by Chris Carter
‘But somebody could’ve done it, right? Somebody could’ve opened one of my windows from the outside, or even one of the doors?’
‘Technically, yes, but then again, with the right knowledge and the correct tools, safes can be breached.’
Dr. Barnes considered Webb’s statement. He was right, she could be overreacting; nonetheless she made a decision right then to upgrade all of her locks, and maybe even get the house alarmed. She nodded back at him.
‘Could I maybe offer you a coffee?’ she asked.
Webb checked his watch. It was late. Too late. He needed to get going.
‘I’d love one, but I do need to get back to the station.’
‘Are you sure?’ she insisted. ‘It will take me just a couple of minutes. I had the coffee at your station. It tasted like it’s been filtered through a dirty diaper.’
Webb laughed. ‘That’s because it probably has. I don’t think anyone really knows who makes that coffee. I don’t think anyone really wants to know.’
Dr. Barnes smiled at him.
Webb checked his watch one more time.
‘How about if I take a rain check on that coffee?’ he asked. ‘How about tomorrow? That way I can check on you again, make sure everything is fine.’
Dr. Barnes’ smile widened as she nodded.
‘Sure. Tomorrow sounds great.’
‘Is six o’clock OK?’
The doctor had the whole day off.
‘Yep. That works for me.’
‘Great,’ Webb said, walking towards the bedroom door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
Detective Webb exited Dr. Barnes’ house and jumped into his unmarked police car. As he turned on the engine, he smiled internally. This had been a lot easier than what he’d imagined.
Forty-Two
The two-story house was located at the end of a quiet street in Granada Hills – a somewhat rich neighborhood on the San Fernando Valley portion of Los Angeles. In a cab, even at that time of night and with traffic considerably reduced, it took Hunter about fifty-five minutes to cover the distance between where he was and the address he was given to Cassandra Jenkinson’s house.
As the cab turned left on to Amestoy Avenue and approached Flanders Street on the right, the driver geared down and looked at Hunter through the rearview mirror.
‘Damn, man, something big is going down where you’re going. PD is all over the joint like flies on shit.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here.’
The driver’s stare left the mirror and he twisted his neck to look at Hunter. ‘You a cop?’
Hunter didn’t reply. In his head, this just didn’t make any sense. The phone call he had received had come from Captain Blake herself. She had told him that their investigation had just escalated into a multiple homicide with a serial pattern, because they now had a second victim. If that was really the case, then they had to have been wrong in most of their assumptions so far.
A marginal number of stalkers reached what was known as the sixth phase of stalking – aggression and violence towards humans. Once that phase was reached, avoiding thoughts like ‘if I can’t have her/him then no one else can either’ would become almost impossible, and fantasizing about killing the subject of their affection would begin to torment them. But even out of those who’d entertain such morbid thoughts, few would actually act on it. The ones who did, in the aftermath of their actions were nearly always overwhelmed by a feeling of such guilt and sadness they tended to isolate themselves for weeks, months, sometimes years. Some would also punish themselves in some way. But stalkers were people with obsessive personalities and, almost inevitably, after the guilt and sadness had finally dispelled, they would once again turn their obsessive attention on to a brand new subject and the chances of that murderous cycle repeating itself were high, very high.
But it had been just three days since Karen Ward had been murdered, not weeks, months, or years. Three days, which meant one of two things – either this killer was not Karen Ward’s stalker, even though she did have one, or he stalked multiple subjects at once, which was extremely rare but not unheard of.
From the backseat of the taxi, Hunter quickly studied the scene.
Flanders Street had been completely cordoned off, but the yellow crime-scene tape that established the police perimeter extended at least another forty-five yards on either side of the street entrance. Black and white units seemed to be parked just about everywhere.
The media had also already received word of the murder and a couple of news vans, with TV cameras being set up on their roofs, had strategically claimed their spot on the sidewalk, directly across the road from the cordoned-off street. Three photographers, all armed with telescopic lenses, were tirelessly walking from one end of the perimeter line to the other, searching for a shot, but the distance and the position of the Jenkinsons’ house made the task a virtual impossibility. Nonetheless, none of them seemed like they were about to give up any time soon.
A small crowd, who looked to be filming and photographing everything on their cellphones, ready for the ‘obligatory’ upload to the never-ending number of social media sites, had already gathered by the crime-scene tape.
At the south entrance to Amestoy Avenue, two policemen were busy coordinating traffic and signaling every curious driver who slowed down to keep on moving.
‘I don’t think I can go any further, man,’ the cab driver said, pulling up behind a police cruiser.
Hunter paid the fare and jumped out.
The rain that had announced itself when he first got to the Seven Grand Bar still hadn’t materialized, but the dark clouds that had now completely obscured the stars gave it the five-minute call. Water was coming, there was no doubt about that.
Hunter zipped up his jacket.
Five uniformed officers with sturdy expressions on their faces maintained the perimeter, keeping reporters and curious onlookers alike from getting any closer. Hunter zigzagged through the crowd, flashed his credentials at two of the officers and stooped under the tape.
From the top of Flanders Street to the Jenkinsons’ house, Hunter calculated it to be somewhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifteen yards. Officers were already going through protocol and running a door-to-door up and down the street. Every front window on every house was lined with shocked and frightened faces.
On the left, towards the end of the street, a white forensic van was parked next to Garcia’s Honda Civic. As Hunter approached the house, he spotted his partner standing next to a black and white unit, talking to a senior officer.
‘Robert,’ Garcia called, waving his hand. ‘Over here.’
Hunter approached the large house. It was painted a light shade of green, with white trimmings around the gable-styled roof. The front lawn was small but very well maintained, with colorful flowerbeds contouring its entirety. To the left of the house, a two-car garage sat at the end of a concrete driveway with black inlays, where a silver Cadillac SRX was parked. From the outside, one could easily tell that whoever lived in that house took pride in their home. This was the nicest house in a street of very nice houses.
‘This is Sergeant Thomas Reed from the Valley Bureau,’ Garcia said once Hunter reached them.
They shook hands.
Reed was about Garcia’s height and in his mid-forties. His head was shaved, but he wouldn’t have much hair had he let it grow. An old scar crossed his chin from the right edge of his lips to the left edge of his jaw.
‘Sergeant Reed was first response,’ Garcia revealed.
‘I was just telling your partner here that the circumstances of the nine-one-one call were a little odd.’ There was a certain smooth quality to Sergeant Reed’s voice that made him sound like a children’s story narrator.
‘How so?’ Hunter asked.
‘For starters, the call didn’t originate from here,’ Reed said. ‘And when I say here, I mean Los Angeles.’
Both detectives squinted at the se
rgeant.
‘The call was made from Fresno.’ Confused looks all around.
‘That’s right,’ Reed confirmed, noticing their intrigue and giving them a firm nod. ‘The nine-one-one call came from about two hundred miles away.’
Forty-Three
A blue-and-white forensic tent had already been set up at the entrance to the Jenkinsons’ house, completely covering the entire front porch. A CSI agent was busy checking the concrete driveway, searching for any tire tracks that differed from the ones left by the silver Cadillac SRX that was parked there. Two other CSI agents were carefully checking the front lawn, the flowerbeds and the window to the right of the porch.
‘If we really are talking about the same perp here,’ Garcia said, as he and Hunter left Sergeant Reed behind and began making their way towards the house, ‘this doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?’
Garcia had noticed the overly concerned look on Hunter’s face when he first saw him coming down the street. He figured it was for the same reasons he himself could hardly believe it when he got the call less than an hour ago: Karen Ward’s stalker has killed again?
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘What do we have on this victim?’
‘Very little at the moment. Just the basics, really.’ Garcia reached for his pocket notebook. ‘Her name was Cassandra Jenkinson, forty-two years old, from Santa Ana in Orange County. Worked as an events organizer for a social club not that far from here in Porter Ranch.’ Reflexively, he pointed west. ‘Apparently she also volunteered once a week to help at a coalition for women with heart disease called “WomenHeart”.’
Hunter’s eyebrows arched. He had shopped at one of their charity shops before, he was sure of it.
‘She was married to a John Jenkinson,’ Garcia continued. ‘Forty-eight years old, from Los Angeles. He runs his own business consultancy practice based downtown. As we’ve heard from Sergeant Reed, he’s the one the killer video-called. John and Cassandra Jenkinson have a single child, a son, Patrick, twenty years old, who goes to college in Boston, Massachusetts. Ms. Jenkinson also had a complete clean record. No priors. No problems with the IRS. No outstanding debts. Not even an outstanding parking fine. From her records alone, she was a stand-up citizen.’ Garcia flipped a page on his notebook. ‘And that’s about it for now.’
Hunter nodded as his gaze moved from CSI agent to CSI agent.
‘They basically just started their operation,’ Garcia clarified. ‘They were just setting up when I got here about five minutes ago.’ He returned his notebook to his pocket.
‘Who’s the lead agent, do you know?’
‘Same one as last time,’ Garcia replied. ‘Dr. Susan Slater.’ He gave Hunter a quirky smile.
‘What was that?’ Hunter asked.
‘What was what?’
‘That “I ate the last donut” smile. What was that for?’
‘C’mon.’
Hunter paused and squinted at his partner.
Garcia made a face. ‘C’mon, Robert, she’s hot and you know it.’
‘Who, Dr. Slater?’
‘No, my grandma in a Brazilian bikini, doing the samba on Copacabana beach. Yes, Dr. Slater. Don’t play dumb, Robert, it really doesn’t suit you. I saw the way you were looking at her last time . . . and she at you. You should ask her out.’
‘We were working a crime scene, Carlos.’
‘So? Romance can blossom in the strangest of places.’
Hunter chuckled. ‘You’re sick.’
As they set off towards the house again, Hunter felt a drop hit the top of his head and looked up. Garcia did the same. Another one hit them both on the forehead.
On the driveway, the CSI agent searching for tire tracks seemed to have found something, but he too saw the first drops of rain hit the concrete and all of a sudden his movements became a lot more urgent.
‘Shit!’ they all heard him say as he frantically searched the bag he had with him for something he could use to cover the driveway patch directly in front of him.
Hunter and Garcia rushed over to help him, but one of the agents on the front lawn beat them to it.
‘Have you got something?’ Hunter asked as he towered over them, unzipped his jacket, and pulled it wide open like bat wings, to use it as an improvised umbrella.
The raindrops got thicker and more frequent.
‘I think I’ve got a partial tire track here,’ the agent replied, without looking up. ‘If we manage to protect it from the rain, that is.’
Garcia unzipped his jacket and mimicked Hunter’s movements.
‘Crap!’ the first agent said to the second. ‘I didn’t even have time to photograph it. If the rain washes this off, we’ve got nothing.’
The two agents were moving as fast as they could. A few seconds later, after using some tape to fix a piece of impermeable material to the concrete, the first agent finally looked up at Hunter and Garcia.
‘This will hopefully do it,’ he said. ‘Even if the rain manages to wash some of it off, I’m sure we’ll still get something. You guys with Homicide?’
Both detectives nodded, as the rain got a little heavier.
‘As I’ve said,’ the agent continued. ‘I barely had time to analyze it, but one thing I can tell you is, this partial doesn’t seem to belong to an SUV like the Cadillac.’ He nodded at the car parked on the driveway.
Hunter and Garcia zipped their jackets back up and rushed towards the house.
The officer standing at the porch handed them two sealed plastic bags containing disposable forensic coveralls. The officer at the door got them to sign the crime-scene manifesto before stepping to one side.
Hunter and Garcia finished suiting up, pulled their hoods over their heads and finally stepped into a brand new horror show.
Forty-Four
Cassandra Jenkinson’s house was no less gracious on the inside. The front door led Hunter and Garcia into a spacious anteroom with a striking crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A large, gothic-framed round mirror occupied most of the wall to their left. To their right, a sculpture of twisted stainless steel sat atop a rectangular, double-pedestal console table. On the floor, directly in front of them, a circular, Turkish knot rug filled the room with color. At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed or out of place.
Nicholas Holden, the same forensic fingerprint expert who had worked the first crime scene, was carefully dusting the door lock and studying its keyhole.
‘Any signs of a break-in?’ Hunter asked, bending down to have a closer look.
Holden shook his head. ‘Nothing apparent. Neither the door nor the lock look to have been forced in any way.’
‘Picked?’ Garcia questioned.
‘Unlikely. That’s what I was looking at right now, but this is a five-lever mortise lock. They are hard to find in the US, which is surprising because they’re rock solid. Due to its five levers, picking it becomes a monstrous task. You’d need all the right tools and plenty of time to get through it.’
‘How much time?’ Garcia pushed.
Holden shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but probably a lot more time than any assailant would be prepared to waste at the front porch of an exposed house.’
None of the houses on Flanders Street were sheltered by any sort of gate or fence. A person standing or kneeling by the Jenkinsons’ front door would’ve been easily spotted by most of the neighboring houses.
‘I’ve just started here,’ Holden added. ‘But I’ve already come across two sets of prints. One – female, probably belonging to the victim herself. The second one, undoubtedly male. Big hands.’
Both detectives thanked Holden, pulled open the next door, and moved on to the following room, which had been drenched by the brightness of two powerful forensic spotlights.
The split-level living room they entered was simply stunning, with a towering dark-granite fireplace and gleaming hardwood floors. It had been lavishly decorated with antique furniture, works of art, and a large Persian rug t
hat gave the space a somewhat serene but exotic feel. If the chandelier they saw as they entered the house was striking, the one at the center of the living room ceiling was nothing less than impressive, with ten candle-shaped light bulbs surrounding hundreds of stringed crystal beads that dropped down like sparkling raindrops. But all that beauty, all that tranquility, had been completely shattered by the horror that now took center stage in the room.
From the dining table that sat across from the fireplace, one of its six chairs had been dragged closer to a wall where several framed original paintings hung. On the chair, with her hair, face and torso drenched in blood, a woman sat naked, with her eyes wide open and her mouth contorted in a frozen scream that Hunter was sure had reached no one, except the monster who had mutilated her.
‘Detectives,’ Dr. Slater said in greeting, nodding at Hunter and Garcia. She was standing just behind the victim’s chair.
Neither detective replied, their intrigued stares still battling against the terrorized one that had mummified in the victim’s eyes. Dr. Slater didn’t take offence.
‘Not what you were expecting, is it?’ she added.
Hunter looked deep in thought, like a chess player analyzing his opponent’s unexpected move, trying to figure out what he was up against.
‘I’m not really sure what I was expecting,’ he finally replied, before returning the doctor’s greeting gesture. ‘Hi, Doc.’
Garcia followed suit.
Dr. Slater gave them a few more seconds. A lock of blonde hair escaped from under the hood of her Tyvek coverall. Calmly she moved it back into place.
‘How certain are you that this is the same perp from three nights ago?’ she asked.
Both detectives could clearly see why Dr. Slater had asked that question. Judging from the crime scene alone, anyone would be forgiven for thinking that the killer’s MO and signature suggested otherwise.
‘Right now,’ Garcia replied, ‘not that certain.’
‘I figured as much,’ the doctor came back. ‘And that’s why I asked, because I sure have my doubts. Linking both murders based solely on crime-scene evidence . . .’ she allowed her eyes to quickly circle the living room, ‘. . . would be a hell of a stretch. Other than the fact that the victim was also left sitting on a dining chair.’ She reinforced her point by indicating it. ‘Most of the killer’s MO differs greatly from the one we saw the first time we met.’ She stepped away from behind the chair. ‘Here, let me show you.’