indicating the dark-gray sofa in her living room. ‘Please tell me, what’s going on? Where’s John? Is he OK? Is everything OK?’
The officer stepped into the house.
As Cassandra closed the door behind them, the officer turned to face her.
‘Can I ask you something, Ms. Jenkinson?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The officer took off his dark glasses.
‘Have you ever felt like you’re being watched?’
Twenty-Eight
Hunter got to his feet and moved around to Garcia’s desk.
‘What have you got?’ he asked.
The expression on Garcia’s face was still half confused, half surprised. He clearly wasn’t expecting to find whatever it was that he had found. He extended his index finger and once again indicated his computer monitor.
‘Have a look.’
Displaying on Garcia’s screen was a social media network page. Hunter looked at it blank-faced.
‘So what exactly am I looking at here?’ he asked.
‘This post right here.’ Garcia pointed to it.
Hunter read the entry, paused, read it again then looked back at his partner. ‘Whose page is this?’
‘Pete Harris’s,’ Garcia replied.
Hunter took a second. ‘Is that the friend Tanya mentioned? The makeup artist who’s supposed to be in Europe somewhere?’
Garcia confirmed. ‘That’s him. And by the looks of it, he really is in Europe. He posted something this morning.’ He scrolled all the way up to the top of the page to show Hunter. ‘He’s on set in Berlin. Been there for nearly a month now.’
Hunter acknowledged it and Garcia scrolled back down to where they originally were.
‘Now,’ Garcia said, ‘have you noticed the first comment?’
Hunter had. It had come from Tanya Kaitlin, with replies from Karen Ward and Pete Harris. His gaze searched for the date at the top of the post.
‘This was posted over six months ago,’ he said in a quiet, pensive tone.
‘That’s right,’ Garcia agreed. ‘So even if Tanya wasn’t going through this post-traumatic amnesia stuff you mentioned, I’m not sure she would’ve remembered this.’
Hunter’s attention returned to Garcia’s screen. Pete Harris had uploaded an image he had probably plucked from the Internet. It showed two women standing side by side. The one on the left looked to be in her early twenties, the one on the right in her mid-fifties. The younger of the two was smiling at her cellphone, while the other one was holding the receiver of an old-fashioned, disc-dial phone to her ear. Across the face of the image, in black letters, a challenge was followed by a grading scale:
You vs. your parents’ generation. The phone number challenge. Is technology making you brainlazy?
How many phone numbers can you remember without having to look at your contacts?
0 = 100% brainlazy. You’re a slave to your phone. Can you still remember your own name?
1 to 3 = Believe it or not, you’re already better than 85% of people out there, but don’t kid yourself, you’re still brainlazy and far from what your parents’ generation could do.
4 to 6 = Now you’re getting close, and you deserve a pat on the back. You made it to the top 3% of your generation. Yeah, seriously.
7 to 10 = Congratulations, you just equaled the average person in your parents’ generation, and you’re now in the elite 1% of yours.
More than 10 = What, really? Impressive. Your memory banks are hyperactive and brainlaziness has missed you completely. Your parents’ generation has nothing on you when it comes to remembering phone numbers, and in this day and age, you could possibly be THE ONLY ONE OF YOUR KIND.
Pete had introduced the post with the following words: ‘Be honest, people.’
The first comment had come from Tanya Kaitlin: Lol, not a single one for me. Shameful, I know. I’ve become completely brainlazy . And I admit, I am a slave to my phone.
Karen had added a reply to Tanya’s comment: Really? Not even mine? What a great best friend you are lol.
Or mine? Pete had added his reply directly underneath Karen’s.
Tanya had come back with: Sorry, guys, my memory is shit when it comes to memorizing stuff. You know that. But how about you two? You’re also my best friends. Do any of you know my phone number by heart? Don’t cheat.
To that, Karen had added one last reply: Point taken, Tanya, lol.
And Pete: Yup, subject closed. Thank god for the wonders of technology lol .
‘How many people commented
on this post?’ Hunter asked.
‘There are fifty-two comments from forty-six different people,’ Garcia replied. ‘But the post was “liked” by ninety-one.’ He indicated on the screen.
‘Can I?’ Hunter asked, nodding at Garcia’s mouse.
‘Sure.’ Garcia rolled his chair a little to the left.
Hunter bent forward a little, used the mouse to completely expand the ‘comment’ section, and slowly read through all forty-six of them. Most of them were very similar to Tanya’s first reply, stating that they couldn’t really remember a single number by heart. None of them stood out.
‘Who are you logged in as?’ Hunter asked.
‘Myself,’ Garcia replied, making a face. He knew why the question. ‘Which means that Pete’s profile is public, and so was this post. Anyone could’ve seen this. There’s no way of tracking who did and who didn’t.’ He looked back at Hunter. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if this post was what gave the killer the idea for his sick video-call game. Right here in one place, he would’ve had everything he needed – Karen telling him that Tanya was her best friend, and Tanya telling him that without looking at her phone, she couldn’t remember Karen’s number. You were right, Robert, he knew beforehand that she wouldn’t know the answer to his question.’
Hunter took a step back from his partner’s desk and breathed out. Karen was going to die, no matter what, Hunter was sure of it, and he knew that so was the killer. The game was just a front, but a front for what? To pleasure the killer’s innermost sadistic desires? Possible. To fill Tanya with guilt that would probably torment her for the rest of her life? Also possible, but right now Hunter could offer no answer to his own questions.
‘How about Karen or Tanya’s profile?’ Hunter queried. ‘Have you checked? Are they also public?’
‘I’ve checked, yes,’ Garcia replied. ‘Karen’s profile isn’t. If she weren’t friends with you in here, you would barely be able to see any information on her.’